governments of Europe may have an interest in discouraging a taste for
these studies. The literature of antiquity, in its prevailing tone and
character, is deeply impregnated with the free spirit of the age in
which it was produced. Nothing can be more repugnant to that temper of
patient servility which it is the policy of such governments to foster.
Nothing can more powerfully invigorate those generous feelings which are
inspired by the consciousness of freedom, than a familiarity with the
historians and orators of Greece and Rome. There is an uncompromising
spirit of liberty breathing its divine inspirations over every page,
wholly irreconcilable with that courtly suppleness which is adapted to
the genius of these governments. These proud republicans had no
superstitious veneration for anointed heads. They were accustomed to
behold suppliant royalty trembling in the antichambers of their Senate,
or its haughty spirit still more humbled in swelling the triumphal pomp
of their generals and consuls. These sights served to nourish a profound
feeling of the dignity, which is attached to the person of a freeman, a
feeling more deeply engraved on the spirit of antiquity than any other
sentiment of the heart. It seems to have constituted the very soul of
their genius, and it breathes its sacred fires through every
ramification of their literature. So intimately was it incorporated with
the very elements of their intellectual nature, that nothing could
extinguish it short of those calamities which spread their deadly
mildews over the fires of genius itself. After the constitutional
liberty of the country sunk under the weight of military despotism, its
scattered flames still broke out at intervals in the few great men who
arose to throw a gleam of brightness over the surrounding gloom. It
shewed itself in the pathetic and affecting complaints of Tacitus, and
burst forth in the bitter and indignant sarcasms of Juvenal. The
venerable father of song declared in prophetic numbers that the first
day of servitude robbed man of half his virtue, and Longinus, the last
of the ancient race of great men, holds up the lights of fifteen
centuries experience to verify the words of the poet. It is democracy,
says he, that is the propitious nurse of great talents, and it is only
in democracy that they flourish. Let the minions of legitimacy then
extinguish if they can the emulation of ancient eloquence; it is their
most dangerous enemy; but let us, who inherit the liberties of the
ancient republics, cherish it with a sacred devotion. It is at once the
child and the champion of freedom.
RELIGION.
By Jason Whitman.
Religion, as introduced to us by our Saviour, attracts our attention and
enlists our affections, not by any solemn pomp or formal parade, but by
her beautiful and interesting simplicity, her real and intrinsic worth.
Nor has she been introduced to us, merely that she may dwell in our
temples to be gazed at from a distance and occasionally adored. No. She
has been introduced to us, that we might take her familiarly by the
hand, conduct her into our houses and seat her by our firesides,--not as
an occasional visitor there, but as an intimate friend--perfectly free
and unreserved, ever ready to lend her aid in making home the abode of
happiness, or to go forth with us and assist in elevating and purifying
the pleasures and the intercourse of social life; ever ready to assist
in the various labors of life--to guide and cheer the conversation--to
bend over the bed of sickness, or to mingle her sympathies with those
who are mourning. It is her office to elevate and improve mankind, not
by looking down upon them from above, but by dwelling familiarly and
habitually among them, restraining, by the respect which her presence
inspires, every thing impure and unholy, until she has awakened
aspirations after the pure, the holy, the spiritual, the infinite and
eternal. Such was the Christian Religion as introduced to us by our
Saviour. Would that she might ever remain such, an inmate of our houses,
a member of our family circles, whose form and features are familiar to
our children, and for whom their attachment grows with their growth and
strengthens with their strength. But such have not, it would seem, been
the feelings of mankind in regard to her. They, filled with admiration,
perhaps, for her excellence, and fearing, lest she might be treated with
rude familiarity, have thought to add to her dignity and to increase the
respect entertained for her, by enveloping her in the folds of
unintelligible mysteries, and by suffering her to be approached only in
a formal manner, upon the set days when and the appointed places where
she holds her levees. The consequences of this have been such as might
have been expected. While there are multitudes of admirers of Religion,
as one of a higher order of beings altogether above and beyond
themselves, there are few who make her the companion of their daily
walk--few who take her to themselves and, in the firm conviction that
they were made for each other, leave all things else, cleave unto and
become one with her.
Would that we might all embrace Christianity as she is in herself--as
she was introduced to us by our Saviour, in all her simplicity--in all
her purity--that we might make her the companion of our lives--the
friend of our hearts. She is one, who will with readiness accompany us
wherever we go--pointing out to us the way of our duty and the sources
of our happiness. Are we children she will teach us the duties of
children. Are we parents she will instruct us in our duties as parents.
In prosperity she will increase our happiness--in adversity she will
sweeten our cup--in sickness she will alleviate our pains, and, when
called away by the stern summons of death, she will accompany us and
introduce us into the society of heaven with which she is intimate--the
society of our God--of Jesus our Saviour--and of the spirits of the just
made perfect, concerning whom she has often conversed with us, making us
acquainted with their principles, feelings and characters, and exerting
within us a desire to be with them.
THE DESERTED WIFE.
By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
'Like ivy, woman's love will cling
Too often round a worthless thing.'
Immediately after the horrid murder of young Darnley, Mary of Scotland
removed from the scene of his death to Sterling, ostensibly on a visit
to her infant son. Thither she was followed by all the gay members of
her court, among whom were the Earl of Bothwell and Balfour, the
suspected murderers. A short time previous to this journey Mary had
received a letter from one of her subjects in the north, strenuously
recommending a young and interesting female to her protection, who, as
the letter stated, had especial reasons for sojourning awhile in the
neighborhood of the court. Mary with her usual benevolence kindly
received the lovely stranger, and was so won by her grace and melancholy
beauty, that with the thoughtlessness of her impulsive character, she
installed her in the royal household and admitted her to the closest
intimacy of mistress and servant. Her affections daily increased for one
of whom she knew nothing, except that she was reported to have sprung
from a noble but impoverished family, and had been drawn to court by her
interest in a dear relation, or perhaps lover. The queen did not trouble
herself to inquire into particulars, at a time when her own affairs not
only engrossed her thoughts, but the attention of all Europe. Certain it
was, that whatever had drawn Ellen Craigh to the Scottish court, it was
no desire to partake of its pleasures. Though she occasionally mingled
with the ladies of Mary's household, and even listened with silent
interest to the scandal which recent events had given rise to, she
sedulously secluded herself from the gallants of the court, and on no
occasion had been known to leave the immediate apartment of the queen,
except for a short space each day, when the relative who had drawn her
from home might be supposed to occupy her attention.
On the day our story commences, Throgmorton, the English ambassador, had
arrived at Sterling with despatches, which had been forwarded from
London after the first news of young Darnley's death reached the court
of St. James. Mary, eager to conciliate the imperious Elizabeth, had
ordered an entertainment to be made in honor of her ambassador, and
yielding to his first request, or rather demand for an audience, had
been more than an hour closetted with him, in the little oratory which
communicated alike with her audience-room and sleeping chamber.
The hour for robing had long passed, and Ellen Craigh was alone in the
royal bed-chamber, waiting the appearance of her mistress. She might
have been taken for a sorrowing angel, as she sat in the embrasure of a
window, with the mellow-tinted light streaming through the stained glass
over her tresses of waving gold, and flooding her small and exquisite
figure with a brilliancy almost too gorgeous to harmonize with the
delicate cheek and sorrowful blue eyes, which, at the moment, wore an
expression of suffering which nothing on earth can represent, so patient
and holy was it. She continued in one position, listlessly swaying the
cord of twisted gold, which looped back the curtain falling in
magnificent volumes over the upper part of the window, or pulling the
threads from a massive tassel and scattering them one by one at her
feet, till the carpet around looked as if embroidered over and over with
the glittering fragments. The indistinct voices which came from the
oratory, where the queen and the ambassador were seated, fell unheeded
upon her senses, till a tone was mingled with theirs which started her
to sudden life. She leaped up with an energy that sent the mutilated
tassel with a crash against the window, and flinging back the tapestry
which concealed the door of the oratory, bent her eye to a crevice in
the ill-fitted pannel. The beating of her heart was almost audible, and
the thin slender hand which held back the tapestry quivered like a newly
prisoned bird, as she gazed with intense eagerness into the apartment.
The queen sat directly opposite the door. At her right hand was placed a
dark handsome man, of about thirty, with a haughty and almost fierce
array of countenance, dressed in a style of careless magnificence, which
bespoke a love of display rather than true elegance in his choice of
attire. A subdued smile lurked about his lips, and he seemed intently
occupied in counting the links of a massive gold chain, which fell over
his doublet of three-piled velvet, studded and gorgeously wrought with
jewels and embroidery. Now and then he would drop his hand carelessly
over the queen's chair-arm, and fix his black eyes with a bold and
admiring gaze on her features, with a freedom which bespoke more of
audacious love, than of respect for the royal beauty. She not only
submitted to his free glance, but more than once returned it with one of
those looks which had scattered sorrow through many a Scottish bosom.
Throgmorton sat little apart. He had been speaking in a strain of calm
expostulation; but marking the interchange of glances between the queen
and her haughty favorite, he became indignant, and addressed Bothwell
with a degree of cutting contempt, which turned the lurking smile on the
nobleman's lip to a curl of bitter defiance. Heedless of the royal
presence, he stood up, and rudely pushing the council-table from before
him, half drew his sword, as if to punish the offender upon the spot.
Throgmorton endured the blaze of his large fierce eyes with calm
composure, and deliberately measuring his person from head to foot with
a contemptuous glance, was about to resume his discourse; but the queen
rose from her seat, and placing her white and jewelled hand persuasively
on Bothwell's arm, she fixed her beautiful eyes full on his, and uttered
a few low words of entreaty; then turning to the envoy, her exquisite
face flushed with anger and her eyes flashing like diamonds, she
exclaimed,
"Leave our presence, sir ambassador, and thank our moderation that thou
art permitted to depart in safety, after this insult to our most trusty
and faithful follower! Nay, my lord of Bothwell, put thy hand from that
sword-hilt--this matter rests with us--doubt not, thy honor as well as
that of thy mistress shall be duly righted."
The frowning nobleman pushed back his blade with a clang, and turned
moodily away.
The queen looked on him gravely for a moment, and then turning to the
Englishman proceeded with less of vehemence than had accompanied her
last command.
"The message of our loving cousin has given us a surfeit of advice.
To-morrow we will resume the subject," she said, forcing one of the
resistless smiles, which she could call up at will, to brighten her
lips; and with a graceful wave of the hand, she motioned him to
withdraw.
The envoy bowed low and left the room without further speech. But the
door was scarcely closed, when, with sudden self-abandonment, the queen
threw herself into her chair, and burst into a passion of tears.
Bothwell, who was angrily pacing the room, approached, and sinking to
one knee took her hand tenderly in his. She looked at him a moment
through her tears, murmured a few broken words, and dropping her face to
his shoulder, wept bitterly.
Poor Ellen Craigh witnessed the whole scene. She heard Bothwell's
expressions of soothing endearment, and saw the beautiful head, with its
garniture of brown tresses, fall with such helpless dependence on his
shoulder. A moment, and the queen drew the snowy hand, sparkling with
tears and jewels, from her eyes, and sat upright. With a choking
sensation the poor girl gazed on that face, in its transcendent
loveliness, till a mist gathered before her eyes, and the words of
Bothwell came broken and confusedly to her ear. When they left the
oratory a few moments after, her hand fell nerveless to her side, the
tapestry swept over the door with a rustling sound, and staggering a few
paces into the chamber, she fell her whole length upon the carpet, her
golden hair sweeping back from her bloodless forehead, her pale lips
trembling and her slight limbs as strengthless as an infant's. Thus she
lay for a time, and then tears gushed profusely from her shut eyes.
After which she arose to a sitting posture, with her feeble hands
twisted the scattered ringlets round her head, and arose; but so pale,
so wo-begone, her very heart seemed crushed forever. Dragging herself
to her favorite seat in the embrasure of a window, she leaned her temple
against the stained glass, and murmured--
"Enough!--oh, enough!--I must go home now." But while the words of
misery trembled on her lips, the door was flung open, and Mary Stewart
entered the apartment. The room was misty with the purple glow of
sunset, and the queen passed her shrinking attendant without observing
her. Hastily advancing to a table, she took up a golden bird-call, and
blew a peremptory summons; then throwing herself into a chair which
stood opposite a small table, on which glittered the splendid
paraphernalia of a French toilette, she waited the appearance of her
attendants. Ellen Craigh made a strong effort and arose.
"Ha, art thou there, my mountain-daisy?" said the queen, looking kindly
upon her,--"order lights, and send back the flock of tire-women my silly
whistle has brought trooping hitherward--no hands but thine shall robe
me to night."
Ellen obeyed, and after a few moments the light from two large candles
of perfumed wax broke over the little mirror, with its framework of
filigree silver, and flashed upon the golden essence-bottles and
scattered jewels which covered the dressing-table. The poor waiting-maid
drew back from the brilliant glare with the shudder of a sick heart. The
queen looked on her earnestly for a moment, and then putting the golden
locks back from her temple, as she would have caressed a child, she
said--
"What!--cheeks like new-fallen snow!--lips trembling like the
aspen!--and eye-lashes heavy with tears!--how is this, child?--but we
bethink us;--was it not some untoward affair of the heart which brought
thee to our court? We have been too negligent;--tell us thy grief, and
on the honor of a queen, if there be wrong we will have thee bravely
righted--so speak freely."
"Oh, no, no!--not here!--_never to you_."
Here poor Ellen broke off and stood before the queen, her hands clasped,
her lips trembling and her large supplicating eyes fixed imploringly on
her face.
"Well, well," said the queen soothingly, "at some other time be it--but
remember that in Mary Stewart her attendant may find a safe friend as
well as an indulgent mistress," and shaking her magnificent tresses over
her shoulders, the royal beauty composed herself for the operations of
the toilette.
Ellen gathered up the glossy volumes of hair and commenced her task. Her
limbs shook, a cold moisture crept over her forehead, and her quivering
hands wandered with melancholy listlessness, through the mass of shining
ringlets it was her duty to arrange. As she stooped forward in her task,
one of her own fair curls fell down and mingled, like a flash of spun
gold, with those of her mistress. As if there had been contagion in the
touch, she flung it back with a smile of strange, cold bitterness, the
first and last that ever wreathed her pure lips; for hers was a heart to
suffer and endure, but never to hate; it might break, but no wrong could
harden it.
While her toilette was in progress, Mary became nervous and restless,
now pushing the velvet cushions from her feet, and then moving the
lights about the dressing-table, as if dissatisfied with the arrangement
of every thing about her. At length she fell back in her chair, buried
her face in her hands, and fairly burst into tears. Ellen grasped the
back of her chair, and bending her pale face to the queen's ear,
murmured--
"Tears are for the deserted--why does the queen weep?"
Mary was too deeply engrossed with her own feelings to mark the exact
words, or the tremulous voice of her attendant. She threw the damp hair
back from her face, and dashing the tears from her eyes exclaimed--
"No, no! it is nothing--proceed--there! let that ringlet fall thus upon
the neck--now our robe, quickly--we shall be waited for at the banquet."
Ellen brought forth the usual mourning robe of black velvet, laden with
bugles; but a flush of anger, or perhaps of shame, overspread the
queen's face, and with an impatient gesture she exclaimed--
"Not that, girl--not that--I will mock my heart no longer!--away with
it, and bring a more seemly garment!--the proud Englishman shall not
scoff at our widow's weeds again."
Ellen obeyed, and the queen was soon robed as she had desired. Few
objects could have been more beautiful than this dangerous woman, when
she arose from her toilette--the perfect, yet almost voluptuous
proportion of her form betrayed by the snowy robe, her tapering arms
banded with jewels, and her superb waist bound with a string of immense
pearls, clasped in front by a single diamond, and terminating where the
broidery of her robe commenced, in tassels of threaded pearls. A tiara
of small Scotish thistles, crowded amethysts and rough emeralds, burned
with a purple light among her curls, and the face beneath seemed
scarcely human, so radiant was its expression, and so beautiful the
perfect harmony of its features. Throwing a careless glance at the
mirror--for Mary was too confident of her attraction to be
fastidious--she took up her perfumed handkerchief and left the room.
Ellen Craigh gazed after her sovereign till the last graceful wave of
her drapery disappeared; then drawing a deep breath, as if her heart had
thrown off an oppression quite insupportable, she cast a glance almost
of loathing around the sumptuous apartment, and entered the oratory.
Dropping on her knees by the chair which Bothwell had occupied, she laid
her cheek on the cushion and wept long and freely, as if the contact
with something _he_ had touched had a softening influence on her heart.
As she arose, the gleam of a handkerchief lying on the floor attracted
her attention. She snatched it up with a faint cry of joy, for on one
corner she found embroidered an earl's coronet and the crest of
Bothwell. Eagerly thrusting the prize into her bosom, she left the
oratory and passed into the open street.
It was midnight when Mary Stewart returned to her chamber. The lights
were burning dimly on the table, and an air of gloomy grandeur filled
the apartment. The queen was evidently much distressed; a deep glow was
burning on her cheek, and her usually smiling eyes were full of a
strange excitement. She snatched up the little golden call as if to give
a summons, and then flung it down again, exclaiming--
"No, no--I could not brook their searching eyes," and with a still more
disturbed air she paced the chamber, now and then stopping to divest
herself of the ornaments she had worn at the ambassador's festival.
Perhaps for the first time in her life the agitated woman unrobed
herself, and flinging back the crimson drapery which fell in heavy
masses from the large square bedstead, threw herself upon the gorgeous
counterpane and buried herself in the folds, as if they could shut out
the evil thoughts that burned in her heart; but it was in vain that she
strove for rest--that she gathered the rich drapery over her head and
pressed her burning cheek to the pillow; her thoughts were all alive and
astray.
It was a mournful sight--that beautiful and brilliant woman yielding
herself to the thraldom of a wicked man, and rushing heedlessly to that
which was to throw a stain upon her memory, enduring as history itself.
Sin is hideous in every form--but when it darkens the bright and
beautiful of earth, like a cloud over the sun, we reproach it for its
own blackness, and doubly for the brightness it conceals.
As the misguided woman lay, with a hand pressed over her eyes, and one
arm, but half divested of its jewels, flung out with a kind of desperate
carelessness upon the counterpane, the murmur of an infant voice reached
her from a neighboring apartment. She started up and tears gathered in
her eyes.
"Woe is me!" she exclaimed, "this mad passion makes me forgetful alike
of prayer and child."
Folding a dressing-gown about her, she entered the room whence the sound
had come, and reappeared with an infant boy pressed to her bosom. After
kissing him again and again with a sort of despairing fondness, she bore
him to a recess where a small lamp of chased silver burned before a
crucifix of the same metal, and an embroidered hassock was placed as if
for devotion. Had she been left alone in the holy stillness of the
night, with her lovely babe upon her bosom, and the touching symbol of
our Saviour's death before her, the evil influence which was hurrying
her on to ruin might have been counterbalanced; but as she knelt with
the smiling babe lying on the hassock, her eyes fixed on the crucifix,
and the guilty glow ebbing from her cheeks, the door softly opened, and
the Earl of Bothwell stole into the chamber. Mary sprang to her feet as
if to reprove the insolent intruder, but a sense of modesty, which in
all her follies seemed never to have left her, succeeded to her
indignation, if indeed she felt any. She glanced at her dishabille with
a painful flush, and hastily seating herself, drew her uncovered feet,
which had been hastily thrust into a pair of furred slippers, under the
folds of her dressing gown, and then requested him to withdraw, in a
voice which betrayed as much of encouragement as of reproof.
Without even noticing her request, Bothwell lifted the boy from the
hassock, and seating himself, addressed her in a low and gentle tone,
which he knew well how to assume. The erring woman listened to the
witchery of his voice, till the unnatural glow again died from her
cheek, and she sat with her eyes fixed on his, as a beautiful bird
yielding to the fascination of a serpent.
"But thy wife," she said in a low irresolute tone, when Bothwell pressed
for a reply to what he had been urging, "much as Mary may love--much as
she may sacrifice, she cannot thrust a young and loving woman from a
heart she loves and puts her faith in."
"Young and loving!" repeated Bothwell, with a sneer curling his haughty
lip, "young and loving!--truly your grace must have been strangely
misinformed;--she who styles herself Countess of Bothwell nearly doubles
the age of her unfortunate husband; and as for love, if she knows any,
it is for the broad acres which own him as their master."
A scarcely perceptible smile dimpled the queen's mouth, as she heard
this account of her rival, but she made no reply, and Bothwell resumed
his tone of earnest entreaty. As he proceeded, his voice and manner
became more energetic.
"Say that you consent," he said, "say but a word, and the breath of evil
shall never reach you;--say but your hand is mine as a token of assent,
and Bothwell will worship you like a very slave."
The queen raised her hand, and though it trembled like an aspen, she
placed it in his.