mistress. All night he wandered round, looking at the flowers in the
moonlight. He had tended them so long they seemed to know him, and to
nod a sorrowful farewell. Sadder still it was to look upon the bamboo
hut and its enclosure, connected with the garden by a little open-work
gate. That bridal home, which his kind mistress had provided for them,
and which was consecrated to his memory by so many years of humble
happiness, never had it seemed so dear to him as now. There stood the
loom, where he had so often seen Zaida at work. There was the gambang he
had made for himself, the sounds, of which his departed master and
mistress used to love to hear mingled with their voices, softened by the
evening air on which they floated across the garden. There hung the old
guitar she had given him in boyhood; and by its side was the violin, a
parting present from the young Englishman. Even if he was allowed to
retain these, would they ever sound again, as they had sounded there? As
the dawning light revealed each familiar object, a stifling pain swelled
more and more within his heart. When he saw his children eating what
would, perhaps, be their last breakfast together, every gourd shell that
contained their little mess of rice seemed more valuable, in his eyes,
than crown jewels to a dethroned monarch. Overcome with the struggle, he
laid himself down on the mat and sobbed. Zaida, always hopeful, had
borne up tolerably well till now; but now she yielded to despair, and
rocked backward and forward violently, groaning aloud. Eight children,
the oldest a lad of fourteen, the youngest a girl of three years old,
sat on the floor weeping, or hiding their heads in their mother’s lap.
Thus they were found by the man who came to take them to the auction at
Grésik. Poor Jan! how often, in the latter years, had vague
presentiments of this flitted across his mind, when he passed that
dreadful place! He too well remembered the heartless jokes and the
familiar handling, which had made him shrink from the possibility of
such a fate for his wife and children. Zaida, indeed, was no longer an
object of jealousy for any cruel master’s wife. She was not hideously
ugly, like most slaves of her age, in that withering climate; but her
girlish beauty had all departed, except a ghost of it still lingering in
her large dark eyes. Their light was no longer mirthful, but they were
still beautiful in colour, and expressed, as it were, the faint echo of
a laugh, in their peculiar outline and long curling lashes. By her side
stood a daughter, twelve years old, quite as handsome as she was at
that age; and another, of ten, with her father’s gazelle eyes, and the
golden yellow complexion, which Javanese poets are accustomed to praise
as the perfection of loveliness. The wretched aspect of the father and
mother struck all beholders. When Jan mounted the stand, he cast one
despairing glance around him, and lingered longest on the smallest lamb
of his flock, who was crying with terror, and clinging fast to her
mother’s skirts. He tossed his arms wildly upward, gave one loud groan,
then bowed his head and wept in silence. Poor Zaida hid her face on his
shoulder, and the whole group trembled like leaves in a storm. The
auctioneer called out, “Here’s a valuable lot, gentlemen. Eight healthy,
good-looking children. The father and mother still young enough to do a
good deal of work, and both of excellent character. Whoever will bid six
thousand florins [$2,333] for them may have them; and it will be a great
bargain.” It was no comfort to the poor victims to be offered in a lot;
for they might be bought by speculators, who would separate them. Jan
listened, with all his soul in his ears. Not a voice was heard. The
auctioneer waited a moment before he called out, “Will you say four
thousand florins, gentlemen?” No one spoke. “Shall I have two thousand
florins? That is really too cheap.” Still all remained silent.
Jan had never forgotten that his master had said the law allowed slaves
to buy themselves. His poverty had hitherto prevented his deriving any
consolation from that thought. But now a ray of hope darted through his
soul. He raised his drooping head suddenly, and a gleam, like the rising
sun, passed over his pale, haggard countenance, as he said, eagerly, “I
will give a golden ducat.” Then, dropping on his knees, he exclaimed, in
imploring tones, which intense emotion rendered thrilling, “Oh,
gentlemen, _don’t_ bid over me. It is all I have in the world. Oh, good
gentlemen, _don’t_ bid over me!” Tears dropped from the eyes of many
young people; the agent swallowed hard; and even the auctioneer was
conscious of a choking feeling in his throat. There was deep silence for
a while. The interval was very brief; but to Jan’s anxious heart it
seemed long enough for the world to revolve on its axis. At last, the
sound of the heavy hammer was heard, followed by these words: “The whole
lot is going for a ducat. [$2 20 cents.] Going! going! _gone_! to Jan
Van der Veen!”
It was one of humanity’s inspired moments; when men are raised above the
base influences of this earth, and see things as Spirits see them in the
light of heaven. Hats, turbans, and handkerchiefs waved, and a cheerful
“hurra!” met the ears of the redeemed captives. Jan belonged to himself,
and owned all his family! Verily, the blessing of heaven did go with the
Englishman’s golden ducat, to a degree far beyond what he dreamed of
when he gave it. Jan could hardly credit his own senses. The reaction
from despair to such overwhelming joy was too much for him. His brain
was dizzy, and his limbs trembled. When he tried to rise, he tottered,
and would have fallen, if Zaida had not caught him in her arms. “Poor
fellow! poor fellow!” murmured some of the spectators. A man took off
his hat, dropped a florin into it, and passing it round, said, “Give him
a trifle, gentlemen, to set himself up with. He has always been a good,
industrious fellow, and his mistress meant to provide for him. Give him
a trifle, gentlemen!” There was a noise of falling coin. Zaida pulled
her husband by the sleeve, and whispered in his ear, “Thank the
gentlemen.” He seemed like one half awake; but he made an effort, and
said, “Thank you, good gentlemen! May God bless you and your----” He
would have added children; but his eye happened to rest on his own
smallest darling, and the thought that nobody could take her from him
now choaked his utterance. He covered his face with his thin hands, and
wept.
Was the golden ducat _all_ that poor despairing slave owed to the good
Englishman? No; that was the smallest part of the debt; for to the moral
influence of his conversation, and the books and papers he scattered in
the neighbourhood, might mainly be attributed the changing public
sentiment, which rendered the crowd silent at that mournful scene, and
thus enabled the auctioneer to exclaim, “The whole lot going for a
ducat! Going! _gone_! to Jan Van der Veen! Hurra!”
TO THE NASTURTIUM;
WHICH LINNÆUS DESCRIBES AS EMITTING PHOSPHORESENCE IN THE DARK.
Glorious flower! so gorgeously bright!
As if thou wert formed of orient light!
In topaz, and gold, and velvet array,
Like an Eastern Queen on her bridal day!
Rich jewels the Sun to the Earth dropped down,
And the Earth gave him back thy floral crown.
Thy tints, glowing warm as a summer noon,
Seem painted tones from some amorous tune;
And surely thy varying flushes came
From Italian music’s radiant flame;
Or, when Apollo touched his golden lyre,
Earth answered the sounds with thy brilliant fire.
Thy ardent blossoms were at first unfurled,
A love-letter written to all the world;
And not by day only, but even by night,
The writing shines through with phosphoric light.
That letter of love the Tropics sent forth,
Sealed full of sunshine, a gift to the North.
Bright Summer is proud thy garland to wear;
It shines like rich gems in Autumn’s pale hair;
And it warms our homes with a sunny glow,
When earth has assumed her mantle of snow.
Wealth of bright beauty hast thou for thy dower,
Resplendent, warm-hearted, tropical flower!
THE ANCIENT CLAIRVOYANT.
Thou, while listening with thy inward ear,
The ocean of eternity didst hear,
Along its coming waves; and thou didst see
Its spiritual waters, as they rolled through thee;
Nor toiled, in hard abstractions of the brain,
Some guess of immortality to gain;
For far-sought truths within thy soul did rise,
Informing visions to thine inward eyes.
R. H. DANA.
Many centuries ago, a child named Hermotimus was born in the genial
climate of Ionia. From infancy, his hold on material life seemed
exceedingly slight. He was a delicate, frail blossom;
“By living rays refined,
A trembler of the wind;
A spiritual flower
Sentient of breeze and shower.”
But the slender thread that bound him to this mortal existence did not
break. The babe crawled from his cradle and toddled into the fields,
where he would sit motionless for hours, by the side of some flower he
loved. A grave smile would illumine his countenance if a butterfly
rested on it, or a passing bird brushed it with her wing. He always
expected to see the flower fly, too; and therefore he watched it so
patiently, as it swayed under their light pressure. In very early
childhood, he was remarkable for the keenness of his senses and the
vividness of his dreams. He heard distant sounds, inaudible even to the
quick ear of his playmate the hound; and the perfume of a rose made him
faint, before he was old enough to explain why he turned so pale. At
vintage time, when processions in honor of Bacchus passed through the
village, his mother dared not take him to the show, where all other
children were dancing and capering; for once, when she carried him with
her to the rustic festival, he fell into violent fits at the sound of
the shrill pipes and the clashing cymbals. His dreams furnished a theme
for all the gossips of the neighborhood; for the scenes he witnessed in
sleep impressed themselves on his mind with such singular distinctness,
that nothing could persuade the child he had not actually seen them.
Sometimes, when they gave him his little bowl of goat’s milk for supper,
he would cry for the lamb with beautiful rose-coloured wool, that had
eaten a portion of his milk the night before; and it was quite useless
to try to persuade him that there was no such creature as a
rose-coloured lamb. To all their assertions, he would answer, with
lively pertinacity, “I did _see_ him! I did _see_ him; and he did drink
from my bowl.” As he grew older, he sometimes hummed snatches of tunes,
which he said were sung to him by maidens in white robes, with garlands
about their heads; and the melodies were unlike any known in the
neighbourhood. Several times, as he walked along the road, he started
suddenly at the approach of a stranger, and ran away shuddering. When
his companions asked why he did so, he would answer, “Ah, that was a
very bad man. He made me feel all over cold.”
It was no wonder that the simple villagers became superstitious
concerning such a singular child. Some remembered that, before he was
born, his mother had carried offerings into a consecrated grotto, where
stood a statue of Apollo; and that, being overcome by the warmth of the
day, she had fallen asleep there. This gave rise to the story that in
her dreams she had heard the god playing upon his golden lyre; that the
divine sounds had pervaded her whole being, and endowed her child with
Apollo’s gift of prophecy. Others declared that the altar in the sacred
grotto had for several years been loaded with her devout offerings, and
that she had been heard to say the statue sometimes smiled upon her.
Such tokens of approbation from celestial beings were by no means deemed
incredible; but they implied that the worshipper was a favourite with
the deity she served. From this belief it was easy to infer that the
extraordinary child, who saw and heard things invisible and inaudible to
other mortals, might be a veritable son of Apollo. Some old crones shook
their heads mournfully, and said children who received peculiar
endowments from the gods generally died young.
But the little Hermotimus wandered about with his father’s shepherds,
and was gradually invigorated by air and exercise. He no longer fainted
at perfumes, or shared his supper with rose-coloured lambs. His mother
still noticed a peculiar dreaminess in the expression of his eyes, and
when he was alone, she sometimes heard him singing melodies, which came
to him from some mysterious source. She kept her thoughts in the privacy
of her own heart, but she retained her belief that his remarkable
boyhood was the forerunner of something extraordinary in manhood. With
his improving health, the gossip of the neighbourhood gradually
subsided, and was only occasionally revived by some eccentricities in
his manners. The change pleased his father well; for he wanted a son to
aid him in the acquisition of wealth, and had no desire to see him
become either poet or prophet. He charged his wife never to talk to him
about his childish dreams, and he was annoyed by any allusions to her
sleep in Apollo’s grotto. Of course, the lad was aware that things had
been said of him, which his mother believed, and his father disliked to
have mentioned. This mystery made him think more about himself, than he
would otherwise have done, and increased his tendency to lonely
wanderings and profound reveries. His father did his utmost to allure
him to convivial meetings with young people; saying to himself that a
sharp shot from Cupid’s bow was the best thing to wake him up
thoroughly. But the timid youth scarcely ventured to raise his eyes in
the presence of maidens, and appeared to take even less notice of their
charms, than he did of flowers and birds, and other beautiful things.
His father thought that a mate as unlike himself as possible would be
most likely to counteract his peculiar tendencies. He therefore selected
Praxinoë, a buxom merry-hearted lass, who was so healthy, she never had
but one dream she remembered in the whole course of her life; and that
was of being at a vintage festival, where she pelted the young men with
clusters of grapes, till the wine ran down their chins and made her wake
with laughing. Certainly, she would have chosen quite another sort of
mate, than Hermotimus with his soft voice and dreamy eyes. But it was
the belief in those days, and it has kept its ground pretty well ever
since, that women have no right to an opinion of their own. So the
parents arranged the affair between them, and the passive young couple
were married.
Praxinoë was energetic and ambitious. She prided herself on the
excellent cheeses she made, and the quantity of grapes she dried for
the market. She was always talking of these, and Hermotimus tried to
listen patiently, though she unconsciously tormented him to a greater
degree than ever his thrifty father had done. Sometimes he even praised
her industry, and smiled, in his absent sort of way; for he had a kind
of pleasure in the company of his pretty young bride, as he had in the
presence of a lively twittering bird. Had a modern caricaturist made a
picture of their wedded life, he would have painted it as the marriage
of a solemn young owl with a chattering wren. Hermotimus was often
bewildered by her volubility, and her incessant activity sometimes made
him feel weary, as if he had himself been hard at work. He loved to sit
for hours in silent thought, meditating on the nature of the soul;
revolving in his mind whether the gods ever _did_ unite themselves with
mortals; and whether those philosophers had spoken truly, who had
affirmed that there was something divine within the body, which would
lay aside its temporary garment of flesh, resume its native wings, and
return to a celestial home, to dwell among immortals. While his thoughts
were plunged in such profound meditations, it not unfrequently happened
that Praxinoë came to inquire whether he remembered how many cheeses she
had sent to market, or how many bushels of grapes were in readiness; and
if he forgot the number she had told him, as he generally did, her
cheerful temper became over-clouded with consciousness that the energy
and industry, on which she prided herself, were altogether
unappreciated. It was a hard disappointment for her to bear; for she
loved luxury, and was born to sun herself in the pleasures of this
world. Hermotimus would have pitied her if he could; but he never was in
that region where she lived, and he did not know what people enjoyed or
suffered there. Praxinoë had as little idea of the worlds through which
_he_ wandered; and the glimpses she obtained from his occasional remarks
were by no means attractive to her. She had much less desire for
celestial wings, than she had for fine woolens and glossy silks; and the
shadow-land of disembodied souls presented to her mind no pleasant
pictures of comfortable housekeeping. Her favourite topics of
conversation were embroidered mantles, and robes of Tyrian dye; and if
her husband sought to check her, by remarking that such expensive
articles could never be obtained by them, she answered impatiently, “Why
not? People can have what they will. The Greeks got into Troy, didn’t
they?” Sometimes she would add, in an undertone of vexation, “But they
were not such Greeks as thou art.”
Undoubtedly, he _was_ a vexation to an earth-born woman--that mild,
dreamy, saintly man! The distance between them inevitably grew wider and
wider; and the process was hastened by changes in the condition of
Hermotimus. Though he had become more healthy in youth, than he was in
infancy, there had never been a complete union between his soul and
body. The inner and outer circles of his being, instead of clasping into
each other, touched only at one point, and so remained nearly strangers.
At the time of his marriage, he was believed to have outgrown the
feebleness of his childhood, and to have lost the power of prophecy. But
two years afterward, he fell asleep one day in the same grotto of Apollo
to which his mother had been accustomed to carry offerings. He came out
pale and chill, and was that night seized with a singular kind of fits,
which continued to attack him more and more frequently. The old gossip
was renewed. The neighbours said his father, the divine Apollo, had
kissed him in his sleep, and he would never be like other men. Praxinoë
nursed him carefully, for she had a kindly heart. But when the fits were
on him, he inspired a degree of awe amounting almost to terror; for his
looks and words impressed her with a strong conviction that he was some
sort of a Spirit, and not a mortal man. At times, he told her the most
secret thoughts of her heart, and repeated word for word what had been
said to her, when he was out of hearing. He frequently described
magnificent cities, gorgeous birds, and beautiful flowers, she had never
seen or heard of. But what made her shudder more than all else, was the
familiar intercourse he described with relatives and friends long since
dead. If she were alone with him, during these strange visitations, he
never answered when she spoke, or gave any indication that he was aware
of her presence. But there was one person, to whose questions he always
replied. In the neighbouring city of Clazomenæ lived a Pythagorean
philosopher, named Prytanes. He heard rumours of the singular childhood
of Hermotimus, and of the extraordinary fits that had come upon him in
manhood; and he was desirous to ascertain how far these accounts had
been exaggerated. When he made his first visit to him who was called The
Sleeping Prophet, he found him lying upon a couch motionless and
senseless. He took hold of his hand, and found it cold and rigid; but a
change went over the countenance, like the light which drives shadows
across the fields; and Hermotimus said, “I am glad you have come again;
for, above all things, I have enjoyed our pleasant walks together in the
groves, talking of the wings of the soul.” This seemed marvellous to
Prytanes; for never, to his knowledge, had he spoken with Hermotimus.
But when he asked questions concerning their conversations, the sleeper
revealed to him many thoughts, which he remembered to have passed
through his own mind, at various times, and which had seemed to him, at
the moment, as if they did not originate in himself, but had come to him
from some unknown source; thoughts which he in fact believed to have
been imparted by supernal beings. When Prytanes returned to Clazomenæ,
he gave an account of this wonderful experience, in public discourses to
his disciples; and the fame of Hermotimus spread more and more widely.
Priests and philosophers came to listen to his conversations with
Prytanes; and while some went away incredulous, others were deeply
impressed with awe. From far and near, people brought the diseased to
him, begging him to prescribe a cure; and the rumour went round that
sometimes, when he merely passed his hands over them, their pains
departed. In these days, he would have been called a clairvoyant; but
what we style animal-magnetism had then never been mentioned; though its
phenomena were occasionally manifested, as they always have been,
wherever the spiritual and physical circle of man’s compound existence
is partially disjoined. Scientific causes were then little investigated.
Health, beauty, eloquence, poetry, and all other things, were supposed
to be direct and special gifts from some god. No wonder then that many
believed Hermotimus to be really the son of Apollo, receiving the gift
of healing and of prophecy from immediate and continual intercourse with
his divine father.
If the wise and thoughtful were puzzled, it may well be supposed that
the busy little Praxinoë often felt as if she were walking among shadows
in a fog. Her ambition was in some degree gratified by her husband’s
fame, and by the distinguished persons who came to visit him. But, in
confidential conversation with her gossips, she complained that these
numerous visitors interrupted her avocations, beside bringing a great
deal of dust into the house, and asking for a draught of her fresh wine
rather oftener than was convenient. “I admire hospitality,” she would
say; “and I wish I were rich enough to feast all Ionia, every week, and
send each guest away with a golden bracelet. But the fact is, these
dreams of Hermotimus, though they are full of palaces and fountains, do
not help in the least to build such things; and he brings home no wine
from the beautiful vineyards he describes. Then I can’t help thinking,
sometimes, that it would be pleasant to know for a certainty whether
one’s husband were really dead, or alive.”
One thing became daily more obvious to her and to all who saw him. The
continual questions he was called upon to answer, and the distant places
of the earth he was required to visit, exhausted the little bodily
strength he possessed. The priests at the neighbouring temple of
Æsculapius said he needed more quiet, and ought to drink a strong
decoction of vervain, gathered when the moonlight rested on it. He
himself, when questioned, during his miraculous slumbers, declared that
the air of the valleys was not good for him. Therefore his friends
removed him to a residence among the hills. Praxinoë made no objection;
for though her spiritualized mate failed to call forth all the warmth
of her loving nature, she had a friendly feeling for him, and would
gladly have done any thing for the recovery of his health. But the
change was by no means agreeable to her lively disposition. She liked to
live where she could see festive processions passing with garlands, and
gaily dressed youths and maidens dancing to the sound of cymbals and
flutes.
News from the city became more rare; for Hermotimus recovered his
health, and with it lost what was called his gift of prophecy;
consequently, visitors came less and less frequently. Urged by Praxinoë,
the diseased one sometimes tried to render himself practically useful.
But his heart was in such occupations even less than it had formerly
been. Companionship with philosophers had excited his intellect, and
induced the habit of watching his own soul with intense interest. He was
absorbed in reverie most of the time, and Prytane, who came occasionally
to see him, was the only person with whom he conversed freely. Their
conversation was more wearisome to Praxinoë than his dreamy silence. She
said they might be as wise as owls, for all she knew to the contrary,
but that _she_ could see no more sense in their talk, than she did in
the hooting of those solemn birds of darkness. In another respect,
Hermotimus seemed to her like an owl. His eyes became so nervously
sensitive to light, that he winked continually in the sunshine, and was
prone to seek the shelter of grottoes and shady groves. His childish
habit of vivid dreams returned; and the explanation of these dreams
occupied his thoughts continually. One morning, he told Praxinoë he had
dreamed that she held in her hand a crystal globe, that reflected all
things in the universe; that she threw it into the flames, where it
cracked asunder, and there rose from it a radiant Spirit, with large
white wings. She laughed, and said if she had such a globe, she would
not break it till she had taken a peep at Corinth, to see the
embroidered silks and golden girdles that the women wore there. He was
thinking of the winged Spirit, and her remark passed through his ears
without reaching his mind. Had he listened to the observation, it would
have seemed to him very much like looking through the universe to watch
a butterfly. Nothing was interesting to him but the process of attaining
wings to his soul. He thought of this, till the body seemed an
encumbrance, and its necessities a sin. He ate sparingly at all times,
and fasted often. When he spoke at all, his talk was ever of mortifying
the senses, that the soul might be enabled to rise to the ethereal
spheres from which it had fallen into this world. Praxinoë was impatient
with such discourse. “To think of _his_ talking of mortifying the
senses!” exclaimed she; “when he never _had_ any senses to mortify. Why,
never since I knew him has he eaten enough to keep a nightingale alive.
For my part, I think it is a blessing to have plenty of good food, and
an excellent appetite for it.”