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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
Of Literature, Art, and Science.
Vol. II.
NEW-YORK, MARCH 1, 1851.
No. IV.
Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved
to the end of the article.
AUSTEN HENRY LAYARD, LL. D.
[Illustration]
In an early number of the _International_ we had the satisfaction of
printing an original and very interesting letter from Dr. Layard, in
which, with more fulness and explicitness than in his great work on
Nineveh, he discusses the subject of Ancient Art. We have carefully
noted from time to time his proceedings in the East, and our readers
will remember that we recently gave engravings of the most remarkable of
the antiquities he sent home last year to the British Museum. Since that
time he has proceeded to Bagdad, and he is now pursuing in that
vicinity, with his wonted sagacity and earnestness, researches for the
remains of Babylon, which in turn will furnish material for another
extensive publication from his pen.
The first public announcement of the discoveries at Nimroud was made in
the _Knickerbocker Magazine_ of this city, in a letter from our
countryman, Minor K. Kellogg, the painter, who was a long time the
intimate friend and travelling companion of Layard in Asia Minor.
Introducing the letters in which the antiquary disclosed the successful
result of his investigations, Mr. Kellogg says:
"I can scarcely call to mind a person so admirably qualified in
all respects for prosecuting such laborious researches. He is
young, of a hardy and enduring constitution, is acquainted with
the Oriental languages, and speaks the Persian and Turkish
fluently. He is enthusiastic and indefatigable in every thing
he undertakes, and plentifully endowed with courage, prudence,
and good-nature."
This was more than two years before Layard himself, in his "Nineveh and
its Remains," exhibited those triumphs of his intelligence and devotion
which have secured for him a place among the most famous travellers and
antiquaries in the world.
We take the occasion of copying the above portrait from the last number
of _Bentley's Miscellany_ to present, from various authentic sources, a
brief sketch of Dr. Layard's history. He is descended from the noble
French Protestant family of Raymond de Layarde, who accompanied the
Prince of Orange into England. He was born at Paris, during a temporary
visit of his parents to that metropolis, on the 5th of March, 1817. His
father, who was the son of the Rev. Dr. Henry Peter John Layard, Dean of
Bristol, filled a high civil office in Ceylon, between the years 1820
and 1830, and took great interest in the circulation of the Scriptures
among heathen nations. He was a man of considerable classical learning,
and of refined tastes. During the youth of his son, he lived at
Florence, where our young antiquary had free access to the stores of the
Pitti Palace, and of the Tribune. He thus became familiar from his
infancy with the language of Tuscany, and formed his taste for the fine
arts and literature upon the models of painting and sculpture amid which
he lived, and in the rich libraries which he frequented. In this manner
he added a thorough knowledge of modern languages to a competent
acquaintance with those of Greece and Rome. Here, also, he acquired,
almost involuntarily, a power over his pencil, which, long dormant, was
called forth by the sight of slabs with the noblest sculptures and the
finest inscriptions, crumbling into dust. No draughtsman had been
provided for his assistance, and had he not instantly determined to
arrest by the quickness of his eye, and the skill thus acquired,
improved subsequently by Mr. Kellogg's companionship, those fleeting
forms which were about to disappear for ever, many of the finest remains
of ancient art would have been irrecoverably lost.
On his return from Italy to England, he was urged to choose the
profession of the law; but his thirst for knowledge, his love of
adventure, and his foreign tastes and habits, led him, after a brief
apprenticeship, to travel. He left England, with no very definite
object, in the summer of 1839, and, accompanied by a friend, visited
Russia and other northern countries, and afterward, living some time in
Germany and the states on the Danube, made himself master of the German
language, and of several of the dialects of Transylvania. From Dalmatia
he passed into Montenegro, where he remained a considerable time,
assisting an able and active young chief in ameliorating the condition
of his semi-barbarous subjects. Travelling through Albania and Romelia,
where he met with numerous adventures, he arrived at Constantinople,
about the end of 1839. Here he made arrangements for visiting Asia
Minor, and other countries in the East, where he spent some years,
adopting the costume and leading the life of an Arab of the Desert, and
acquiring a thorough knowledge of the manners and languages of Turkey
and Arabia. In 1840 or 1841, he transmitted to the Royal Geographical
Society, an Itinerary from Constantinople to Aleppo, which does not seem
to have been published; but in the eleventh volume of the Journal of
that Society, we have an account of the tour which he performed with Mr.
Ainsworth, in April, 1840. He travelled in Persia in the same year, and
projected a journey for the purpose of examining Susa, and some other
places of interest in the Baktyari mountains, to which Major Rawlinson
had drawn the attention of the Geographical Society. With this view, he
left Ispahan in the middle of September, in company with Schiffeer Khan,
a Baktyari chief; and having crossed the highest part of the great chain
of Mungasht, he visited the ruins of Manjanik, which are of considerable
extent, and resemble those of the Susannian cities. He visited also the
ruins in the plain of Mel Amir, and copied some of their cuneiform
inscriptions. In crossing the hills to Susan, he was attacked by a tribe
of Dinarunis, and robbed of his watch, compass, &c.; but having
complained to the chief, and insisted on the return of every missing
article, he received back the whole of his property. It had been his
practice to traverse these mountains quite alone, and he was never
attacked or insulted, except on this occasion, when the country was in a
state of war. He found scarcely any remains at Susan to indicate the
site of a large city. In 1842 and 1843, he spent a considerable time in
the province of Khuistan, an elaborate description of which he
communicated through Lord Aberdeen to the Royal Geographical Society. It
was during these various journeys that he prepared himself for the great
task to which his best and ripest powers were to be devoted. In his
wanderings through Asia Minor and Syria he had scarcely left a spot
untrodden which tradition hallowed, or a ruin unexamined which was
consecrated by history. His companion shared his feelings and his zeal.
Unmindful of danger, they rode along with no other protection than their
arms. They tended their own horses, and, mixing with the people, they
acquired their manners and their language. He himself says: "I had
traversed Asia Minor and Syria, visiting the ancient seats of
civilization, and the spots which religion had made holy. I now felt an
irresistible desire to penetrate to the regions beyond the Euphrates, to
which history and tradition point as the birthplace of the Wisdom of the
West."
With these feelings, he looked to the banks of the Tigris, and longed to
dispel the mysterious darkness which hung over Assyria and Babylonia.
He, accordingly, made preliminary visits to Mosul, inspected the ruins
of Nimroud and Kuyunjik, and, fortunately, obtained an interview with
Sir Stratford Canning at Constantinople, then on his way to England.
This distinguished man, who was formerly minister to the United States,
and is remembered with well-deserved gratitude by nearly every recent
traveller in the East, immediately discovered and appreciated the
character and talents of Mr. Layard. His knowledge of the East, and of
its manners and languages, recommended him in a peculiar manner to the
notice of the ambassador, who persuaded him to remain, and employed him
on many important public services. Sir Stratford Canning himself took a
deep interest in the researches which had been made by the French, and
he promptly aided his young countryman in carrying out the designs of
which we now have the histories in his books. In the summer of 1845 Mr.
Layard, Count Perpontier of the Prussian Embassy, and Mr. Kellogg,
quitted Constantinople together, and visited Brusa (where Layard was
some time dangerously ill from a _coup de soleil_), Mount Olympus, the
country of the Ourouks or Wandering Tartars, the valley of the
Rhyndacus, the Plain of Toushanloo, Kiutayah, the ruins of Azani, &c.
Shortly after he proceeded to Nimroud, and in December, 1847, he
returned to England with the fruits of his labors. He wrote to Mr.
Kellogg, who was now in New-York, under date of
"CHELTENHAM, Jan. 16, 1848.
"MY DEAR KELLOGG:--I was quite delighted to see your
handwriting again, when a few days ago I received your letter
of the 15th November, with the diploma of the New-York
Ethnological Society. I reached home on Christmas day, after
having been detained three months at Constantinople. As you may
well conceive, since my return I have not had a moment to
myself--for what with domestic rejoicings and general honors, I
have been in one continual movement and excitement. I was
gratified to find that the results of my labors had created
much more interest in England than I could possibly have
expected, and that those connected with art, and interested in
early history, were really enthusiastic on the subject; so much
so, indeed, that the Trustees of the British Museum are
desirous of doing every thing that I think right; and it is
probable that ere long a very fine work will be published at
the public expense, containing all the drawings (about 130) and
inscriptions. I am to write and publish a small descriptive and
popular work, for my own advantage, just sufficient to satisfy
the public curiosity about Nineveh and the excavations. It will
contain an account of the works carried on, a slight sketch of
the history of Nineveh, a short inquiry into the manners,
customs and religion of the Assyrians, my own adventures in
Assyria, and a little information on the language and
character, with an account of the progress made in deciphering.
There will be two volumes I presume, and I have already
advantageous offers from publishers. My reason for entering
into these details, is to ask you what the law is in America,
and whether any influential bookseller would be willing to give
me any thing for the copyright, and if so, how it could be
managed? If you could do any thing for me in this matter, I
should really be much obliged to you, and I am willing to abide
by any arrangement you might think advantageous. I think the
work will be attractive--particularly in America, where there
are so many Scripture readers.
"I took Florence on my way, expressly to see you and Powers.
Although I was disappointed (and very greatly too) in the
first, I was greatly gratified in seeing Powers, and can assure
you I left Florence with as high an admiration for his genius
and character, as you can have, although unfortunately I was
only able to pass an hour or two with him, my stay being so
short. I showed him all my drawings, and, as you may suppose,
passed a very pleasant morning with him, Kirkup, and
Migliarini--all enthusiastic in seeing my drawings, and persons
worth showing such things to. Two hours, spent in this way, go
far towards recompensing one for any labor and sacrifice. I got
your address from Powers, intending to write to you as soon as
I reached England. It gave me the sincerest pleasure to hear
every one uniting in your praise; I regretted the more that you
were absent, and that I was unable to see your works. I was
delighted to find that such brilliant prospects were opening to
Powers, and I learnt from him, what you hint at in your letter,
that you also were prospering, and that substantial advantages
were pretty sure. I have only now to get a little money in my
pocket, and then inshallah (as the Turks say), I'll have my
picture out of you. To return to business for a moment (pardon
me for doing so), I think the drawings will be published in
first rate style and at a very moderate price: about L10--not a
shilling a drawing. Pray mention this to any of your bookseller
friends, and perhaps they may be induced to take a few copies.
It will be a work which no library ought to be without; it
will, I hope, quite surpass the French publication both in
execution and subject, and will be sold at one-tenth of the
price--theirs coming to nearly L100. I inclose a letter of
thanks for the Secretary of the Ethnological Society, which
pray send, and also add on my part, many thanks for this honor,
which I can assure you I particularly appreciate. My names are
Austen Henry Layard, and my designation simply "attached to Her
Britannic Majesty's Embassy, at the Sublime Porte." Lady
Canning and her family are still in England, Sir Stratford at
Berne. It is doubtful when they will return to Constantinople,
but I presume ere long. I am ordered out in May, and am named
commissioner for the settlement of the boundaries between
Turkey and Persia. I wish I had you with me during my
commission, for I shall visit a most interesting country,
totally unknown, and with magnificent subjects for such a
pencil as yours. I am sorry I did not know of your visit to
England. I have many influential friends, who would have been
glad to welcome you, and who might have been useful. I am now
passing a month or two at Cheltenham, for the benefit of my
health, which has suffered a little. I will write to you again
soon with something more interesting. Believe me, my dear
Kellogg, yours ever sincerely,
A. H. LAYARD."
Upon the publication of his great work on Nineveh and its Remains, thus
modestly announced, and his One Hundred Plates, he went back to the
East, to renew his researches. Of the results of his recent labors we
have already written, in the _International_ for December.
Dr. Layard is a person of the most amiable and pleasing character, with
all the social virtues which command affection and respect, and such
capacities in literature as make him one of the most attractive
travel-writers in our language. The world may yet look for several
volumes from his hand, upon the East, and we are sure they will deserve
the large and permanent popularity to which his first work has attained
in every country where it has been printed.
THE ASTOR LIBRARY.
[Illustration]
We present above an accurate view of the exterior of the ASTOR LIBRARY,
in Lafayette Place, from a drawing made for the _International_ under
the direction of the architect, Mr. Alexander Saeltzer. It is destined
to be one of the chief attractions of the city, and information
respecting it will be read with interest by the literary and learned
throughout the country.
It is now three years since John Jacob Astor died, leaving by his will
four hundred thousand dollars for the establishment of a Public Library
in New-York, and naming as the first trustees, the Mayor of the city of
New-York and the Chancellor of the state for the time being. Washington
Irving, William B. Astor, Daniel Lord, Jr., James G. King, Joseph G.
Cogswell, Fitz-Greene Halleck, Henry Brevoort, Jr., Samuel B. Ruggles,
Samuel Ward, and Charles Bristed. On the twentieth of May the trustees
held their first meeting, accepted the trust conferred on them, and
appointed Dr. Cogswell, one of their number, superintendent of the
Library. Of the bequest, $75,000 was authorized to be applied to the
erection of a building, $120,000 to the purchase of books and other
objects in the establishment of the Library, and the residue, after
paying for the site, was to be invested as a fund for its maintenance
and increase. In September, 1848, the trustees selected the site for the
edifice. It is convenient for all public purposes, and affords the
comparative quietude and retirement which are desirable for an
institution of constant resort for study and for the consultation of
authorities. In October, Dr. Cogswell was authorized to go to Europe and
purchase at his discretion books to the value of twenty thousand
dollars. The object of the trustees in sending him abroad at that
particular time was to avail themselves of the opportunity, afforded by
the distracted political condition of Europe and the reduction of prices
consequent upon it, to purchase books at very low rates; and the
purchases were made at prices greatly below the ordinary standard, and
the execution of his trust in all respects amply vindicated the high
opinion entertained of Dr. Cogswell's fitness for his position.
The plans for the edifice submitted by Mr. Saeltzer having been adopted,
the work was commenced and has been vigorously prosecuted until the
present time, when the front and nearly all the exterior are completed.
The Library is of brown stone, and in the Byzantine style, or rather in
that of the palaces of Florence, and is one hundred and twenty feet
long, sixty-five feet wide, and sixty-seven feet high. Scarcely a
particle of wood enters into its composition. No building in the United
States, of this character, is formed to so large an extent of iron. Its
uses, too, are altogether novel, at least in this country, and
ingenious. For instance, the truss beams, supporting the principal
weight of the roof, are constructed of cast iron pipes, in a parabolic
form, on the same plan as the iron bridges in France and other parts of
Europe, with a view to secure lightness and strength. The Library Hall,
which occupies the second floor, is one hundred feet high, and sixty
wide, in the clear. The ascent from the front is by a single line of
thirty-eight Italian marble steps, decorated on either side, at the
entrance, by a stone sphinx. Upon nearing the summit of these steps, the
visitor finds himself near the centre of this immense alcove, surrounded
by fourteen brick piers, plastered and finished in imitation of marble,
and supporting iron galleries, midway between the floor and the ceiling.
The side walls form one continuous shelving, of a capacity sufficient
for 100,000 volumes. This is reached by means of the main gallery, in
connection with which are four iron spiral stairways and an intervening
gallery, of a lighter and smaller description, connected by its eight
staircases with the main gallery. The whole are very ingeniously
arranged and appropriately ornamented, in a style corresponding with the
general architecture of the building. At an elevation of fifty-one feet
above the floor of the main hall, is the principal skylight, fifty-four
feet long and fourteen broad, formed of thick glass set in iron. Besides
this there are circular side skylights of much smaller dimensions. All
needful light is furnished, by these and by the windows in the front and
rear walls. Free ventilation is also secured by iron fretwork, in
suitable portions of the ceiling. In the extreme rear are the two rooms
for the librarian, to which access is had by means of the main
galleries.
The first floor contains lecture and reading-rooms, with accommodations
for five hundred persons. The latter are on each side of the building,
and separated from the library-hall stairway at the front entrance by
two corridors leading to the rear vestibule, and thence to the
lecture-room, still further in the rear. The basement contains the
keeper's rooms, cellars, coal-vaults, air-furnaces, &c. The floors are
of richly-wrought mosaic work, on iron beams. The building will not be
completed, probably, for nearly a year from this time, and the books
collected, about 27,000, are meanwhile accessible at 32 Bond-street.
Dr. Cogswell has had printed, in an octavo volume of 446 pages, an
alphabetical index to the books now collected, and of the proposed
accessions. This catalogue is not published, and there are but few
copies of it. The learned librarian, who sailed a few days ago on a new
mission for the library, to Europe, printed it at his own cost,
convinced that without some such manual it would be extremely difficult,
if not impossible, in making the necessary purchases, to avoid buying
duplicates, and equally difficult to select judiciously so many thousand
volumes as are required. He remarks that the Astor Library is in his
opinion the first of so considerable an extent that has ever been called
at once into existence. "That of Gottingen, the nearest parallel, was
founded more than a century ago, when the whole number of printed books
was less than half the present number. Should the Astor Library ever
become a parallel to that in excellence and completeness, it will be as
great an honor to the new world as that to the old."
THE TEMPER OF WOMEN.
In the _Lexington Papers_, just published in London, we have some good
anecdotes of society two hundred and fifty years ago. Here is one:
"A few days ago two ladies met in a narrow street at ten o'clock in the
morning. Neither chose to permit her carriage to be drawn back, and they
remained without moving for six hours. A little after twelve o'clock
they sent for some refreshment for themselves and food for their horses.
Each was firmly resolved to stay the night there rather than go back;
and they would have done so, but a tavern-keeper in the street, who was
prevented by their obstinacy from bringing to his door a cart laden with
wine, went in search of the commissary of the district, who at length,
but with much trouble, succeeded in effecting an arrangement upon these
terms--that each should retire at the same moment, and that neither
should pass through the street."
And here another, which would versify into a fine horrible ballad--as
grand and ghastly as Alfred Tennyson's "Sisters:"
"The Parliament has lately confirmed the sentence of death passed on two
daughters of a gentleman of Anjou, named Madaillon, for the murder of
the lover of their younger sister. It appears that he was engaged to be
married to the eldest sister, but deserting her, and passing over the
second, he transferred his addresses to the youngest. The two eldest
sisters, in revenge, invited him to play at blind man's buff, and while
one bound his eyes, the other cut his throat."
And this is similar:
"In Piedmont a gentleman addressed at the same time one lady who was
rich and plain, and one who was poor and very beautiful; and they, by
chance becoming acquainted, exhibited to each other their correspondence
with the vacillating lover, and one of them invited him to a meeting, in
which after joining in reproaches, they dexterously each deprived him of
an ear."
ANDREW MARVEL.
Of this Aristides of the poets, and his homes and haunts. Mrs. S. C.
HALL gives us the following interesting sketches in her "Pilgrimages to
English Shrines." The illustrations are from drawings by F. W. Fairholt,
F.S.A.
But a few months ago we had been strolling about Palace-yard, and
instinctively paused at No. 19 York-street, Westminster. It was evening;
the lamplighters were running from post to post, but we could still see
that the house was a plain house to look at, differing little from its
associate dwellings; a common house, a house you would pass without a
thought, unless the remembrance of thoughts that had been given to you
from within the shelter of those plain, ordinary walls, caused you to
reflect; aye, and to thank God, who has left with you the memories and
sympathies which elevate human nature. Here, while Latin secretary to
the Protector, was JOHN MILTON to be found when "at home;" and in his
society, at times, were met all the men who with their great originator,
Cromwell, astonished Europe. Just think of those who entered that
portal; think of them all if you can--statesmen and warriors; or, if you
are really of a gentle spirit, think of two--but two; either of whom has
left enough to engross your thoughts and fill your hearts. Think of JOHN
MILTON and ANDREW MARVEL! think of the Protector of England, with two
such secretaries!
Evening had deepened into night; busy hands were closing shutters, and
drawing curtains, to exclude the dense fog, that crept slowly and
silently, like an assassin, through the streets; the pavement was
clammy, and the carriages rushing through the mist, like huge-eyed,
misshapen spectres, proved how eager even the poor horses were to find
shelter; yet for a long while we stood on the steps of this building,
and at length retraced our steps homeward. Our train of thought,
although checked, was not changed, when seated by a comfortable fire. We
took down a volume of Milton; but "Paradise Lost" was too sublime for
the mood of the moment, and we "got to thinking" of Andrew Marvel, and
displaced a volume of Captain Edward Thompson's edition of his works;
and then it occurred to us to walk to Highgate, and once again enjoy the
sight of his quaint old cottage on the side of the hill just facing
"Cromwell House," and next to that which once owned for its master the
great Earl of Lauderdale.
We know nothing more invigorating than to breast the breeze up a hill,
with a bright clear sky above, and the crisp ground under foot. The wind
of March is as pure champagne to a healthy constitution; and let
mountain-men laugh as they will at Highgate-hill, it is no ordinary
labor to go and look down upon London from its height.
Here then we are, once more, opposite the house where lived the
satirist, the poet, the incorruptible patriot.
It is, as you will see presently, a peculiar-looking dwelling, just such
a one as you might well suppose the chosen of Andrew Marvel--exquisitely
situated, enjoying abundant natural advantages; and yet altogether
devoid of pretension; sufficiently beautiful for a poet, sufficiently
humble for a patriot.
[Illustration: MARVEL'S HOUSE, FRONT VIEW.]
It is an unostentatious home, with simple gables and plain windows, and
is but a story high. In front are some old trees, and a convenient porch
to the door, in which to sit and look forth upon the road, a few paces
in advance of it. The front is of plaster, but the windows are
modernized, and there are other alterations which the exigencies of
tenancy have made necessary since Marvel's days.
The dwelling was evidently inhabited;--the curtains in the deep windows
as white as they were when we visited it some years previous to the
visit concerning which we now write, and the garden as neat as when in
those days we asked permission to see the house, and were answered by an
elderly servant, who took in our message; and an old gentleman came into
the hall, invited us in, and presented us to his wife, a lady of more
than middle age, and of that species of beauty depending upon
expression, which it is not in the power of time to wither, because it
is of the spirit rather than the flesh; and we also remembered a green
parrot, in a fine cage, that talked a great deal, and was the only thing
which seemed out of place in the house. We had been treated with much
courtesy; and, emboldened by the memory of that kindness, we now
ascended the stone steps, unlatched the little gate, and knocked.
[Illustration: MARVEL'S HOUSE, BACK VIEW.]
Again we were received courteously and kindly by the lady we had
formerly seen; and again she blandly offered to show us the house. We
went up a little winding stair, and into several neat, clean bedrooms,
where every thing was so old-fashioned, that you could fancy Andrew
Marvel himself was still its master.
"Look out here," said the old lady; "here's a view! They say this was
Andrew Marvel's writing closet when he wrote _sense_; but when he wrote
_poetry_, he used to sit below in his garden. I have heard there is a
private way under the road to Cromwell House, opposite; but surely that
could not be necessary. So good a man would not want to work in the
dark; for he was a true lover of his country, and a brave man. My
husband used to say, the patriots of those times were not like the
patriots now;--that then, they acted for their country,--now, they talk
about it! Alas! the days are passed when you could tell an Englishman
from every other man, even by his gait, keeping the middle of the road,
and straight on, as one who knew himself, and made others know him. I am
sure a party of roundheads, in their sober coats, high hats, and heavy
boots, would have walked up Highgate Hill to visit Master Andrew Marvel,
with a different air from the young men of our own time,--or of their
own time, I should say,--for _my_ time is past, and _yours_ is passing."
That was quite true; but there is no reason, we thought, why we should
not look cheerfully towards the future, and pray that it may be a bright
world for others, if not for ourselves;--the greater our enjoyment in
the contemplation of the happiness of our fellow-creatures, the nearer
we approach God.
It was too damp for the old lady to venture into the garden; and sweet
and gentle as she was, both in mind and manner, we were glad to be
alone. How pretty and peaceful the house looks from this spot! The
snowdrops were quite up, and the yellow and purple tips of the crocuses
bursting through the ground in all directions. This, then, was the
garden the poet loved so well, and to which he alludes so charmingly in
his poem, where the nymph complains of the death of her fawn--
"I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness."
The garden seems in nothing changed; in fact, the entire appearance of
the place is what it was in those glorious days when inhabited by the
truest genius and the most unflinching patriot that ever sprang from the
sterling stuff that Englishmen were made of in those wonder-working
times. The genius of Andrew Marvel was as varied as it was
remarkable;--not only was he a tender and exquisite poet, but entitled
to stand _facile princeps_ as an incorruptible patriot, the best of
controversialists, and the leading prose wit of England. We have always
considered his as the first of the "sprightly runnings" of that
brilliant stream of wit, which will carry with it to the latent
posterity the names of Swift, Steele, and Addison. Before Marvel's time,
to be witty was to be strained, forced, and conceited; from him--whose
memory consecrates that cottage--wit came sparkling forth, untouched by
baser matter. It was worthy of him; its main feature was an open
clearness. Detraction or jealousy cast no stain upon it; he turned
aside, in the midst of an exalted panegyric to Oliver Cromwell, to say
the finest things that ever were said of Charles I.
The Patriot was the son of Mr. Andrew Marvel, minister and schoolmaster
of Kingston-upon-Hull, where he was born in 1620; his father was also
the lecturer of Trinity Church in that town, and was celebrated as a
learned and pious man. The son's abilities at an early age were
remarkable, and his progress so great, that at the age of thirteen, he
was entered as a student of Trinity College, Cambridge; and it is said
that the corporation of his natal town furnished him with the means of
entering the college and prosecuting his studies there. His shrewd and
inquiring mind attracted the attention of some of the Jesuit emissaries
who were at this time lurking about the universities, and sparing no
pains to make proselytes. Marvel entered into disputations with them,
and ultimately fell so far into their power, that he consented to
abandon the University and follow one of them to London. Like many other
clever youths, he was inattentive to the mere drudgery of university
attendance, and had been reprimanded in consequence; this, and the news
of his escape from college, reached his father's ears at Hull. That good
and anxious parent followed him to London; and, after a considerable
search, at last met with him in a bookseller's shop; he argued with his
son as a prudent and sensible man should do, and prevailed on him to
retrace his steps and return with him to college, where he applied to
his studies with such good-will and continued assiduity, that he
obtained the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1638. His father lived to see
the fruits of his wise advice, but was only spared thus long; for he was
unfortunately drowned in crossing the Humber, as he was attending the
daughter of an intimate female friend, who, by this event becoming
childless, sent for young Marvel, and by way of making all the return in
her power, added considerably to his fortune.
This accession of wealth gave him an opportunity of travelling, and he
journeyed through Holland, France, and Italy. While at Rome he wrote the
first of those satirical poems which obtained him so much celebrity. It
was a satire on an English priest there, a wretched poetaster named
Flecknoe. From an early period of life Marvel appears to have despised
conceit, or impertinence, and he found another chance to exhibit his
powers of satire in the person of an ecclesiastic of Paris, one Joseph
de Maniban, an abbot who pretended to understand the characters of those
he had never seen, and to prognosticate their good or bad fortune, from
an inspection of their handwriting. Marvel addressed a poem to him,
which, if it did not effectually silence his pretensions, at all events
exposed them fully to the thinking portions of the community.
[Illustration: CROMWELL HOUSE.]
Beneath Italian skies his immortal friendship with Milton seems to have
commenced; it was of rapid growth, but was soon firmly established. They
were, in many ways, kindred spirits, and their hopes for the after
destinies of England were alike. In 1653 Marvel returned to England, and
during the eventful years that followed, we can find no record of his
strong and earnest thoughts, as they worked upwards into the arena of
public life. One glorious fact we know, and all who honor virtue must
feel its force,--that in an age when wealth was never wanting to the
unscrupulous, Marvel, a member of the popular and successful party,
continued Poor. Many of those years he is certain to have passed--
"Under the destiny severe
Of Fairfax, and the starry Vere--"
in the humble capacity of tutor of languages to their daughters. It was
most likely, during this period, that he inhabited the cottage at
Highgate, opposite to the house in which lived part of the family of
Cromwell, a house upon which we shall remark presently. In 1657 he was
introduced by Milton to Bradshaw. The precise words of the introduction
ran thus: 'I present to you Mr. Marvel, laying aside those jealousies
and that emulation which mine own condition might suggest to me, by
bringing in such a coadjutor.' His connection with the State took place
in 1657, when he became assistant secretary with Milton in the service
of the Protector. 'I never had,' says Marvel, 'any, not the remotest
relation to public matters, nor correspondence with the persons then
predominant, until the year 1657.'
After he had been some time fellow-secretary with Milton, even the
thick-sighted burgesses of Hull perceived the merits of their townsman,
and sent him as their representative into the House of Commons. We can
imagine the delight he felt at escaping from the crowded and stormy
Commons to breathe the invigorating air of his favorite hill, to enjoy
the society of his former pupils, now his friends; and to gather, in
'----a garden of his own,'
the flowers that had solaced his leisure hours when he was comparatively
unknown. But Cromwell died, Charles returned, and Marvel's energies
sprung into arms at acts which, in accordance with his principles, he
considered base, and derogatory to his country. His whole efforts were
directed to the preservation of civil and religious liberty.
It was but a short time previous to the Restoration that Marvel had been
chosen by his native town to sit as its representative in Parliament.
The Session began at Westminster in April, 1660, and he acquitted
himself so honorably, that he was again chosen for the one which began
in May, 1661. Whether under Cromwell or Charles, he acted with such
thorough honesty of purpose, and gave such satisfaction to his
constituents, that they allowed him a handsome pension all the time he
continued to represent them, which was till the day of his death. This
was probably the last borough in England that paid a representative.[A]
He seldom spoke in Parliament, but had much influence with the members
of both Houses; the spirited Earl of Devonshire called him friend, and
Prince Rupert particularly paid the greatest regard to his councils; and
whenever he voted according to the sentiments of Marvel, which he often
did, it used to be said, by the opposite party, that 'he had been with
his tutor.' Such certainly was the intimacy between the Prince and
Marvel, that when he was obliged to abscond, to avoid falling a
sacrifice to the indignation of those enemies among the governing party
whom his satirical pen had irritated, the Prince frequently went to see
him, disguised as a private person.
The noted Doctor Samuel Parker published Bishop Bramhall's work, setting
forth the rights of kings over the consciences of their subjects, and
then came forth Marvel's witty and sarcastic poem, 'The Rehearsal
Transposed.'[B] And yet how brightly did the generosity of his noble
nature shine forth at this very time, when he forsook his own wit in
that very poem, to praise the wit of Butler, his rival and political
enemy. Fortune seems about this period to have dealt hardly with him.
Even while his political satires rang through the very halls of the
pampered and impure Charles, when they were roared forth in every
tavern, shouted in the public streets, and attracted the most envied
attention throughout England, their author was obliged to exchange the
free air, apt type of the freedom which he loved, for a lodging in a
court off the Strand, where, enduring unutterable temptations, flattered
and threatened, he more than realized the stories of Roman virtue.
The poet Mason has made Marvel the hero of his 'Ode to Independence,'
and thus alludes to his incorruptible integrity:--
'In awful Poverty his honest Muse
Walks forth Vindictive through a venal land;
In vain Corruption sheds her golden dews,
In vain Oppression lifts her iron hand;
He scorns them both, and arm'd with Truth alone,
Bids Lust and Folly tremble on the throne.'
Marvel, by opposing the ministry and its measures, created himself many
enemies,[C] and made himself very obnoxious to the government, yet
Charles II. took great delight in his conversation, and tried all means
to win him over to his side, but in vain; nothing being ever able to
shake his resolution. There were many instances of his firmness in
resisting the offers of the Court, in which he showed himself proof
against all temptations.
We close our eyes upon this peaceful dwelling of the heroic senator, and
imagine ourselves in the reign of the second Charles, threading our way
into that 'court off the Strand,' where Marvel ended his days. We enter
the house, and climbing the stairs even to the second floor, perceive
the object of our warmest admiration. He is not alone, though there is
no possibility of confounding the poet with the courtier. Andrew Marvel
is plainly dressed, his figure is strong, and about the middle size, his
countenance open, and his complexion of a ruddy cast; his eyes are of a
soft hazel color, mild and steady; his eyebrows straight, and so
flexible as to mould without an effort into a satirical curve, if such
be the mind's desire; his mouth is close, and indicative of firmness;
and his brown hair falls gracefully back from a full and noble forehead.
He sits in an upright and determined manner upon an uneasy-looking
high-backed chair. A somewhat long table intervenes between him and his
visitor; one end of it is covered with a white cloth, and a dish of cold
meat is flanked by a loaf of bread and a dark earthenware jug. On the
opposite end is placed a bag of gold, beside which lies the
richly-embroidered glove which the cavalier with whom he is conversing
has flung off. There is strange contrast in the attitude of the two men.
Lord Danby lounges with the ease of a courtier and the grace of a
gentleman upon a chair of as stiff and uncomfortable an appearance as
that which is occupied after so upright a fashion by Andrew Marvel.
"I have answered you, my lord," said the patriot, "already. Methinks
there need be no further parley on the subject; it is not my first
temptation, though I most fervently desire it may be the last."
[Illustration: STAIRCASE.]
The nobleman took up his glove and drew it on. "I again pray you to
consider," he said, "whether, if with us, the very usefulness you so
much prize would not have a more extensive sphere. You would have larger
means of being useful."
"My lord, I should certainly have the means of tempting usefulness to
forsake duty."
The cavalier rose, but the displeasure that flushed his countenance soon
faded before the serene and holy expression of Milton's friend.
"And are you so determined?" said his lordship, sorrowfully. "Are you
really so determined? A thousand English pounds are there, and thrice
the sum--nay, any thing you ask----"
"My lord! my lord!" interrupted Marvel, indignantly, "this perseverance
borders upon insult. Nay, my good lord, you do not so intend it, but
your master does not understand me. Pray you, note this: two days ago
that meat was hot; it has remained cold since, and there is enough still
for to-morrow; and I am well content. A man so easily satisfied is not
likely to exchange an approving conscience for dross like that!"
We pray God that the sin of Marvel's death did not rest with the great
ones of those times; but it was strange and sudden.[D] He did not leave
wherewith to bury the sheath of such a noble spirit, but his
constituents furnished forth a decent funeral, and would have erected a
monument to his memory in the church of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, where
he was interred; but the rector, blinded by the dust of royalty to the
merits of the man, refused the necessary permission. Marvel's name is
remembered, though the rector's has been long forgotten.[E]
Wood tells us, that Marvel was in his conversation very modest, and of
few words; and Cooke, the writer of his life, observes that he was very
reserved among those whom he did not know, but a most delightful and
improving companion among his friends. John Aubrey, who knew him
personally, thus describes him: 'He was of a middling stature, pretty
strong set, roundish cherry-checked, hazle-eyed, brown-haired.' He was
(as Wood also says) in conversation very modest, and of a very few
words. He was wont to say, that he would not drink high or freely with
any one with whom he would not trust his life.
Marvel lived among friends at Highgate; exactly opposite to his door was
the residence of General Ireton and his wife Bridget, the eldest
daughter of Oliver Cromwell; and which house still bears his name, and
is described in 'Prickett's History of Highgate,' one of those local
topographical works which deserve encouragement:--'Cromwell House is
supposed to have been built by the Protector, whose name it bears, about
the year 1630, as a residence for General Ireton, who married his
daughter and was one of the commanders of his army; it is, however, said
to have been the residence of Oliver Cromwell himself, but no mention is
made, either in history or in his biography, of his having ever lived at
Highgate. Tradition states, there was a subterraneous passage from this
house to the mansion house which stood where the New Church now stands,
but of its reality no proof has hitherto been adduced. Cromwell House
was evidently built and internally ornamented in accordance with the
taste of its military occupant. The staircase, which is of handsome
proportions, is richly decorated with oaken carved figures, supposed to
have been of persons in the general's army, in their costume; and the
balustrades filled in with devices emblematical of warfare. On the
ceilings of the drawing-room are the arms of General Ireton; this and
the ceilings of the other principal apartments are enriched in
conformity with the fashion of those days. The proportion of the noble
rooms, as well as the brick-work in front, well deserves the notice and
study of the antiquarian and the architect. From the platform on the top
of the mansion may be seen a perfect panorama of the surrounding
country.'
The staircase above described is here engraved. It is a remarkably
striking and elegant specimen of internal decoration, of broad and noble
proportion, and of a solid and grand construction suitable to the time
of its erection; the wood-work of the house is every where equally bold
and massive; the door-cases of simple but good design. There are some
ceilings in the first story which are in rich plaster work, ornamented
with the arms of Ireton; and mouldings of fruit and flowers, of a
sumptuous and bold enrichment.
The series of figures which stand upon the newels of the staircase are
all engraved below. There are ten remaining out of twelve, the original
number; the missing two are said to have been figures of Cromwell and
Ireton, destroyed at the Restoration. They stand about a foot in height,
and represent the different soldiers of the army, from the fifer and
drummer to the captain, and originally, to the commanders. They are
curious for more reasons than one; their locality, their truthfulness,
their history, and the picture they help us to realise of the army of
Cromwell are all so many claims on our attention.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] The custom of paying members of the House of Commons for the loss of
time and travelling expenses, was common in the seventeenth century;
constituencies believed such equivalents necessary for the attention to
their interests and wishes which a Parliamentary agent was expected to
give. In the old Corporation books of provincial towns are many entries
for payments to members of Parliament, and in some instances we find
them petitioning to Government for disfranchisement, because they could
not afford to pay the expenses of a Member.
[B] Marvel's first _expose_ of Parker's false logic was in 1672, in the
poem named above, which was immediately answered by Parker, and
re-answered by Marvel, who appears to have had some private threat sent
him, as he says his pamphlet is occasioned by two letters; one the
published 'Reproof' of him by Parker in answer to his first attack; 'the
second, left for me at a friend's house, dated November 3d, 1673,
subscribed J. G., and concluding with these words:--If thou darest to
print any lie or libel against Dr. Parker, by the Eternal--I will cut
thy throat.' This last reply of Marvel's, however, effectually silenced
Parker: 'It not only humbled Parker, but the whole party,' says Burnet,
for, 'from the king down to the tradesman, the book was read with
pleasure.'
[C] 'No stronger satire could be penned than that descriptive of the
Court of Charles, in the poem called 'Britannia and Raleigh:'--
'A colony of French possess the Court,
Pimps, priests, buffoons, in privy chambers sport;
Such slimy monsters ne'er approach'd a throne
Since Pharaoh's days, nor so defil'd a crown;
In sacred ears tyrannic arts they croak,
Pervert his mind, and good intentions choak.'
But not only do the courtiers feel the lash, for when Raleigh implores
Britannia to urge his duty on the king, and save him from the bad who
surround him, she interrupts him with--
'Raleigh, no more! for long in vain I've try'd
The Stuart from the tyrant to divide.'
[D] 'Marvel died in 1678, in his fifty-eighth year, not without the
strongest suspicions of having been poisoned; for he was always very
temperate, and of an healthful and strong constitution to the last.'
[E] On the death of this rector, however, the monument and inscription
was placed on the north wall of the church, near the spot where he is
supposed to lie.
A NOVELIST'S APPEAL FOR THE CANADAS.
Among the new English novels is one entitled _Ellen Clayton, or the
Nomades of the West_, by Douglass Huyghue. The author seems to feel for
the red men the same regard which the adventurous artist and traveller
Catlin has expressed in England, and his work comes in aid of those
appeals which Catlin has so often made on their behalf. Such a motive
entitles the author to respect, and gives an additional value to the
book; while the talent with which it is written, renders it a narrative
of unusual interest. In nothing but its _theme_ is it like to any of
Cooper's novels. Its incidents and its characters are not similar, and
they lack truthfulness quite as much as they lack similarity. We know
something of Indian life; in our youth we saw much of it; and we regard
Cooper as its faithfulest delineator in literary art. The time at which
this romance opens is in the year 1600, when the wars between France and
England led to hostilities in Canada, and when an abortive attack was
made upon Quebec by the British and colonial army. The hero and heroine
are victims to the disasters of that war, and in describing their
adventures, Canada, and the condition of its civilized as well as of its
wild inhabitants, are vividly presented. The incidents justify the
author in making this appeal to his English readers when he reminds them
of the associations that should ever be connected with the fortress of
Quebec:--
"Men of England, look not coldly upon the interests of that
land for the possession of which your fathers fought and bled.
Quench not irretrievably the flame of loyalty which burns in
many an earnest heart, loath to contract these new ties which
the progress of an irresistible destiny would seem to favor, at
the sacrifice of affection for the fatherland. The blood of the
greatest and wisest nation since the days of the Romans, flows
in the veins of the Anglo-Americans, unadulterated by the air
of another hemisphere, and stimulated into vigorous action by a
necessity for continual exertion, combined with an entire
liberty of thought which calls into play every resource of the
physical and intellectual man. The sturdy and intelligent race
that treads the virgin soil of Canada, can surely claim
equality, at the very least, with the denizens of older Europe;
cramped as they are for want of room, and enervated by an
ultra-civilization that wrongs nature, and has almost taken the
sceptre from her hand to put it into that of art. The British
colonist enjoys a peculiar exemption from those prejudices,
which, for so many ages, have retarded progress, and are
successively being overcome by the convictions of a more
enlightened era. There is a voice in the woods and mountains of
a great solitude that elevates the soul and fortifies it with
courage in the time of need. The great torrents and inland seas
of that noble country have schooled the generation, nurtured by
their side, into a strong conception of freedom, and the right
to be justly dealt with, at the hands of those with whom it is
connected by the double alliance of kindred predilection. A
pernicious, temporizing policy has of late caused such wounds
as may not be healed up very easily, we fear. The upright
colonist has seen an unprincipled faction permitted to ride
triumphant over those whose intentions are honest, and whose
loyalty is proven. Let us hope, that ere long something of the
chivalrous generosity of other days will pervade the councils
of the state, and rouse the stalwart spirit of the Briton to
scourge this ignominy from the land; if encouragement be due at
all, it surely is to those true-hearted provincials who are
avowedly proud of the great people from whence they derive
their character, their language, and their laws--and who are as
able, as they are willing, to preserve unto their beloved
Sovereign the colony their sires won."
This is tolerably good rhetoric, but it is not likely to have much
effect when the strong argument and imposing eloquence of statesmen have
failed to arrest attention. We see notices of another political novel
referring to Canada, which deals more directly, if with less talent,
with the disabilities and wishes of the people. It is entitled, _The
Footsteps of Montcalm_, and its hero, descended from a follower of the
brave Frenchman, contrasts with his ideal of freedom and happiness, the
laws, institutions, habits, and miseries, which he regards as
inseparable from the colonial relation. As in the rebellion of 1838,
whatever disaffection now prevails in British America, is probably
shared much less largely by the English than by the French population.
Political, religious, or sectarian novels, however, executed never so
cleverly, are but sugared pills at which the appetite revolts as soon as
the quality is discovered.
DR. WEBSTER, PRESIDENT OF THE NEW-YORK FREE ACADEMY.
[Illustration]
Throughout the world an extraordinary degree of attention has recently
been directed to systems and means of Education, and the truth has at
length been generally recognized that the stability and glory of nations
must depend upon the intelligence and virtue of their inhabitants. In
our own country, which is most of all interested in the diffusion of
knowledge, unexampled efforts are being made not only for the general
improvement of the culture offered in the seminaries, but for that
elevation of the laboring classes which, whatever may be said by
ambitious feeble-minds, seeking for reputation as reformers of the
social system, is really to be found only in a wise development of
individual capacities for the strife that has been and must be waged for
individual well-being.
There have been many improvements suggested or realized lately in
collegiate education. We have been gratified with Professor Sedgwick's
admirable treatise on the subject, which, at this time, is receiving in
England that consideration to which any thing from the mind of one so
distinguished is entitled. In this country we think no one, upon the
whole, has written more wisely than Dr. Wayland, whose views are to be
illustrated in the future government of the university over which he has
so long presided. But we shall not be satisfied until we have a great
institution, as much above the existing colleges as they are above the
common schools in the wards of the city, to which bachelors of arts only
shall be admitted, and to which they, whether coming from Harvard,
Oberlin, or Virginia, shall be admitted without charge.
The establishment of the NEW-YORK FREE ACADEMY is suggestive of many
things, and of this among them. We suppose a discussion whether our
colleges supply the _degree_ of education suitable to our general
condition, could be entertained only by dunces; the point whether they
furnish the kind and quality of culture to fit men for efficient and
just action, in such public affairs and private occupations as the
humblest may be called to in a free state, has been amply discussed, and
it is decided against the colleges.
Our schools, called colleges, have for the most part been fashioned
after the universities of Europe, but they have in all cases been
inadequately endowed, and without the internal police which is necessary
to their vigorous administration. Nine-tenths of the professors are
incompetent, and quite one half of them, in any thing worthy the name of
university could claim admission only to the class of freshmen; while
those who are capable of a reputable performance of their duties--so
uncertain are the revenues of the institutions to which they are
attached--are very frequently compelled to modify regulations and relax
discipline to such a degree that the colleges become only schools of
vice or nurseries of indolence.
The deficiency is of _authority_. It is useless to talk about courses of
study, or any thing else, until the discipline of the schools is as
absolute as that of the camp, the factory, or the counting-room. We are
inclined to believe that the usefulness of the Military Academy at West
Point,--which has furnished so large a proportion of the best civil
engineers, lawyers, physicians, and divines, as well as the soldiers who
and who _alone_ have conducted our armies to real glory,--we are
inclined to believe that this justly celebrated school owes all its
triumphs to its rigid laws and independence of popular clamor.
Discipline is every thing. Without it a man is but a fair model in wood,
which by it is turned to an engine of iron, and by opportunity furnished
with water and fire to impel it on a resistless course through the
world. And a man must be governed by others before he will govern
himself. The silliness about _liberty_ which is sometimes obtruded into
discussions of this subject, is fit for very young children and very old
women. There is no desirable liberty but in obedience. The cant about it
sometimes illustrates only a pitiable feebleness of intellect, but it
more frequently discloses some kind or degree of wilful licentiousness.
The "voluntary system" does very well in the churches. It will not do at
all in the colleges. St. Paul is always found even with the wisdom of
the age in which he is quoted, and he tells us that a youth "differeth
nothing from a servant, though he be lord of all, but is under tutors
and governors." This is the true philosophy. The "sovereign" people who
disregard law, and exult when it is outraged at the cost of an unpopular
party, have not learned what is necessary to freedom; they are not fit
for it; they will destroy its fairest fabrics, if the state does not
prepare its children by a thorough discipline for their inheritance. The
_way_ is by free schools and free colleges, supported by public taxes.
Sects and parties may have as many seminaries as they choose, and with
rules of study and conduct so easily to be complied with, and
administrations so lax, that the most contemptible idler or the most
independent and self-willed simpleton shall see in them nothing to
conflict with his habit or temper; but the graduates of these seminaries
will not ascend the pinnacles of fame nor direct the affairs of nations:
such affairs will be left for those who have learned, with their
arithmetic, the self-denial, reverence and obedience, which are the
conditions of the application of addition and division in the high
mathematics.
In a free college (and the New-York Free Academy is, in all respects,
more justly to be considered a college than are most of the schools
which confer academical "honors"), in a free college, of which the
professors are responsible only to a judicious board of directors,
examinations for admissions and for advancements will be rigid and
impartial, the administration will be vigilant and firm, the reckless
who will not and the imbecile who cannot acquire a good education, will
be dismissed for more congenial pursuits, the rich and the poor will be
upon an equality, and only desert will be honorably distinguished.
The New-York Free Academy is eminently fortunate in its officers. HORACE
WEBSTER, LL. D., is, in all respects, admirably fitted for his position
as its President. He perfectly understands the indispensableness of
thorough organization, and absolute and watchful discipline. Dr. Webster
is a native of Vermont, and is of that family which, in various
departments, has furnished the country some of its most illustrious
names. At an early age, he became a student of the Military Academy, and
so has himself experience of the advantages of that system which he
advocates, and illustrates in his own administration. He graduated with
distinction, and it is properly mentioned as an indication of his
standing at West Point that, while he was a cadet of the first class, he
was selected by the government of the Academy to be temporarily himself
an instructor. In 1818 he joined the army, as a lieutenant, and after
passing one year with his regiment, of which the late General Taylor was
at that time the Major, he was elected Assistant Professor of
Mathematics in the Military Academy, and returned to fulfil for six
years, with constantly increasing reputation, both for scientific
abilities and for personal character, the duties of that office, which
it scarcely need be said are more difficult at West Point than in any
other school in America. Among the distinguished gentlemen who were
associated with him in teaching or as students during this period, were
General Worth, Colonel Bliss, Colonel Thayer, Colonel Mansfield, and
Professors Alexander D. Bache, LL. D., Charles Davies, LL. D., E. C.
Ross, LL. D., and John Torrey, LL. D. Resigning his commission, he was
in 1825 made Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy in Geneva
College, and he filled this place twenty-three years, leaving it in
1848, to accept the Presidency of the New York Free Academy. We conceive
that nothing could have invested this school with a higher claim to
respect, or challenged for it a larger degree of confidence, than the
selection of a man of such experience, capacities, and reputation, to be
its chief officer; and for the class of persons likely to come under his
instruction, no course of study could be more judicious, no training
more admirably adapted, than may be expected from one who has been so
long and so successfully engaged in preparing men for the most difficult
and important offices. His attainments needed no illustration, and his
administrative abilities have been amply vindicated by his government of
the Free Academy.
Candidates for admission to the Free Academy must have passed at least
one year in the public schools, and they are examined in the common
English studies. The standards for admission are not so high as the
colleges demand, because the period of instruction is longer. We cannot
enter into any particular statement of the courses of study, but it
will be interesting if we indicate their character very briefly, and
describe the chief teachers. Edward C. Ross, LL. D., the Professor of
Mathematics, is, like Dr. Webster, a graduate of the Military Academy,
and was many years a successful teacher in that institution and in
Kenyon College. He is assisted by G. B. Docherty, A. M., who was
formerly the Principal of the Flushing Institute. The course embraces
all the studies necessary for the best accomplishment in engineering,
and indeed is as thorough and complete as that pursued at West Point,
with the modifications appropriate to the prospective pursuits of the
pupils. Theodore Irving, A. M., is Professor of History and
Belles-Lettres, assisted by Edward C. Marshall, A. M., and G. W.
Huntsman, A. M. These gentlemen have experience, and we believe their
system of instruction is in some respects original and in every way very
excellent. Mr. Irving is a kinsman of "Geoffrey Crayon," and himself
master of a pleasing and classical style. Oliver Wolcott Gibbs, A. M.,
M. D., Professor of Chemistry, Natural Philosophy, Mineralogy, and
Geology, is one of the best practical chemists in this country, having
completed his own education under the celebrated Liebig, in Germany, and
since in many ways evinced such capacities in this department, as made
his selection for the place he occupies almost a matter of course. John
J. Owen, D. D., whose scholarship is exhibited in his ably edited series
of the classical authors of these languages, is Professor of Greek and
Latin, and we neither agree with nor have much respect for those who
deprecate the attention demanded in the Academy for such studies. The
French, Spanish and German languages are taught by Professors Roemer,
Morales, and Glaubensklee, all of whom are known to the public for such
talents as are necessary in their positions. Mr. Paul P. Duggan, a
painter whose works adorn many of our best collections in art, is
Professor of Drawing.
The Free Academy will fulfil the reasonable expectations of its
founders. It is admirably designed, and its appointments and
administration have thus far been judicious. We lack yet a University:
there is no school in America deserving this title; all our colleges
should be regarded as _gymnasia_, sifting the classes of the common
schools and preparing their more advanced and ingenious pupils for such
an institution; and the Free Academy may be accepted as a model by which
they can be reshaped for their less ambitious but more appropriate
duties. This is a subject ably and properly treated in Professor
Tappan's recent volume on Education, (published by Mr. Putnam,) to which
we beg attention.
The whole number of students now attending the Free Academy is three
hundred and twenty-nine, of whom one hundred and five were admitted at
the last examination, in February. The number for whom the building is
designed is about six hundred.
Authors and Books.
A book which we cannot too highly recommend is the _Briefe ueber
Humboldt's Kosmos_ (Letters on Humboldt's Cosmos), published at Leipzic,
in two octavo volumes, from the pens of Professor COTTA and Professor
SCHALLER. It is intended to serve as a commentary upon that work, which
it is well worthy to accompany. Without attempting an exhaustive
treatise on the details of the various topics touched on by Humboldt,
the writers have expanded some of the leading points of his work into
scientific essays, whose practical utility is none the smaller for an
elegant and attractive style, and a genial enthusiasm, of which Humboldt
need not be ashamed. The first volume, by Professor Cotta, contains
forty letters on the following themes: The enjoyment of nature; matter
and forces, growth and existence; natural philosophy; the fixed stars,
their parallaxes, groups, movements, nebulae; double stars, structure of
the universe, resisting medium; the solar system; the laws of motion,
Kepler and Newton; density of the heavenly bodies; our moon, its orbit,
no atmosphere, no water; comets; meteors, and meteoric stones; form of
the earth; magnetism; volcanic activity; gas-springs; geysers; internal
structure of the earth; history of organisms, their first origin, and
developments; the surface, its forms, and their influence on animated
life; the gradual rising and sinking of the surface in Sweden; the
tides; circulation of water on the earth--springs, cold, warm, mineral,
artesian--rivers, seas, ocean currents, evaporation and condensation;
glaciers; the atmosphere, climate, weather, winds, storm-clouds; organic
life on the earth, its nature, differences, origin of the differences,
original production, creation, first appearance; man, his origin, races,
forms, phrenology, &c. These letters offer, as we have already said, in
a pleasing and attractive form, a condensed and comprehensive view of
what is now known with reference to the sciences treated. The letter
upon Man is especially interesting. Professor Cotta belongs to those who
think the human race to be "the gradual perfection, through thousands of
generations," of a lower order of creatures. "The human individual," he
says, "even now, in the embryonic state, passes through the condition of
various sorts of animals. The most eminent anatomists have shown that
before birth we for a time resemble a polypal animal, then for a time a
fish, next a reptile, till at last appear the characteristics of a
mammalia. This is a fact which bears strongly in favor of our view. The
genesis and development of the entire species seem to be here condensed
in the growth of the individual." But while setting forth this peculiar
view, Professor Cotta, with true German comprehensiveness, takes care to
give a fair statement of opposing doctrines, and evinces nothing like a
narrow dogmatism. The second volume, like the second volume of the
Cosmos, is that which will most interest and delight the general reader.
It contains thirty-two letters, mainly on the following subjects: the
view of nature in general; the religious view; the various forms of the
religious view; the aesthetic view; the inward connection of the aesthetic
enjoyment of nature with its artistic representation; the scientific
view as empirical science and natural philosophy; the relations of the
various views of nature to each other; the poetic comprehension of
nature among the Indians; the poetic comprehension of nature among the
Jews, the Greeks, and the Romans; the Christian contemplation of nature;
German poetry in the middle ages; Italian poetry; the poetic
comprehension of nature in modern times; the representation of nature by
painting, and its gradual appearance in the history of art; the
physiognomy of plants in connection with the physiognomy of nature in
general; description of several plant formations; general outlines of
the animal world; history of the physical view of the universe; natural
science among the Phenicians, the Greeks, at the time of the Ptolemies,
at the time of the Roman Empire, and in the middle ages; natural history
of modern times, Bacon, Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo, Newton; the
mechanical doctrine of modern physics; the dynamic view of nature;
Fichte's doctrine, and the natural philosophy of Schelling and Hegel.
This volume, as will be easily understood, gives at once a history of
religion, philosophy, art, literature, and science, in their relations
to the outward universe. For instance, under the head of natural science
among the Greeks, we have among other things an account of the doctrine
of the Pythagoreans, Plato, and Aristotle; in treating the middle ages,
Professor Schaller speaks of the Scholastics, Thomas Aquinas, Roger
Bacon, Giordano Bruno, and Paracelsus. One of the most interesting parts
of the whole is that on the poetic view of nature among the Hindoos,
Jews, Greeks, Romans, Germans, and Italians, the historical statement
being every where illustrated by copious quotations of admirable
passages from the poets of those nations. The strictly scientific
portions are illustrated by excellent engravings, and are free from mere
technicalities. Sold in New-York by R. Garrigue.
* * * * *
The _Vestiges of Creation_ has been translated into German by Charles
Vogt, a savan who in late years has become noted as a radical
politician. The translation is highly praised. Published at Brunswick.
* * * * *
The translation of HEGEL'S _Aesthetik_ into French is now nearly
completed at Paris, the fourth volume, which is devoted to the
consideration of music and poetry, having just been published. One
volume more will complete the work. The translator is M. Charles Benard.
* * * * *
THE HUMAN RACE AND ITS ORIGIN.--Under the title of _Histoire Generale
des Races Humaines_, M. Eusebe-Francois de Salles has just published at
Paris an elaborate work on Ethnography, for which he had prepared
himself by long and careful personal observation of most of the races on
the globe, his travels having extended into nearly all climes and
regions. He takes the ground of the descent of the entire human family
from a single pair, created adult and perfect in mind and body, not by
any simple evolution of nature, but by a direct act of the Divine Being.
The paradise or home of this pair he places to the north of India and
the east of Persia. All the varieties of men now existing he attributes
to the influence of climate and circumstances. "The first light of
history," he says, "shows us the human family in possession of a
language, and of a certain degree of science, the inheritance of the
past. Its aptitudes, its passions, and outward circumstances, may
increase this inheritance, keep it the same, or diminish it. In peoples
enervated by luxury and by doubt, in tribes softened by too favorable a
climate, or separated too long from the stronger and better educated
masses,--in a family or a couple exiled by a catastrophe, a
shipwreck,--we are to seek the origin of the decline into the various
degrees of _corruption, barbarism_, the _savage state_, and _brutality_.
Imagine a boat from the coast of America, or from the South Sea Islands,
cast by a tempest on some unknown shore or some desert island. A few
young persons, a few children, alone escape from the shipwreck, knowing
imperfectly the language, the arts, and the family traditions of their
parents. Such is the origin of the unfortunates sometimes met with, who
are ignorant even of the use of fire." Against the spontaneous
generation of the human race in several localities he argues at length
as an utter absurdity, the point of his argument being, that isolated
couples so produced would be unable to resist the inhospitality of
nature without miraculous aid, and one miracle, he contends, is more
admissable than ten or a dozen. But the chief grounds upon which he
labors to establish his doctrine are the similitude of the most ancient
traditions among all branches of the human species, the affiliation and
analogy of languages, and the identity of organization and equality of
aptitudes. He finds similar traditions among the Hebrews, the Chaldeans,
the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, the Ethiopians, the Hindoos, the
Persians, the Chinese, the Thibetans, the Scythians, and the Americans.
In the theogonies and cosmogonies of the Aztecs of America, he says that
the traditions of ancient Asia are plainly to be found, while some vague
traces of these primitive narratives are to be found even among the
savages of Oceanica, and the most barbarous and miserable negroes of
western Africa. To the negroes he devotes perhaps the most careful and
learned portion of the work. Starting from the discovery of M. Flaurens
as to the _pigmentum_ or coloring matter of the skin, he contends with
great force that nothing but the gradual influence of climate, giving a
greater and greater intensity to the action of this coloring matter,
which exists in every race and every individual, has caused the
essential difference between whites and blacks. For, he argues, there is
no other difference between them than that of color, all the other
features, such as the prominent mouth, the woolly hair, the facial
angle, being in no wise exclusively peculiar to the Africans. And so,
after having gone over the entire race in detail, proving the identity
of organization in every division, M. de Salles concludes that the
primitive complexion was olive, somewhat like the color of unburnt
coffee, and the original men had red hair. On the affiliation of
languages he reasons at great length, with a striking affluence of
curious and learned detail. Languages, he remarks, become more and more
complicated and perfect as we ascend toward their origin. Next he
considers the modifications by which the present races of men have
departed from the first family, and in so doing he takes up every people
that has ever been known. America, he thinks, was first settled by
Mongol emigration, with religious traditions, between the eighteenth and
the fifteenth century before our era: then, six or eight hundred years
later, there was a second emigration of Hindoo races, with traditions of
architecture. With the Bible and the facts of geology as his starting
point, he demonstrates the falsity of the Egyptian, Hindoo, Chinese, and
Mexican chronologies. The six days of creation he takes as so many great
epochs; the deluge he places at five thousand years before Christ.
In our account of this book we have not strictly followed the order of
the author. Thus he makes the direct miraculous creation of man the
concluding topic of his book, and treats it not without a certain poetic
elevation as comports with such an event. We have aimed only to give the
outlines of his doctrine, and for the rest recommend those of our
readers who are interested in such studies to procure and read the work.
* * * * *
JOACHIM LELEWEL (a name honored by all lovers of liberty,) has just
published at Breslau a work on the geography of the middle ages, which
is worthy of the warmest admiration. It consists of an atlas of fifty
plates, engraved by the hand of the venerable author, containing one
hundred and forty-five figures and maps, from eighty-eight different
Arabic and Latin geographers of different epochs, with eleven
explicative or comparative maps and two geographical essays. The whole
work exhibits the most thorough acquaintance and conscientious use of
the labors of previous explorers in the same direction. The cost of
importing a copy into this country would be about eight dollars.
* * * * *
MORE NEW GERMAN NOVELS.--_The Siege of Rheinfels_, by Gustave von See,
is a historical romance, founded on an episode from the wars of Louis
XIV., against the German empire. While the Palatinate and the left bank
of the Rhine were ravaged by the French armies, the fortress of
Rheinfels held out obstinately against a siege which was prosecuted with
fury by a much superior force. Amid the scenes of this siege, passes the
love-story that forms the kernel of the novel, which is written with
originality and talent. The historical part is equally attractive and
_vraisemblant_. A collection of romances under the title of _Germania_,
has appeared at Bremen. It is intended to serve as the beginning of an
annual publication. The first number contains seven tales, some of them
by well known romance writers. The first is _Eine Leidenschaft_ (A
Passion), by Louise von G., and is highly praised by the most reliable
critics; it abounds in arch and graceful humor. Spiller von Hauenschildt
is the least successful of the contributors in respect to the artistic
treatment of his subject. His novel is socialistic. Adolph Hahr and
Alfred Meissner are also among the contributors. On the whole the book
is a good one.
Leopold Schefer has published lately in Berlin _The Bishop's Wife, a
Tale of the Papacy_, in which the great Napoleon of the church,
Hildebrand, figures as the hero. The Germans have never succeeded in the
historical novel. With vast resources in materiel, they have always a
vagueness, a want of definite interest, of picturesque arrangement, and
of sustained and disciplined power. Schefer is a scholar, and his
didactic purpose is plain enough, and well enough managed. The Teutonic
character has always instinctively revolted against the practice of
celibacy, a form of ascetism quite natural, and sometimes perhaps
inevitable, as a reaction against the unbridled sensualism of the
Africans and Asiatics, but quite out of place in climes so temperate and
races so moderate, conscientious, and self-respecting as those of
Northern Europe. It needed all the genius and determination of
Hildebrand himself to enforce the celibacy of the German clergy, and
certainly they have never ceased more or less covertly to revolt against
it. It is well understood that, at the present time, there is a very
general wish among the Catholics of Germany--more especially of South
Germany, where they are not jealous of Protestant encroachments--to have
marriage allowed to the parochial clergy; and the clergy themselves are
foremost in this tendency, though it may not accord with their interest
unreservedly to display it. It has, however, betrayed its existence in
various ways, especially in anonymous literary productions, in prose and
verse. So general is this feeling, and so profound the conviction that
something must be done, that in 1848 it was very generally credited that
the Pope was prepared to sanction a relaxation of the laws of the church
in this respect. For this belief, however, there could have been no
just foundation, since Pius IX. is the reputed author of the official
reply, made while he was but a priest, to the Brazilian Archbishop
Feijo, upon this very subject, in which it was alleged that such a
relaxation of discipline would be an abandonment of the "integrity of
the church." Yet without something of the kind, it is thought that a
very extensive schism in catholic Germany will be inevitable.
* * * * *
_Der Mensch im Spiegel der Natur_ (Man in the Mirror of Nature), is an
excellent little work for popular use, by Mr. E. A. Rossmaessler,
published at Leipzic, in two neat volumes, with wood-cuts. It sets
forth, in the most attractive form, the elementary facts of science,
they being ingeniously interwoven into a narrative of the journeys,
friendships, and adventures of the author. The work well deserves a
translation into English.
* * * * *
A work of extreme interest to geologists is the _Gaea Norwegica_, edited
by Professor KEILHAU of the Christiana University, and published at that
place. The first volume is just completed. No country of Europe is more
important in respect of geological science than Norway, and the labors
of Professor Keilhau and his associates are of the most thorough and
solid kind. The volume contains 516 pages folio. Cost in America $4.50.
* * * * *
A GERMAN nobleman lately wrote to the French Academy, offering to give
that body a yearly income of 10,000 francs to be spent in two prizes,
one of 5,000 francs for the best essay in defence of Catholicism, and
another of the same sum for the best essay in defence of Absolutism. The
Academy declined the offer.
* * * * *
A SYSTEM of _Christian Ethics_ has lately been published at Regensburg,
by Dr. WERNER, Professor in the Catholic Theological Seminary of St.
Polten. The writer holds that all virtue flows from the mystic fountain
of regeneration, and is confirmed and supported solely by the sacraments
of the church.
* * * * *
WILHELM MEINHOLD, author of the _Amber Witch_, lately the pastor of a
parish in Pomerania, is now in Berlin, preparing for admission into the
Roman Catholic Church. It is not long since he forfeited his place in
the Protestant Church by a street fight, for which, we believe, he was
imprisoned.
* * * * *
The College of Rabbis, at Padua, offers 1000 florins ($400) as a prize
for the best descriptive and critical work on the political and
religious history of the Israelites from the first siege of Jerusalem to
the time of the latest writers of the Talmud.
* * * * *
MRS. ROBINSON'S (_Talvi's_) History of the Colonization of America,
originally published in the German language, has been translated by Mr.
William Hazlitt, and printed in London.
* * * * *
GEDICHTE VON JEANNE MARIE (Poems by Jeanne Marie) is the title of one of
the latest products of the German muse. The authoress is well known and
well liked by those readers of German novels who take delight in the
genius of authoresses, and think ladies can write as well as men. Jeanne
Marie has seen much, felt much, and thought almost if not quite as much
as she has seen and felt. Her poetic culture is however still defective,
and her stories are better than her lyrics. The latter lack finish and
correctness, and abound in mere conceits rather than in genuine poetic
images. Where she attempts simply to narrate an event in the ballad
style she is more successful.
* * * * *
A BOOK of curious historical interest is now in course of publication in
Germany, the first volume of which has already made its appearance. It
is the Diary of General Patrick Gorton, who served in Russia during a
large part of the seventeenth century, where he attained the highest
military rank. He was in the habit of noting every thing that passed
around him, or with which he was connected, whether of a political,
military, or personal nature. His field of service extended throughout
the entire empire, and embraced the most important events in the reign
of Peter the Great. He participated in the suppression of the corps of
Strelitzes, made two campaigns against the Turks, was active in Peter's
reorganization of the army, &c., &c. The first volume comes down to
1678; the remainder will soon follow. As the whole was written without
any design of being communicated to the world, it is especially valuable
for its glimpses at the domestic habits of the country at that peculiar
period.
* * * * *
GEORGE SAND'S NEW DRAMA.--George Sand's _Claudie_ has had a brilliant
fortune at Paris, where it was first performed the second week in
January. It is a drama of peasant life, in three acts, in prose. Jules
Janin says of it: "The success of Claudie is a true, sincere, and
energetic success. It has impassioned the calmest souls; it has calmed
the most agitated. This poem is a veritable festival, full of the rustic
delights of the country, of the most honorable passions of the human
heart, of the noblest sentiments. Add to this, a charm altogether new, a
charm both inspired and inspiring, in the style, which is reason and
good sense in the most delicious costume. Neither effort nor study is
there, but only that simplicity so much sought for in the most precious
passages of _Daphnis and Chloe_ translated to the Marivaux by Amyot
himself. The piece was listened to with ravishment. There was universal
praise among the audience, an inexpressible abundance of tears, of
laughter, of gayety, of sighs, of words fitly spoken, of eloquent
silence." Of the plot we take the following account from an article by
Paul de Musset: From the beginning we feel the air of the country, the
harvest, and the sun of August. Farmer Fauveau is preparing to pay the
harvesters. His employer, Dame Rose, a young and pretty widow, has just
returned from the city, where she had been for a lawsuit. Fauveau, a
shrewd but good-natured man, skilfully calls her attention to the sad
and agitated air of his son, who is no doubt in love with some one, and
with whom can it be except his charming mistress? Dame Rose admits that
Sylvain Fauveau is a handsome fellow, and a good and intelligent
workman, who would manage affairs with discretion, but he would be
jealous of his wife. Jealousy, replies the old man, is a proof of love,
and so Dame Rose begins to cherish the idea that Sylvain is in love with
her. This is not true, but the old man has said it purposely. He
suspects Sylvain of being in love with Claudie, a simple laborer in the
harvest field, without a penny, and gaining her living, with no other
relative than a grandfather of eighty, who may any day become a charge
upon her little earnings. Claudie comes in from work with her
grandfather, and they ask for their pay, the harvest being finished, and
it being six leagues to their home. They are paid, and Sylvain takes
care that they shall receive more than his father intends, and that they
shall be invited to the harvest festival. Claudie aids in the
preparations, and Sylvain, reproaching her tenderly for working after a
day so fatiguing, takes from her the severer part of the duties she has
undertaken. But she only replies in monosyllables, and does not turn her
eyes from the plates and other utensils she is engaged with. Sylvain,
troubled by this, withdraws, murmuring at her coldness and indifference.
We soon see the cause of this. A young peasant appears. It is the
handsome Denis Ronciat, the beau and cajoler of the village girls, who
utters an exclamation of surprise. A brief explanation informs us that
Denis was betrothed to Claudie when she was fifteen, that he had
deceived and abandoned her like a villain, leaving her a child, which
had since died. This explains the gloomy air of Claudie, her
indifference to the advances of Sylvain, and her almost fierce
determination never to marry. To complete his outrages, Denis boldly
avows his intention to marry Dame Rose, and offers money to her he has
betrayed, in order to bribe her to silence. The band of harvesters
appears, bearing in triumph the last sheaf, adorned with flowers and
ribbons. The grandfather, Remy, full of joy, pronounces a discourse of
rude and simple eloquence on the beneficence of Providence, and of the
sun He causes to shine, after which a collection is proposed in favor of
the orator and his granddaughter. Every one gives his offering. Dame
Rose puts in a new five-franc piece, the father Fauveau a penny, Sylvain
his watch, wishing that it were his heart, a child brings an apple, and
finally the last contributor approaches. This is Denis Ronciat: seeing
the seducer of his child, the indignation of the old man breaks out, he
rejects the offering, and falls as if struck with apoplexy, pronouncing
a sort of mysterious malediction, which freezes with horror all who hear
it. In the second act Claudie is still at the farm, her grandfather
having been sick there for two months. She has been engaged as a servant
to the farmer Fauveau, but has not given the least hope to Sylvain, who
has been constant in his attentions. Dame Rose, in the mean time, has
fallen in love with him, and is astonished that he has not declared
himself. Denis Ronciat, seeing his rival preferred, explains to the rich
widow why the lover she desires will not present himself, and from
vengeance and vanity divulges the secret of poor Claudie. Here we expect
a storm of insults and reproaches to fall on the head of the dishonored
girl. But, as in the rest of the work, the author has laid aside the
ordinary traditions, customs, and conventionalities, to draw from the
resources of her own genius. While all are preparing to expel the
domestic who has deceived every body by her air of candor and innocence,
the old man, whose reason has been wandering, listens. He recalls his
recollections, and his presence of mind returns at the critical moment.
He rises, throws his arms around his granddaughter, and naively recounts
the story of the seduction and abandonment of Claudie: how she believed
in Denis, and gave him her heart without distrust; how Denis shamefully
abused her confidence, and abandoned her, when duty obliged him more
than ever to be faithful. The old man adds that he himself had neither
reproached nor cursed her, but that he consoled her, that he took her
child upon his knees, and loved it, and despaired when it died. Finally
he demands who would presume to be severer toward his child, and feel
her wrong more keenly than he. His simplicity, magnanimity, and
goodness, overpower all who hear him. A more gentle sentiment than even
respect and pity takes possession of every heart. The devotion of the
old man raises the fallen girl, and in the admiration he inspires the
fault of Claudie is almost forgotten. But it is too late. The old man
takes the arm of his daughter, and leads her away with him. When the
curtain rises for the last scene, Dame Rose has retained Claudie and her
grandfather at the house, a riot in the village having prevented their
departure. Denis has come near being stoned to death. Finally he
consents to repair his crime by marrying her he has betrayed. He is
refused. Then Sylvain offers himself to Claudie, but she says she is
unworthy of him, and refuses obstinately. Dame Rose, Fauveau, and even
Sylvain's mother, try vainly to change her resolution. The old man at
last decides, by saying that he reads her soul, and knows that she loves
Sylvain. His authority makes her give a silent consent, and here the
curtain falls. _Claudie_ has been brought out in elegant form by a
Parisian publisher. Why should not some poet attempt a version into
English?
* * * * *
Several new Plays and Operas have lately attracted attention in Paris.
_Paillasse_, in five acts, by MM. Dennery and Marc Fournier, produced at
the _Gaiete_ in November, was one of the greatest hits during the latter
part of 1850. The character of the conventional French mountebank,
Paillasse, the vagabond juggler of fairs and streets, was regarded as
one of the finest creations of Frederic Lemaitre, and in one of the
Christmas _revues_ a symbol of the piece passed before the eyes of the
audience as one of the types of the past year. It has since been brought
out in London with quite as much success, Madame Celeste (the quondam
star of our _Bowery_?) in the character of the wife of the mountebank.
The musical season at Paris has been signalized by the production of two
successful operas. _L'Enfante Prodigue_ of Auber is running a prosperous
career at the _Academie de Musique_. General opinion speaks highly of
the music, and the piece appears to be one of the most ingenious of M.
Scribe. At the _Opera Comique_ another opera by Scribe and Halevy, _La
Dame de Pique_, has been brought out with success. The _libretto_, taken
from a Russian tale, translated by M. Merimee, is one of the most
fantastic Scribe has constructed. It is founded on an old story about
the Russian Empress Elizabeth, who had found out the secret of
invariably winning at play by means of three cards, of which the Queen
of Spades (_la Dame de Pique_) was one.
* * * * *
M. COMBET, a Protestant clergyman of Cevennes, has just published at
Paris in three volumes a work of great interest and value, under the
title of _Histoire de France sous le regne de Henry III. par Mazerai_.
It comprises a full, conscientious and philosophic account of the French
religious civil wars, from the beginning of the Reformation down to the
establishment of religious liberty under the Consulate. To the original
work of Mazerai, M. Combet has prefixed an elaborate introduction, while
he has added in the form of an appendix whatever relates to more recent
matters, with copious notes and commentaries. The whole constitutes an
invaluable contribution to the history of the modern religious movement.
* * * * *
Some new contributions to the history of labor have just appeared at
Paris. The most important is the _Histoire de la Classe ouvriere depuis
l'esclave jusqu'au Proletaire de nos Jours_, by M. Robert (du Var), four
volumes. Less general and comprehensive in its aim is _Le Livre d'Or des
Metiers, Histoire des Corporations ouvrieres_, by Paul Lacroix and Ferd.
Serre, six volumes. Both these books are written without an intention to
establish any special theory or system.
* * * * *
THE REV. G. R. GLEIG, author of _The Subaltern's Furlough, Saratoga_,
&c., is now Inspector-General of Military Schools, and lives in London.
* * * * *
LEOPOLD RANKE, whose "Lives of the Popes of Rome" is familiar to
American readers, has lately discovered in the National Library at Paris
an important long lost MS., by the Cardinal Richelieu. In the MS.
memoirs of the Cardinal, deposited at the Office for Foreign Affairs, an
imperfection has existed, in the total absence of a series of leaves
from the most interesting part of the collection. These appear to have
been found accidentally, by M. Ranke, in a bundle of papers, gathered
from some of the old mansions in Saint Germains. It has been a disputed
question whether Richelieu was the real author of the works under his
name; whether he availed himself of the literary abilities of others,
contributing no more from his own resources than here and there an
observation or a fact. These disputes have had reference to the Memoirs,
the Testament, and the _Histoire de la Mere et du Fils_; for there seems
to be good reason for believing that the books published previous to his
political elevation, such as the _De la Perfection du Chretien_, the
theological tracts, and his political treatise of 1614, were written by
him with no more than the ordinary aids of authorship. It is possible
that the fragment, discovered by M. Ranke, may afford additional
evidence on this curious subject, which was lately debated in the
Academy.
* * * * *
Of _bad spelling_ George Sand writes, _apropos_ of some newspaper
controversy in Paris, that so far from bad spelling being a proof of
want of capacity, she has a letter of Jean Jacques Rousseau, in which
there are ten faults of spelling in three lines. Moreover, she assures
us, that she herself frequently makes a _lapsus pennae_ for which a
school-boy would be chastised.
* * * * *
LOLA MONTES has made her _debut_ in the literary arena, by the
publication in the _feuilleton_ of a daily newspaper of the first
portion of what she calls her "Memoirs:" a _quasi_-impertinent epistle
to the ex-king of Bavaria. Since, the publication has been suspended. It
promised merely scandal, without wit.
* * * * *
THE COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT has been elected a member of the French
Academy, in place of M. Droz. The election gives little satisfaction
outside the Institute; but the Count is not without eminence as a man of
letters. Some of his religious tracts are written with great eloquence
and pungency.
* * * * *
The seventh and last volume of the _Glossarium Mediae et Infimae
Latinitatis_ has just been published by the Didots at Paris. It is a
perfect repertory of information as to the middle ages, and cannot be
dispensed with by any one who aims to study the institutions, history,
and monuments of that period.
* * * * *
A complete grammar of the Coptic language has been brought out at
Berlin, by Professor SCHWARTZE.
* * * * *
THE ITALIAN REVOLUTION.--Books relating to the late revolution in Italy
and the events which preceded it are now published in that country in
considerable numbers. One by Farini, _Lo Stato Romano dall' anno 1815
all' anno 1850_, not yet completed, only two volumes having been
published, will be found valuable to the future historian. Its author is
a constitutionalist, and treats the reign of Pius IX. strictly from that
stand-point. His book must therefore be read with discretion. With the
third volume, which will soon appear, will be issued a second edition of
the first two volumes. Marquis F. A. Gualtiero of Orvieto has just
brought out at Florence the first volume of a large work, _Gli Ultimenti
Rivolgimenti Italiani, Memorie Storiche con Documenti Inediti_. This is
excellent in respect to the pre-revolutionary events, giving a great
variety of information as to persons as well as circumstances, in
considerable detail. It is to be followed by an account of the
revolution itself, treated of course in the same manner. It hardly need
be said that the Marquis must fail to do justice to Mazzini and the
republicans. An elaborate and able article reviewing the whole question
has lately appeared in the _Rivista Italiana_, from the pen of Signor
Berti. One of the best books yet produced on the revolutionary side is
General Pepe's _Guerres d'Italie_.
* * * * *
We noticed last month the anniversary meeting of the Archaeological
Institute at Rome. The same society has just published its Annals, or
Annual Memoirs, for 1850, a volume of great value and interest. It
contains Lanza's report on the excavations at Salona, continued down to
the year 1848. An essay is contributed by Canina upon the three temples
of Pietas, Spes, and Juno Sospita, on whose ruins is built the church of
San Nicola _in carcere_, new remains of the temples having been
discovered in 1848. The statue of Apoxyomenos, found a year since at
Trastavere, as well as the series of Amazons _in relievo_ now in the
British Museum, which Emil Braun takes to be relics of the famous
Mausoleum, are treated at length. A little triangular candelabra, found
in the Baths of Titus, is made interesting from the relation of the
figures upon it to the worship of Apollo. The series of Etruscan
frescoes has been greatly enriched by the pictures in two tombs, one of
which was discovered in 1846 by A. Francois, while the other was then
for the first time copied and rescued from entire oblivion. These
pictures, which, like most monumental works, represent funeral feasts
and games, according to Braun, are valuable for a mass of details
relating to antique athletic art, which were before unknown. A Pompeiian
fresco, representing the twelve gods, hitherto little esteemed, is made
the subject of a profound investigation by E. Gerhard. Among the essays
on vases, a long one by Welcker deserves especial mention. It discusses
all the known representations of the Death of Troilus. The sphere of
numismatics is filled by a long essay by Cavedoni on the Roman coins of
the time of Augustus. There are also many other articles of no less
interest to scholars, antiquaries, and artists.
* * * * *
M. ANTOINE D'ABBADIE received not long ago from President Bonaparte, the
decoration of the Legion of Honor, for alleged geographical discoveries
in Africa. An "Inquiry" into M. Abbadie's journey has just appeared in
London, from the hand of Dr. Charles T. Beke, and it is not impossible
that the traveller will turn out a Damburger or a Hunter. Dr. Beke is an
Englishman; D'Abbadie, an Irishman by birth, but a Frenchman by name,
education and allegiance. The latter professes to have been the first
European who ever put foot in the African Kingdom of Kaffa; the former
gives reasons for doubting his statements entirely, and does not believe
the Frenchman has even been in the country he describes at all.
* * * * *
The great oriental scholar Monsignore MOLSA has been appointed to the
office of Chief Guardian of the Vatican Library, in the room of M.
Laureani, whose melancholy death occurred a few months ago; and the
Abate Martinucci has been nominated to fill the office of sub-chief,
which is one of very considerable importance, and has hitherto been
filled by some of the most eminent of Italian scholars.
* * * * *
We are to have from Paris a hitherto unpublished ode of PIRON, the
well-known author of _La Metromanie_. It is entitled _Les Confessions de
mon Oreiller_, (Confessions of my Pillow,) and is considered by
connoisseurs to be decidedly authentic. It is signed and headed thus:
"To be given to the public a hundred years after my death."
* * * * *
The vacancy occasioned by the death of M. ALBAN DE VILLENEUVE-BARGEMONT,
in the list of members of the French Academy of Moral and Political
Sciences, has been filled by the election of M. LOUIS REYBAUD, the
author of _Jerome Paturot_, and husband of Madame Reybaud, who wrote the
charming novels of _Le Cadet de Calabriere_, _Helena_, &c.
* * * * *
The sons of Rossi, the distinguished economist, and less distinguished
minister of Pius IX., in which capacity he was assassinated, have
published the third volume of his _Cours d'Economie Politique_. It
treats of the distribution of wealth, and is marked by the same ability
and tendencies as the volumes which preceded it, which were upon the
production of riches.
* * * * *
H. BAILLIERE, the eminent publisher, of Paris, has established a branch
of his house at 169 Fulton street, New-York, where American scholars may
obtain all the best scientific literature of the time in suitable
editions and at reasonable prices.
* * * * *
Of MR. JAMES BAILEY, and the blasphemous rant and fustian and crude
speculation which make up his poem of "Festus," which has had such
extraordinary popularity among our transcendentalists, and which
Shakspeare Hudson so excellently well reviewed in the _Whig Review_ a
year or two ago, we think a correspondent of _The Tribune_ speaks justly
in the following extract from a letter dated at Nottingham, in England:
"Apropos of Nottingham, I have seen Bailey, the author of 'Festus.' His
father is proprietor of the _Nottingham Mercury_, and the editorial
department rests with him. He is a heavy, thick set sort of man; of a
stature below the middle size; complexion dark; and, in years about
eight and thirty. His physiognomy would be clownish in expression, if
his eyes did not redeem his other features. He spoke of 'Festus,' and of
its fame in America, of which he seemed very proud. In England, it has
only reached the third edition, while eight or nine have been published
in the States. You know my opinion of the work. It is as far from being
a great poem as the Thames, compared with the Mississippi or the Ohio,
is from being a great river. Anxiously, anxiously have I sought one
striking original idea in the whole poem (appalling in its length), but
to no purpose. The transcendental literature of Germany absorbs all
that, at first glance, arrests the attention. Without learning,
imagination, or the attraction of a beautiful metre (like that of
Tennyson's 'Princess'), I am at a loss to know what has given this poem
its notoriety. Not its daring speculation, surely, for it is but a timid
compromise between Orthodoxy and Universalism."
* * * * *
H. F. CLINTON has published in London the concluding volume of his
_Fasti Romani_: the civil and literary chronology of Rome and
Constantinople from the death of Augustus to the death of Heraclius. The
first volume, containing the chronological tables, was published in
1845, and formed a continuation of the _Fasti Hellenici_, by the same
author. It came down to the death of Justin II., A. D. 578. The present
volume continues the tables from the latter date to the death of
Heraclius, A. D. 641; but the greater part of it consists of a series of
learned dissertations on various points connected with the civil and
literary history of the Roman and Byzantine empires.
* * * * *
CAPTAIN J. D. CUNNINGHAM, author of the "History of the Sikhs," who was
dismissed from his political situation at Bhopal, by orders of the Court
of Directors, for having published an official correspondence, without
the permission of his immediate superiors, has been recalled to public
employment by the Governor-General of India, Lord Dalhousie having just
appointed him general superintending engineer in the north-western
provinces.
* * * * *
MR. HEPWORTH DIXON, author of "Howard and the Prison-World of Europe,"
has published in London a Life of William Penn, which will be
republished immediately by Lea & Blanchard of Philadelphia.
* * * * *
THE LITERARY WOMEN of England were never so active as now. Mrs. Crowe
has commenced in _The Palladium_ magazine a new novel entitled _Estelle
Silvestre_. Miss Anne G. Greene has published the third volume of her
_Lives of the Princesses of England_; Mrs. David Ogilvy, _Traditions of
Tuscany_; Mrs. Gordon, _Musgrave, a Story of Gilsland Spa_; Maria de la
Vaye, _Eugenie, the Young Laundress of the Bastille_; Mrs. Norton, a new
poem; the author of "Olivia," _Sir Philip Hetherington_; Mrs. Ward,
_Helen Charteris, or Sayings and Doings in a Cathedral Town_; Mrs.
Hubbach, niece of the celebrated Miss Austen, _The Wife's Sister, or the
Forbidden Marriage_; Mrs. Jameson, _Legends of the Madonna_, forming the
conclusion of her series illustrating Sacred and Legendary Art; the
authoress of "Mary Powell" has commenced in _Sharpe's Magazine_ a new
work of the same description, under the title of _The Household of Sir
Thomas More_.
* * * * *
MISS MARTINEAU began on the first of February, a serial work under the
title of "Half a Century of the British Empire; a History of the Kingdom
and the People, from 1800 to 1850." It will be in six volumes, and it is
intended to present, in handsome octavos at a rate of extraordinary
cheapness, a connected narrative of the most important era in the
history of the modern world. The work of Macaulay professes to be "the
history of England from the accession of King James the Second down to
the time which is within the memory of men still living." "Half a
Century of the British Empire," will chiefly deal with events and states
of society during a period in which many of our contemporaries have
lived and acted.
* * * * *
The correspondence of ROBERT SUTTON, Lord LEXINGTON, British Minister at
Vienna in 1694, has just been published by Murray in London, having
recently been discovered in the library of the Suttons, at Kilham. There
is not much absolute value in their contents, historically speaking; but
the letters supply several striking and some amusing illustrations of
characters already known in history, and are a contribution really
important to the history of manners and society at the seventeenth
century. The non-official letters are in this respect most curious and
entertaining.
* * * * *
Pensions of L100 a year each have been granted in England to Mrs.
Belzoni, the aged widow of the celebrated traveller; and to Mr. Poole,
the author of _Paul Pry_, and of many contributions to periodical
literature, who is a great sufferer from bodily infirmities.
* * * * *
CAPTAIN MEDWIN, whose book about Byron was once read by every body, and
who for some time resided in this country, turns up in Holland, after an
oblivion of several years. He contributes to the last number of the New
Monthly an article entitled, _Hawking at Loo_.
* * * * *
JOHN CLARE, the peasant poet, sometimes called the "rural Burns," is now
in the Lunatic Asylum at Northampton. There is much sweetness in some of
poor Clare's verses, of which four volumes appeared many years ago. We
believe he was among the proteges of Southey. His complaints to visitors
of the madhouse are commonly of the injustice done to him by the public
in not recognizing him, instead of Scott and Byron, as the author of
"Marmion" and "Don Juan," and in refusing him the honor of having gained
the battle of Waterloo. Clare was the writer, though not generally known
as such, of the lines, "Here we meet too soon to part"--which, set to
one of Rossini's most beautiful airs, were some time exceedingly
popular.
* * * * *
A new volume of the writings of De Quincey has just been published by
Ticknor, Reed & Fields, of Boston. It contains, with other admirable
papers, those "On the Knocking at the Gate, in Macbeth," "Murder
considered as one of the Fine Arts," "Joan of Arc," and "Dinners, Real
and Reputed." These works of one of the greatest of living authors, have
never before been collected, and the publishers confer a most acceptable
benefit by their edition of them. We have from the same house a copy of
the best English version of "Faust," that of Hayward.
* * * * *
SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON is publishing a complete collection of his
Poems and Dramas. This edition will include several pieces not hitherto
published, and those that have appeared before will receive the author's
last corrections and revision. Each volume will be illustrated with an
appropriate vignette title; and the first will contain, in addition, a
portrait, from a painting by Maclise.
* * * * *
One of the most delightful books in natural history that we have ever
seen is "Episodes of Insect Life," recently published in England, and
now in the press of Mr. Redfield, in this city. It is divided into three
"scenes," representing spring, summer, and autumn, and is profusely and
skilfully illustrated. It is even more entertaining than Lord Brougham's
Dialogues on Instinct, which we had regarded as the pleasantest work in
such studies.
* * * * *
DR. ACHILLI, whose imprisonment in the Roman Inquisition is a familiar
story, has published "Dealings with the Inquisition, or Papal Rome, her
Priests and her Jesuits; with Important Disclosures." It is an
autobiography.
* * * * *
SAMUEL BAILEY, whose "Essays on the Pursuit of Truth and on the Progress
of Knowledge," "Essays on the Formation and Publication of Opinions,"
&c., have been largely read in this country, has just published a volume
entitled, "The Theory of Reasoning, with Comments on the Principal
Points of Scholastic Logic."
* * * * *
MAJOR POUSSIN'S "United States, their Power and Progress," a translation
of _La Puissance Americaine_, by Edmund L. Du Barry, U. S. N., has been
published in a large octavo of about five hundred pages, by Lippencott,
Grambo, & Co., of Philadelphia. We take the opportunity to give some
account of the author.
Guillaume Tell Poussin was born in the autumn of the year 1796 in the
department of the Seine and Oise, in France. His father was a painter of
some celebrity, who has left many fine works in the galleries of
Versailles and Rouen. Introduced, while a child, to the favor of
Napoleon, it was ordered by a special decree that, as a descendant of
the great Nicholas Poussin, whose works are among the chief glories of
French art, William Tell Poussin should be educated at the imperial
school of Rouen. There he spent seven years, and passed his examination
for admission to the Polytechnic school. He entered this national
academy of engineering, and in 1814, while yet a youth, distinguished
himself by his patriotic spirit, which prompted him to join his comrades
in the defence of the walls of Paris against an invading enemy. He was
wounded at the village of Aubervilliers, in an attack against the
combined force of British and Russian troops who occupied that position;
and after the surrender of Paris his feelings were so excited that he
could not bring himself to acts of submission to the Bourbon family, but
was arrested on account of his opinions, and released only on the
intervention of powerful friends. He soon embarked for America, and
arrived at New-York in November, 1815, having for recommendation his
ardent desire to be useful and a decided love of liberty. After a short
residence in New-York he proceeded to Philadelphia, where he expected to
meet with some encouragement in his profession as an engineer. Here he
became acquainted with Mr. Fairman, the engraver, and worked for him a
few months with advantage, boarding meanwhile at a French house, into
which the landlady received him in consideration of the devotion of his
leisure to the instruction of her children. The next spring he removed
to Washington, where he had heard that he could be profitably employed
in the rebuilding of the capitol, which the British army had destroyed
in the late war. He now worked as an architect for about a year, when,
several leading senators and representatives having become acquainted
with him, and, taking a particular interest in him for his earnest and
manly character and the remarkable abilities he had evinced as an
engineer, in the incidental opportunities presented by his employment as
an architect, they signed a petition to President Madison for his
admission to the corps of Topographical Engineers, which was then to be
organized, and he was at once transferred to the United States Army. A
short time after, General Bernard, whom Mr. Crawford, the American
Minister at Paris, had engaged to be the chief of the Topographical
Engineers, arrived in Washington, and assuming his office proceeded to
the necessary preparations for that survey of the physical resources of
our territory for national defence, and for tracing the lines required
to form a complete base of operations in time of war, on the assailable
portions of our frontier, for which the service had been instituted.
Before leaving France, General Bernard had received especial
recommendations from the friends of young Poussin to look after his
interests, and when they met, therefore, their acquaintance was made on
the most intimate and agreeable terms on both sides. Upon the
application of General Bernard to the Secretary of War, Poussin was
attached to his person as an aid-de-camp, and left Washington with him
for a military reconnaissance of the coast on the Gulf of Mexico, and of
the delta of the Mississippi. They spent a year and a half upon their
important duties, in New Orleans and its vicinity, regardless of the
dangers of that climate, and in 1817 returned to the seat of government
and submitted to the President a particular and elaborate memoir of
their operations. It was upon this first report, presented by the
Executive, on the Military Defences of the United States,--a report
drawn up in a very large degree by the hand of M. Poussin, and
illustrated throughout with his discovery and suggestion,--that
Congress, by an almost unanimous vote, authorized the erection of the
great line of our military defences, adopting the recommendations of the
commissioner without even the slightest alteration. The Board of
Military Engineers entered subsequently on the yearly execution of their
important duty of examining the coast previous to determining the actual
sites and descriptions of the works of defence which they afterwards
delineated. The young topographical engineer continued in his arduous
scientific labors, and thus contributed largely in the perfecting of
that great national scheme. It was in these military operations, and
afterwards in the surveys for roads and canals, which, under the
supervision of a Board of Internal Improvements, where confided to a
portion of the same officers, assisted by civil engineers, that Poussin
rendered himself so efficient as a practical and scientific surveyor,
and became so perfectly familiar with all the internal resources of our
extensive country, which he had thus most remarkable opportunities to
study and appreciate, by crossing it in all directions, and, in fact, by
visiting every state, and by following up and down every valley and
river of the eastern half of the continent. Few men have had such
occasion of studying _de visu_ the extent and resources of the republic;
and the intelligent readers of the volume before us will acknowledge,
that few persons have shown themselves more conversant with its
astonishing advancement. His first publication was a description of the
works to which he had contributed, under the title of "A History of the
Internal Improvements of the United States;" his second, an account of
all the railroads in this country, which had considerable influence in
developing in Europe a disposition toward our policy in this respect,
and entitles Major Poussin to the gratitude of all lovers of rapid and
safe communication. It was reproduced in Belgium and Germany, and has
long been a textbook upon its subject in those countries, as well as in
France. His third work was the one now translated, _La Puissance
Americaine_, in which he has displayed, most emphatically, his
admiration of our institutions, and offered them as examples to
communities aspiring after rational liberty. It may be said of it, that
it is the American system rendered popular by practical and convincing
illustrations.
Major Poussin returned to France early in 1832, in the hope to cooeperate
in rendering popular in his own country some of the political
institutions of the United States, to which he always attributed our
great prosperity; but he was not fortunate enough to be admitted to
active official life. He employed himself in his profession of surveyor,
and superintended several important public works, and frequently in
pamphlets and in contributions to the journals, labored for the
dissemination of American ideas. At last, when the Revolution of
February, 1848, broke out, he was chosen, with the greatest unanimity by
the Provisional Government, to be the Representative of Republican
France near the Government of the United States. It was deemed the
highest compliment of which France was capable, that she sent as her
minister the citizen most conversant with our affairs, and most eminent
for admiration of our institutions. His arrival in this country, and the
misunderstanding with the cabinet at Washington, which resulted in his
recall by President Bonaparte, cannot have been forgotten by the
observant reader. We believe that few who have carefully studied the
conduct of Major Poussin in that affair, will be disposed, in the
slightest degree, to censure him, while the entire history will readily
be consigned to oblivion by the American who is in any degree sensitive
upon the subject of our national honor.
* * * * *
GUILLAUMIN ET CIE, the well known Parisian publishers, are about to add
to their _Collection des Principaux Economistes_ several American works
in this department. One volume, at least, will be devoted to Henry C.
Carey's masterly compositions, with a preface and commentaries; another
volume will be given to the Free Trade party, and will embrace the best
things of Mr. Walker, Mr. Raguet, Mr. Cardozo, Henry Middleton, Dr.
Wayland, &c.; and essays by Mr. Phillips, Horace Greeley, and other
Protectionists, will probably constitute another. The _Collection_ now
embraces Quesnay, Turgot, Dupont Nemours, Le Tronne, the Says, Galliani,
de Montyon, Condillac, Lavoisier, Adam Smith, Hume, Ricardo, Malthus,
Bentham, and a dozen more. The only American name in the list is that of
Franklin quoted in the first volume of the _Melanges_, edited by Daire
and Molinari.
* * * * *
JOSEPH GALES, of the _National Intelligencer_, has lately published
several leading articles of such compactness and completeness, such
weight and dignity, as distinguish only the greatest compositions in
philosophy and upon affairs. The intellectual force acting through the
press of this country is habitually underrated. There are a dozen
journals here which may be advantageously compared with any in Europe,
with the single exception of the _Times_. It would perhaps seem
invidious to point them out, from the greater number that are conducted
with ability and energy; but it will not be objected by any one who has
the right to express an opinion in the case, if we say that Mr. Gales is
of the first rank of public men who have ever influenced or illustrated
the course of events by written eloquence or argument. The leading
articles from his hand which in the last twenty-five years have appeared
in the National Intelligencer, would fill many volumes; and if collected
and so submitted to one view, they would astonish by their variety, by
the extraordinary resources of information which they evince, by their
soundness of logic, elevation of sentiment, and uniform adaptation to
their several purposes. If they lack the pungent wit, and fiery energy
of phrase, and adroitly venomous spirit of "Junius," they have, with
their nobler calmness and uniform candor, a far wider sweep, a subtler
apprehension of consequences, and a more statesmanlike aim and capacity.
The diction of "Junius" was calculated to arrest attention, by its
glitter and strength, and by its freshness; for it was in style, after
all, that he was most creative, and since his style has by imitation
become familiar, it is for the mystery of their authorship only that his
works have continued eminence. As materials for history, and as
suggestive guides of policy, we have in American literature very few
works so important as the leading articles of Joseph Gales would
constitute, fitly arranged, and illustrated by such notes as he could
readily furnish, necessary now on account of the time since some of them
were originally printed.
* * * * *
The REV. HENRY T. CHEEVER'S "Whale and his Captors," (published last
year by the Harpers,) has been reprinted in London under the title of
"The Whaleman's Adventures in the Northern Ocean," with a highly and
justly commendatory introduction by the Rev. W. Scoresby, D.D. F.R.S. We
have great pleasure in recording evidences of the popularity of such
works as Mr. Cheever's. They have a manly as well as a Christian spirit,
and are needed to counteract the influences of the many infidel books in
which the effects of the Christian civilization in the Island World are
systematically misrepresented. We learn that Mr. Cheever is now engaged
upon "The Autobiography of Captain Obadiah Conger," who was fifty years
a mariner from the port of New-York. He is editing the MS. of the
deceased sailor for the Harpers.
* * * * *
MR. JOB R. TYSON, whose careful researches respecting the colonial
history of Pennsylvania have illustrated his abilities and his
predilections in this line, is about to proceed to Europe, for the
consultation of certain documents connected with the subject,
preparatory to the publication of his "History of the American
Colonies," a work in which, doubtless, he will not be liable to the
reproach of histories written by New-Englanders, that they exaggerate
the virtues and the influence of the Puritans. Mr. Tyson is of the best
stock of the Philadelphia Quakers, and the traditional fame of his party
will not suffer in his hands.
* * * * *
MR. HENRY JAMES, the author of "Moralism and Christianity," must
certainly be regarded by all who come into his fit audience as one of
the greatest living masters of metaphysics. Mr. James has never been
mentioned in the _North American Review_; but then, that peculiarly
national work has not in all its seventy volumes an article upon
Jonathan Edwards, whom Robert Hall, Dr. Chalmers, Dugald Stuart, Sir
James Mackintosh, Kant, Cousin, and a hundred others scarcely less
famous, have regarded as the chief glory in our intellectual firmament;
it has never let its light shine upon the pages of Legare; it has
preserved the most profound silence respecting Henry Carey, William R.
Williams, and Addison Alexander; so that it must not be considered
altogether conclusive as to Mr. James's merits that he has not had the
seal of the _North American's_ approval. We regard him as one of the
great metaphysicians of the time, not because, like Comte, he has
evolved with irresistible power and majestic order any grand and
complete system, but because he has brought to the discussion of the few
questions he has attempted, so independent a spirit, so pure a method,
such expansive humanity, and such ample resources of learning, as
separately claim admiration, and combined, constitute a teacher of the
most dignified rank, who can and will influence the world. We do not
altogether agree with Mr. James; on the contrary, we have been regarded
as particularly grim in our conservatism; but we are none the less
sensible of Mr. James's surpassing merits as a writer upon the
philosophy of society. We dedicate this paragraph to him on account of
the series of lectures he has just delivered in New-York, upon "The
Symbolism of Property," "Democracy and its Issues," "The Harmony of
Nature and Revelation," "The Past and Future Churches," &c. We
understand that these splendid dissertations will be given to the public
in the more acceptable form of a volume. The popular lecture is not a
suitable medium for such discussions, or certainly not for such
thinking: one of Mr. James's sentences, diluted to the lecture standard,
would serve for an entire discourse, which by those who should
understand it, would be deemed of a singularly compact body, as compared
with the average of such performances.
* * * * *
PROFESSOR TORREY, of the University of Vermont, is one of the few
contemporary scholars, whose names are likely to survive with those of
the great teachers of past ages. He has translated Schilling's Discourse
on Fine Arts, and other shorter compositions from the German; but his
chief labor in this way is, a most laborious and admirably executed
version of Neander's History of the Christian Religion and Church,
published in Boston, and now being republished in London, by Bonn, with
Notes, &c., by the Rev. A. T. W. Morison, of Trinity College, Cambridge.
Neander has sometimes been called, but with scarcely sufficient reason,
the Niebuhr of ecclesiastical history. The only point in which he
resembles the historian of Rome, is in that vast range of complete
erudition which makes the Past in its minutest details as familiar as
the Present, which is never content with derivative information, but
traces back every tributary of the great stream of History to its
remotest accessible source. In this respect the two eminent historians
were alike, but with this point of resemblance the similarity ends.
Neander is entirely free from that necessity under which Niebuhr
labored, of regarding every recorded aggregate of facts as a mass of
error which the modern philosophy of history was either to decompose
into a myth, or reconstruct into a new form more consistent with
preconceived theory.
* * * * *
The Works of JOHN C. CALHOUN will soon, through the wise munificence of
the state of South Carolina, be accessible by the students of political
philosophy and history in a complete and suitable edition, with such
memoirs as are necessary for their illustration, and for the
satisfaction of the natural curiosity respecting their illustrious
author. The first volume will comprise Mr. Calhoun's elaborate
_Disquisition on Government, and a Discourse on the Constitution and
Government of the United States_, in which are displayed in a systematic
manner the author's opinions upon the whole subject of the philosophy of
government. These treatises were begun many years ago, and though they
had not received the ultimate revision which was intended, they are very
complete, and by the careful and judicious editing of Mr. Cralle, his
intimate friend and confidential secretary, will perhaps appear as
perfect in all their parts as if re-written by Mr. Calhoun himself.
These are now nearly stereotyped; and to correct some misapprehensions
which seem to prevail in South Carolina, we state that only the
stereotype plates are made in New-York, there being no foundries for
stereotyping in Charleston, where the book will be printed and
published. For this purpose the Legislature has appropriated $10,000,
which will meet the expenses for fifteen thousand copies of the first
volume, all but five hundred of which, printed on large paper, for
public libraries, will be sold for the benefit of Mr. Calhoun's family.
Another volume will contain Mr. Calhoun's official papers, and another
his Letters upon Public Affairs. This, we think, will be the most
interesting of the series. Mr. Calhoun wrote always with sincerity and
frankness, and his communications to his friends contain, much more than
his speeches and state papers, the exhibitions of his feeling, his
regrets, fears, expectations, and ambitions. His speeches will probably
make three volumes; the collection formerly printed by the Harpers did
not embrace half of them; many of them have never been printed at all,
but (particularly some of his most elaborate performances previous to
1817) exist in carefully prepared manuscript reports. All these speeches
will be revised and illustrated by Mr. Cralle: and the series will be
completed with the memoirs of the great senator, for which that
gentleman has the most ample and interesting materials.
* * * * *
ARCHBISHOP WHATELEY'S very ingenious _Historical Doubts Respecting
Napoleon Bonaparte_, is the cleverest book of the kind yet written, not
excepting the high church pamphlet treating of the Archbishop's own
existence in the same way. But the idea was not original with Whateley:
Mr. William Biglow of Boston wrote half a century ago, _The Age of
Freedom, being an Investigation of Good and Bad Government, in Imitation
of Mr. Paine's Age of Reason_, and intended, by a similar style of
argument respecting the Discovery of America, &c., to expose that
infidel's sophistries. We perceive that the _Life of Jesus_, by Dr.
Strauss, has been met by another such performance in England, under the
title of _Historical Certainties respecting the Early History of
America, developed in a Critical Examination of the Book of the
Chronicles of the Land of Ecnarf; By the Rev. Aristarchus Newlight,
Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Giessen, Corresponding Member
of the Theophilanthropic and Pantisocratical Societies of Leipsig, late
Professor of all Religions in several distinguished Academies at Home
and Abroad, &c_. The author very satisfactorily disposes of the events
between the first French Revolution and the Battle of Waterloo, by
putting them through the "mythic" circle invented by Dr. Strauss. The
joke is carried out with remarkable ingenuity, and with the most
whimsical resources of learning. The good doctor finds, _a la Strauss, a
nucleus_, for here and there a great tradition, but remorselessly wipes
out as altogether incredible many of the most striking and familiar
facts in modern history.
* * * * *
Of Mr. SCHOOLCRAFT'S great work, which we have heretofore announced, the
first part has just appeared from the press of Lippencott, Grambo & Co.,
in the most splendid quarto volume that has yet been printed in America.
We shall take an early opportunity to do justice to this truly national
performance and to its author.
* * * * *
DR. ROBERT KNOX--whose book of infidel rigmarole, _The Races of Men_,
was lately reprinted by an American house which was never before and we
trust will never again be guilty of such an indiscretion,--we understand
is coming to New-York to lecture upon Ethnology. He has the "gift" of
talking, and is said to have been popular as a demonstrator in anatomy;
but we think it will be best for him to remain a while longer in
England; the sham science of which his last book is a specimen is no
longer, we believe, _profitable_ in this country. The last _Princeton
Review_ says of _The Races of Men_:
"This book is fairly beneath argument or criticism. It is a
curious medley of vanity, ignorance, malice, and fanaticism. At
first it provoked our indignation, by the boldness and
effrontery of its pretensions; but their very extravagance soon
began to render them comical. It claims to originate views
which are to overturn 'long received doctrines, national
prejudices, stereotyped delusions,' &c., while any tolerable
scholar in this department is perfectly familiar with them all
in the works of Virey, Courtet, Bory de St. Vincent, Edwards,
La Marck, Quetelet, &c. It has not the slightest claim to
originality, except for the ridiculous ingenuity, with which it
carries out the more cautious follies of these infidel
philosophers, into the most glaring absurdities; and sets their
ingenious physiological speculations, in broad contradiction to
the most authentic and unquestioned truths of history. We
certainly should not have noticed this thing at all, but for
two reasons. In the first place, this subject is now rendered
so interesting by the important bearings of modern ethnological
researches, that some of our readers might be cheated by the
mere title, and by newspaper puffs, out of the market price for
the book; and in the second place, we wish to express our
surprise and lift up our remonstrance against such issues from
a quarter so respectable as that which has given this reprint
to the American public. Whatever may be the social or
scientific standing of any influential publishing house, we
must say, that in our judgment they merit a deliberate rebuke
from the true science of the country, for reprinting so crude
and wretched a performance, to say nothing of the low malignity
which it vents against the Christian sentiment and enterprise
of an age like the present,--and even against men, who stand in
the front ranks of science, because they happen to believe that
the scriptures are entitled to some respect, as authentic
records; or that other races of men are capable of being
Christianized, beside the Teutonic. Cuvier was an ignorant and
stubborn dogmatist, whose era is now past for ever. Buckland
was an ingenious priest and Jesuit; and even Newton's brain was
turned by chronology."
* * * * *
MR. BOKER'S tragedy of Colaynos, has just been produced at the
Walnut-st. Theatre in Philadelphia, and extremely well received. It had
indeed a successful run. The Betrothal, which in our last we omitted to
notice, is, we understand, to be brought out under the auspices of
Charles Kean, in London. Mr. B. has yet another comedy quite finished,
which will soon be performed in New-York.
* * * * *
A LETTER purporting to be by General WASHINGTON, and bearing date
Cambridge, June 24, 1776, was read before the New-Jersey Historical
Society a few weeks ago; the thanks of the Society were voted to Mr.
Chetwood for it; and the _Literary World_ characterizes it as
"interesting," "admirable," &c. The _Literary World_ does not, we
believe, pretend to be an authority in such matters, but that a
"historical society" should receive such a gross imposition is somewhat
surprising. The letter is as much a forgery and imposture as the
"exceedingly interesting letter from General Washington to his wife,"
published a few months ago in the _Day Book_. Without going into any
further statement or argument on this subject, it may be sufficient to
remark, that Washington was not within two hundred miles of Cambridge on
the 24th of June, 1776.
* * * * *
THE REV. HENRY W. DUCACHET, D.D., the learned rector of St. Stephen's,
in Philadelphia, has been several years engaged upon a Dictionary of the
Church, which is now nearly ready for publication. Such a work is
properly but a system and history of doctrine and ritual, in a form
suited for the readiest consultation, and it demands, therefore, for its
successful accomplishment, the highest and rarest faculties and
acquisitions. Dr. Ducachet possesses in a very eminent degree, not only
the requisite knowledge and judgment, but he has a certain temperament
and felicity, with a love of and skill in dialectics, which promise even
to the articles for a dictionary, from his hand, the utmost raciness and
attractive interest. We understand this work will be very complete and
voluminous.
* * * * *
The Poems of "Edith May," the finest artist among the literary women of
this country, are to be published in a very beautiful edition next
summer by E. H. Butler of Philadelphia.
* * * * *
THE AMERICAN PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY, which on account of some unfortunate
investments of its capital, has for several years been compelled to
suspend its publications, is now, we are gratified to be informed, again
in a good financial condition, and new volumes of its important
Transactions are in the press.
* * * * *
PROFESSOR HOWS, during the last month, has given a very interesting
series of readings from Shakspeare, in which he has displayed not only
the finest capacity for histrionic effect, but a critical sagacity, and
a thorough knowledge of the greatest of the poets, which justify his own
reputation.
* * * * *
MR. REDFIELD has in press "The Celestial Telegraph, or Secrets of the
Life to Come, revealed through Magnetism, by M. Cahagnet," a book of the
class of Mrs. Crowe's "Night Side of Nature;" and "The Volcano Diggings,
a Tale of California Law, by a member of the Bar."
* * * * *
We believe it is about six years since the Rev. WILLIAM W. LORD, then a
resident graduate at Princeton College, published the volume of poems by
which he was introduced to the literary world. That book had various and
striking merits, and though it had many defects in an artistic point of
view, upon the whole it illustrated a just apprehension of the poetic
principle, and such capacities for execution as justified the sanguine
hopes it occasioned among his friends of his future eminence in the
highest and finest of the arts. From that time until the present, Mr.
Lord has not appeared as an author; but the leisure that could be
withdrawn from professional study has been devoted to the composition of
"_Christ in Hades_," (Appleton & Co.) a poem displaying his best
abilities in art, while it is a suitable offering to religion.
* * * * *
"It was my purpose," he says, "in undertaking this work, to give poetic
form, design, and history to the descent of Christ into hell; a fact
that has for so many ages attracted the curiosity of the human mind, as
to furnish occasion for surprise that the attempt has not hitherto been
made. As regards the end for which He descended, I have adhered to the
Christian tradition that it was to free the souls of the ancient saints
confined in the temporal paradise of the Under-world, embracing also in
my design the less general opinion, that it was to demonstrate His
universal supremacy by appearing among the damned.
"A source of additional human interest was suggested by the relation
which men, as a distinct order of beings, might be supposed to sustain
to demons in the place of their common doom, and under new conditions of
existence; such, I conceived, as would make it possible in some degree
to realize even the divine fictions of the Greek mythology, under the
forms and with the attributes accorded them by ancient religions, and by
the poetry of all time. This could not fail to suggest the further
conception of introducing the divinities of our forefathers, and of
other great families of mankind, thus bringing together in action and
contrast the deified men, or various representatives of an heroic
humanity, among different races: nor did it seem too great a stretch of
imaginative probability to conceive that their general characteristics
might be adopted and imitated by beings already invested by the human
mind with an indefinite power, and inhabiting a world in which the
wonderful becomes the probable.
"But it is, after all, the general purpose of exhibiting the triumph of
moral power over all physical and inferior spiritual force, in the
descent of Christ into hell, which gives my design the complex character
of a mythic, heroic, and Christian poem, and, at the same time,
constitutes the unity of its parts. The ancients, whose representative
types I introduce, knew and appreciated but two kinds of power, brute or
physical, and spiritual, including all occult and supernatural efficacy,
and strength of intellect and will. Virtue, triumphant by the aid of
adventitious force, or relying upon unconquerable pride and disdain to
resist it, was the highest reach of their dynamic conceptions. Moral
power is properly a Christian idea. It is not, therefore, without what I
conceive to be a true as well as a poetic apprehension of the design of
the Descent into Hell, that the heroes of profane, and the not fabulous
Titans of sacred antiquity, by their rivalries and contentions, brought
together in arms for a trial of their comparative strength, are suddenly
confronted with a common and dissimilar antagonist, and 'all strength,
all terror, single or in bands, that ever was put forth' opposed to that
novel, and, save in the Temptation, hitherto untested power, represented
by Christ, the author of the theory and master of the example.
"He is not supposed to appear among them 'grasping in his hand ten
thousand thunders,' but endued with an equal power, the result and
expression of perfect virtue and rightful authority. His triumph is
attributed neither to natural, nor to supernatural power; but to moral
superiority, evincing itself in His aspect, and exercising its
omnipotence upon the soul and conscience. That in the conception of a
great Christian poet, His appearance among the rebel angels in Heaven
was distinguished by the former attributes, is due, perhaps, to the
heroic prejudice of a mind thoroughly imbued with the spirit of pagan
writers, and of the Hebrew Scriptures."
The volume opens with this noble invocation, in which there is fit
recognition of Dante and Milton, whose lips aforetime for such song had
been touched by the divinest fire:
Thou of the darkness and the fire, and fame
Avenged by misery and the Orphic doom,
Bard of the tyrant-lay! whom dreadless wrongs,
Impatient, and pale thirst for justice drove,
A visionary exile, from the earth,
To seek it in its iron reign--O stern!
And not accepting sympathy, accept
A not presumptious offering, that joins
That region with a greater name: And thou,
Of my own native language, O dread bard!
Who, amid heaven's unshadowed light, by thee
Supremely sung, abidest--shouldst thou know
Who on earth with thoughts of thee erects
And purifies his mind, and, but by thee,
Awed by no fame, boldened by thee, and awed--
Not with thy breadth of wing, yet with the power
To breathe the region air--attempts the height
Where never Scio's singing eagle towered,
Nor that high-soaring Theban moulted plume,
Hear thou my song! hear, or be deaf, who may.
And if not rashly, or too soon, I heed
The impulse, but have waited on my heart
With patience, and its utterance stilled with awe
Oh what inspired it, till I felt it beat
True cadence to unconquerable strains;
Oh, then may she first wooed from heaven by prayer
From thy pure lips, and sympathy austere
With suffering, and the sight of solemn age,
And thy gray Homer's head, with darkness bound,
To me descend, more near, as I am far
Beneath thee, and more need her aiding wing.
Oh, not again invoked in vain, descend,
Urania! and eyes with common light
More blinded than were his by Heaven's hand
Imposed to intercept distracting rays,
Bathe in the vision of transcendent day;
And of the human senses (the dark veil
Before the world of spirit drawn) remove
The dim material hindrance, and illume;
That human thought again may dare behold
The shape and port of spirits, and once more
Hear voices in that distant, shadowy world,
To which ourselves, and this, are shadows, they
The substance, immaterial essence pure--
Souls that have freed their slave, and given back
Its force unto the elements, the dread
Manes, or the more dread Archetypes of men:
Like whom in featured reason's shape--like whom
Created in the mould of God--they fell,
And mixed with them in common ruin, made
One vast and many-realmed world, and shared
Their deep abodes--their endless exile, some,--
Some to return to the ethereous light
When one of human form, a Savior-Man
Almighty, not in deity alone,
But mightier than all angels in the might
And guard of human innocence preserved,
Should freely enter their dark empire--these
To loose, o'er those to triumph; this the theme,
The adventure, and the triumph of my song.
The Fine Arts.
LEUTZE'S WASHINGTON CROSSING THE DELAWARE.--Our readers are aware of the
accident by fire which happened some months since to Leutze's
nearly-finished picture of Washington Crossing the Delaware, in
consequence of which he abandoned it to the underwriters, intending to
commence the work anew for the party from which he had received the
order to paint it. The underwriters have accordingly paid the insurance,
and are now exhibiting the picture in its incomplete state to the public
of Cologne, where it meets with high approval. The _Koelnische Zeitung_
says of it: "In this picture the artist has depicted the events of the
hour in which the destiny of the Free States of North America was
decided for centuries through the boldness of their courageous and
prudent leader. The means of continuing the war were almost exhausted;
the army threatened in a few days to dissolve itself; the cause of
freedom for that continent, with its inestimable consequences for
ancient Europe, would have been postponed, no one can tell how long,
perhaps for ever. Then the great mind of Washington conceived what the
morally debased, reposing enemy thought impossible. He crossed the
Delaware with his army in the night, amid masses of floating ice, and,
in the twilight of morning, assailed the inactive camp on the other
side. The picture reproduces the moment when the great general,--ahead
of the mass of the army, which had also just embarked, and part of which
are passing off from the shore, and part already struggling with the
driving ice,--is steering to the opposite shore in a small boat,
surrounded by eleven heroic figures, officers, farmers, soldiers, and
boatmen. The tall and majestic form of the man in whose hands at that
hour lay the fate of millions, rises from the group, standing slightly
bent, forward, with one foot on the bottom of the boat, the other on the
forward bench. His mild yet serious and commanding glance seems seeking
to pierce the mist of the farther shore and discover the enemy, while
intimations of the future grandeur of his country rise upon his mind.
Nothing of youthful rashness appears in the expression of this figure,
but the thoughtful artist has depicted the 'heart for any fate' of the
general and statesman in noble, vigorous, and faithful traits. And what
an impulse moves through the group of his companions! Their thought is,
'Forward, invincibly forward, for our country!' This is expressed in
their whole bearing, in every movement, in the eyes and features of all.
Under the influence of this thought they command the raging elements, so
that the masses of ice seem to dissolve before the will and energy of
these men. This is a picture by the sight of which, in this weary and
exhausted time, one can recover health and strength. Let none miss a
draught from such a goblet of nectar. And while we are writing this, it
occurs to us that it was at this very hour seventy-four years ago, in
the ice-cold night, Washington crossed the Delaware. And amid the
ominous concatenation of events which the weak mind calls accident, but
which the clear spirit, whose eye rests on the whole world, regards as
the movement of nature according to eternal laws, there rises from our
soul the ardent prayer that Germany may soon find her Washington! Honor
and fame to the artist whose production has power to work upon the
hearts and inflame the spirits of all that behold it!"
Messrs. Goupil & Co. have purchased the duplicate of this work, to be
completed on the first of July, for seven thousand dollars. The picture
described was unfinished, and has been exhibited by the underwriters, to
whom it was given up after the fire.
* * * * *
An Italian picture dealer in London named Campanari, lately bought for a
trifle a portrait which has proved to be a genuine Michel Angelo. It
represents the famous Vittoria Colonna, wife of the Marchese Pescara,
the General of Charles V. She was herself distinguished as a poetess as
well as by the impassioned love and adoration of the great painter, who
not only took her portrait, but left behind him several sonnets in her
honor. Campanari, though himself confident of the genuineness of the
picture, could not procure it to be recognized in England. Accordingly
he sent it to Rome, where the Academy of San Luca, with Minardi at its
head, unanimously decided in its favor. In fact, it contains a grandeur
and sublimity which could be ascribed to nobody but the author of the
prophets and sibyls of the Sistine Chapel. An antique repose is
displayed in the whole work, perfectly agreeing with the character of
the lady as described by Michel Angelo, and which suits the advanced age
at which she is painted. The execution is like that of the picture in
the Florentine Tribune, in the wonderful facility of its execution. In
the coloring a carnation hue is remarkable, like that in Michel Angelo's
Roman works. The hands of the figure are thought to be by some other
artist. Only the head and part of the person seem to be by the author.
The picture has suffered little from time, some parts having apparently
been repaired by a later pencil. It is valued at $30,000.
* * * * *
THE MUNICH ART-UNION gives to its subscribers for the next year a
_galvanograph_ of Rubens' Columbus. This is the first time that
galvanography has been applied to such a purpose. The plate from which
the print is taken has been copied by the galvanoplastic process, so
that it can serve for other art-unions also. For 1851 the Munich Union
has decided on engraving four Greek landscapes by C. Rottman. These
plates will also be copied by the same process, and may be had at much
less than the cost of original plates.
GOETHE'S OPINION OF BYRON, SCOTT, AND CARLYLE.
Mr. John Oxenford, who has shown remarkable capacities for
appropriation, in the use he has made of the labors of William Peter,
Parke Godwin, and others, in his various "translations" from the German,
has recently fallen in with Margaret Fuller d'Ossoli's version of the
_Conversations of Goethe with Eckermann_, published many years ago by
Mr. Ripley in his "Specimens of Foreign Literature;" and the result is
two volumes, embracing, with what Margaret Fuller translated, the great
poet's conversations with Soret. Among the chief notable men who existed
at the time of the conversations, and to whom reference is made, are
Scott and Byron. The first, whose _Fair Maid of Perth_ is read as a new
book, is praised for his "objective" qualities. The second is pronounced
the greatest modern poet of England, but censured for his polemic
tendency. Goethe's rapture is kindled when he speaks of him:
"'Lord Byron,' said Goethe, 'is to be regarded as a man, as an
Englishman, and as a great talent. His good qualities belong
chiefly to the man, his bad to the Englishman and the peer, his
talent is incommensurable. All Englishmen are, as such, without
reflection, properly so called; distractions and party spirit
will not permit them to unfold themselves in quiet. But they
are great as practical men. Thus, Lord Byron could never attain
reflection on himself, and on this account the maxims in
general are not successful, as is shown by his creed, 'much
money, no authority,' for much money always paralyzes
authority. But where he will create, he always succeeds; and we
may truly say that with him inspiration supplies the place of
reflection. He was always obliged to go on poetizing, and then
every thing that came from the man, especially from his heart,
was excellent. He produced his best things, as women do pretty
children, without thinking about it or knowing how it was done.
He is a great talent, a born talent, and I never saw the true
poetical power greater in any man than in him. In the
apprehension of external objects, and a clear penetration into
past situations, he is quite as great as Shakspeare. But as a
pure individuality, Shakspeare is his superior. This was felt
by Byron, and on this account he does not say much of
Shakspeare, although he knows whole passages by heart. He would
willingly have denied him altogether, for Shakspeare's
cheerfulness is in his way, and he feels that he is no match
for it. Pope he does not deny, for he had no cause to fear him.
On the contrary, he mentions him, and shows him respect when he
can, for he knows well enough that Pope is a mere foil to
himself.'...
"Goethe seemed inexhaustible on the subject of Byron, and I
felt that I could not listen enough. After a few digressions,
he proceeded thus: 'His high rank as an English peer was very
injurious to Byron; for every talent is oppressed by the outer
world,--how much more, then, when there are such high birth and
so great a fortune. A certain middle rank is much more
favorable to talent, on which account we find all great artists
and poets in the middle classes. Byron's predilection for the
unbounded could not have been nearly so dangerous with more
humble birth and smaller means. But as it was, he was able to
put every fancy into practice, and this involved him in
innumerable scrapes. Besides, how could one of such high rank
be inspired with awe and respect by any rank whatever? He spoke
out whatever he felt, and this brought him into ceaseless
conflict with the world. It is surprising to remark,' continued
Goethe, 'how large a portion of the life of a rich Englishman
of rank is passed in duels and elopements. Lord Byron himself
says, that his father carried off three ladies. And let any man
be a steady son after that. Properly speaking, he lived
perpetually in a state of nature, and with his mode of
existence the necessity for self-defence floated daily before
his eyes. Hence his constant pistol-shooting. Every moment he
expected to be called out. He could not live alone. Hence, with
all his oddities, he was very indulgent to his associates. He
one evening read his fine poem on the Death of Sir John Moore,
and his noble friends did not know what to make of it. This did
not move him, but he put it away again. As a poet, he really
showed himself a lamb. Another would have commended them to the
devil.'"
Yet Goethe had a curious theory in respect to criticism, and believed it
possible for a foreigner to understand the achievements of a language
not his own better than those to whom it is native--in which we think he
was partially correct. In the following he criticises CARLYLE.
"'Sit down,' said he, 'and let us talk awhile. A new
translation of Sophocles has just arrived. It reads well, and
seems to be excellent; I will compare it with Solgar. Now, what
say you to Carlyle?' I told him what I had been reading upon
Fonque. 'Is not that very good?' said Goethe. 'Aye, there are
clever people over the sea, who know us and can appreciate
us?... We are weakest in the aesthetic department, and may wait
long before we meet such a man as Carlyle. It is pleasant to
see that intercourse is now so close between the French,
English, and Germans, that we shall be able to correct one
another. This is the greatest use of a world-literature, which
will show itself more and more. Carlyle has written a life of
Schiller, and judged him as it would be difficult for a German
to judge him. On the other hand, we are clear about Shakspeare
and Byron, and can, perhaps, appreciate their merits better
than the English themselves."
Carlyle is frequently referred to, and always thus. The clear-sighted,
great old man, already perceives how much his fame will owe to such an
apostle and preacher of his faith--for he sees also what Carlyle himself
will become. The mention of Lockhart is also very interesting.
"I asked about Lockhart, and whether he still recollected him.
'Perfectly well!' returned Goethe. 'His personal appearance
makes so decided an impression that one cannot easily forget
him. From all I hear from Englishmen, and from my
daughter-in-law, he must be a young man from whom great things
in literature are to be expected. I almost wonder that Walter
Scott does not say a word about Carlyle, who has so decided a
German tendency that he must certainly be known to him. It is
admirable in Carlyle that, in his judgment of our German
authors, he has especially in view the mental and moral core
as that which is really influential. Carlyle is a moral force
of great importance. There is in him much for the future, and
we cannot foresee what he will produce and effect.'"
Again:
"'It is pleasant to see,' said Goethe, 'how the earlier
pedantry of the Scotch has changed into earnestness and
profundity. When I recollect how the 'Edinburgh Reviewers'
treated my works not many years since, and when I now consider
Carlyle's merits with respect to German literature, I am
astonished at the important step for the better. In Carlyle,'
said he, 'I venerate most of all the mind and the character
which lie at the foundation of his tendencies. The chief point
with him is the culture of his own nation; and, in the literary
productions of other countries, which he wishes to make known
to his contemporaries, he pays less attention to the arts of
talent, than to the moral elevation which can be attained
through such works. Yes,' said Goethe, 'the temper in which he
works is always admirable. What an earnest man he is! and how
he has studied us Germans! He is always more at home in our
literature than ourselves. At any rate we cannot vie with him
in our researches in English literature.'"
MR. KELLOGG'S EXPLORATION OF MT. SINAI.
The last volume of _Bohn's Illustrated Library_ (published in New-York
by Bangs & Brother), is "Scripture Lands, Described in a Series of
Historical, Geographical, and Topographical Sketches," by JOHN KITTO,
D.D., F.S.A., the well-known author of the Dictionary of the Bible, &c.
It embraces, in a convenient and condensed form, results of the most
important recent investigations by travellers and scholars in the
countries sacred for their connection with the history of true religion.
With other things by Americans, Dr. Kitto gives a prominent place to Mr.
MINER K. KELLOGG'S account of Mt. Sinai, which we reprint below; and we
cannot let the opportunity pass unimproved, of expressing a hope that
Mr. Kellogg will prepare for the press the voluminous notes which we
know him to possess of his various and interesting travels in the
ancient world, which he saw with the eye of an artist, the head of a
scholar, and the heart of a Christian. If he would, he might give us a
most delightful and instructive book upon the East, and one that would
be eminently popular, though Asia has been of all the continents the
most frequently described. Dr. Kitto says:
"At the foot of the pass which leads up to the sacred shrine beneath the
awful mount, from whose summit Jehovah proclaimed his law to the
trembling hosts of Israel, Dr. Robinson says,--'We commenced the slow
and toilsome ascent along the narrow defile, about south by east,
between blackened, shattered cliffs of granite, some eight hundred feet
high, and not more than two hundred and fifty yards apart, which every
moment threatened to send down their ruins on our heads. Nor is this at
all times an empty threat; for the whole pass is filled with large
stones and rocks, the _debris_ of these cliffs. The bottom is a deep and
narrow water-course, where the wintry torrent sweeps down with fearful
violence. A path has been made for camels, along the shelving rocks,
partly by removing the topmost blocks, sometimes in the manner of a
Swiss mountain-road. But though I had crossed the most rugged passes of
the Alps, and made from Chamouni the whole circuit of Mont Blanc, I had
never found a path so rude and difficult as that we were now ascending.'
"After toiling along for nearly two hours, our travellers continue their
narrative:
"'Here the interior and lofty peaks of the great circle of Sinai began
to open upon us--black, rugged, desolate summits; and, as we advanced,
the dark and frowning front of Sinai itself (the present Horeb of the
monks) began to appear. We were gradually ascending, and the valley
gradually opening; but as yet all was a naked desert. Afterwards, a few
shrubs were sprinkled round about, and a small encampment of black tents
was seen on our right, with camels and goats browsing, and a few donkeys
belonging to the convent. The scenery through which we had now passed
reminded me strongly of the mountains around the Mer de Glace in
Switzerland. I had never seen a spot more wild and desolate.
"'As we advanced, the valley still opened wider and wider with a gentle
ascent, and became full of shrubs and tufts of herbs, shut in on each
side by lofty granite ridges, and rugged, shattered peaks, a thousand
feet high, while the face of Horeb rose directly before us. Both my
companion and myself involuntarily exclaimed, "here is room enough for a
large encampment!"
"'Reaching the top of the ascent or watershed, a fine broad plain lay
before us, sloping down gently towards the south-south-east, inclosed by
rugged and venerable mountains of dark granite, stern, naked, splintered
peaks, and ridges of indescribable grandeur; and terminated, at a
distance of more than a mile, by the bold and awful front of Horeb,
rising perpendicularly in frowning majesty, from twelve to fifteen
hundred feet in height. It was a scene of solemn grandeur, wholly
unexpected, and such as we had never seen; and the associations which at
the moment rushed upon our minds were almost overwhelming.'
"They subsequently ascended the frowning summit of Horeb, and sketched
the scene from that point:--'The whole plain, er-Rahah, lay spread out
beneath our feet, with the adjacent wadys and mountains; while Wady
esh-Sheikh on the right, and the recess on the left, both connected with
and opening broadly from er-Rahah, presented an area which serves nearly
to double that of the plain.
"'Our conviction was strengthened that here, or on some of the adjacent
cliffs, was the spot where the Lord "descended in fire," and proclaimed
the law. Here lay the plain where the whole congregation might be
assembled; here was the mount that could be approached, if not
forbidden; and here the mountain brow, where alone the lightning and the
thick cloud would be visible, and the thunders and the voice of the
trump be heard, when the Lord "came down in the sight of all the people
upon Mount Sinai."
"'We gave ourselves up to the impressions of the awful scene; and read,
with a feeling that will never be forgotten, the sublime account of the
transactions, and the commandments there promulgated, in the original
words as recorded by the great Hebrew legislator.'"
"Other travellers have explored a valley on the southern base of Sinai,
which was shut out from the view of Dr. Robinson in his ascent by a long
ridge of rocks, and which has been found, by measurement of Krafft and
Strauss, and others, to be even greater than the valley of er-Rahah on
the north. This, it is supposed by Ritter and others, may have been
occupied by the Israelites at the giving of the Law. The locality of
this tremendous scene may perhaps be determined by future researches.
"An American artist and scholar, Mr. M. K. Kellogg, has lately given an
interesting account of this valley, which appears to be much more
extensive than er-Rahah, and better suited for the accommodation of the
immense camp of Israel. To reach this station, the Israelites must have
continued their march much further down the coast than on the other
supposition, and turned at a bolder angle up into the mountains near the
modern town of Tur or Tor. Dophkah, Alush, and Rephidim, must also, on
this supposition, be transferred to other localities corresponding with
this supposed line of march.
"If there be such a valley at the southern base of Sinai, it seems very
extraordinary that it should have escaped the notice of travellers. It
must be visible from the summit of Sinai (Jebel Musa); but, seen only
from that lofty summit, and running in an irregular line at the very
base of the mountain, they must have overlooked it in their brief survey
of the scenery, so grand, so gloomy and peculiar, which there engaged
their contemplation. The subject, however, is so curious and
interesting, that we insert in some detail the narrative of the American
traveller to which these remarks refer.
"'Having read a letter which appeared in the _Literary World_[F] of the
20th November, from Dr. Ritter to Dr. Robinson, in which it is said that
Laborde, in his _Commentary_ "has now for the first time established the
plain of Wady Sebaiyeh at the southern base of Sinai;" and that this
"furnishes an important point for the elucidation of the giving of the
Law," I have been induced to submit to the consideration of the public,
some of the notes from a journal which I kept during my travels in that
region in the spring of 1844.[G]
"'Although I have not yet seen the Commentaries of Laborde, and
therefore cannot judge of their correctness in regard to this plain, yet
I am happy in being able to furnish some testimony as to its existence
and extent. Within the last few years a question has arisen as to the
existence of a plain in front of Mount Sinai, capable of containing the
multitude of Israelites who were to receive the commandments.
"'Dr. Robinson is the first, I believe, who has attempted to prove that
no such plain exists. In his _Researches_ he finds a plain at the
north-east extremity of the mountain called er-Rahah, which he says was
"the plain where the congregation of Israel were assembled," and that
the mountain impending over it, the present Horeb, was "the scene of the
awful phenomena in which the Law was proclaimed."
"'He says he was satisfied, after much inquiry, "that in no other
quarter of the peninsula, and certainly not around any of the higher
peaks, is there a spot corresponding in any degree, so fully as this, to
the historical account, and to the circumstances of the case." Starting
upon the hypothesis that there is no other plain than the one he
describes, he has been obliged to give the name of Sinai to one of the
peaks which overlook this plain, in order that the Israelites might
witness the awful ceremonies attending the promulgation of the Law which
took place upon the holy mountain. If this hypothesis is founded on
truth, then tradition is at fault, which has given to another part of
this region the name of Sinai, and a capacious plain beneath it; we must
throw aside all our faith in such tradition, and commence investigations
which shall elicit the whole truth upon the subject.
"'As many late travellers have been led into error respecting the
topography of this district, by adopting, without investigation, the
conclusions of Dr. Robinson, I feel it to be a duty to lay before you
such facts as may be of service to those who shall hereafter journey
into the wilderness of Sinai.
"'On the 6th day of March, 1844, my two companions set out from the
convent at Mount Sinai, for the purpose of ascending the mountain St.
Catharine. I declined going with them, partly through indisposition, and
partly because I thought I could spend the day more usefully in making
sketches in the neighboring convent. After my friend's departure with
the guides, I took a little Arab boy with me to carry my sketch-book and
water-bottle, and walked up Wady Shueib, until I came to the little
Mountain of the Cross (Neja), which almost shuts up the passage into
Wady Sebaiyeh, and where I had, for the first time, a view of the
southern face of Mount Sinai. Here opened an extended picture of the
mountains lying to the south of the Sinaite range, for I was now some
three hundred feet above the adjacent valleys.
"'After much difficulty, I succeeded in climbing over immense masses of
granite, to the side of the Mountain of the Cross, which I ascended
about five hundred feet on its south-western face, in order to obtain a
good view of the peak of Sinai, which I was anxious to sketch. Here,
close at my right, arose, almost perpendicularly, the Holy Mountain; its
shattered pyramidal peak towering above me some 1400 feet, of a brownish
tint, presenting vertical strata of granite, which threw off the
glittering rays of the morning sun. Clinging around its base was a range
of sharp, upheaving crags, from one hundred to two hundred feet in
height, which formed an almost impassable barrier to the mountain itself
from the valley adjoining. These crags were separated from the mountain
by a deep and narrow gorge, yet they must be considered as forming the
projecting base of Sinai.
"'Directly in front of me was a level valley, stretching onward to the
south for two or three miles, and inclosed on the east, west, and south
by low mountains of various altitudes, all much less, however, than that
of Sinai. This valley passed behind the Mountain of the Cross to my
left, and out of view, so that I could not calculate its northern extent
from where I stood. The whole scene was one of inexpressible grandeur
and solemnity, and I seated myself to transfer some of its remarkable
features to the pages of my portfolio.
"'I remained at work until nearly sunset, when I discovered people
coming towards me through the dark ravine between the mountain of Sinai
and the craggy spurs which shoot up around its base. I feared they might
prove to be unfriendly Arabs; but, as they came nearer I discovered them
to be my companions and their guides, who were returning from Mount St.
Catharine. As the shades of evening were approaching, I shut up my
portfolio, and descending the hillside, I joined my friends, and we
returned together to the convent. After dinner, they desired to see what
I had done during the day, and my sketch-book was opened to them. They
remarked, on seeing the drawing I had made, that as there was no plain
on the southern border of the mountain, I might as well have left out
the one seen in the drawing. After my assurance that I had copied what
was before me, they laughed, and remarked that none but a painter's
imagination could have seen the plain in question, for they had passed
entirely around the mountain that day, and could assert _positively_
that there was no such plain. Here was a difference of opinion
certainly, and one that I did not relish much, as it might at some
future time be the means of creating a doubt as to the faithfulness of
my eastern drawings. I begged them, therefore, to accompany me the next
day to that side of the mountain, and be convinced of what I told them.
They remarked that all authority was against me, and time was too
precious to go over the same ground twice.'"
"It seems that one of them, however, accompanied the writer in his
further exploration of the ensuing day, for he uses the plural number,
and speaks of his 'friend.' We thus condense his statements: One day
(7th March) is described as having been spent in Wady es-Sabaiyeh, or
the plain before Mount Sinai. After having penetrated into this wady, he
says: 'We took our course along the base of Jebel Deir, until we came to
a point whence the peak of Sinai was no longer visible, because of the
intervening point of Jebel Deir; then striking across Sebaiyeh to the
right, keeping Sinai in view, we stopped to contemplate the scene. Here
the plain is very wide, and forms one with Wady Sedout, which enters it
from the south-east at a very acute angle, and in the whole of which
Sinai is plainly visible. These two wadys make a width of at least the
third of a mile. The hills rising from the east and south of Sebaiyeh,
in front of Sinai, are of gentle ascent, upon which flocks might feed,
and the people stand in full view of Sinai. For many miles, perhaps six
or more, on the eastern border of this plain, are seen many small plains
high up among the hills, from all of which Sinai is plainly visible.
Near where we stood, a high, rocky platform of granite arose from the
plain, upon which I seated myself, and took a sketch of the valley to
its junction with Wady esh-Sheikh on the north, where stands _Jebel
Fureia_, a very conspicuous and singular mountain. At this point, Wady
Sheikh turns from its eastern course, after leaving Wady Rahah, and runs
north around Jebel Fureia, where it receives Sebaiyeh from the south,
and with it forms one unbroken plain for about twelve miles to the north
of the place where I was seated. Turning back now to the south, we
traversed the plain towards the base of Sinai. The wady grew gently
narrower as we approached Neja, whose base projected far into the plain,
and whose head shuts off the view of Sinai for a distance of about
one-half the width of the plain at its base.
"'As we passed its foot, Sinai again appeared, and we measured the plain
near the pathway which leads up towards Sinai on the southern border of
Neja, and which appears to be the only entrance to the Holy Mountain.
The measured width here was four hundred and thirty feet. Passing on
three hundred and forty-five paces, we arrived at the narrowest part of
the plain, some few yards narrower than where we had measured it. This
may be considered as an entrance-door to the plain, which lies directly
in front of Sinai, which now spreads out level, clear, and broad, going
on to the south with varied widths for about three miles on gently
ascending ground, where it passes between two sloping hills and enters
another wady which descends beyond, from which it is most probable Sinai
may yet be clearly seen.
"'On the east, this plain of Sebaiyeh is bounded by mountains having
long, sloping bases, and covered with wild thyme and other herbs,
affording a good tenting-ground immediately fronting Sinai, which forms,
as it were, a grand pyramidal pulpit to the magnificent amphitheatre
below. The width of the plain immediately in front of Sinai is about
1600 feet, but further south the width is much increased, so that on an
average the plain may be considered as being nearly one-third of a mile
wide, and its length, in view of Mount Sinai, between five and six
miles. The good tenting-ground on the mountain sides mentioned above,
would give much more space for the multitude on the great occasion for
which they were assembled. This estimate does not include that part of
the plain to the north, and Wady esh-Sheikh, from which the peak of
Sinai is not visible; for this space would contain three or four times
the number of people which Sebaiyeh would hold.
"'From Wady Sebaiyeh we crossed over the granite spurs, in order to pass
around the southern border of Sinai into Wady Lejah. These spurs are of
sufficient size to have separate names among the Arabs. Around them were
generally deep and rugged gorges and ravines, or water-courses, whose
sides were formed of ledges of granite nearly perpendicular, of a pink
color, and fine texture. There are no _gravel_ hills, as mentioned by
Dr. Robinson, but a series of low granite hills, much broken up, and of
different colors, principally of a greenish-gray and brown. The plain is
covered with a fine _debris_ of granite. Whilst crossing over these low
hills, my friend pointed out the path between them and Sinai, in the
ravine, through which he had passed yesterday on his return from St.
Catharine; and it was seen that no plain would be visible from any part
of it, owing to the height of the spurs which separated the ravine from
Sebaiyeh, and we concluded that most travellers had been led into false
views concerning this part of the mountain from having taken the same
path, and hence it was that no account has been given respecting the
plain of Sebaiyeh. This ravine around Sinai becomes a deep impassable
gorge, with perpendicular walls, as it enters Wady Lejah, passing
through the high neck connecting with the mountain on the south.
"'Descending into Lejah, under the rocky precipice of Sinai, we found
the wady narrow and choked up with huge blocks of granite which had
tumbled from the sides of the adjacent mountains. We could now see the
olive-ground of the deserted convent of _el-Arbain_, situated in the
bottom of the narrow valley. Passing through this garden, we found a
fine running stream of crystal water, of which we partook freely, for
our thirst was great. The garden was walled, and well irrigated by many
small canals, but nothing seemed to flourish but the olive.
"'Continuing down the valley, amidst loose rocks of granite, upon some
of which were inscriptions in the Sinaite, Greek, and Arabic characters,
and enjoying the wildness of the scene, and the gloomy grandeur of the
lofty mountains of naked rocks which almost overhung our path, we saw
Horeb on our right, and soon entered upon the plain before it called
_Wady Rahah_. After taking a view of Horeb as the sun was setting, we
made our way to the convent, to pass the night within its hospitable
walls. Thus was completed a walk around the whole mountain of Sinai.
"'The results of these investigations, together with the information
afforded by Burckhardt and other travellers, have served to convince my
own mind that this district is every way adapted to the circumstances
attending the encampment of the Israelites during the promulgation of
the law upon Mount Sinai Though other mountains in this vicinity may
answer as well as that of Jebel Musa for this great purpose, still I
cannot see any good reason for taking from this mountain that holy
character with which tradition has invested it for the last fifteen
centuries.'
"Thus," says Dr. Kitto, "it seems that the question as to the
camping-ground of the Israelites, which seemed to have been settled by
the researches of Dr. Robinson and others, must now be regarded as
re-opened for further investigations. The fact is, that a complete and
careful survey of the whole of this central mountain region yet remains
to be taken."
The friend of Mr. Kellogg alluded to in the preceding pages was an
English gentleman, Mr. Ackanth, (of the East India Service,) whose notes
will amply vindicate Mr. Kellogg's conclusions.
FOOTNOTES:
[F] The _Literary World_ at that period was edited by the able, candid,
and universally beloved C.F. Hoffman.--(Ed. Int.)
[G] "The writer seems not to have been aware that this still leaves the
priority to Laborde--whose journey was undertaken even earlier than that
of Robinson, and whose really valuable work, _Commentaire Geographique
sur l'Exode et les Nombres_, which now lies before us, was _published_
in the very year of Mr. Kellogg's journey, 1844. This work certainly
forms the best _literary_ result of Laborde's celebrated journey."
LAFAYETTE, TALLEYRAND, METTERNICH, AND NAPOLEON.
Sketched By Lord Holland.[H]
Lord Holland, says the _Examiner_, has been induced by "the recent
events on the Continent" to publish what his father had written on
foreign politics. "If not wholly impartial," the present Lord Holland
remarks of his father, "he is acknowledged by all who knew him to have
been as candid as he was benevolent." He might have said more than
this--indeed far more than it might have been quite becoming in a son to
say. The late Lord Holland was a noble example of the highest and best
traits of the English character. Throughout his public life he was the
champion of all just causes; the friend of all who fairly sought
redress; the fearless advocate of liberty, religious and civil, in days
disastrous to both; a statesman of singular courage and consistency, a
most accomplished gentleman and scholar. He had learning without
pedantry, and wit without ill-nature. His sweetness of temper and
fascinating grace of manner had been commemorated by many distinguished
men who had felt their winning potency and charm. But above all he had a
store of observation and anecdote of the richest kind, and a power of
applying it with surprising felicity to whatever subject might be under
discussion. This book is a delightful surviving proof of that quality in
his character. Its anecdotes are told with a charming ease and fulness
of knowledge. No one so quickly as Lord Holland detected the notable
points, whether of a book or a man, or turned them to such happy
account. We do not read a page of this volume without feeling that a
supreme master of that exquisite art is speaking to us. It comprises
recollections of the scenes and actors in the stirring drama which was
played out on the Continent between 1791 and 1815. It opens with the
death of Mirabeau and closes with the death of Napoleon. France,
Denmark, Prussia, and Spain are the countries principally treated of.
Lord Holland's first visit to France was in 1791, just after the death
of Mirabeau and the disastrous flight to Varennes. LAFAYETTE seems to
have been more disposed than any other public actor in the revolution to
put faith in the king even after that incident, and his confidence won
over the young English traveller. But the weakness as well as strength
of Lafayette is well hit off.
"Lafayette was, however, then as always, a pure disinterested man, full
of private affection and public virtue, and not devoid of such talents
as firmness of purpose, sense of honor, and earnestness of zeal will, on
great occasions, supply. He was indeed accessible to flattery, somewhat
too credulous, and apt to mistake the forms, or, if I may so phrase it,
the pedantry of liberty for the substance, as if men could not enjoy any
freedom without subscribing to certain abstract principles and arbitrary
tests, or as if the profession and subscription, nay, the technical
observance of such tests and principles, were not, on the other hand,
often compatible with practical oppression and tyranny."
MARIE ANTOINETTE is treated almost as badly as by Mr. Geffeson, who
thought her a devil, far less tenderly than we should have expected. Her
"amours" are spoken of, though with the limitation that "they were not
numerous, scandalous, or degrading." We gather that Talleyrand believed
her to have been guilty in a special instance named, and that Madame
Champan had confessed it to him. At the same time her person is not very
flatteringly described.
"As I was not presented at Court, I never saw the Queen but at the
play-house. She was then in affliction, and her countenance was, no
doubt, disfigured by long suffering and resentment. I should not,
however, suppose that the habitual expression of it, even in happier
seasons, had ever been very agreeable. Her beauty, however extolled,
consisted, I suspect, exclusively in a fair skin, a straight person, and
a stately air, which her admirers termed dignity, and her enemies pride
and disdain. Her total want of judgment and temper no doubt contributed
to the disasters of the Royal Family, but there was no member of it to
whom the public was uniformly so harsh and unjust, and her trial and
death were among the most revolting parts of the whole catastrophe. She
was indeed insensible when led to the scaffold; but the previous
persecution which she underwent was base, unmanly, cruel, and ungenerous
to the last degree."
On the other hand, a better case is made out for Egalite than any writer
has yet been bold enough, or informed enough, to attempt. His false
position with the Court is shown not to have been of his own seeking,
and to have ultimately driven him reluctantly into the ranks of the
extreme party. His courage is vindicated successfully, his sincerity and
truthfulness less so. Lord Holland retained his regard for the Orleans
family to the close of his life. He was one of the warmest defenders of
the late King of the French. There are some capital notices of
TALLYRAND.
"It was in this visit to Paris in 1791, that I first formed acquaintance
with M. Talleyrand. I have seen him in most of his vicissitudes of
fortune; from his conversation I have derived much of the little
knowledge I possess of the leading characters in France before and
during the Revolution. He was then still a bishop. He had, I believe,
been originally forced into holy orders, in consequence of his lameness,
by his family, who, on that account, treated him with an indifference
and unkindness shameful and shocking. He was for some time _aumonier_ to
his uncle, the Archbishop of Rheims; and when Mr. Pitt went to that town
to learn French, after the peace of 1782, he lodged him in an apartment
in the abbey of St. Thierry, where he was then residing with his uncle,
and constantly accompanied him for six weeks, a circumstance to which,
as I have heard M. Talleyrand remark with some asperity, Mr. Pitt never
had the grace to allude either during his embassy, or his emigration, or
in 1794, when he refused to recall the cruel order by which he was sent
away from England under the alien bill. Talleyrand was initiated into
public affairs under M. de Calonne, and learnt from that lively minister
the happy facility of transacting business without effort and without
ceremony in the corner of a drawing-room, or in the recess of a window."
Again--of Talleyrand's bon-mots. The bit at Chateaubriand is one of the
happiest we can remember.
"'Il faut avoir aime Mme. de Stael pour connaitre tout le bonheur
d'aimer une bete,' was a saying of his much quoted at Paris at that
time, in explanation of his passion for Mme. Grand, who certainly did
not win him or any one else by the fascination of her wit or
conversation. For thirty or forty years, the bon-mots of M. de
Talleyrand were more frequently repeated and more generally admired
than those of any living man. The reason was obvious. Few men uttered so
many, and yet fewer any equally good. By a happy combination of neatness
in language and ease and suavity of manner, with archness and sagacity
of thought, his sarcasms assumed a garb at once so courtly and so
careless, that they often diverted almost as much as they could mortify
even their immediate objects. His humorous reproof to a gentleman
vaunting with self-complacency the extreme beauty of his mother, and
apparently implying that it might account for advantages in person in
her descendants, is well known: 'Cetait donc,' said he, 'Monsieur votre
pere qui n'etait pas si bien.' The following is more recent, but the
humor of it hardly less arch or less refined. The celebrity of M. de
Chateaubriand, the vainest of mortals, was on the wane. About the same
time, it happened to be casually mentioned in conversation that
Chateaubriand was affected with deafness, and complained bitterly of
that infirmity. 'Je compends,' said Talleyrand; 'dequis qu'on a cesse de
parler de lui, il se croit sourd.'"
We find a long portrait gallery of ministers, and princes, and
princesses, one more imbecile, ignorant, and corrupt than another. One
minister did not know the difference between Russia and Prussia; another
always wrote Asiatic for Henseatic, and thought his correction
necessary. Much light is thrown on the first quarrel between Ferdinand
and his father; and the narrow escape of the Duke of Infantado is well
told. Godoy, like all who had the honor of Lord Holland's acquaintance,
was in some degree a favorite of his, his good qualities being brought
out to neutralize his many bad ones. Jovellanos and Arguelles appear the
only honest characters in the midst of such a mass of vice, and even
they were pedantic, impracticable, and prejudiced. No history,
narrative, or memoir can be so disgusting as those of Spain and its
court under the dominion of the House of Bourbon. The imagination of no
novelist has ever attained that _acme_ of duplicity, cruelty, villany,
and cowardice, which made up the character of Ferdinand. The general
opinion of PRINCE METTERNICH, since he has become familiar to London
circles, has been rather to diminish former opinion of his superior
wisdom. Lord Holland's early opinion of the prince is thus recorded:
"He seems hardly qualified by any superior genius to assume the
ascendency in the councils of his own and neighboring nations, which
common rumor has for some years attributed to him. He appeared to me, in
the short intercourse I had with him, little superior to the common run
of continental politicians and courtiers, and clearly inferior to the
Emperor of Russia in those qualities which secure an influence in great
affairs. Some who admit the degrading but too prevalent opinion that a
disregard to truth is useful and necessary in the government of mankind,
have on that score maintained the contrary proposition. His manners are
reckoned insinuating. In my slight acquaintance with him in London I was
not struck with them; they seemed such as might have been expected from
a German who had studied French vivacity in the fashionable novels of
the day. I saw little of a sagacious and observant statesman, or of a
courtier accustomed to very refined and enlightened society."
But the statesman who sustained Austria and procured for it the alliance
of France was not Metternich. Napoleon is known to have long wavered as
to whether he would build his European system on a close alliance with
Prussia or with Austria. Bignon we believe it is that gives the reasons
in the imperial mind for and against. Prussia was the preferable ally,
being a new country, untrammelled by aristocratic ideas, ambitious,
military, and eager for domination. But Napoleon had humiliated Prussia
too deeply to be forgiven. And then Napoleon had in those around him
politicians who revered Austria for its antiquity and prestige, and who,
like Lord Aberdeen, made the Caesar of Vienna the pivot on which their
ideas of policy turned. Talleyrand was one of them. He worshipped
Austria, opposed all his master's plans for crushing her, and even dared
to thwart those plans by revealing them to Alexander, and prompting him
secretly to oppose them. Such treachery fully warrants all the suspicion
and harshness with which Napoleon treated Talleyrand. The latter's
conduct is fully revealed in this volume by Lord Holland. In fact, the
way in which Napoleon found his policy most seriously counteracted, and
his projects foiled, was his weakness in employing the men of the
_ancien regime_, the nobles, whom he preferred for their pleasing and
good manners, but who invariably betrayed the _parvenu_ master, who
employed and courted them. By an instance of this grievously misplaced
confidence Napoleon lost his throne. In the last events and negotiations
of 1814 Napoleon employed Caulaincourt, who, had he had full power,
might have made an arrangement. Talleyrand and his party at the same
time employed M. de Vitrolles, and sent him to the Emperor of Austria to
learn on what terms he would be induced either to support Napoleon or
abandon him. The Emperor of Austria was naturally most unwilling to
proceed to the latter extreme. But M. Vitrolles, a secret agent of the
Bourbons, so falsified and misrepresented everything to the Emperor that
the sacrifice of Napoleon was assented to.
Our last extract relates some traits of the great NAPOLEON which seem
more than ordinarily worth his nephew's attention just now. They are
taken from a somewhat elaborate character of the Emperor which occupies
nearly a third of the volume.
"Nothing could exceed the order and regularity with which his household
both as Consul and Emperor was conducted. The great things he
accomplished, and the savings he made, without even the imputation of
avarice or meanness, with the sum comparatively inconsiderable of
fifteen millions of francs a year, are marvellous, and expose his
successors, and indeed all European Princes, to the reproach of
negligence or incapacity. In this branch of his government he owed much
to Duroc. It is said that they often visited the markets of Paris (les
halles) dressed in plain clothes and early in the morning. When any
great accounts were to be submitted to the Emperor, Duroc would apprize
him in secret of some of the minutest details. By an adroit allusion to
them or a careless remark on the points upon which he had received such
recent and accurate information, Napoleon contrived to impress his
audience with a notion that the master's eye was every where. For
instance, when the Tuileries were furnished, the upholsterer's charges
though not very exorbitant, were suspected by the Emperor to be higher
than the usual profit of that trade would have warranted. He suddenly
asked some minister who was with him how much the egg at the end of the
bell-rope should cost? 'J'ignore,' was the answer.--'Eh bien! nous
verrons,' said he, and then cut off the ivory handle, called for a
valet, and bidding him dress himself in plain and ordinary clothes, and
neither divulge his immediate commission or general employment to any
living soul, directed him to inquire the price of such articles at
several shops in Paris, and to order a dozen as for himself. They were
one-third less dear than those furnished to the palace. The Emperor,
inferring that the same advantage had been taken in the other articles,
struck a third off the whole charge, and directed the tradesman to be
informed that it was done at his express command, because on
_inspection_ he had himself discovered the charges to be by one-third
too exorbitant. When afterwards in the height of his glory he visited
Caen with the Empress Maria Louisa, and a train of crowned heads and
princes, his old friend, M. Mechin, the Prefect, aware of his taste for
detail, waited upon him with five statistical tables of the expenditure,
revenue, prices, produce, and commerce of the departments. 'C'est bon,'
said he, when he received them the evening of his arrival, 'vous et moi
nous ferous bien de l'esprit sur tout cela demain au Conseil.'
Accordingly, he astonished all the leading proprietors of the department
at the meeting next day, by his minute knowledge of the prices of good
and bad cyder, and of the produce and other circumstances of the various
districts of the department. Even the Royalist gentry were impressed
with a respect for his person, which gratitude for the restitution of
their lands had failed to inspire, and which, it must be acknowledged,
the first faint hope of vengeance against their enemies entirely
obliterated in almost every member of that intolerant faction. Other
princes have shown an equal fondness for minute details with Napoleon,
but here is the difference. The use they made of their knowledge was to
torment their inferiors and weary their company: the purpose to which
Napoleon applied it was to confine the expanses of the State to the
objects and interests of the community."
Lord Holland dwells at some length on the treatment to which Napoleon
was subjected by the English Government, and on the generous attempts of
Lady Holland to alleviate his captivity. This part of the volume has
much present interest, and will be read with great eagerness by all. Of
the Emperor's temper, he says:
"Napoleon, even in the plenitude of his power, seldom gratified his
revenge by resorting to any act either illegal or unjust, though he
frequently indulged his ill-humor by speaking both of and to those who
had displeased him in a manner mortifying to their feelings and their
pride. The instances of his love of vengeance are very few: they are
generally of an insolent rather than a sanguinary character, more
discreditable to his head than his heart, and a proof of his want of
manners, taste, and possibly feeling, but not of a dye to affect his
humanity. Of what man, possessed of such extended yet such disputed
authority, can so much be said? Of Washington? Of Cromwell? But
Washington, if he had ever equal provocation and motives for revenge,
certainly never possessed such power to gratify it. His glory, greater
in truth than that of Caesar, Cromwell, and Bonaparte, was that he never
aspired: but he disdained such power; he never had it, and cannot
therefore deserve immoderate praise for not exerting what he did not
possess. In the affair of General Lee, he did not, if I recollect, show
much inclination to forgive. Even Cromwell did not possess the power of
revenge to the same extent as Napoleon. There is reason, however, to
infer from his moderation and forbearance that he would have used it as
sparingly. But Cromwell is less irreproachable, on the score of another
vice, viz., ingratitude. Napoleon not only never forgot a favor, but,
unlike most ambitious characters, never allowed subsequent injuries to
cancel his recollection of services. He was uniformly indulgent to the
faults of those whom he had once distinguished. He saw them, he
sometimes exposed and rectified, but he never punished or revenged them.
Many have blamed him for this on the score of policy; but if it was not
sense and calculation, it should be ascribed to good-nature. None, I
presume, will impute it to weakness or want of discernment."
This account of Napoleon's ideas on religion is curious, and we think
new.
"Whatever were the religious sentiments of this extraordinary man, such
companions were likely neither to fix nor to shake, to sway nor to alter
them. I have been at some pains to ascertain the little that can be
known of his thoughts on such subjects, and, though it is not very
satisfactory, it appears to me worth recording.
"In the early periods of the Revolution, he, in common with many of his
countrymen, conformed to the fashion of treating all such matters, both
in conversation and action, with levity and even derision. In his
subsequent career, like most men exposed to wonderful vicissitudes, he
professed, half in jest and half in earnest, a sort of confidence in
fatalism and predestination. But on some solemn public occasions, and
yet more in private and sober discussion, he not only gravely disclaimed
and reproved infidelity, but both by actions and words implied his
conviction that a conversion to religious enthusiasm might befal
himself, or any other man. He had more than tolerance--he had indulgence
and respect for extravagant and ascetic notions of religious duty. He
grounded that feeling not on their soundness or their truth, but on the
uncertainty of what our minds may be reserved for, on the possibility of
our being prevailed upon to admit and even to devote ourselves to tenets
which at first excite our derision. It has been observed that there was
a tincture of Italian superstition in his character; a sort of
conviction from reason that the doctrines of revelation were not true,
and yet a persuasion, or at least an apprehension, that he might live to
think them so. He was satisfied that the seeds of belief were deeply
sown in the human heart. It was on that principle that he permitted and
justified, though he did not dare to authorize, the revival of La Trappe
and other austere orders. He contended that they might operate as a
safety-valve for the fanatical and visionary ferment which would
otherwise burst forth and disturb society. In his remarks on the death
of Duroc, and in the reasons he alleged against suicide, both in calm
and speculative discussion and in moments of strong emotion, (such as
occurred at Fontainbleau in 1814,) he implied a belief both in fatality
and Providence.
"In the programme of his coronation, a part of the ceremony was to
consist in his taking the communion. But when the plan was submitted to
him, he, to the surprise of those who had drawn it, was absolutely
indignant at the suggestion. 'No man,' he said, 'had the means of
knowing, or had the right to say, when or where he would take the
sacrament, or whether he would or not.' On this occasion, he added, that
he would not; nor did he.
"There is some mystery about his conduct in similar respects at St.
Helena, and during the last days of his life. He certainly had mass
celebrated in his chapel while he was well, and in his bedroom when ill.
But though I have reason to believe that the last sacraments were
actually administered to him privately a few days before his death, and
probably after confession, yet Count Montholon, from whom I derive
indirectly my information, also stated that he received Napoleon's
earnest and distinct directions to conceal all the preliminary
preparations for that melancholy ceremony from all his other companions,
and even to enjoin the priest, if questioned, to say he acted by Count
Montholon's orders, but had no knowledge of the Emperor's wishes.
"It seems as if he had some desire for such assurance as the Church
could give, but yet was ashamed to own it. He knew that some at St.
Helena, and more in France, would deem his recourse to such consolation
infirmity; perhaps he deemed it so himself. Religion may sing her
triumph, philosophy exclaim 'pauvre humanite,' more impartial scepticism
despair of discovering the motive, but truth and history must, I
believe, acknowledge the fact."
FOOTNOTES:
[H] _Foreign Reminiscences._ By Henry Richard Lord Holland. Edited by
his Son, Henry Edward Lord Holland. Longman and Co., London. New-York:
Harpers.
JOHN JAMES AUDUBON.
By Rufus W. Griswold.
"Formerly," said Baron Cuvier, in a report to the Royal Academy of
Sciences in Paris, "European naturalists had to make known her own
treasures to America; but now her Mitchells, Harlans, and Charles
Bonapartes, have repaid with interest the debt which she owed to Europe.
The history of the American birds by Wilson, already equals in elegance
our most beautiful works in ornithology, and if ever that of Audubon be
completed, it will have to be confessed that in magnificence of
execution the Old World is surpassed by the New." The work of the
"American backwoodsman" thus alluded to, has long been completed; the
great Cuvier subsequently acknowledged it to be "the most splendid
monument which art has erected in honor of ornithology;" and the
judgment of mankind has placed the name of our countryman first in the
list of authors and artists who have illustrated the beautiful branch of
natural history to which he has devoted so large a portion of his long
and heroic life.
JOHN JAMES AUDUBON was born in Louisiana about the year 1782. He was of
French descent, and his parents perceiving early the bent of his genius
sent him to Paris to pursue his education. While there he attended
schools of natural history and the arts, and in drawing took lessons
from the celebrated David. He returned in his eighteenth year, and his
father soon after gave him a farm near Philadelphia, where the
Perkioming creek falls into the Schuylkill. Its fine woods offered him
numerous subjects for his pencil, and he here commenced that series of
drawings which ultimately swelled into the magnificent collection of The
Birds of America. Here too he was married, and here was born his eldest
son. He engaged in commercial speculations, but was not successful. His
love for the fields and flowers, the forests and their winged
inhabitants, we readily suppose unfitted him for trade. At the end of
ten years he removed to the west. There were then no steamboats on the
Ohio, and few villages and no cities on its shores. Reaching that noble
river in the warm days of autumn, he purchased a small boat in which,
with his wife and child and two rowers, he leisurely pursued his way
down to Henderson, in Kentucky, where his family resided several years.
He appears at first to have engaged in commerce, for he mentions his
meeting with Wilson, of whom till then he had never heard, as having
occurred in his counting-room in Louisville in the spring of 1810. His
great predecessor was procuring subscriptions for his work. He called on
Audubon, explained the nature of his occupations, and requested his
patronage. The merchant was surprised and gratified at the sight of his
volumes, and had taken a pen to add his name to the list of subscribers,
when his partner abruptly said to him in French, "My dear Audubon, what
induces you to do so? your own drawings are certainly far better, and
you must know as much of the habits of American birds as this gentleman.
"Wilson probably understood the remark, for he appeared not to be
pleased, and inquired whether Audubon had any drawings of birds. A large
portfolio was placed upon the table, and all its contents exhibited by
the amateur ornithologist. Wilson was surprised; he had supposed he was
himself the only person engaged in forming such a collection; and asked
if it was intended to publish them. Audubon replied in the negative: he
had never thought of presenting the fruits of his labors to the world.
Wilson was still more surprised; he lost his cheerfulness; and though
before he left Louisville Audubon explored with him the neighboring
woods, loaned him his drawings, and in other ways essayed to promote his
interests and happiness, he shook the dust from his feet when he
departed, and wrote in his diary that "literature or art had not a
friend in the place." Far be it from me to write a word in dispraise of
Alexander Wilson. He was a man of genius, enthusiasm, and patient
endurance; an honor to the country of his birth, and a glory to that of
his adoption; but he evidently could not bear the thought of being
excelled. With all his merits he was even then greatly inferior to
Audubon, and his heart failed him when he contrasted the performances
which had won fame for him with those of the unknown lover of the same
mistress, Nature, whom he thus encountered.
Audubon must soon have abandoned or neglected his day-books and ledgers,
for in 1811 we find him with his rifle and drawing paper among the
bayous of Florida, and in the following years making long and tedious
journeys, searching the forests and prairies, the shores of rivers,
lakes, gulfs, and seas, for the subjects of his immortal work, of the
publication of which, however, he had never yet had a thought.
On the fifth of April, 1824, he visited Philadelphia, where the late Dr.
Mease, whom he had known on his first arrival in Pennsylvania, presented
him to Charles Lucien Bonaparte, who in his turn introduced him to the
Lyceum of Natural History. He perceived that he could look for no
patronage in this city, and so proceeded to New-York, where he was
received with a kindness well suited to elevate his depressed spirits,
and afterwards ascending the Hudson, went westward to the great lakes,
and in the wildest solitudes of the pathless forests renewed his labors.
He now began to think of visiting Europe; the number of his drawings had
greatly increased notwithstanding a misfortune by which two hundred of
them, representing nearly a thousand birds, had been destroyed; and he
fancied his work under the hands of the engraver. "Happy days and nights
of pleasing dreams" followed, as he retired farther from the haunts of
men, determined to leave nothing undone which could be accomplished by
time or toil. Another year and a half passed by; he returned to his
family, then in Louisiana; and having explored the woods of that state,
at last sailed for England, where he arrived in 1826. In Liverpool and
Manchester his works procured him a generous reception from the most
distinguished men of science and letters; and when he proceeded to
Edinburgh and exhibited there his four hundred paintings, "the hearts of
all warmed toward Audubon," says Professor Wilson, "who were capable of
conceiving the difficulties, dangers, and sacrifices that must have been
encountered, endured, and overcome before genius could have embodied
these, the glory of its innumerable triumphs."[I] "The man himself," at
this period writes the same eloquent author in another work, "is just
what you would expect from his productions; full of fine enthusiasm and
intelligence, most interesting in his looks and manners, a perfect
gentleman, and esteemed by all who know him for the simplicity and
frankness of his nature."[J]
His reception encouraged him to proceed immediately with his plans of
publication. It was a vast undertaking which it would take probably
sixteen years to accomplish, and when his first drawings were delivered
to the engraver he had not a single subscriber. His friends pointed out
the rashness of the project and urged him to abandon it. "But my heart
was nerved," he exclaims, "and my reliance on that Power on whom all
must depend brought bright anticipations of success." Leaving his work
in the care of his engravers and agents, in the summer of 1828 he
visited Paris, and received the homage of the most distinguished men of
science in that capital. Humboldt too, whose gigantic intelligence arose
above all others in central Europe, became his warm friend, and remained
until his death a sympathizing correspondent.
The ensuing winter was passed in London, and in April, 1829, he returned
to America to explore anew the woods of the middle and southern states.
Accompanied by his wife he left New Orleans on the eighth of January,
1830, for New-York, and on the twenty-fifth of April, just a year from
the time of his departure, he was again in the Great Metropolis. Before
the close of 1830, he had issued his first volume, containing one
hundred plates, representing ninety-nine species of birds, every figure
of the size and colors of life. The applause with which it was received
was enthusiastic and universal. The kings of England and France had
placed their names at the head of his subscription list; he was made a
fellow of the Royal Societies of London and Edinburgh; a member of the
Natural History Society of Paris, and other celebrated institutions; and
Cuvier, Swainson, and indeed the great ornithologists of every country,
exhausted the words of panegyric in his praise.
On the first of August, 1831, Audubon arrived once more in New-York, and
having passed a few days with his friends there and in Philadelphia,
proceeded to Washington, where the President and other principal
officers of the government gave him letters of assistance and protection
to be used all along the coasts and inland frontiers where there were
collectors of revenue or military or naval forces. He had previously
received similar letters from the king's ministers to the authorities of
the British colonies.
The next winter and spring were passed in the Floridas and in
Charleston; and early in the summer, bending his course northward to
keep pace with the birds in their migrations, he arrived in
Philadelphia, where he was joined by his family. The cholera was then
spreading death and terror through the country, and on reaching Boston
he was himself arrested by sickness and detained until the middle of
August. "Although I have been happy in forming many valuable friendships
in various parts of the world, all dearly cherished by me," he says,
"the outpouring of kindness which I experienced in Boston far exceeded
all that I have ever met with;"[K] and he tells us, with characteristic
enthusiasm, of his gratitude to the Appletons, Everetts, Quincys,
Pickerings, Parkmans, and other eminent gentlemen and scholars of that
beautiful and hospitable city.
Proceeding at length upon his mission, he explored the forests of Maine
and New Brunswick, and the shores of the Bay of Fundy, and chartering a
vessel at Eastport, sailed for the gulf of St. Lawrence, the Magdalen
Islands, and the coast of Labrador. Returning as the cold season
approached, he visited Newfoundland and Nova Scotia, and rejoining his
family proceeded to Charleston, where he spent the winter, and in the
spring, after nearly three years' travel and research, sailed a third
time for England.
Among the warmest of his British friends, was always the congenial
Wilson, great as a poet, greater as critic, and greatest of all as the
author of the _Noctes Ambrosianae_, which contain more wit and humor,
more sound theology, philosophy, and politics, and better and more
various literature, than any other man now living has furnished in a
single work. This almost universal genius, whose relish for the rod and
gun and wild wood was scarcely less than that he felt for the best
suppers of Ambrose, or the sharpest onslaught on the Whigs in
Parliament, thoroughly appreciated and heartily loved our illustrious
countryman, and in Blackwood's Magazine for January, 1835, he gives us
the following admirable sketch of the visit he now made to Edinburgh:
"We were sitting one night, lately, all alone by ourselves,
almost unconsciously eyeing the members, fire without flame, in
the many-visioned grate, but at times aware of the symbols and
emblems there beautifully built up, of the ongoings of human
life, when a knocking, not loud but resolute, came to the front
door, followed by the rustling thrill of the bell-wire, and
then by a tinkling far below, too gentle to waken the house
that continued to enjoy the undisturbed dream of its repose. At
first we supposed it might be but some late-home-going
knight-errant from a feast of shells, in a mood, 'between
malice and true-love,' seeking to disquiet the slumbers of Old
Christopher, in expectation of seeing his night-cap (which he
never wears) popped out of the window, and of hearing his voice
(of which he is charry in the open air) simulating a scold upon
the audacious sleep-breaker. So we benevolently laid back our
head on our easy-chair, and pursued our speculations on the
state of affairs in general--and more particularly on the
floundering fall of that inexplicable people--the Whigs. We had
been wondering, and of our wondering found no end, what could
have been their chief reasons for committing suicide. It
appeared a case of very singular _felo-de-se_--for they had so
timed the 'rash act,' as to excite strong suspicions in the
public mind that his Majesty had committed murder.
Circumstances, however, had soon come to light, that proved to
demonstration, that the wretched Ministry had laid violent
hands on itself, and effected its purpose by strangulation.
There--was the fatal black ring visible round the neck--through
a mere thread; there--were the blood-shot eyes protruding from
the sockets; there--the lip-biting teeth clenched in the last
convulsions; and there--sorriest sight of all--was the ghastly
suicidical smile, last relic of the laughter of despair. But
the knocking would not leave the door--and listening to its
character, we were assured that it came from the fist of a
friend, who saw light through the chinks of the shutter, and
knew, moreover, that we never put on the shroud of death's
pleasant brother sleep, till 'ae wee short hour ayont the
twal,' and often not till earliest cock-crow, which chanticleer
utters somewhat drowsily, and then replaces his head beneath
his wing, supported on one side by a partlet, on the other by a
hen. So we gathered up our slippered feet from the rug, lamp in
hand stalked along the lobbies, unchained and unlocked the oak
which our faithful night porter Somnus had sported--and lo! a
figure muffled up in a cloak, and furred like a Russ, who
advanced familiarly into the hall, extended both hands and then
embracing us, bade God bless us, and pronounced, with somewhat
of a foreign accent, the name in which we and the world
rejoice--Christopher North!' We were not slow in returning the
hug fraternal--for who was it but the 'American
Woodsman?'--even Audubon himself--fresh from the Floridas--and
breathing of the pure air of far-off Labrador!
"Three years and upwards had fled since we had taken farewell
of the illustrious Ornithologist--on the same spot--at the same
hour; and there was something ghostlike in such return of a
dear friend from a distant region--almost as if from the land
of spirits. It seemed as if the same moon again looked at
us--but then she was wan and somewhat sad--now clear as a
diamond, and all the starry heavens wore a smile. "Our words
they were na mony feck'--but in less time than we have taken to
write it--we two were sitting cheek by jowl, and hand in hand,
by that essential fire--while we showed by our looks that we
both felt, now they were over, that three years were but as one
day! The cane coal-scuttle, instinct with spirit, beeted the
fire of its own accord, without word or beck of ours, as if
placed there by the hands of one of our wakeful Lares; in globe
of purest crystal the Glenlivet shone; unasked the bright brass
kettle began to whisper its sweet 'under song;' and a centenary
of the fairest oysters native to our isle turned towards us
their languishing eyes, unseen the Nereid that had on the
instant wafted them from the procreant cradle beds of
Prestonpans. Grace said, we drew in to supper, and hobnobbing,
from elegant long-shank, down each naturalist's gullet
graciously descended, with a gurgle, the mildest, the meekest,
the very Moses of Ales.
"Audubon, ere half an hour had elapsed, found an opportunity of
telling us that he had never seen us in a higher state of
preservation--and in a low voice whispered something about the
eagle renewing his youth. We acknowledged the kindness by a
remark on bold bright birds of passage that find the seasons
obedient to their will, and wing their way through worlds still
rejoicing in the perfect year. But too true friends were we not
to be sincere in all we seriously said; and while Audubon
confessed that he saw rather more plainly than when we parted
the crowfeet in the corners of our eyes, we did not deny that
we saw in him an image of the Falco Lencocephalus, for that,
looking on his 'carum caput,' it answered his own description
of that handsome and powerful bird, viz. 'the general color of
the plumage above is dull hair-brown, the lower parts being
deeply brown, broadly margined with greyish white.' But here he
corrected us: for 'surely, my dear friend,' quoth he, 'you must
admit I am a living specimen of the Adult Bird, and you
remember my description of him in my First Volume.' And thus
blending our gravities and our gayeties, we sat facing one
another, each with his last oyster on the prong of his trident,
which disappeared, like all mortal joys, between a smile and a
sigh.
"How similar--in much--our dispositions--yet in almost all how
dissimilar our lives! Since last we parted, 'we scarcely heard
of half a mile from home'--he tanned by the suns and beaten by
the storms of many latitudes--we like a ship laid up in
ordinary, or anchored close in shore within the same sheltering
bay--with sails unfurled and flags flying but for sake of show
on some holyday--he like a ship that every morning had been
dashing through a new world of waves--often close-reefed or
under bare poles--but oftener affronting the heavens with a
whiter and swifter cloud than any hoisted by the combined
fleets in the sky. And now, with canvas unrent, and masts
unsprung, returned to the very buoy she left. Somewhat faded,
indeed, in her apparelling--but her hull sound as ever--not a
speck of dry rot in her timbers--her keel unscathed by
rock--her cut-water yet sharp as new-whetted scythe ere the
mower renews his toil--her figure-head, that had so often
looked out for squalls, now 'patient as the brooding dove'--and
her bowsprit--but let us man the main-brace; nor is there purer
spirit--my trusty frere--in the Old World or the New.
"It was quite a Noctes. Audubon told us--by snatches--all his
travels, history, with many an anecdote interspersed of the
dwellers among the woods--bird, beast, and man.
"All this and more he told us, with a cheerful voice and
animated eyes, while the dusky hours were noiselessly wheeling
the chariot of Night along the star-losing sky; and we too had
something to tell him of our own home-loving obscurity, not
ungladdened by studies sweet in the Forest--till Dawn yoked her
dappled coursers for one single slow stage--and then jocund
Morn leaping up on the box, took the ribbons in her rosy
fingers, and, after a dram of dew, blew her bugle, and drove
like blazes right on towards the gates of Day."
"His great work," says Wilson, elsewhere, "was indeed a
perilous undertaking for a stranger in Britain, without the
patronage of powerful friends, and with no very great means of
his own--all of which he embarked in the enterprise dearest to
is heart. Had it failed, Audubon would have been a ruined
man--and that fear must have sometimes dismally disturbed him,
for he is not alone in life, and is a man of strong family
affections. But happily those nearest his breast are as
enthusiastic in the love of natural science as himself--and
were all willing to sink or swim with the beloved husband and
venerated father. America may well be proud of him--and he
gratefully records the kindness he has experienced from so many
of her most distinguished sons. In his own fame he is just and
generous to all who excel in the same studies; not a particle
of jealousy is in his composition; a sin, that, alas! seems too
easily to beset too many of the most gifted spirits in
literature and in science; nor is the happiest
genius--imaginative or intellectual--such is the frailty of
poor human nature at the best--safe from the access of that
dishonouring passion."
The second volume of The Birds of America was finished in 1834, and in
December of that year he published in Edinburgh the second volume of the
Ornithological Biography. Soon after, while he was in London, a nobleman
called upon him, with his family, and on examining some of his original
drawings, and being told that it would still require eight years to
complete the work, subscribed for it, saying, "I may not see it
finished, but my children will." The words made a deep impression on
Audubon. "The solemnity of his manner I could not forget for several
days," he writes in the introduction to his third volume; "I often
thought that neither might I see the work completed, but at length
exclaimed, 'My sons may;' and now that another volume, both of my
illustrations and of my biographies, is finished, my trust in Providence
is augmented, and I cannot but hope that myself and my family together
may be permitted to see the completion of my labors." When this was
written, ten years had elapsed since the publication of his first plate.
In the next three years, among other excursions he made one to the
western coast of the Floridas and to Texas, in a vessel placed at his
disposal by our government; and at the end of this time appeared the
fourth and concluding volume of his engravings, and the fifth of his
descriptions. The whole comprised four hundred and thirty-five plates,
containing one thousand and sixty-five figures, from the Bird of
Washington to the Humming Bird, of the size of life, and a great variety
of land and marine views, and coral and other productions, of different
climates and seasons, all carefully drawn and colored after nature. Well
might the great naturalist felicitate himself upon the completion of his
gigantic task. He had spent nearly half a century "amid the tall grass
of the far-extended prairies of the west, in the solemn forests of the
north, on the heights of the midland mountains, by the shores of the
boundless ocean, and on the bosoms of our vast bays, lakes and rivers,
searching for things hidden since the creation of this wondrous world
from all but the Indian who has roamed in the gorgeous but melancholy
wilderness." And speaking from the depth of his heart he says, "Once
more surrounded by all the members of my dear family, enjoying the
countenance of numerous friends who have never deserted me, and
possessing a competent share of all that can render life agreeable, I
look up with gratitude to the Supreme Being, and feel that I am happy."
In 1839, having returned for the last time to his native country and
established himself with his family near the city of New-York, Audubon
commenced the publication of The Birds of America in imperial octavo
volumes, of which the seventh and last was issued in the summer of 1844.
The plates in this edition, reduced from his larger illustrations, were
engraved and colored in the most admirable manner by Mr. Bowen of
Philadelphia, under the direction of the author, and excepting The Birds
of America in folio, there has never been published so magnificent a
work on ornithology.
Audubon was too sincere a worshipper of nature to be content with
inglorious repose, even after having accomplished in action more than
was ever dreamed of by any other naturalist; and while the "edition for
the people" of his Birds of America was in course of publication, he was
busy amid the forests and prairies, the reedy swamps of our southern
shores, the cliffs that protect our eastern coasts, by the currents of
the Mexican gulf and the tide streams of the Bay of Fundy, with his
sons, Victor Gifford and John Woodhouse, making the drawings and writing
the biographies of the _Quadrupeds of America_, a work in no respect
inferior to that on our birds, which he began to publish about five
years ago. The plates, on double imperial folio paper, engraved and
colored by Mr. Bowen after the original drawings made from nature by
Audubon and his sons, are even more magnificent than those of the Birds
of America, which twenty years ago delighted and astonished the
naturalists of Europe.
The Biography of American Quadrupeds, accompanying these plates, and of
which the first volume appeared in New-York in 1846, was written
principally by the Rev. John Bachman, D.D., of Charleston, a long-tried
and enthusiastic friend, of whose introduction to him Audubon thus
speaks in the preface of the second volume of his Ornithological
Biography:
"It was late in the afternoon when we took our lodgings in
Charleston. Being fatigued, and having written the substance of
my journey to my family, and delivered a letter to the Rev. Mr.
Gilman, I retired to rest. At the first glimpse of day the
following morning, my assistants and myself were already
several miles from the city, commencing our search in the
fields and woods, and having procured abundance of subjects
both for the pencil and the scalpel, we returned home, covered
with mud, and so accoutred as to draw towards us the attention
of every person in the streets. As we approached the
boarding-house, I observed a gentleman on horseback close to
our door. He looked at me, came up, inquired if my name was
Audubon, and on being answered in the affirmative, instantly
leaped from his saddle, shook me most cordially by the
hand--there is much to be expressed and understood by a shake
of the hand--and questioned me in so kind a manner, that I for
a while felt doubtful how to reply. At his urgent desire, I
removed to his house, as did my assistants. Suitable apartments
were assigned to us; and once introduced to the lovely and
interesting group that composed his family, I seldom passed a
day without enjoying their society. Servants, carriages,
horses, and dogs were all at our command, and friends
accompanied us to the woods and plantations, and formed parties
for water excursions. Before I left Charleston, I was truly
sensible of the noble and generous spirit of the hospitable
Carolinians."
Audubon and Bachman (the same Bachman who recently refuted the heresies
of Agassiz respecting the unity of the human race) were from this time
devoted friends and co-workers. For several years the health of the hero
naturalist had declined, and he was rarely if ever seen beyond the
limits of his beautiful estate on the banks of the Hudson, near this
city, where, on the twenty-seventh of January, 1851, he died, full of
years, and illustrious with the most desirable glory.
Audubon's highest claim to admiration is founded upon his drawings in
natural history, in which he has exhibited a perfection never before
attempted. In all our climates--in the clear atmosphere, by the dashing
waters, amid the grand old forests with their peculiar and many-tinted
foliage, by him first made known to art--he has represented our
feathered tribes, building their nests and fostering their young, poised
on the tip of the spray and hovering over the sedgy margin of the lake,
flying in the clouds in quest of prey or from pursuit, in love, enraged,
indeed in all the varieties of their motion and repose and modes of
life, so perfectly that all other works of the kind are to his as
stuffed skins to the living birds.
But he has also indisputable claims to a high rank as a man of letters.
Some of his written pictures of birds, so graceful, clearly defined,
and brilliantly colored, are scarcely inferior to the productions of his
pencil. His powers of general description are not less remarkable. The
waters seem to dance to his words as to music, and the lights and shades
of his landscapes show the practised hand of a master. The evanescent
shades of manners, also, upon the extreme frontiers, where the
footprints of civilization have hardly crushed the green leaves, have
been sketched with graphic fidelity in his journals.
No author has more individuality. The enthusiastic, trustful and loving
spirit which breathes through his works distinguished the man. From the
beginning he surrendered himself entirely to his favorite pursuit, and
was intent to learn every thing from the prime teacher, Nature. His
style as well as his knowledge was a fruit of his experiences. He had
never written for the press until after the age at which most authors
have established their reputation; and when he did write, his page
glowed like the rich wild landscape in the spring, when Nature, then
most beautiful, "bathes herself in her own dewy waters." We seem to hear
his expressions of wondering admiration, as unknown mountains, valleys
and lakes burst upon his view, as the deer at his approach leaped from
his ambush into the deeper solitudes, as the startled bird with rushing
wings darted from his feet into the sky; or his pious thanksgiving, as
at the end of a weary day the song of the sparrow or the robin relieved
his mind from the heavy melancholy that bore it down.
When the celebrated Buffon had completed the ornithological portion of
his great work on natural history, he announced with unhesitating
assurance that he had "finished the history of the birds of the world."
Twenty centuries had served for the discovery of only eight hundred
species, but this number seemed immense, and the short-sighted
naturalist declared that the list would admit of "no material
augmentation" which embraced hardly a sixteenth of those now known to
exist. To this astonishing advance of the science of ornithology, no one
has contributed more than Audubon, by his magnificent painting and
fascinating history.
Mr. Audubon left unpublished a voluminous autobiography, which we hope
will be published with as little delay as possible.
FOOTNOTES:
[I] Wilson's Miscellanies, vol. ii. p. 118.
[J] Noctes Ambrosianae, vol. ii. p. 103.
[K] Introduction to the second volume of Ornithological Biography, p.
xvii.
Original Poetry.
OLD AGE.
By Alfred B. Street.
All day the chill bleak wind had shrieked and wailed
Through leafless forests, and o'er meadows sear;
Through the fierce sky great sable clouds had sailed;
Outlines were hard--all nature's looks were drear.
Gone, Indian Summer's bland, delicious haze,
Thickening soft nights and filming mellow days.
Then rose gray clouds; thin fluttered first the snow,
Then like loose shaken fleeces, then in dense streams
That muffled gradually all below
In pearly smoothness. Then outburst the gleams
At sunset; nature shone in flashing white,
And the last rays tinged all with rosy light.
So Life's bland Autumn o'er, may old age come
In muffling peace, and death display hope's radiant bloom.
THE CASTLE IN THE AIR.[L]
By R. H. Stoddard.
I.
We have two lives about us,
Within us, and without us;
Two worlds in which we dwell,
Alternate Heaven and Hell:
Without, the sombre Real,
Within our heart of hearts, the beautiful Ideal!
I stand between the thresholds of the two,
Fettered and bound with many a heavy chain;
I strive to rend their links, but all in vain;
The False is strong, and holds me from the True.
Only in dreams my spirit wanders o'er
The starry portal of the world of bliss,
And lives the life which Fate denies in this,
Which may have once been mind, but will be, nevermore.
II.
My Castle stands alone,
Away from Earth and Time,
In some diviner clime,
In Fancy's tropic zone,
Beneath its summer skies,
Where all the live-long year the summer never dies!
A stately marble pile whose pillars rise,
From sculptured bases, fluted to the dome,
With wreathed friezes crowned, all carven nice
With pendant leaves, like ragged rims of foam;
A thousand windows front the rising sun,
Deep-set between the columns, many paned,
Tri-arched, emblazoned, gorgeously stained,
Crimson and purple, green and blue, and dun,
And all their wedded colors fall below,
Like rainbows shattered on a field of snow;
A bordering gallery runs along the roof,
Topt by a cupola, whose glittering spire
Pierces the brooding clouds, a glowing woof,
With golden spindles wove in Morning's loom of fire!
III.
What fine and rare domains
Untold for leagues around;
Green parks, and meads, and plains,
And bosky woods profound,--
A realm of leafiness, and sweet enchanted ground!
Before the palace lies a shaven lawn,
Sloping and shining in the dews of dawn,
With turfy terraces, and garden bowers,
Where rows of slender urns are full of flowers;
Broad oaks o'erarch the winding avenues,
Edged round with evergreens of fadeless bloom,
And pour a thousand intermingling hues,
A many tinted flood of golden gloom;
Far-seen through twinkling leaves,
The fountains gush aloft like silver sheaves,
Drooping with shining ears, and crests of spray,
And foamy tassels blowing every way,
Shaking in marble basins white and cold,
A bright and drainless shower of beaded grain,
Which winnows off, in sun-illumined rain
The dusty chaff, a cloud of misty gold;
Around their volumes, down the plashy tide,
The swans are sailing mixed in lilies white,
Like virgin queens in soft disdain and pride,
Sweeping amid their maids with trains of light;
A little herd of deer with startled looks,
In shady parks where all the year they browse,
Head-down are drinking at the lucid brooks,
Their antlers mirrored with the tangled boughs;
My rivers flow beyond, with guardant ranks
Of silver-liveried poplars, on their banks;
Barges are fretting at the castle piers,
Rocking with every ripple in the tide;
And bridges span the stream with arches wide,
Their stony 'butments mossed and gray with years;
An undulating range of vales, and bowers,
And columned palaces, and distant towers,
And on the welkin mountains bar the view,
Shooting their jagged peaks sublimely up the blue!
IV.
I saunter up the walks;
My sandals wetted through
With dripping flowers and stalks,
That line the avenue;
My broidered mantle all bedabbled with the dew!
I climb a flight of steps with regal pride,
And stroll along an echoing colonnade,
Sweeping against its pillared balustrade,
Adown a porch, and through a portal wide,
And I am in my Castle, Lord of all;
My faithful groom is standing in the hall
To doff my shining robe, while servitors,
And cringing chamberlains beside the doors
Waving their gilded wands, obsequious wait,
And bow me on my way in royal pomp and state!
V.
My chamber lies apart,
The Castle's very heart,
And all things rich and rare,
From land, and sea, and air,
Are lavished with a wild and waste profusion there!
The carpeting was woven in Turkish looms,
From softest wool of fine Circassian sheep;
Tufted like springy moss in forests deep,
Illuminate with all its autumn blooms;
The antique chairs are made of cedar trees,
Veined with the rings of vanished cennturies
And touched with winter's frost, and summer's sun;
Sofas and couches, stuffed with cygnet's fleece,
Loll round inviting dreaminess and ease;
The gorgeous window curtains, damask red,
Suspended, silver-ringed, on bars of gold,
Droop heavily, in many a fluted fold,
And, rounding outward, intercept, and shed
The prisoned daylight o'er the slumbrous room,
In streams of rosy dimness, purple gloom;
Hard by are cabinets of curious shells,
Twisted and jointed, horned, wreathed, and curled,
And some like moons in rosy mist impearled,
With coral boughs from ocean's deepest cells;
Cases of rare medallions, coins antique,
Found in the dust of cities, Roman, Greek;
Etruscan urns, transparent, soft, and bright,
With fawns and dancing shepherds on their sides;
And costly marble vases dug from night
In Pompeii, beneath its lava tides:
Clusters of arms, the spoil of ancient wars;
Old scimitars of true Damascus brand,
Short swords with basket hilts to guard the hand,
And iron casques with rusty visor bars;
Lances, and spears, and battle axes keen,
With crescent edges, shields with studded thorns,
Yew bows, and shafts, and curved bugle horns,
With tasseled baldricks of the Lincoln green:
And on the walls with lifted curtains, see!
The portraits of my noble ancestry;
Thin featured, stately dames with powdered locks,
And courtly shepherdesses tending flocks;
Stiff lords in wigs, and ruffles white as snow,
Haught peers, and princes centuries ago,
And dark Sir Hugh, the bravest of the line,
With all the knightly scars he won in Palestine!
VI.
My gallery sleeps aloof,
Soft-lighted through the roof,
Enshrining pictures old,
And groups of statues cold,
The gems of Art, when Art was in her Age of Gold!
Not picked from any single age or clime,
Nor one peculiar master, school, or tone;
Select of all, the best of all alone,
The spoil and largesse of the Earth and Time;
Food for all thoughts and fancies, grave or gay;
Suggestive of old lore, and poets' themes;
These filled with shapes of waking life, and day,
And those with spirits and the world of dreams;
Let me draw back the curtains, one by one,
And give their muffled brightness to the sun:
THE PICTURES.
Helen and Paris on their bridal night,
Under the swinging cressets' starry light,
With Priam and his fifty sons around,
Feasting in all their majesty and bloom,
Filling their golden cups with eager hands,
To drink a health, while pale Cassandra stands
With all her raven tresses unbound,
Her soul o'ershadowed by the coming doom.
Andromache, with all her tearful charms,
Folded upon the mighty Hector's breast,
And the babe shrinking in its Nurse's arms,
Affrightened by the nodding of his crest.
The giant Cyclops, sitting in his cave,
Helped by the diving Ulysses, old and wise,
Spilling the wine in rivers down his beard,
Shaggy and grim,--his shoulder overleered
By swart Silenus, sly and cunning knave,
Who steals a puffy skin with twinkling eyes.
Anacreon, lolling in the myrtle shades,
Bibbing his Teian draughts with rich delight,
Pledging the dancing girls and Cyprian maids,
Pinching their little ears, and shoulders white.
A cloudless sunrise on the glittering Nile,
A bronzed Sphinx, and temple on the shore,
And robed priests that toss their censers while
Abased in dust, the populace adore;
A beaked galley fretting at its curb,
With reedy oars, and masts, and silken sails,
And Cleopatra walks the deck superb,
Slow-followed by her court in spangled veils.
The Virgin Mother, and the Holy Child,
Holding a globe and sceptre, sweet and mild;
The Magi bring their gifts with reverent looks,
And the rapt Shepherds lean upon their crooks.
A summer fete, a party on a lawn;
Bowing gallants, with plumed caps in hand,
And ladies with guitars, and, far withdrawn,
The rustic people dancing in a band.
A bleak defile, a pass in mountains deep,
Whose whitened summits wear their morning glow,
And dark banditti winding down the steep
Of shelvy rocks, pointing their guns below.
A harvest scene, a vineyard on the Rhine;
Arbors, and wreathed pales, and laughing swains
Pouring their crowded baskets into wains,
And vats, and trodden presses gushing wine.
A Flemish Tavern: boors and burghers hale
Drawn round a table, o'er a board of chess,
Smoking their heavy pipes, and drinking ale,
Blowing from tankard brims the frothiness.
A picture of Cathay, a justice scene;
Pagodas, statues, and a group around;
And, in his sedan chair, the Mandarin,
Reading the scroll of laws to prisoners bound,
Bambooed with canes, and writhing on the ground;
And many more whose veils I will undraw
Some other day, exceeding fresh and fine;
And statues of the Grecian gods divine,
In all their various moods of love and awe:
The Phidean Jove, with calm creative face,
Like Heaven brooding o'er the deeps of Space;
Imperial Juno, Mercury, winged-heeled,
Lit with a message. Mars with helm and shield,
Apollo with the discus, bent to throw,
The piping Pan, and Dian with her bow,
And Cytherca just risen from the swell
Of crudded foam, half-stooping on her knee,
Wringing her dripping tresses in the sea
Whose loving billows climb the curved shell
Tumultuously, and o'er its edges flow,
And kiss with pallid lips her nakedness of snow!
VII.
My boots may lie and mould,
However rare and old;
I cannot read to-day,
Away! with books, away!
Full-fed with sweets of sense,
I sink upon my couch in honied indolence!
Here are rich salvers full of nectarines,
Dead-ripe pomegranates, sweet Arabian dates,
Peaches and plums, and clusters fresh from vines,
And all imaginable sweets, and cakes,
And here are drinking-cups, and long-necked flasks
In wicker mail, and bottles broached from casks,
In cellars delved deep, and winter cold,
Select, superlative, and centuries old.
What more can I desire? what book can be
As rich as Idleness and Luxury?
What lore can fill my heart with joy divine,
Like luscious fruitage, and enchanted wine?
Brimming with Helicon I dash the cup;
Why should I waste my years in hoarding up
The thoughts of eld? Let dust to dust return:
No more for me,--my heart is not an urn!
I will no longer sip from little flasks,
Covered with damp and mould, when Nature yields,
And Earth is full of purple vintage fields;
Nor peer at Beauty dimmed with mortal masks,
When I at will may have them all withdrawn,
And freely gaze in her transfigured face;
Nor limp in fetters in a weary race,
When I may fly unbound, like Mercury's fawn;
No more contented with the sweets of old,
Albeit embalmed in nectar, since the trees,
The Eden bowers, the rich Hesperides,
Droop all around my path, with living fruits of gold!
VIII.
Oh what a life is mine,
A life of joy and mirth,
The sensuous life of Earth,
Forever fresh and fine.
A heavenly worldliness, mortality divine!
When eastern skies, the sea, and misty plain,
Illumined slowly, doff their nightly shrouds,
And Heaven's bright archer Morn begins to rain
His golden arrows through the banded clouds,
I rise and tramp away the jocund hours,
Knee-deep in dewy grass, and beds of flowers;
I race my eager greyhound on the hills,
And climb with bounding feet the craggy steeps,
Peak-lifted, gazing down the cloven deeps,
Where mighty rivers shrink to threaded rills;
The ramparts of the mountains loom around,
Like splintery fragments of a ruined world;
The cliff-bound dashing cataracts, downward hurled
In thunderous volumes, shake the chasms profound:
The imperial eagle, with a dauntless eye
Wheels round the sun, the monarch of the sky;
I pluck his eyrie in the blasted wood
Of ragged pines, and when the vulture screams,
I track his flight along the solitude,
Like some dark spirit in the world of dreams!
When Noon in golden armor, travel spent,
Climbing the azure plains of Heaven, alone,
Pitches upon its topmost steep his tent,
And looks o'er Nature from his burning throne,
I loose my little shallop from its quay,
And down the winding rivers slowly float,
And steer in many a shady cove and bay,
Where birds are warbling with melodious note;
I listen to the humming of the bees,
The water's flow, the winds, the wavy trees,
And take my lute and touch its silver chords,
And set the Summer's melody to words;
Sometimes I rove beside the lonely shore,
Margined and flanked by slanting shelvy ledges,
And caverns echoing Ocean's sullen roar;
Threading the bladdery weeds, and paven shells,
Beyond the line of foam, the jewelled chain,
The largesse of the ever giving main.
Tossed at the feet of Earth with surgy swells,
I plunge into the waves, and strike away,
Breasting with vigorous strokes the snowy spray;
Sometimes I lounge in arbors hung with vines,
The which I sip, and sip, with pleasure mute,
O'er mouthful bites of golden-rinded fruit;
When evening comes, I lie in dreamy rest,
Where lifted casements front the glowing west,
And watch the clouds, like banners wide unfurled,
Hung o'er the flaming threshold of the world:
Its mission done, the holy Day recedes,
Borne Heavenward in its car, with fiery steeds,
Leaving behind a lingering flush of light,
Its mantle fallen at the feet of Night;
The flocks are penned, the earth is growing dim;
The moon comes rounding up the welkin's rim,
Glowing through thinnest mist, an argent shell,
Washed up the sky from Night's profoundest cell;
One after one the stars begin to shine
In drifted beds, like pearls through shallow brine;
And lo! through clouds that part before the chase
Of silent winds--a belt of milky white,
The Galaxy, a crested surge of light,
A reef of worlds along the sea of Space:
I hear my sweet musicians far withdrawn,
Below my wreathed lattice, on the lawn,
With harp, and lute, and lyre,
And passionate voices full of tears and fire;
And envious nightingales with rich disdain
Filling the pauses of the languid strain;
My soul is tranced and bound,
Drifting along the magic sea of sound,
Driving in a barque of bliss from deep to deep,
And piloted at last into the ports of Sleep!
IX.
Nor only this, though this
Might seal a life of bliss,
But something more divine,
For which I once did pine,
The crown of worlds above,
The heart of every heart, the Soul of Being--Love!
I bow obedient to my Lady's sway,
The sovereignty that won my soul of yore,
And linger in her presence night and day,
And feel a heaven around her evermore;
I sit beside her couch in chambers lone,
And soft unbraid, and lay her locks apart,
And take her taper fingers in my own,
And press them to my lips with leaps of heart;
Sometimes I kneel to her with cups of wine,
With pleading eyes, beseeching her to taste,
With long-delaying lips, the draught divine;
And when she sips thereof, I clasp her waist,
And kiss her mouth, and shake her hanging curls,
And in her coy despite unloose her zone of pearls!
I live for Love, for Love alone, and who
Dare chide me for it? who dare call it folly?
It is a holy thing, if aught is holy,
And true indeed, if Truth herself is true:
Earth cleaves to earth, its sensuous life is dear,
Mortals should love mortality while here,
And seize the glowing hours before they fly:
Bright eyes should answer eyes, warm lips should meet,
And hearts enlocked to kindred hearts should beat,
And every soul that lives, in love should live and die!
X.
My dear and gentle wife,
The Angel of my life,
Oppressed with sweetest things,
Has folded up her wings,
And lies in slumber deep,
Like some divinest Dream upon the couch of Sleep!
Nor sound, nor stir profanes the stilly room,
Haunted by Sleep and Silence, linked pair;
The very light itself muffled in gloom,
Steals in, and melts the enamored air
Where Love doth brood and dream, while Passion dies,
Breathing his soul out in a mist of sighs!
Lo! where she lies behind the curtains white,
Pillowed on clouds of down,--her golden hair
Braided around her forehead smooth and fair,
Like a celestial diadem of light:--
Her soft voluptuous lips are drawn apart,
Curving in fine repose, and maiden pride;
Her creamy breast,--its mantle brushed aside
Swells with the long pulsation of her heart:
One languid arm rests on the coverlid,
And one beneath the crumpled sheet is hid,
(Ah happy sheets! to hide an arm so sweet!)
Nor all concealed amid their folds of snow,
The soft perfection of her shape below,
Rounded and tapering to her little feet!
Oh Love! if Beauty ever left her sphere,
And sovereign sisters, Art and Poesy,
Moulded in loveliness she slumbers here,
Slumbers, dear love, in thee!
It is thy smile that makes the chamber still;
It is thy breath that fills the scented air;
The light around is borrowed from thy hair,
And all things else are subject to thy will,
And I am so bewildered in this deep
Ambrosial calm, and passionate atmosphere,
I know not whether I am dreaming here,
Or in the world of Sleep!
XI.
My eyes are full of tears,
My heart is full of pain,
To wake, as now, again,
And walk, as in my youth, the wilderness of Years!
No more! no more! the autumn winds are loud
In stormy passes, howling to the Night:
Behind a cloud the moon doth veil her light,
And the rain pours from out the horned cloud.
And hark! the solemn and mysterious bell,
Swinging its brazen echoes o'er the wave:
Not mortal hands, but spirits ring the knell,
And toll the parting ghost of Midnight to its grave.
TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.
BY HERMANN.
Its smile and happy laugh are lost to thee,
Earth must his mother and his pillow be.
W. G. CLARK.
Mother, now thy task is done,
Now thy vigil ended;
With the coming of the sun,
Grief and joy are blended.
Grief that thus thy flower of love
From its stem is riven;
Joy that will bloom above,
Midst the bowers of Heaven.
Gone, as oft expires the light
Of thy nightly taper:
Gone, as 'fore the sunshine bright,
Early morning's vapor.
Kiss its lips so mute and cold,
Cold as chiselled marble,
They will now to harp of gold
Glad Hosannas warble.
At the last they sweetly smiled,
Told it not for gladness;
Would'st thou now recall thy child
To a world of sadness?
It is hard to gather up,
Ties so rudely riven;
But thou'lt find this bitter cup
For thy weal was given.
Kiss again its hands so white,
Kiss its marble forehead;
Soon the grave will hide from sight,
That thou only borrowed.
Thou will meet thy child again,
Where no death or sorrow
Bring their sad to-day of pain,
And their dread to-morrow.
FOOTNOTES:
[L] This poem, in an unfinished form, was published some months ago in
_Sartain's Magazine_. It has since been re-written for the
_International_, and is now much more than before deserving of the
applause with which it was received.
THE AMBITIOUS BROOKLET.
BY A. OAKEY HALL.
CHAPTER I.
_How the Brooklet was born; and lodged; and wandered off one
rainy day._
There was once a Brooklet born of a modest spring that circled through a
smiling meadow. All the hours of the Spring, and the Summer, and the
Autumn, kept she her musical round; greeting the sun at his rising,
together with the meadow-larks which came to dip their beaks in the
sparkling water-drops; and singing to the moon and stars all night, as
she bore their features within her bosom, in grateful remembrance of
their beauty. The laborer in the field hard by often came to visit her,
and wet his honest, toil-browned brow with her cooling drops; and often,
too, the laborer's daughter came at sunset time to sit by a mossy stone,
with so lovely a face that the Brooklet, as she mirrored the features of
the beautiful visitor, leaped about the pebbles with ripplings of
admiration.
And so this Brooklet lived on, only ceasing her merry flow and circling
journey when the bushes by her side became white with snow, and when the
rabbits from the brushwood fence at her head came out to stand upon the
slippery casing that the Brooklet often saw spreading over her, and
shutting out the warm sunshine by day, and at nightfall blurring the
radiance of moon and stars.
One stormy spring day the Brooklet seemed to rise higher among the twigs
of the alder-bushes than ever before; the rain came down faster and
heavier, and beat into her bosom, until her tiny waves were rough and
sore with pain, and she was fain to nestle closer to the sedgy grass
that now bent lowly to the pebbles at the roots. Growing higher every
minute was the Brooklet; and frightened somewhat, and longing for the
sunlight, or the laborer, and for the lovely daughter's face to cheer
her up, she looked off over a track of country wider and greener than
she had ever seen before. And so the Brooklet, all frightened as she
was, said to herself, "I'll run along a bit into this country spot, so
wide and green, and maybe I shall find the sunlight and the lovely
face."
Faster came the rain; and so the Brooklet, leaping wildly over a rock
whose top until then her eyes had never seen, went flowing on upon this
country spot, so wide and green. The new sights coming in view at every
bound quite made the Brooklet forget her terrors from the beating rain;
she was pained no longer by the heavy drops, but soothed herself among
the velvet grass; and turned between little flowers scarcely above the
ground, and which, as she passed them, seemed to be as frightened by the
wind and rain as herself had been before the meadow was left behind.
The Brooklet had thus run on until she saw the country spot so wide and
green was well passed over, and trees and bushes, darker and thicker
than she had ever known before, were close at hand. And while she
thought of stopping in her way and going back, she heard not far before
an echo of a sound most like unto her own; and so kept on to find it
out. Clearer and louder increased the sound, as now through mouldy
leaves and dark thickets, and under decayed logs and insect-burrowed
moss, she kept a course, until presently, over a fallen tree, she saw a
Brooklet, larger, wider, and evidently much older than herself, which,
on her near approach, ran by the fallen tree's side, and said, "Good
morning, sister: what is so delicate a being, as you seem to be, doing
in this dark forest?"
The wanderer Brooklet became silent with wonder. She had never been
addressed before, though often trying to talk with the laborer, and to
the lovely face of her meadow acquaintance, without the slightest notice
upon their part of the overtures.
"Good morning, sister, I say," was repeated over the fallen tree. "Where
are you going at so slow a pace? Come over, and let us talk a bit."
"I cannot, for I am terribly frightened, and I've lost my way. I want to
quit this dark place, and go where I can hear the lark again, and see
the pretty face which used to look at mine when I was circling in yonder
meadow, now, I fear, far, far behind."
"Larks and pretty faces, indeed! Why what a spooney sister, you are, to
be sure. I'll show you more birds than ever you heard sing before, and
prettier faces than ever you saw before."
"No, no, I must go back," replied the wanderer; "I have come too far
already, and see, the rain has almost ceased."
"More's the pity for that," returned the other; "the faster it rains the
faster I go, and that is what I want. I have left my family brooks a
long time since, and I'm going on my travels to be somebody. I'm tired
of my lonesome life among the meadows. I'm the _ambitious Brooklet_.
Come over, then, and go along; we'll travel the faster in company."
"I'm not ambitious; and as you may see, I cannot come."
"You're almost to the log top now. I'll kiss you soon," triumphed the
ambitious Brooklet, circling gayly round a tuft of green.
It must have been the terrible rain, or the fright of her dark
journeying place, that had taken her strength away:--the wandering
Brooklet felt that it must be: for now her strength of will was almost
gone. Nearer the log top came in view, until with a bound she swept its
polished surface, and with a dash came over upon the ambitious Brooklet.
"Good! that's the way to do it; now we shall journey gayly on," said the
latter, "I have lost much time in stopping here, and there are such rare
sights ahead!"
The wanderer felt the oddest sensations she had ever known, and said,
"Sister--ambitious sister--how much warmer than I are you!"
"Oh, you are young, I suppose--fresh from the icy spring. But journey
on more southward yet, away from these dark trees, and you'll be warmer
yet; come, I say."
"I like your feel; but then I shall be lost, I know I shall; and so I'll
stay behind."
"You cannot; for, ambitious as I am, I want your help. See how much
faster we travel together when your strength is joined to mine; and I'm
the strongest, and you can't go back."
The wandering Brooklet looked fearfully around, and saw indeed that the
log she had leaped was now fast fading away, and felt that her strength
became less and less as the ambitious Brooklet clung closer to her side.
Presently they came in sight of a ledge of rocks. "Oh, this is rare
indeed!" said the stronger sister Brooklet, "Let us pause a bit for
breath, and then for a merry leap adown the valley of pines you see
before."
The Brooklets stopped, and became stronger, and leaped over the rocks;
the one with an exulting bound--the other carried tremblingly along.
The leap was a long one, and a hard one; for there were craggy rocks
beneath, which they had not seen. And the ambitious Brooklet cried
sharply and loudly--foaming in her rage as she went between the stony
points, and quite forgetting her weaker sister in her pain. The latter
was sorely injured too, and cut into little foam-bits; but she kept her
wits about her, looking around everywhere for a place to rest. Soon she
espied one--a little bowl of marshy ground, hemmed in by rocks, into
which a straggling dropping from the chasm above slowly came.
"Here will I go and rest," she said. So waiting for the ambitious
Brooklet to get far out of sight, she collected all her strength for a
jump into the bowl, where the drops came sparkling in. There was no need
for fear of the sister on before; her she heard going over rock after
rock, crying and wailing in her craggy journey. Then the tired wanderer,
with a violent effort of her exhausted strength, jumped a rock and fell
panting into the marshy bowl.
CHAPTER II.
_How the Brooklet lived on in her new quarters; and how
misfortune made her discontented._
The dropping of the water from the rocks above her new abode, was cold
and grateful to the Brooklet in her fevered state. It made her think of
the spring she came from; and so of the meadow; and the alder-bushes;
and the lovely face a weary way off now she knew, and fenced away from
her return by cruel jagged rocks.
Days passed by; and the sun came out all brightly. And the moon and
stars were seen again; and larger and sweeter birds than she had heard
before, now perched upon the trees about, warbling and chirruping from
day-break to twilight. So the time passed on. The wanderer began to feel
unsettled in her solitude. But there was no return by the path she came;
still were the sharp rocks seen above; and still she felt a twinge of
pain when thinking of her weary journey on that rainy day. Often too she
thought of her ambitious sister, wondering where she was now and what
she was about; and sometimes she almost fancied she would have been
happier had she gone along. It was quite evident to herself that she was
getting discontented.
There was one pleasure she prized much. Following in the train of the
ambitious Brooklet had been a score of fishes, which, frightened by the
leap upon the jagged rocks, had staid behind with the timid wanderer,
until they became part of her family in the new retreat. Overlooking,
and enjoying the gambols of these fish, the discontented Brooklet often
amused herself. Observing how when the sun came slanting through the
sides of the foliage about, they would dart out from their hiding-places
in the old dead leaves at the feet of the Brooklet, and so jump up to
greet the warming rays: or how, when a fly fell down from the
overhanging boughs, and tried to swim away, they would jump to nab a bit
of lunch, scrabbling and tugging as they went; or how, when the largest
fish of all threw off his dignity, and played with them at hide and seek
under the foot-deep bottom of mud, they would all shoot about her
life-blood drops without regard to the angles of pain their fins would
leave behind!
Thus the summer-time came on, and was passing by, when one day the
Brooklet felt a shadow upon her, and looked up to see the cause--when
high upon the rocks above, there stood a bright-eyed boy, with curling
locks that blew about in golden beauty with the breeze. In his hand he
held a little stick, which he turned over from time to time, and would
take up and then lay it down, as if preparing for something wonderful.
The curiosity of the Brooklet was aroused to know what he could mean,
when presently she saw him sit upon the rock, and from the stick drop
down upon her face a worm, which when the fishes saw they darted out to
eat.
"It is a beautiful boy; and a kind boy," said the artless Brook unto
herself; "and he has come to feed the little fishes with a worm. I have
not seen one since I left my little meadow on that rainy day. How like
the lovely face I used to see, is his which now looks down."
While thus the Brook was soliloquizing, a fish more cunning than the
rest, had seized the worm within his mouth, and was swimming away to his
favorite hole by an old willow stump to there complete a meal. He was
just entering it, when the Brook saw him suddenly flash from her
embrace, floundering and pulling as he went up, up through the air, unto
the mossy bank above the rock from which fell the shadow of the boy. And
now the Brook, more curious than ever, saw the face so like the
laborer's daughter overspread with smiles as the tiny hands grasped the
fish, and with a wrench tore out the worm from his gills, a piece of
which fell on the Brook athwart the shadow of the laugher.
"What a fine one!" said the boy, and started up;--started up to slip
against a smooth worn stone, and fall over the rock into the Brook,
close by the willow stump; the captive fish held tightly as he went, but
slipping from the falling grasp into its welcome element once more.
The Brook had never felt so hard a blow before. The rain and hail were
nothing to this. It made her splash and leap and swell against the rocky
bank, until she could have called with pain.
How still the boy laid on her breast! his head against the willow stump,
over which there trickled a tiny purple stream smaller than the
spring-drops from the rock! How richly his golden locks floated upon the
Brook! but how widely strained his bright blue eyes glaring at the sky
and tree-tops above, and how he gasped from his mouth; a mouth so like
the one the laborer had often prest in harvest-time to the Brook, when
it was yet circling in the meadow! The Brook said to herself, "I will
put some of my ripples into this mouth, as I have seen the laborer do;
perhaps, like him, it will make his eye sparkle, and send him away
again; for he lies heavy on my breast." And so the ripples went into the
opened mouth by dozens; but the blue sky and tree-tops faded from his
eyes, and the lips lost their bright color, and the purple trickling on
the willow stump grew thick and settled into a dark pool.
All night the dead boy lay upon the breast of the Brook; and the fishes
played around him, wondering what it was; and the little insects hopped
over him at early sunlight; until the purple pool dried up, and only
left a stain behind.
And soon the Brook heard the hum of voices sounding over the rocks, as
she listened from her solitude; and soon more shadows fell upon her
face. Then looking up she saw the laborer once again; and the Brook
rejoiced to think perhaps she was going back again into her pleasant
meadow. He had taken up the stick the boy had used; and was looking down
below upon the Brook, as the face--the lovely face, with more of the old
sorrow in it--of the laborer's daughter, raised itself above his
shoulder.
"My brother!--drowned and dead!--and no more to come home alive to share
his sister's home."
This the Brook heard, and the fishes swam away into their holes, as
piercing, sorrowful human tones mingled with the passing breeze; and
they struck deeper into the willow roots as a pair of brawny arms
readied out and caught the dead boy, and carried him away.
The boy was gone, but the stain was there; and still a weight remained
upon the Brook. For still day after day a shadow fell upon her, and the
Brook looking up beheld the lovely but mournful face of the sorrowing
sister, who would sit upon the mossy bank and sigh a sob; kissing a lock
of golden hair the while. And heavier grew the weight on the breast of
the Brook, as scalding tears fell from the rock above upon her face.
And now the Brook again became discontented: and thought of her
ambitious sister; and what might have happened had she followed after on
a weary round of travels. The old meadow and the alders were out of the
question now: for the winter was coming on, and the laborer and the
lovely face would no more come to her side; and if they did they would
sing no more, but sigh and sob, and look so sad, as now, upon the mossy
rock above.
The summer weather was long over; and the leaves were showering down,
and had quite hidden the clouds and blue sky, and moon and stars from
the sight of the Brook. The birds had ceased to sit and warble on the
trees above. The breezes ceased their music, and instead were heard the
hoarse notes of the Autumn wind.
CHAPTER III.
_How the Brooklet and the Mountain-Torrent met._
One day the leaves thickened more than ever over the Brook, and, as she
peeped between, she saw the clouds were heavier and darker than usual.
The wind roared louder, and the trees which grew so high above her bent
down their branches until they brushed her face with their trailing. And
soon the rain began to fall in torrents; and it fell and fell all day;
all night too. Then the Brook rejoiced to think the leaves which she had
been angry with before for choking her, protected from the pattering
strokes. And soon the Brook heard a sound, like that made by her
ambitious sister in the spring-time;--nearer and nearer it came; through
the trees; over the rocks; tearing, splashing, dashing, and foaming at a
direful rate.
"It is my ambitious sister come for me. I'm glad," said the discontented
Brook.
"Glad of what?" exclaimed a roaring voice, coming over the rock, and
sweeping away the leaves as if they had been a mere handful; and
covering up the ugly purple stain upon the willow stump. "Ain't I a
famous fellow, though? When once my blood is up, can't I go on and
frighten people? Can't I mine out the earth, and sweep along big trees
like boats? Can't I tumble down the rocks that dare to stop my path?
Can't I drown men and boys, and all the cattle in the land? I've
swallowed a dozen haystacks for my breakfast, and killed the finest
mill-dam over the world this morning. I said I would as soon as winter
came, when they dammed me up last spring, so many miles away! Oh, such a
mass of stone and timber which they put up to fret me in my path; and
what a joke to think this solid mass is scattered through the land since
yesternight, and I am free once more."
"This is not my ambitious sister! no indeed," murmured the Brook.
"Why here is a little Brook," continued the voice, "a dainty, prudish,
modest Brook, collected in a hole to die! Come out, my fair one! I will
wed thee, as I have wedded fifty thousand of your sex in my short day!
Come out; no fear; if I am the Mountain-Torrent, I'm not so great a
monster as they say, especially to hurt a modest Brook."
So saying the Mountain-Torrent caught up the shrinking Brook in his
powerful embrace, and away they hurried through the very heart of the
forest, miles and miles below.
"This, this is life indeed," said the wedded Brook, once more a wanderer
over the land, as with a thousand other Brooks they travelled on for
many hours with impetuous speed, making dreadful havoc everywhere they
touched. Havoc among the farmers and the villagers, who fought them inch
by inch, with sticks and trees, and mounds of stone and clay, all which
they licked up and swallowed, as if they had been pebbles and clumps of
leaves. Havoc with the Creeks upon the route, who dared to scorn their
overtures, and wed the Torrent, willingly; for spurning the placid,
humble Creeks one side, they tore along their paths, and vented their
fury on the bridges overhead, bringing down in general destruction,
turnpikes and railroads with their pressing weight of travel.
Havoc to themselves!
For, tearing on so madly, the Mountain-Torrent, after a while, perceived
his strength to fail, and his endurance to give out. But still he
hurried on, though feebly, in hopes to meet more Brooks, perhaps a Lake,
and so recruit himself the while. The wedded Brook was wearied too--a
little; not much; at first the Mountain-Torrent had held her tightly in
embrace, and carried her along with scarcely an effort; but as he
wearied himself, much of the toil was thrown upon the Brook, and she was
compelled to help herself. On went the Torrent, weaker every step, until
at last he stopped and said:
"Oh wedded Brook! my strength is gone; here must I pause; but you go on.
Perhaps before long I shall meet you again. Go slowly; over the meadows
and through the villages make me a path; I'll know which way you went."
And so they parted; and so the lonely Brook meandered on, and finding
out a bubbling spring, was well recruited for the journey. As she went
she heard, across a little knoll, a remembered voice, and stopped. "I
know you, sister Brook," cried out the voice, "go on a bit and turn
towards your left, and there I'll meet you."
And towards the left the lonely Brook met her ambitious sister. She was
violent no more; but sober and sedate; calm as the evening sky reflected
from her face.
"I'm the 'ambitious one,'" said she, "ambitious yet, though all my
strength has departed. Here on this spot was I caught and fastened up.
They darkened my daylight with that smoking monster yonder, and killed
my peace of mind with such a horrid din and clang, I've not a morsel of
energy left. I'm a factory slave; and so are you, too, for that matter,
now! Don't start; it's not my fault--the way that you were going on, you
would have brought up in the Pond below, where there is yet another
smoking monster; only worse than this of mine. The Pond there is a
horrid fellow; poisoning with some horrid purple dye: I've seen him
often when I venture near the dam and look below."
"Sister, take courage," cried the other Brook. "I'm glad I met you. I'm
ambitious too, for I was lately wedded to a glorious fellow, and have
been on such a glorious tour: scampering over all the land. He calls
himself the 'Mountain-Torrent.' He is now behind a mile or so, and may
be down upon us before long, to free us from this distressing
imprisonment you speak of."
The monster smoked on; and the clanging din about maddened all the air.
Huge wheels went racking and rumbling under huge brick walls. And day by
day, a minute at a time, some youthful faces, pale and shadowy, looked
wistfully upon the landscape below. But little knew the monster, and the
clanging din, and racking wheels; and little hoped the shadowy faces of
what the Brooklets plotted at the very factory door.
CHAPTER IV.
_How the Mountain-Torrent freed the Brooks; and their fate._
The frost dropped on the Brooks, and once more blurred the moon and
stars, and shut the sunlight out; and starred a thousand jewels on the
mill-dam's brow; and sparkled a myriad icicles from the rumbling wheels.
Far away into the country it spread a white mantle, and froze into the
very heart of all the Ponds and Creeks above. And then the sun came out
and shone so brightly; and then the clouds over-covered it, and the rain
came pattering down as of the olden time, when first its peltings stung
the meadow Brook and tempted her to roam. And higher swelled the Brooks
behind their mill-dam prison, and sent more of their life-blood to
refresh the poisoned Pond below.
"I am getting stronger; I am very strong to-day, sister Brook," said the
ambitious one. "I think that with our efforts now united, we can push
this mill-dam over and escape."
"Wait for my darling Mountain-Torrent. I hear him on his way; he follows
after us. And see down yonder hill-side how he tears along; and hark!
how gladly, as he sees us from his rocky bed, he roars a song of
courage."
And the sister Brooks triumphed together as they saw the keepers of the
smoking monster cease their clanging din, and rush for timbers to uphold
the dam; and fly about with tools that were but baby toys for what was
coming now.
"Bring trees; bring stones; bring every thing," cried out the Brooks,
as they saw the Mountain-Torrent come rushing nearer on, sweeping away
the fences, and ploughing out a path more fitting for his travels than
the brookside one he kept in view.
"Welcome, my fair ones," roared he, as with heavy timbers in his maw he
caught the Brooks again in strong embrace, and dashing at the smoking
monster, knocked him down at once. Down came the mill-dam with an
earthquake noise; the din upon the air was not of clanging tools and
hammer stroke; the wheels were racking and rumbling, not beneath brick
walls, but over the rocks and ruined factories below; while the pale and
shadowy faces looked no longer wistfully on the landscape, but madly
rushed about to spread the tale of ruin through the land.
The same old thing! The same old journey over the country. The same old
havoc as they went. But the strength of a thousand Brooks seemed given
to the Mountain-Torrent as, looking miles away, he saw a wide expanse of
water fringed with brown and bluish lines. "It is the Ocean, fair ones,"
cried he; "when your feeble sights shall see it, bless my power, for at
length we reach a home no art of man can invade to fetter us or bind us
down. Ten millions of our species mingle there; in small harmony it is
true, but better fight among ourselves than ever thus to wage a war with
man. Now too approaches the time of our revenge: we'll take his life;
we'll sink his ships; we'll break his boasted wealth into uncounted
atoms, and scatter it."
The Brooks trembled in the strong grasp of the Mountain-Torrent to hear
the vehemence with which he spoke these threatening words; but lost
their fears in greater astonishment, as now they neared the ocean waste,
fringed with the lines of brown and blue of which he spoke.
"Why, sister, what a noise!" cried one of the Brooks, "our own is not to
be heard."
"See what a dreadful wall appears to rise and fall as we approach,"
answered the other. And they both clung closer to the embrace of the
Torrent as he crossed the beach they reached at last, and plunged, with
sticks and stones and all, upon the wall of foam and sand, which parted
as the Mountain-Torrent and the Brooks joined forces with old _Ocean's_
solemn waste.
In an instant the meadow-born Brook writhed in pain, pressed on by
thousands of Mountain-Torrents every way at once. She foamed and fought,
and fought and foamed; under and over, up and below she plunged, but no
escape; one weary work for ages yet to come!
"Revenge once more! Gather and rage! Dash to ruin ships and sailors!"
growled a tone which made the writhing Brook tremble into a million
foam-beads, as simultaneously a roaring Tempest clattered by with
thunder and lightning in its train, while a clashing hiss, as of
something rushing madly through the water, bade the Brook--the sea-slave
Brook--look up.
No time for thought; for still the tone was heard, "Revenge once more!
gather and rage! dash to ruin ship and sailors!" And still the tempest
clattered, and still the hissing of the gallant ship's prow was heard
cleaving the maddened waves. On, on! a dash; a crash; a march of
maddening waves; a stunning tempest howl, and then the hiss was heard no
more. But far and wide were hurried and mashed in one chaotic mass the
fragments of the gallant ship.
"How wise he is; how true my Mountain-Torrent spoke," thought the
frightened sea-slave Brook, as the clattering tempest, with thunder and
lightning in its train, passed out of sight and hearing leagues beyond.
"And now I'll rest me on this sandy beach, for this ambitious life is
wearisome indeed."
And she nestled closely to a rock, and so crept into grateful rest. But
as she lay, she looked beyond her sandy bed to see the lovely face of
her early meadow life, when she was but a humble Brook. Pale and ghastly
it lay upon a rounded stone; the hair floating out like fairy circles
from the marked brow, and on the temple such a purple thickened stain as
once had been upon the willow stump.
The Brook came by her side and watched her gently as she lay. Then going
farther out, the Brook brought strings of sea-weed, and strung them
gayly and softly round her form, and watched her thus again. "Here will
I stay," thought the Brook, "and fancy I am still in the sunlight meadow
before I wandered forth into ambitious company. There's nought but
trouble and pain crossed my path since the rainy days of the latest
spring-time. Here will I stay, and ever mourn that I listened to
ambitious counselling."
LAST CASE OF THE SUPERNATURAL.
A writer in the January number of _Fraser's Magazine_, at the conclusion
of a tale crammed with the intensest horrors, presents us with one
instance in which the architect of such machinery was foiled.
When the recital was finished, and the company were well-nigh breathless
with its skilfully cumulative terror, cried Tremenheere--
"Humph! that is rather an uncomfortable story to go to bed upon."
And presently--
"You have been lately in Spain, Melton; what news from Seville?"
"Oh," replied Melton, "you must have heard of Don Juan de Murana, of
terrible memory?"
"Not we," said they.
"One gloomy evening Don Juan de Murana was returning along the quay
where the Golden Tower looks down upon the Guadalquivir, so lost in
thought that it was some time before he perceived that his cigar had
gone out, though he was one of the most determined smokers in Spain. He
looked about him, and beheld on the other side of the broad river an
individual whose brilliant cigar sparkled like a star of the first
magnitude at every aspiration.
"Don Juan, who, thanks to the terror which he had inspired, was
accustomed to see all the world obedient to his caprices, shouted to the
smoker to come across the river and give him a light.
"The smoker, without taking that trouble, stretched out his arm towards
the Don, and so effectually that it traversed the river like a bridge,
and presented to Don Juan a glowing cigar, which smelt most abominably
of sulphur.
"If Don Juan felt something like a rising shudder, he suppressed it,
coolly lighted his own cigar at that of the smoker, and went on his way,
singing, _Los Toros a la puerta_."
"But who was the smoker?"
"Who could he be, but the Prince of Darkness in person, who had laid a
wager with Pluto that he would frighten Don Juan De Murana, and went
back to his place furious at having lost?
"If you would learn more of Don Juan de Murana, how he went to his own
funeral, and died at last in the odor of sanctity, read that most
spirited series of letters, _De Paris a Cadix_, wherein Alexander Dumas
has surpassed himself. And now, Good night!"
A STORY WITHOUT A NAME[M]
Written For The International Monthly Magazine
BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
_Continued from Page 348._
CHAPTER XIV.
Occasionally in the life of man, as in the life of the
world--History--or in the course of a stream towards the sea, come quiet
lapses, sunny and calm, reflecting nothing but the still motionless
objects around, or the blue sky and moving clouds above. Often too we
find that this tranquil expanse of silent water follows quickly after
some more rapid movement, comes close upon some spot where a dashing
rapid has diversified the scene, or a cataract, in roar and confusion
and sparkling terror, has broken the course of the stream.
Such a still pause, silent of action--if I may use the term--followed
the events which I have related in the last chapter, extending over a
period of nearly six months. Nothing happened worthy of any minute
detail. Peace and tranquillity dwelt in the various households which I
have noticed in the course of this story, enlivened in that of Sir
Philip Hastings by the gay spirit of Emily Hastings, although somewhat
shadowed by the sterner character of her father; and in the household of
Mrs. Hazleton brightened by the light of hope, and the fair prospect of
success in all her schemes which for a certain time continued to open
before her.
Mr. Marlow only spent two days at her house, and then went away to
London, but whatever effect her beauty might have produced upon him, his
society, brief as it was, served but to confirm her feelings towards
him, and before he left her, she had made up her mind fully and
entirely, with her characteristic vigor and strength of resolution, that
her marriage with Mr. Marlow was an event which must and should be.
There was under this conviction, but not the less strong, not the less
energetic, not the less vehement, for being concealed even from
herself--a resolution that no sacrifice, no fear, no hesitation at any
course, should stand in the way of her purpose. She did not anticipate
many difficulties certainly; for Mr. Marlow clearly admired her; but the
resolution was, that if difficulties should arise, she would overcome
them at all cost. Hers was one of those characters of which the world
makes its tragedies, having within itself passions too strong and deep
to be frequently excited--as the more profound waters which rise into
mountains when once in motion require a hurricane to still
them--together with that energetic will, that fixed unbending
determination, which like the outburst of a torrent from the hills,
sweeps away all before it. But let it be ever remembered that her
energies were exerted upon herself as well as upon others, not in
checking passion, not in limiting desire, but in guarding scrupulously
every external appearance, guiding every thought and act with careful
art towards its destined object. Mrs. Hazleton suffered Mr. Marlow to be
in London more than a month before she followed to conclude the mere
matters of business between them. It cost her a great struggle with
herself, but in that struggle she was successful, and when at length she
went, she had several interviews with him. Circumstances--that great
enemy of schemes, was against her. Sometimes lawyers were present at
their interviews, sometimes impertinent friends; but Mrs. Hazleton did
not much care: she trusted to the time he was speedily about to pass in
the country, for the full effect, and in the meantime took care that
nothing but the golden side of the shield should be presented to her
knight.
The continent was at that time open to Englishmen for a short period,
and Mr. Marlow expressed his determination of going to the Court of
Versailles for a month or six weeks before he came down to take
possession of Hartwell place, everything now having been settled between
them in regard to business.
Mrs. Hazleton did not like his determination, yet she did not much fear
the result; for Mr. Marlow was preeminently English, and never likely to
weal a French woman. Still she resolved that he should see her under
another aspect before he went. She was a great favorite of the Court of
those days; her station, her wealth, her beauty, and her grace rendered
her a brightness and an ornament wherever she came. She was invited to
one of the more private though not less splendid assemblies at the
Palace, and she contrived that Mr. Marlow should be invited also, though
neither by nature or habit a courtier. She obtained the invitation for
him skilfully, saying to the Royal Personage of whom she asked it, that
as he won a lawsuit against her, she wished to show him that she bore no
malice. He went, and found her the brightest in the brilliant scene; the
great and the proud, the handsome and the gay, all bending down and
worshipping, all striving for a smile, and obtaining it but scantily.
She smiled upon _him_, however, not sufficiently to attract remark from
others, but quite sufficiently to mark a strong distinction for his own
eyes, if he had chosen to use them. He went away to France, and Mrs.
Hazleton returned to the country; the winter passed with her in
arranging his house for him; and, in so doing, she often had to write to
him. His replies were always prompt, kind, and grateful; and at length
came the spring, and the pleasant tidings that he was on his way back to
his beloved England.
Alas for human expectation! Alas for the gay day-dream of
youth--maturity--middle age--old age--for they have all their daydreams!
Every passion which besets man from the cradle to the grave has its own
visionary expectations. Each creature, each animal, from the tiger to
the beetle, has its besetting insect, which preys upon it, gnaws it,
irritates it, and so have all the ages of the soul and of the heart.
Alas for human speculation of all kinds! Alas for every hope and
aspiration! for those that are pure and high, but, growing out of earth,
bear within themselves the bitter seeds of disappointment; and those
that are dark or low produce the germ of the most poisonous hybrid,
where disappointment is united with remorse.
Happy is the man that expecteth nothing, for verily he shall not be
disappointed! It is a quaint old saying; and could philosophy ever stem
the course of God's will, it would be one which, well followed, might
secure to man some greater portion of mortal peace than he possesses.
But to aspire was the ordinance of God; and, viewed rightly, the
withering of the flowers upon each footstep we have taken upwards, is no
discouragement; for if we shape our path aright, there is a wreath of
bright blossoms crowning each craggy peak before us, as we ascend to
snatch the garland of immortal glory, placed just beyond the last awful
leap of death.
Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations, however, were all earthly. She thought of
little beyond this life. She had never been taught so to think. There
are some who are led astray from the path of noble daring, to others as
difficult and more intricate, by some loud shout of passion on the right
or on the left--and seek in vain to return; some who, misled by an
apparent similarity in the course of two paths, although the finger post
says, "Thus shalt thou go!" think that the way so plainly beaten, and so
seemingly easy, must surely lead them to the same point. Others again
never learn to read the right path from the wrong (and she was one),
while others shut their eyes to all direction, fix their gaze upon the
summit, and strain up, now amidst flowers and now amidst thorns, till
they are cast back from the face of some steep precipice, to perish in
the descent or at the foot.
Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations were all earthly; and that was the secret of
her only want in beauty. That divine form, that resplendent face, beamed
with every earthly grace: sparkled forth mind and intellect in every
glance, but they were wanting in soul, in spirit, and in heart. Life was
there, but the life of life, the intense flame of immortal, over-earthly
intelligence, was wanting. She might be the grandest animal that ever
was seen, the most bright and capable intellect that ever dealt with
mortal things; but the fine golden chain which leads on the electric
fire from intellectual eminence to spiritual preeminence, from mind to
soul, from earth to heaven, was wanting, or had been broken. Her
loveliness none could doubt, her charm of manner none could deny, her
intellectual superiority all admitted, her womanly softness added a
grace beyond them all; but there was one grace wanting--the grace of a
high, holy soul, which, in those who have it, be they fair, be they
ugly, pours forth as an emanation from every look and every action, and
surrounds them with a cloud of radiance, faintly imaged by the artist's
glory round a saint.
Alas for human aspirations! Alas for the expectations of this fair frail
creature! How eagerly she thought of Mr. Marlow's return! how she had
anticipated their meeting again! How she had calculated upon all that
would be said and done during the next few weeks! The first news she
received was that he had arrived, and with a few servants had taken
possession of his new dwelling. She remained all day in her own house;
she ordered no carriage; she took no walk: she tried to read; she played
upon various instruments of music; she thought each instant he would
come, at least for a few minutes, to thank her for all the care she had
bestowed to make his habitation comfortable. The sun gilded the west;
the melancholy moon rose up in solemn splendor; the hours passed by, and
he came not.
The next morning, she heard that he had ridden over to the house of Sir
Philip Hastings, and indignation warred with love in her bosom. She
thought he must certainly come that day, and she resolved angrily to
upbraid him for his want of courtesy. Luckily, however, for her, he did
not come that day; and a sort of melancholy took possession of her.
Luckily, I say; for when passion takes hold of a scheme it is generally
sure to shake it to pieces, and that melancholy loosens the grasp of
passion for a time. The next day he did come, and with an air so easy
and unconscious of offence as almost to provoke her into vehemence
again. He knew not what she felt--he had no idea of how he had been
looked for. He was as ignorant that she had ever thought of him as a
husband, as she was that he had ever compared her in his mind to his
own mother.
He talked quietly, indifferently, of his having been over to the house
of Sir Philip Hastings, adding merely--not as an excuse, but as a simple
fact--that he had been unable to call there as he had promised before
leaving the country. He dilated upon the kind reception he had met with
from Lady Hastings, for Sir Philip was absent upon business; and he went
on to dwell rather largely upon the exceeding beauty and great grace of
Emily Hastings.
Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her! It requires but a few drops of poison to
envenom a whole well.
He did worse: he proceeded to descant upon her character--upon the
blended brightness and deep thought--upon the high-souled emotions and
child-like sparkle of her disposition--upon the simplicity and
complexity, upon the many-sided splendor of her character, which, like
the cut diamond, reflected each ray of light in a thousand varied and
dazzling hues. Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her--hated, because for the
first time she began to fear. He had spoken to her in praise of another
woman--with loud encomiums too, with a brightened eye, and a look which
told her more than his words. These were signs not to be mistaken. They
did not show in the least that he loved Emily Hastings, and that she
knew right well; but they showed that he did not love her; and there was
the poison in the cup.
So painful, so terrible was the sensation, that, with all her mastery
over herself, she could not conceal the agony under which she writhed.
She became silent, grave, fell into fits of thought, which clouded the
broad brow, and made the fine-cut lip quiver. Mr. Marlow was surprised
and grieved. He asked himself what could be the matter. Something had
evidently made her sorrowful, and he could not trace the sorrow to its
source; for she carefully avoided uttering one word in depreciation of
Emily Hastings. In this she showed no woman's spirit. She could have
stabbed her, had the girl been there in her presence; but she would not
scratch her. Petty spite was too low for her, too small for the
character of her mind. Hers was a heart capable of revenge, and would be
satisfied with nothing less.
Mr. Marlow soothed her, spoke to her kindly, tenderly, tried to lead her
mind away, to amuse, to entertain her. Oh, it was all gall and
bitterness to her. He might have cursed, abused, insulted her, without,
perhaps--diminishing her love--certainly without inflicting half the
anguish that was caused by his gentle words. It is impossible to tell
all the varied emotions that went on in her heart--at least for me.
Shakspeare could have done it, but none less than Shakspeare. For a
moment she knew not whether she loved or hated him; but she soon felt
and knew it was love; and the hate, like lightning striking a rock, and
glancing from the solid stone to rend a sapling, all turned away from
him, to fall upon the head of poor unconscious Emily Hastings.
Though she could not recover from the blow she had received, yet she
soon regained command over herself, conversed, smiled, banished
absorbing thoughts, answered calmly, pertinently, even spoke in her own
bright, brilliant way, with a few more figures and ornaments of speech
than usual; for figures are things rather of the head than of the heart,
and it was from the head that she was now speaking.
At length Mr. Marlow took his leave, and for the first time in life she
was glad he was gone.
Mrs. Hazleton gave way to no burst of passion: she shed not a tear; she
uttered no exclamation. That which was within her heart, was too intense
for any such ordinary expression. She seated herself at a table, leaned
her head upon her hand, and fixed her eyes upon one bright spot in the
marquetry. There she sat for more than an entire hour, without a motion,
and in the meantime what were the thoughts that passed through her
brain? We have shown the feelings of her heart enough.
She formed plans; she determined her course; she looked around for
means. Various persons suggested themselves to her mind as instruments.
The three women, I have mentioned in a preceding chapter--the good sort
of friends. But it was an agent she wanted, not a confidant. No, no,
Mrs. Hazleton knew better than to have a confidant. She was her own best
council-keeper, and she knew it. Nevertheless, these good ladies might
serve to act in subordinate parts, and she assigned to each of them
their position in her scheme with wonderful accuracy and skill. As she
did so, however, she remembered that it was by the advice of Mrs.
Warmington that she had brought Mr. Marlow to Hartwell Place; and in her
heart's secret chamber she gave her fair friend a goodly benediction.
She resolved to use her nevertheless--to use her as far as she could be
serviceable; and she forgot not that she herself had been art and part
in the scheme that had failed. She was not one to shelter herself from
blame by casting the whole storm of disappointment upon another. She
took her own full share. "If she was a fool so to advise," said Mrs.
Hazleton, "'twas a greater fool to follow her advice."
She then turned to seek for the agent. No name presented itself but that
of Shanks, the attorney; and she smiled bitterly when she thought of
him. She recollected that Sir Philip Hastings had thrown him
head-foremost down the steps of the terrace, and that was very
satisfactory to her; for, although Mr. Shanks was a man who sometimes
bore injuries very meekly, he never forgot them.
Nevertheless, she had somewhat a difficult part to play, for most agents
have a desire of becoming confidants also, and that Mrs. Hazleton
determined her attorney should not be. The task was to insinuate her
purposes rather than to speak them--to act, without betraying the
motive of action--to make another act, without committing herself by
giving directions.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Hazleton arranged it all to her own satisfaction; and
as she did so, amongst the apparently extinct ashes of former schemes,
one small spark of hope began to glow, giving promise for the time to
come. What did she propose? At first, nothing more than to drive Sir
Philip Hastings and his family from the country, mingling the
gratification of personal hatred with efforts for the accomplishment of
her own purposes. It was a bold attempt, but Mrs. Hazleton had her plan;
and she sat down and wrote for Mr. Shanks, the attorney.
CHAPTER XV.
Decorum came in with the house of Hanover. I know not whether men and
women in England were more virtuous before--I think not--but they
certainly were more frank in both their virtues and their vices. There
were fewer of those vices of conventionality thrown around the human
heart--fewer I mean to say of those cold restraints, those gilded chains
of society, which, like the ornaments that ladies wear upon their necks
and arms, seem like fetters; but, I fear me, restrain but little human
action, curb not passion, and are to the strong will but as the green
rushes round the limbs of the Hebrew giant. Decorum came into England
with the house of Hanover; but I am speaking of a period before that,
when ladies were less fearful of the tongue of scandal, when scandal
itself was fearful of assailing virtue, when honesty of purpose and
purity of heart could walk free in the broad day, and men did not
venture to suppose evil acts perpetrated whenever, by a possibility,
they could be committed.
Emily Hastings walked quietly along by the side of Mr. Marlow, through
her father's park. There was no one with him, no keen matron's ear to
listen to and weigh their words, no brother to pretend to accompany
them, and either feel himself weary with the task or lighten it by
seeking his own amusement apart. They were alone together, and they
talked without restraint. Ye gods, how they did talk! The dear girl was
in one of her brightest, gayest moods. There was nothing that did not
move her fancy or become a servant to it. The clouds as they shot across
the sky, the blue fixed hills in the distance, the red and yellow and
green coloring of the young budding oaks, the dancing of The stream, the
song of the bird, the whisper of the wind, the misty spring light which
spread over the morning distance, all had illustrations for her
thoughts. It seemed that day as if she could not speak without a
figure--as if she revelled in the flowers of imagination, like a child
tossing about the new mown grass in a hay-field. And he, with joyous
sport, took pleasure in furnishing her at every moment with new material
for the bounding play of fancy.
They had not known each other long; but there was something in the young
man's manner--nay, let me go farther--in his character, which invited
confidence, which besought the hearts around to throw off all strange
disguise, and promised that he would take no base advantage of their
openness. That something was perhaps his earnestness: one felt that he
was true in all he said or did or looked: that his words were but his
spoken feelings: his countenance a paper on which the heart at once
recorded its sensations. But let me not be mistaken. Do not let it be
supposed that when I say he was earnest, I mean that he was even grave.
Oh no! Earnestness can exist as well in the merriest as in the soberest
heart. One can be as earnest, as truthful, even as eager in joy or
sport, as in sorrow or sternness. But he was earnest in all things, and
it was this earnestness which probably found a way for him to so many
dissimilar hearts.
Emily knew not at all what it was doing with hers; but she felt that he
was one before whom she had no need to hide a thought: that if she were
gay, she might be gay in safety: that if she were inclined to muse, she
might muse on in peace.
Onward they walked, talking of every thing on earth but love. It was in
the thoughts of neither. Emily knew nothing about it: the tranquil
expanse of life had never for her been even rippled by the wing of
passion. Marlow might know more; but for the time he was lost in the
enjoyment of the moment. The little enemy might be carrying on the war
against the fortress of each unconscious bosom; but if so, it was by the
silent sap and mine, more potent far than the fierce assault or
thundering cannonade--at least in this sort of warfare.
They were wending their way towards a gate, at the very extreme limit of
the park, which opened upon a path leading by a much shorter way to Mr.
Marlow's own dwelling than the road he usually pursued. He had that
morning come to spend but an hour at the house of Sir Philip Hastings,
and he had an engagement at his own house at noon. He had spent two
hours instead of one with Emily and her mother, and therefore short
paths were preferable to long ones for his purpose, Emily had offered to
show him the way to the gate, and her company was sure to shorten the
road, though it might lengthen the time it took to travel.
Now in describing the park of Sir Philip Hastings, I have said that
there was a wide open space around the mansion; but I have also said,
that at some distance the trees gathered thick and sombre. Those nearest
the house gathered together in clumps, confusing the eye in a wilderness
of hawthorns, and bushes, and evergreen oaks, while beyond appeared a
dense mass of wood; and, through the scattered tufts of trees and thick
woodland at the extreme of the park ran several paths traced by deer,
and park-keepers, and country folk. Thus for various reasons some
guidance was needful to Marlow on his way, and for more reasons still he
was well pleased that the guide should be Emily Hastings. In the course
of their walk, amongst many other subjects they spoke of Mrs. Hazleton,
and Marlow expatiated warmly on her beauty, and grace, and kindness of
heart. How different was the effect of all this upon Emily Hastings from
that which his words in her praise had produced upon her of whom he
spoke! Emily's heart was free. Emily had no schemes, no plans, no
purposes. She knew not that there was one feeling in her bosom with
which praise of Mrs. Hazleton could ever jar. She loved her well. Such
eyes as hers are not practised in seeing into darkness. She had divined
the Italian singer--perhaps by instinct, perhaps by some distinct trait,
which occasionally will betray the most wily. But Mrs. Hazleton was a
fellow-woman--a woman of great brightness and many fine qualities.
Neither had she any superficial defects to indicate a baser metal or a
harder within. If she was not all gold, she was doubly gilt.
Emily praised her too, warmed with the theme; and eagerly exclaimed,
"She always seems to me like one of those dames of fairy tales, upon
whom some enchanter has bestowed a charm that no one can resist. It is
not her beauty; for I feel the same when I hear her voice and shut my
eyes. It is not her conversation; for I feel the same when I look at her
and she is silent. It seems to breathe from her presence like the odor
of a flower. It is the same when she is grave as when she is gay."
"Aye, and when she is melancholy," replied Marlow. "I never felt it more
powerfully than a few days ago when I spent an hour with her, and she
was not only grave but sad."
"Melancholy!" exclaimed Emily. "I never saw her so. Grave I have seen
her--thoughtful, silent--but never sad; and I do not know that she has
not seemed more charming to me in those grave, stiller moods, than in
more cheerful ones. Do you know that in looking at the beautiful statues
which I have seen in London, I have often thought they might lose half
their charm if they would move and speak? Thus, too, with Mrs. Hazleton;
she seems to me even more lovely, more full of grace, in perfect
stillness than at any other time. My father," she added, after a
moment's pause, "is the only one who in her presence seems spell-proof."
Her words threw Marlow into a momentary fit of thought. "Why," he asked
himself, "was Sir Philip Hastings spell-proof when all others were
charmed?"
Men have a habit of depending much upon men's judgment, whether justly
or unjustly I will not stop to inquire. They rely less upon woman's
judgment in such matters; and yet women are amongst the keenest
discerners--when they are unbiassed by passion. But are they often so?
Perhaps it is from a conviction that men judge less frequently from
impulse, decide more generally from cause, that this presumption of
their accuracy exists. Woman--perhaps from seclusion, perhaps from
nature--is more a creature of instincts than man. They are given her for
defence where reason would act too slowly; and where they do act
strongly, they are almost invariably right. Man goes through the slower
process, and naturally relies more firmly on the result; for reason
demonstrates where instinct leads blindfold. Marlow judged Sir Philip
Hastings by himself, and fancied that he must have some cause for being
spell-proof against the fascinations of Mrs. Hazleton. This roused the
first doubt in his mind as to her being all that she seemed. He repelled
the doubt as injurious, but it returned from time to time in after days,
and at length gave him a clue to an intricate labyrinth.
The walk came to an end, too soon he thought. Emily pointed out the gate
as soon as it appeared in sight, shook hands with him and returned
homeward. He thought more of her after they had parted, than when she
was with him. There are times when the most thoughtful do not
think--when they enjoy. But now, every word, every look of her who had
just left him, came back to memory. Not that he would admit to himself
that there was the least touch of love in his feelings. Oh no! He had
known her too short a time for such a serious passion as love to have
any thing to do with his sensations. He only thought of
her--mused--pondered--recalled all she had said and done, because she
was so unlike any thing he had seen or heard of before--a something
new--a something to be studied.
She was but a girl--a mere child, he said; and yet there was something
more than childish grace in that light, but rounded form, where beauty
was more than budding, but not quite blossomed, like a moss-rose in its
loveliest state of loveliness. And her mind too; there was nothing
childish in her thoughts except their playfulness. The morning dew-drops
had not yet exhaled; but the day-star of the mind was well up in the
sky.
She was one of those, on whom it is dangerous for a man afraid of love
to meditate too long. She was one the effect of whose looks and words is
not evanescent. That of mere beauty passes away. How many a face do we
see and think it the loveliest in the world; yet shut the eyes an hour
after, and try to recall the features--to paint them to the mind's eye.
You cannot. But there are others that link themselves with every feeling
of the heart, that twine themselves with constantly recurring thoughts,
that never can be effaced--never forgotten--on which age or time,
disease or death, may do its work without effecting one change in the
reality embalmed in memory. Destroy the die, break the mould, you may;
but the medal and the cast remain. Had Marlow lived a hundred years--had
he never seen Emily Hastings again, not one line of her bright face, not
one speaking look, would have passed from his memory. He could have
painted a portrait of her had he been an artist. Did you ever gaze long
at the sun, trying your eyes against the eagle's? If so, you have had
the bright orb floating before your eyes the whole day after. And so it
was with Marlow: throughout the long hours that followed, he had Emily
Hastings ever before him. But yet he did not love her. Oh dear no, not
in the least. Love he thought was very different from mere admiration.
It was a plant of slower growth. He was no believer in love at first
sight. He was an infidel as to Romeo and Juliet, and he had firmly
resolved if ever he did fall in love, it should be done cautiously.
Poor man! he little knew how deep he was in already.
In the meanwhile, Emily walked onward. She was heart-whole at least. She
had never dreamed of love. It had not been one of her studies. Her
father had never presented the idea to her. Her mother had often talked
of marriage, and marriages good and bad; but always put them in the
light of alliances--compacts--negotiated treaties. Although Lady
Hastings knew what love is as well as any one, and had felt it as
deeply, yet she did not wish her daughter to be as romantic as she had
been, and therefore the subject was avoided. Emily thought a good deal
of Mr. Marlow, it is true. She thought him handsome, graceful,
winning--one of the pleasantest companions she had ever known. She liked
him better than any one she had ever seen; and his words rang in her
ears long after they were spoken. But even imagination, wicked spinner
of golden threads as she is, never drew one link between his fate and
hers. The time had not yet come, if it was to come.
She walked on, however, through the wood; and just when she was emerging
from the thicker part into the clumps and scattered trees, she saw a
stranger before her, leaning against the stump of an old hawthorn, and
seeming to suffer pain. He was young, handsome, well-dressed, and there
was a gun lying at his feet. But as Emily drew nearer, she saw blood
slowly trickling from his arm, and falling on the gray sand of the path.
She was not one to suffer shyness to curb humanity; and she exclaimed at
once, with a look of alarm, "I am afraid you are hurt, sir. Had you not
better come up to the house?"
The young man looked at her, fainted, and answered in a low tone, "The
gun has gone off, caught by a branch, and has shattered my arm. I
thought I could reach the cottage by the park gates, but I feel faint."
"Stay, stay a moment," cried Emily, "I will run to the hall and bring
assistance--people to assist you upon a carriage."
"No, no!" answered the stranger quickly, "I cannot go there--I will not
go there! The cottage is nearer," he continued more calmly; "I think
with a little help I could reach it, if I could staunch the blood."
"Let me try," exclaimed Emily; and with ready zeal, she tied her
handkerchief round his arm, not without a shaking hand indeed, but with
firmness and some skill.
"Now lean upon me," she said, when she had done; "the cottage is indeed
nearer, but you would have better tendance if you could reach the hall."
"No, no, the cottage," replied the stranger, "I shall do well there."
The cottage was perhaps two hundred yards nearer to the spot on which
they stood than the hall; but there was an eagerness about the young
man's refusal to go to the latter, which Emily remarked. Suspicion
indeed was alive to her mind; but those were days when laws concerning
game, which have every year been becoming less and less strict, were
hardly less severe than in the time of William Rufus. Every day, in the
country life which she led, she heard some tale of poaching or its
punishment. The stranger had a gun with him; she had found him in her
father's park; he was unwilling even in suffering and need of help to go
up to the hall for succor; and she could not but fancy that for some
frolic, perhaps some jest, or some wild whim, he had been trespassing
upon the manor in pursuit of game. That he was an ordinary poacher she
could not suppose; his dress, his appearance forbade such a supposition.
But there was something more.
In the young man's face--more in its expression than its features
perhaps--more in certain marking lines and sudden glances than in the
general whole--there was something familiar to her--something that
seemed akin to her. He was handsomer than her father; of a more perfect
though less lofty character of beauty; and yet there was a strange
likeness, not constant, but flashing occasionally upon her brow, in
what, when, she could hardly determine.
It roused another sort of sympathy from any she had felt before; and
once more she asked him to go up to the hall.
"If you have been taking your sport," she said, "where perhaps you ought
not, I am sure my father will look over it without a word, when he sees
how you are hurt. Although people sometimes think he is stern and
severe, that is all a mistake. He is kind and gentle, I assure you, when
he does not feel that duty requires him to be rigid."
The stranger gave a quick start, and replied in a tone which would have
been haughty and fierce, had not weakness subdued it, "I have been
shooting only where I have a right to shoot. But I will not go up to the
hall, till--but I dare say I can get down to the cottage without help,
Mistress Emily. I have been accustomed to do without help in the world;"
and he withdrew his arm from that which supported him. The next moment,
however, he tottered, and seemed ready to fall, and Emily again hurried
to help him. There were no more words spoken. She thought his manner
somewhat uncivil; she would not leave him, and the necessity for her
kindness was soon apparent. Ere they were within a hundred yards of the
cottage, he sunk slowly down. His face grew pale and death-like, and his
eyes closed faintly as he lay upon the turf. Emily ran on like lightning
to the cottage, and called out the old man who lived there. The old man
called his son from the little garden, and with his and other help,
carried the fainting man in.
"Ay, master John, master John," exclaimed the old cottager, as he laid
him in his own bed; "one of your wild pranks, I warrant!"
His wife, his son, and he himself tended the young man with care; and a
young boy was sent off for a surgeon.
Emily did not know what to do; but compassion kept her in the cottage
till the stranger recovered his consciousness, and then after inquiring
how he felt, she was about to withdraw, intending to send down further
aid from the hall. But the stranger beckoned her faintly to come nearer,
and said in tones of real gratitude, "Thank you a thousand times,
Mistress Emily; I never thought to need such kindness at your hands. But
now do me another, and say not a word to any one at the mansion of what
has happened. It will be better for me, for you, for your father, that
you should not speak of this business."
"Do not! do not! Mistress Emily!" cried the old man, who was standing
near. "It will only make mischief and bring about evil."
He spoke evidently under strong apprehension, and Emily was much
surprised, both to find that one quite a stranger to her knew her at
once, and to find the old cottager, a long dependant upon her family,
second so eagerly his strange injunction.
"I will say nothing unless questions are asked me," she replied; "then
of course I must tell the truth."
"Better not," replied the young man gloomily.
"I cannot speak falsely," replied the beautiful girl, "I cannot deal
doubly with my parents or any one," and she was turning away.
But the stranger besought her to stop one moment, and said, "I have not
strength to explain all now; but I shall see you again, and then I will
tell you why I have spoken as you think strangely. I shall see you
again. In common charity you will come to ask if I am alive or dead. If
you knew how near we are to each other, I am sure you would promise!"
"I can make no such promise," replied Emily; but the old cottager seemed
eager to end the interview; and speaking for her, he exclaimed, "Oh, she
will come, I am sure, Mistress Emily will come;" and hurried her away,
seeing her back to the little gate in the park wall.
CHAPTER XVI.
Mrs. Hazleton found Mr. Shanks, the attorney, the most difficult person
to deal with whom she had ever met in her life. She had remarked that he
was keen, active, intelligent, unscrupulous, confident in his own
powers, bold as a lion in the wars of quill, parchment, and red tape;
without fear, without hesitation, without remorse. There was nothing
that he scrupled to do, nothing that he ever repented having done. She
had fancied that the only difficulty which she could have to encounter
was that of concealing from him, at least in a degree, the ultimate
objects and designs which she herself had in view.
So shrewd people often deceive themselves as to the character of other
shrewd people. The difficulty was quite different. It was a peculiar
sort of stolidity on the part of Mr. Shanks, for which she was utterly
unprepared.
Now the attorney was ready to do any thing on earth which his fair
patroness wished. He would have perilled his name on the roll in her
service; and was only eager to understand what were her desires, even
without giving her the trouble of explaining them. Moreover, there was
no point of law or equity, no manner of roguery or chicanery, no object
of avarice, covetousness, or ambition, which he could not have
comprehended at once. They were things within his own ken and scope, to
which the intellect and resources of his mind were always open. But to
other passions, to deeper, more remote motives and emotions, Mr. Shanks
was as stolid as a door-post. It required to hew a way as it were to his
perceptions, to tunnel his mind for the passage of a new conception.
The only passion which afforded the slightest cranny of an opening was
revenge; and after having tried a dozen other ways of making him
comprehend what she wished without committing herself, Mrs. Hazleton got
him to understand that she thought Sir Philip Hastings had injured--at
all events, that he had offended--her, and that she sought vengeance.
From that moment all was easy. Mr. Shanks could understand the feeling,
though not its extent. He would himself have given ten pounds out of his
own pocket--the largest sum he had ever given in life for any thing but
an advantage--to be revenged upon the same man for the insult he had
received; and he could perceive that Mrs. Hazleton would go much
further, without, indeed, being able to conceive, or even dream of, the
extent to which she was prepared to go.
However, when he had once got the clue, he was prepared to run along the
road with all celerity; and now she found him every thing she had
expected. He was a man copious in resources, prolific of schemes. His
imagination had exercised itself through life in devising crooked paths;
but in this instance the road was straight-forward before him. He would
rather it had been tortuous, it is true; but for the sake of his dear
lady he was ready to follow even a plain path, and he explained to her
that Sir Philip Hastings stood in a somewhat dangerous position.
He was proceeding to enter into the details, but Mrs. Hazleton
interrupted him, and, to his surprise, not only told him, but showed
him, that she knew all the particulars.
"The only question is, Mr. Shanks," she said, "can you prove the
marriage of his elder brother to this woman before the birth of the
child?"
"We think we can, madam," replied the attorney, "we think we can. There
is a very strong letter, and there has been evidently----"
He paused and hesitated, and Mrs. Hazleton demanded, "There has been
what, Mr. Shanks?"
"There has been evidently a leaf torn out of the register," replied the
lawyer.
There was something in his manner which made the lady gaze keenly in his
face; but she would ask no questions on that subject, and she merely
said, "Then why has not the case gone on, as it was put in your hands
six months ago?"
"Why, you see, my dear madam," replied Shanks, "law is at best
uncertain. One wants two or three great lawyers to make a case. Money
was short; John and his mother had spent all last year's annuity.
Barristers won't plead without fees, and besides----"
He paused again, but an impatient gesture from the lady urged him on.
"Besides," he said, "I had devised a little scheme, which, of course, I
shall abandon now, for marrying him to Mistress Emily Hastings. He is a
very handsome young fellow, and----"
"I have seen him," said Mrs. Hazleton thoughtfully, "but why should you
abandon this scheme, Mr. Shanks? It seems to me by no means a bad one."
The poor lawyer was now all at sea again and fancied himself as wide of
the lady's aim as ever.
Mrs. Hazleton suffered him to remain in this dull suspense for some
time. Wrapped up in her own thoughts, and busy with her own
calculations, she suffered several minutes to elapse without adding a
word to that which had so much surprised the attorney. Then, however,
she said, in a meditative tone, "There is only one way by which it can
be accomplished. If you allow it to be conducted in a formal manner, you
will fail utterly. Sir Philip will never consent. She will never even
yield."
"But if Sir Philip is made to see that it will save him a tremendous
lawsuit, and perhaps his whole estate," suggested Mr. Shanks.
"He will resist the more firmly," answered the lady; "if it saved his
life, he would reject it with scorn--no! But there is a way. If you can
persuade her--if you can show her that her father's safety, his position
in life, depends upon her conduct, perhaps you may bring her by degrees
to consent to a private marriage. She is young, inexperienced,
enthusiastic, romantic. She loves her father devotedly, and would make
any sacrifice for him."
"No great sacrifice, I should think, madam," replied Mr. Shanks, "to
marry a handsome young man who has a just claim to a large fortune."
"That is as people may judge," replied the lady; "but at all events this
claim gives us a hold upon her which we must not fail to use, and that
directly. I will contrive means of bringing them together. I will make
opportunity for the lad, but you must instruct him how to use it
properly. All I can do is to co-operate without appearing."
"But, my dear madam, I really do not fully understand," said Mr. Shanks.
"I had a fancy--a sort of imagination like, that you wished--that you
desired----"
He hesitated; but Mrs. Hazleton would not help him by a single word, and
at last he added, "I had a fancy that you wished this suit to go on
against Sir Philip Hastings, and now--but that does not matter--only do
you really wish to bring it all to an end, to settle it by a marriage
between John and Mistress Emily?'
"That will be the pleasantest, the easiest way of settling it, sir,"
replied Mrs. Hazleton, coolly; "and I do not at all desire to injure,
but rather to serve Sir Philip and his family."
That was false, for though to marry Emily Hastings to any one but Mr.
Marlow was what the lady did very sincerely desire; yet there was a long
account to be settled with Sir Philip Hastings which could not well be
discharged without a certain amount of injury to him and his. The lady
was well aware, too, that she had told a lie, and moreover that it was
one which Mr. Shanks was not at all likely to believe. Perhaps even she
did not quite wish him to believe it, and at all events she knew that
her actions must soon give it contradiction. But men make strange
distinctions between speech and action, not to be accounted for without
long investigation and disquisition. There are cases where people shrink
from defining in words their purposes, or giving voice to their
feelings, even when they are prepared by acts to stamp them for
eternity. There are cases where men do acts which they dare not cover by
a lie.
Mrs. Hazleton sought for no less than the ruin of Sir Philip Hastings;
she had determined it in her own heart, and yet she would not own it to
her agent--perhaps she would not own it to herself. There is a dark
secret chamber in the breast of every one, at the door of which the eyes
of the spirit are blindfolded, that it may not see the things to which
it is consenting. Conscience records them silently, and sooner or later
her book is to be opened; it may be in this world: it may be in the
next: but for the time that book is in the keeping of passion, who
rarely suffers the pages to be seen till purpose has been ratified by
act, and remorse stands ready to pronounce the doom.
There was a pause after Mrs. Hazleton had spoken, for the attorney was
busy also with thoughts he wished to utter, yet dared not speak. The
first prospect of a lawsuit--the only sort of the picturesque in which
he could find pleasure--a long, intricate, expensive lawsuit, was fading
before his eyes as if a mist were coming over the scene. Where were his
consultations, his letters, his briefs, his pleas, his rejoinders, his
demurrers, his appeals? Where were the fees, the bright golden fees?
True, in the hopelessness of his young client's fortunes, he had urged
the marriage with a proviso, that if it took place by his skilful
management, a handsome bonus was to be his share of the spoil. But then
Mrs. Hazleton's first communication had raised brighter hopes, had put
him more in his own element, had opened to him a scene of achievements
as glorious to his notions as those of the listed field to knights of
old; and now all was vanishing away. Yet he did not venture to tell her
how much he was disappointed, still less to show her why and how.
It was the lady who spoke first; and she did so in as calm, deliberate,
passionless a tone as if she had been devising the fashion of a new
Mantua.
"It may be as well, Mr. Shanks," she said, "in order to produce the
effect we wish upon dear Emily's mind"--dear Emily!--"to commence the
suit against Sir Philip--I mean to take those first steps which may
create some alarm. I cannot of course judge what they ought to be, but
you must know; and if not, you must seek advice from counsel learned in
the law. You understand what I mean, doubtless."
"Oh, certainly, madam, certainly," replied Mr. Shanks, with a profound
sigh of relief. "First steps commit us to nothing: but they must be
devised cautiously, and I am very much afraid that--that----"
"Afraid of what, sir?" asked Mrs. Hazleton, in a tone somewhat stern.
"Only that the expense will be greater than my young client can afford,"
answered the lawyer, seeing that he must come to the point.
"Let not that stand in the way," said Mrs. Hazleton at once; "I will
supply the means. What will be the expense?"
"Would you object to say five hundred pounds?" asked the lawyer,
cautiously.
"A thousand," replied the lady, with a slight inclination of the head;
and then, weary of circumlocution, she added in a bolder tone than she
had yet used, "only remember, sir, that what is done must be done
effectually; no mistakes, no errors, no flaws! See that you use all your
eyes--see that you bend every nerve to the task. I will have no
procrastination for the sake of fresh fees--nothing omitted one day to
be remembered the next--no blunders to be corrected after long delays
and longer correspondence. I know you lawyers and your ways right well;
and if I find that for the sake of swelling a bill to the bursting, you
attempt to procrastinate, the cause will be taken at once from your
hands and placed in those who will do their work more speedily. You can
practise those tricks upon those who are more or less in your power; but
you shall not play them upon me."
"I declare, my dear madam, I can assure you," said Mr. Shanks; but Mrs.
Hazleton cut him short. "There, there," she said, waving her fair hand,
"do not declare--do not assure me of any thing. Let your actions speak,
Mr. Shanks. I am too much accustomed to declarations and assurances to
set much value upon them. Now tell me, but in as few words and with as
few cant terms as possible, what are the chances of success in this
suit? How does the young man's case really stand?"
Mr. Shanks would gladly have been excused such explanations. He never
liked to speak clearly upon such delicate questions, but he would not
venture to refuse any demand of Mrs. Hazleton's, and therefore he began
with a circumlocution in regard to the uncertainty of law, and to the
impossibility of giving any exact assurances of success.
The lady would not be driven from her point, however. "That is not what
I sought to know," she said. "I am as well aware of the law's
uncertainty--of its iniquity, as you. But I ask you what grounds you
have to go upon? Were they ever really married? Is this son legitimate?"
"The lady says they were married," replied Mr. Shanks cautiously, "and I
have good hope we can prove the legitimacy. There is a letter in which
the late Mr. John Hastings calls her 'my dear little wife;' and then
there is clearly a leaf torn out of the marriage register about that
very time."
Mr. Shanks spoke the last words slowly and with some hesitation; but
after a pause he went on more boldly and rapidly. "Then we have a
deposition of the old woman Danby that they were married. This is clear
and precise," he continued with a grin: "she wanted to put in something
about 'in the eyes of God,' but I left that out as beside the question;
and she did the swearing very well. She might have broken down under
cross-examination, it is true; and therefore it was well to put off the
trial till she was gone. We can prove, moreover, that the late Sir John
always paid an annuity to both mother and child, in order to make them
keep secret--nay more, that he bribed the old woman Danby. This is our
strong point; but it is beyond doubt--I can prove it, madam--I can prove
it. All I fear is the mother; she is weak--very weak; I wish to heaven
she were out of the way till the trial is over."
"Send her out of the way," cried Mrs. Hazleton, decidedly; "send her to
France;" and then she added, with a bitter smile, "she may still figure
amongst the beauties of Versailles."
"But she will not go," replied Mr. Shanks. "Madam, she will not go. I
hinted at such a step--mentioned Cornwall or Ireland--any where she
could be concealed."
"Cornwall or Ireland!" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, "of course she would not
go. Why did not you propose Africa or the plantations? She shall go, Mr.
Shanks. Leave her to me. She shall go. And now, set to work at
once--immediately, I say--this very day. Send the youth to-morrow, and
let him bring me word that some step is taken. I will instruct him how
to act, while you deal with the law."
Mr. Shanks promised to obey, and retired overawed by all he had seen and
heard. There had, it is true, been no vehement demonstration of passion;
no fierce blaze; no violent flash; but there had been indications enough
to show the man of law all that was raging within. It had been for him
like gazing at a fine building on fire at that period of the
conflagration where dense smoke and heavy darkness brood over the
fearful scene, while dull, suddenly-smothered flashes break across the
gloom, and tell how terrible will be the flame when it does burst freely
forth.
He had never known Mrs. Hazleton before--he had never comprehended her
fully. But now he knew her--now, though perhaps the depths were still
unfathomable to his eyes, he felt that there was a strong commanding
will within that beautiful form which would bear no trifling. He had
often treated her with easy lightness--with no want of apparent respect
indeed--but with the persuasions and arguments such as men of business
often address to women as beings inferior to themselves either in
intellect or experience. Now Mr. Shanks wondered how he had escaped so
long and so well, and he resolved that for the future his conduct should
be very different.
Mrs. Hazleton, when he left her, sat down to rest--yes, to rest; for she
was very weary. There had been the fatiguing strife of strong passions
in the heart--hopes--expectations--schemes-contrivances; and, above all,
there had been a wrestling with herself to deal calmly and softly where
she felt fiercely. It had exhausted her; and for some minutes she sat
listlessly, with her eyes half shut, like one utterly tired out. Ere a
quarter of an hour had passed, wheels rolled up to the door; a
carriage-step was let down, and there was a foot-fall in the hall.
"Dear Mrs. Warmington, delighted to see you!" said Mrs. Hazleton, with a
smile sweet and gentle as the dawn of a summer morning.
CHAPTER XVII.
Circumstance will always have its finger in the pie with the best-laid
schemes; but it does not always happen that thereby the pie is spoiled.
On the contrary, circumstance is sometimes a very powerful auxiliary,
and it happened so in the present instance with the arrangements of Mrs.
Hazleton. Before that lady could bring any part of her scheme for
introducing Emily to the man whom she intended to drive her into taking
as a husband, to bear, the introduction had already taken place, as we
have seen, by an accident.
It was likely, indeed, to go no further; for Emily thought over what had
occurred, before she gave way to her native kindness of heart. She
remembered how tenacious all country gentlemen of that day were of their
sporting rights, and especially of what she had often heard her father
declare, that he looked upon any body who took his game off his
property, according to every principle of equity and justice, as no
better than a common robber.
"If the only excuse be that it is more exposed to depredation than other
property," said Sir Philip, "it only shows that the plunderer of it is a
coward as well as a villain, and should be punished the more severely."
Such, and many such speeches she had heard from her father at various
times, and it became a case of conscience, which puzzled the poor girl
much, whether she ought or ought not to have promised not to mention
what had occurred in the park. She loved no concealment, and nothing
would have induced her to tell a falsehood; but she knew that if she
mentioned the facts, especially while the young man whom she had seen
crossing the park with a gun lay wounded at the cottage, great evil
might have resulted; and though she somewhat reproached herself for
rashly giving her word, she would not break it when given.
As to seeing him again, however--as to visiting him at the cottage, even
to inquire after his health, when he had refused all aid from her
father's house, that was an act she never dreamed of. His last words,
indeed, had puzzled her; and there was something in his face, too, which
set her fancy wandering. It was not exactly what she liked; but yet
there was a resemblance, she thought, to some one she knew and was
attached to. It could not be to her father, she said to herself, and yet
her father's face recurred to her mind more frequently than any other
when she thought of that of the young man she had seen; and from that
fact a sort of prepossession in the youth's favor took possession of
her, making her long to know who he really was.
For some days Emily did not go near the cottage, but at length she
ventured on the road which passed it--not without a hope, indeed, that
she might meet one of the old people who tenanted it, and have an
opportunity of inquiring after his health--but certainly not, as some
good-natured reader may suppose, with any expectation of seeing him
herself. As she approached, however, she perceived him sitting on a
bench at the cottage-door, and, by a natural impulse, she turned at once
into another path, which led back by a way nearly as short to the hall.
The young man instantly rose, and followed her, addressing her by name,
in a voice still weak, in truth, but too loud for her not to hear, or to
affect not to hear.
She paused, rather provoked than otherwise, and slightly inclined her
head, while the young man approached, with every appearance of respect,
and thanked her for the assistance she had rendered him.
He had had his lesson in the mean time, and he played his part not
amiss. All coarse swagger, all vulgar assumption was gone from his
manner; and referring himself to some words he had spoken when last they
had met, he said: "Pardon me, Miss Hastings, for what I said some days
ago, which might seem both strange and mysterious, and for pressing to
see you again; but at that time I was faint with loss of blood, and knew
not how this might end. I wished to tell you something I thought you
ought to hear; but now I am better; and I will find a more fitting
opportunity ere long."
"It will be better to say any thing you think fit to my father," replied
Emily. "I am not accustomed to deal with any matters of importance; and
any thing of so much moment as you seem to think this is, would, of
course, be told by me to him."
"I think not," replied the other, with a mysterious smile; "but of that
you will judge when you have heard all I have to say. Your father is the
last person to whom I would mention it myself, because I believe,
notwithstanding all his ability, he is the last person who would judge
sanely of it, as he would of most other matters; but, of course, you
will speak of it or not, as you think proper. At present," he added, "I
am too weak to attempt the detail, even if I could venture to detain you
here. I only wished to return you my best thanks, and assure you of my
gratitude," and bowing low, he left her to pursue her way homeward.
Emily went on musing. No woman's breast is without curiosity--nor any
man's, either--and she asked herself what could be the meaning of the
stranger's words, at least a dozen times. What could he have to tell
her, and why was there so much mystery? She did not like mystery,
however; and though she felt interested in the young man--felt _pity_,
in fact--yet it was by no means the interest that leads to, nor the pity
which is akin to love. On the contrary, she liked him less than the
first time she saw him. There was a certain degree of cunning in his
mysterious smile, a look of self-confidence, almost of triumph in his
face, which, in spite of his respectful demeanor, did not please her.
Emily's father was absent from home at this time; but he returned two or
three days after this last interview, and remarked that his daughter was
unusually grave. To her, and to all that affected her in any way, his
eyes were always open, though he often failed to comprehend that which
he observed. Lady Hastings, too, had noticed Emily's unusual gravity,
and as she had no clue to that which made her thoughtful, she concluded
that the solitude of the country had a depressing influence upon her
spirits, as it frequently had upon her own; and she determined to speak
to her husband upon the matter. To him she represented that the place
was very dull; that they had but few visitors; that even Mr. Marlow had
not called for a week; and that Emily really required some variety of
scene and amusement.
She reasoned well according to her notions, and though Sir Philip could
not quite comprehend them, though he abhorred great cities, and loved
the country, she had made some impression at least by reiteration, when
suddenly a letter arrived from Mrs. Hazleton, petitioning that Emily
might be permitted to spend a few days with her.
"I am quite alone," she said, "and not very well (she never was better
in her life), and I propose next week to make some excursions to all the
beautiful and interesting spots in the neighborhood. But you know, dear
Lady Hastings, there is but small pleasure in such expeditions when they
must be solitary; but with such a mind as that of your dear Emily for my
companion, every object will possess a double interest."
The reader has perceived that the letter was addressed to Lady Hastings;
but it was written for the eye of Sir Philip, and to him it was shown.
Lady Hastings observed, as she put the note into her husband's hand,
that it would be much better to go to London. The change from their own
house to Mrs. Hazleton's was not enough to do Emily any good; and that,
as to these expeditions to neighboring places, she had always found them
the dullest things imaginable.
Sir Philip thought differently, however. He had been brought to the
point of believing that Emily did want change, but not to the conviction
that London would afford the best change for her. He inquired of Emily,
however, which she would like best, a visit of a week to Mrs.
Hazleton's, or a short visit to the metropolis. Much to his
satisfaction, Emily decided at once in favor of the former, and Mrs.
Hazleton's letter was answered, accepting her invitation.
The day before Emily went, Mr. Marlow spent nearly two hours with her
and her father in the sort of musy, wandering conversation which is so
delightful to imaginative minds. He paid Emily herself no marked or
particular attention; but he never suffered her to doubt that even while
talking with her father, he was fully conscious of her presence, and
pleased with it. Sometimes his conversation was addressed to her
directly, and when it was not, by a word or look he would invite her to
join in, and listened to her words as if they were very sweet to his
ear.
She loved to listen to him, however, better than to speak herself, and
he contrived to please and interest her in all he said, gently moving
all sorts of various feelings, sometimes making her smile gayly,
sometimes muse thoughtfully, and sometimes rendering her almost sad. If
he had been the most practiced love-maker in the world, he could not
have done better with a mind like that of Emily Hastings.
He heard of her proposed visit to Mrs. Hazleton with pleasure, and
expressed it. "I am very glad to hear you are to be with her," he said,
"for I do not think Mrs. Hazleton is well. She has lost her usual
spirits, and has been very grave and thoughtful when I have seen her
lately."
"Oh, if I can cheer and soothe her," cried Emily eagerly, "how
delightful my visit will be to me. Mrs. Hazleton says in her letter that
she is unwell; and that decided me to go to her, rather than to London."
"To London!" exclaimed Mr. Marlow, "I had no idea that you proposed such
a journey. Oh, Sir Philip, do not take your daughter to London. Friends
of mine there are often in the habit of bringing in fresh and beautiful
flowers from the country; but I always see that first they become dull
and dingy with the smoke and heavy air, and then wither away and perish;
and often in gay parties, I have thought that I saw in the young and
beautiful around me the same dulling influence, the same withering, both
of the body and the heart."
Sir Philip Hastings smiled pleasantly, and assured his young friend that
he had no desire or intention of going to the capital except for one
month in the winter, and Emily looked up brightly, saying, "For my part,
I only wish that even then I could be left behind. When last I was
there, I was so tired of the blue velvet lining of the gilt _vis-a-vis_,
that I used to try and paint fancy pictures of the country upon it as I
drove through the streets with mamma."
At length Emily set out in the heavy family coach, with her maid and Sir
Philip for her escort. Progression was slow in those days compared with
our own, when a man can get as much event into fifty years as Methuselah
did into a thousand. The journey took three hours at the least; but it
seemed short to Emily, for at the end of the first hour they were
overtaken by Mr. Marlow on horseback, and he rode along with them to the
gate of Mrs. Hazleton's house. He was an admirable horseman, for he had
not only a good but a graceful seat, and his handsome figure and fine
gentlemanly carriage never appeared to greater advantage than when he
did his best to be a centaur. The slow progress of the lumbering vehicle
might have been of some inconvenience, but his horse was trained to
canter to a walk when he pleased, and, leaning to the window of the
carriage, and sometimes resting his hand upon it, he contrived to carry
on the conversation with those within almost as easily as in a
drawing-room.
Just as the carriage was approaching the gate, Marlow said: "I think I
shall not go in with you, Sir Philip; for I have a little business
farther on, and I have ridden more slowly than I thought;" but before
the sentence was well concluded, the gates of the park were opened by
the porter, and Mrs. Hazleton herself appeared within, leaning on the
arm of her maid. She had calculated well the period of Emily's arrival,
and had gone out to the gate for the purpose of giving her an extremely
hospitable welcome. Probably, had she not hated her as warmly and
sincerely as she did, she would have stayed at home; our attention is
ever doubtful.
But what were Mrs. Hazleton's feelings when she saw Mr. Marlow riding by
the side of the carriage? I will not attempt to describe them; but for
one instant a strange dark cloud passed over her beautiful face. It was
banished in an instant; but not before Marlow had remarked both the
expression itself and the sudden glance of the lady's eyes from him to
Emily. For the first time a doubt, a suspicion, a something he did not
like to fathom, came over his mind; and he resolved to watch. Neither
Emily nor her father perceived that look, and as the next moment the
beautiful face was once more as bright as ever, they felt pleased with
her kind eagerness to meet them; and alighting from the carriage, walked
on with her to the house, while Marlow, dismounted, accompanied them,
leading his horse.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Marlow," said Mrs. Hazleton, in a tone from
which she could not do what she would--banish all bitterness. "I suppose
I owe the pleasure of your visit to that which you yourself feel in
escorting a fair lady."
"I must not, I fear, pretend to such gallantry," replied Marlow. "I
overtook the carriage accidentally as I was riding to Mr. Cornelius
Brown's; and to say the truth, I did not intend to come in, for I am
somewhat late."
"Cold comfort for my vanity," replied the lady, "that you would not have
paid me a visit unless you had met me at the gate."
She spoke in a tone rather of sadness than of anger; but Marlow did not
choose to perceive any thing serious in her words, and he replied,
laughing: "Nay, dear Mrs. Hazleton, you do not read the riddle aright.
It shows, when rightly interpreted, that your society is so charming
that I cannot resist its influence when once within the spell, even for
the sake of the Englishman's god--Business."
"A man always succeeds in drawing some flattery for woman's ear out of
the least flattering conduct," answered Mrs. Hazleton.
The conversation then took another turn; and after walking with the rest
of the party up to the house, Marlow again mounted and rode away. As
soon as the horses had obtained some food and repose, Sir Philip also
returned, and Emily was left, with a woman who felt at her heart that
she could have poniarded her not an hour before.
But Mrs. Hazleton was all gentle sweetness, and calm, thoughtful,
dignified ease. She did not suffer her attention to be diverted for one
moment from her fair guest: there were no reveries, no absence of mind;
and Emily--poor Emily--thought her more charming than ever.
Nevertheless, while speaking upon many subjects, and brightly and
intelligently upon all, there was an under-current of thought going on
unceasingly in Mrs. Hazleton's mind, different from that upon the
surface. She was trying to read Marlow's conduct towards Emily--to judge
whether he loved her or not. She asked herself whether his having
escorted her to that house was in reality purely accidental, and she
wished that she could have seen them together but for a few moments
longer, though every moment had been a dagger to her heart. Nay, she did
more: she strove by many a dexterous turn of the conversation, to lure
out her fair unconscious guest's inmost thoughts--to induce her, not to
tell all, for that she knew was hopeless, but to betray all. Emily,
however, happily for herself, was unconscious; she knew not that there
was any thing to betray. Fortunately, most fortunately, she knew not
what was in her own breast; or perhaps I should say, knew not what it
meant. Her answers were all simple, natural and true; and plain candor,
as often happens, disappointed art.
Mrs. Hazleton retired for the night with the conviction that whatever
might be Marlow's feelings towards Emily, Emily was not in love with
Marlow; and that was something gained.
"No, no," she said, with a pride in her own discernment, "a woman who
knows something of the world can never be long deceived in regard to
another woman's heart." She should have added, "except by its
simplicity."
"Now," she continued, mentally, "to-morrow for the first great stop. If
this youth can but demean himself wisely, and will follow the advice I
have given him, he has a fair field to act in. He seems prompt and ready
enough: he is assuredly handsome, and what between his good looks, kind
persuasion by others, and her father's dangerous position, this girl
methinks may be easily driven--or led into his arms; and that
stumbling-block removed. He will punish her enough hereafter, or I am
mistaken."
Punish her for what, Mrs. Hazleton?
FOOTNOTES:
[M] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R.
James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New-York.
THE FRIENDSHIP OF JOSEPHUS AND ST. PAUL.
In the _Princeton Review_, the _Church of England Quarterly_, and other
periodicals, there have appeared recently several very interesting
articles upon the Voyage of St. Paul to Rome; and in a work entitled
"Gleanings on the Overland Route," by the author of "Forty Days in the
Desert," just published in London, we find a dissertation "On the
Shipwreck of the Apostle Paul, and the historian Josephus," which goes
far to prove that Josephus accompanied the apostle to Rome, and that he
was in some measure the means of procuring the introduction of the
Christians into "Caesar's household." After a summary account of the
shipwreck as narrated by St. Luke, aided by such elucidatory particulars
as have been supplied by Mr. James Smith in his "Voyage and Shipwreck of
St. Paul," the author says:--
"The only real difference between the two accounts of St. Luke and of
Josephus is, that Josephus does not mention the stay of three months on
the island of Malta. He writes as if the ship were wrecked in the open
sea, and he was saved by being at once taken up into the second ship.
This very great disagreement in the two narratives we must set to the
account of Josephus's inaccuracy. The second ship he rightly calls a
ship of Cyrene, for the Alexandrian vessel, in a favorable voyage, may
have touched at that port. He adds to the apostolic history the
interesting information, that it was through the Jewish actor,
Alituries, that he, and, we may add, the Apostle and Christianity,
gained an introduction into 'Caesar's household.' That Josephus sailed
in the same ship with Paul, we may hold for certain. No Jews born in
Judea had the privilege of Roman citizenship; of Jews who had that
privilege, the number was so small, that it is not probable that two
such appeals to Rome, by Jews from the province of Judea, should have
been allowed in the reign of Nero. That two ships, carrying such Hebrew
applicants from Judea, should have been wrecked in the Adriatic, from
both of which the passengers should have been saved, and landed at
Puteoli, and that within the space of three years, we may pronounce
impossible. So then the Jewish historian Josephus, when a young man,
made the voyage from Caesarea to Italy with the Apostle Paul, the
Evangelist Luke, and their friend Aristarchus, and, for part of the way,
with the young Titus. He calls the Apostle his friend, though worldly
prudence forbade his naming him. From these fellow-travellers he must
have heard the opinions of the Christians. He was able to contradict or
confirm all that they said of the founder of our religion, for he was
born only eight years after the crucifixion. But Josephus, when he wrote
his history and life, was a courtier, and even a traitor to his
country--he wanted moral courage, he did not mean to be a martyr, and
any testimony in favor of a despised sect is not to be expected from
him. The passage in his Antiquities in which Jesus is praised we may
give up as a forgery of the third century: it is enough for us to
remark, that after having lived for five months with Paul on the voyage
from Judea to Italy, he does not write against this earnest teacher of
Christianity, as either a weak enthusiast or a crafty impostor. But he
praises his piety and virtues, and boasts that he was of use in
obtaining his release from prison."
Mr. Smith, to whom allusion is made above, is said to be a gentleman of
liberal fortune, and to have carefully studied navigation, and in
numerous voyages in his yacht through these seas to have practised it,
for the especial purpose of investigating and illustrating the points
embraced in this interesting portion of the sacred history. He has
pretty satisfactorily established the precise route of the Apostle on
this famous journey, which is the most universally familiar of all in
ancient or modern life. The curious suggestion of such personal
relations between Paul and Josephus is not new; it was made some time in
the seventh century in the Reflections of Bernardin Pastouret, and
perhaps at an earlier time by others. The author whose words are here
quoted, is Mr. John Sharpe, and he has very clearly presented the case.
THE COUNT MONTE-LEONE: OR, THE SPY IN SOCIETY.[N]
Translated For The International Monthly Magazine From the French of H.
De St. Georges.
_Continued from page 359._
BOOK IV.
I. EXPLANATION OF THE ENIGMA.
While the events we have described are taking place at Sorrento, we will
retrace our steps to the Etruscan House, where we left Monte-Leone and
Taddeo when the latter placed in the hands of the former the letter of
La Felina. The Count opened the letter, and read:
"Taddeo--You told me in the prison of the palace of the Dukes of Palma,
whither I went to find you, '_Love which speculates is not love. Mine
will obey you for obedience' sake. Try, however, to ask something grand
and difficult, that you may judge it by its fruits._'"
"Then you love her?" said Monte-Leone, interrupting himself.
"Read on," said Taddeo.
"'Your heart, Taddeo, is noble,' replied I. 'I have faith in it. May God
grant that your strength do not betray your courage. In four days you
will learn what I expect from you.' I write down what I expect, for I
have not courage to tell you. I cannot crush your hopes, though I know
that they cannot be realized. The feelings you have avowed to me,
Taddeo, demand entire confidence: for it would be a crime to deceive a
heart like yours. I will therefore tell you the truth, painful as it may
be. It is a year since I came to Naples, having been attracted thither
by a brilliant engagement at San Carlo. My success was as great as it
had been in the other capitals of Italy. After the applause and ovations
of the public--the truest and most discriminating of all--came
privileged admirers; those, who, from their rank, birth, and fortune,
have a right to pass the curtain of the sanctuary, and cast incense at
the very foot of the idol; who can compliment the artiste on the stage,
and follow her with their commonplaces to her very box. There was no
scarcity of sacrificers. The noblest of Naples overwhelmed me with
adulations; from compliments they came to declaration, and there, as at
Rome, Venice, and elsewhere, I was persecuted by the insipid gallantries
of suitors, to which every successful artiste possessed of any personal
attraction must submit. To all these advances my heart remained cold,
and my insensibility cost me nothing; for I neither loved nor wished to.
A strange event, however, changed my plans. It was an evening of last
autumn, and the air was as sultry as possible. Exhausted by the heat of
the theatre, after the performance was over I sent my carriage home, and
resolved, in company with my _confidante_, to return on foot. I avoided
my many suitors, and escaped from the theatre by a back-door. The air
was so pure, and the night so beautiful, that I walked for some time on
the _chiaja_. It was late when I returned homeward. Crossing an isolated
street, which I had taken to shorten the walk, my _confidante_ and
myself were unexpectedly attacked by a party of men who stood beneath
the portico of a palace. They had well-nigh stifled our cries with
scarfs, which had been thrown over our heads, and we should possibly
have been murdered, when a man, rushing sword in hand, I know not
whence, attacked our aggressors, disarmed three of them, whom he put to
flight, and killed the fourth by a dagger-thrust. Rapidly as possible,
he then took off the bandages from our faces, and gave me, half dead
with terror, his arm.
"A carriage passed, the stranger called to it, placed us in it, and
said: 'A lady, signora, of your appearance, met in the streets of Naples
at such an hour, doubtless is under the influence of some secret motive
she would be unwilling to expose. My services to you have been too
slight to warrant my questioning you. Now you have nothing to fear, and
this carriage will take you any where you please. I will inquire into no
orders which you may give.' 'But your name, signore?' said I. 'Count
Monte-Leone,' said he, as he disappeared."
"That is true," said the Count. "I never knew, though, whom I had
rescued from the hands of bandits."
He then began again to read:
"From that time the Count was, in spite of myself, the object of my
constant thoughts and secret meditations. I was very anxious, at least,
to know the features of the man, whom I had only seen in the dark; for
the services he had rendered me, the courage he had displayed, even the
sound of his voice, spoke both to my head and heart. One day, as I was
crossing the street of Toledo, some young persons pointed out to me a
cavalier, mounted on a noble horse. 'No one but Monte-Leone can ride
such an animal as that. No one else rides so well.' 'He is the
handsomest and most brilliant of our young nobles,' said another. 'What
a pity he gives himself so completely to the people,' said a third. The
Count, whom I saw then for the first time, was the realization of all my
youthful dreams and illusions. I loved the Count, though I did not know
it. From the moment I saw him, my heart and soul were consecrated to
him."
A painful sigh, uttered near Monte-Leone, made the Count look at young
Rovero, the pallor of whom indicated intense suffering.
"My friend," said the Count, taking his hand, "what matters it if Felina
love me, provided I do not love her?"
"Some day you may love her," said Taddeo.
"No," said the Count.
"And why?"
"Because I have but one heart, and that is another's."
A happy smile lighted up the face of Rovero, and Monte-Leone continued
to read, with as much _sang-froid_ as if another were the subject of the
letter:
"You wished to know which of the four I loved; excuse me, Taddeo, but
now I have told you all. From that time I conceived an ardent devotion
to Monte-Leone. My passion was, however, of that kind which only demands
the gratification of the soul. All I had heard of the Count's character,
of his errors, follies, and numerous passions, far from alienating,
rendered him still dearer to me. It seemed that his lofty, generous
disposition, full of courage and honor, had wanted nothing but a guide,
or rather an angel, to wrest him from the torment of the life he had
prepared for himself."
The Count paused, and reflected for a few moments, which seemed
centuries to Rovero. He then began again to read:
"Ah, had I met Monte-Leone in the days of my innocence, in the days when
I also looked for some one to guide my early steps, with my hand in his,
with my heart beating against his, I should, perhaps, have avoided the
rocks on which I have been wrecked? To the Count, however, I could be
now but an ordinary woman, whose attractions might, perhaps, for the
moment fascinate him, but whom he would soon cast aside, as he has his
other conquests: then I feel _I should have killed him!_"
The Count quietly read on:
"I loved him too fondly to become his mistress; yet his image pursued me
by night and day. At last my heart, in its immense and pure love,
inspired me with the noblest and purest idea: 'Be more than a woman, be
more than a mistress to him,' said I to myself, 'be a providence, a
secret and protecting providence which preserves him in all dangers, and
provides all his happiness.' Alas! I fancied that I had to defend
Monte-Leone only against the ordinary perils of life, against the
rivalry excited by his triumphs, and not against the serious dangers to
which his opinions subjected him. I soon heard the rumors which were
being circulated about the Count, learned of his danger, and the
perilous part he had to play in relation to the secret societies. I
learned all this from public rumor, but I needed other aid and
information to guide me in the defence of him I loved. Among those most
carried away by my talent, and if I must say so, most captivated by my
beauty, was the Duke of Palma, minister of police. I received the
minister kindly, and without yielding to his persuasions, conferred
trifling favors on him. His confidence in me was immense. When I was
stern to him he became desperate, but he professed there was such a
charm in my company that he sought constantly to see me. Minister as he
was, he became not my _sicisbeo_, for that I would consent to at no
price, but my _cavaliero sirviente_, thus occupying the second grand
hierarchy of love. I learned from the minister himself the snares
prepared for Monte-Leone, twenty times I informed your friend of them,
and enabled him to avoid them. In the same manner I heard of your
imprudent folly at the ball of San-Carlo, and you know what I did to
avert its consequences. A certain Lippiani, a skilful officer placed by
means of my influence in the Neapolitan police, while paying a visit of
inspection to the jailor of the Castle _Del Uovo_, contrived to
introduce into the prisoner's loaf the mysterious information he
received. The imagination, or rather the genius of the Count, inspired
him with a design to secure his liberty. To assure the success of this
ruse, the Count escaped for some hours from his prison, and amid that
season of trouble, energy, and anguish, Monte-Leone lost the famous ring
he always wears. This loss again placed his life and liberty in danger.
Then I conceived a hardy and bold plan, which cannot succeed without
your aid and devotion. On that, however, for you so promised me, I rely.
I learned that you were a prisoner, but were about to be released. You
can then aid me, but it is necessary to awake no suspicion. Aware of
every outlet to the palace, which had often been shown to me by the Duke
of Palma, I remembered a certain secret passage and door hidden in a
pillar, whither the Duke often comes, to hear, unseen, the examinations
of prisoners. Thither I sought to come. The porter admitted me at night;
doubtless, fancying I was come to keep an appointment with his master.
Of what value, however, were honor and reputation to me compared with
his danger. Now, Taddeo, read with attention the lines I am about to
write; follow my advice exactly, or Monte-Leone is lost.
"I obtained possession for a few days of the emerald lost by the Count,
and which had been sent by his enemies to the Duke of Palma. At a great
cost I caused a similar one to be made by one of the most skilful
workmen of Naples. The copy will be easily recognized: _that is what I
wish_. I have substituted it for the original, and placed it myself in
the minister's jewel case, the key of which he had given to me to take
an antique _cameo_, the design of which I wished. The false ring will be
given to the Count, instead of the true one, which is in the _coffret_ I
have placed by you. Go to Monte-Leone's house, during the night after
your release. I am too closely watched now, to dare go thither myself.
Give this ring to the old servant, tell him to deliver it to the judges,
but not till the trial. The enemies of whom I spoke will be overcome by
this pretended proof of their imposition, and the safety of the Count
will be sure. I have told you all. Now, Taddeo, excuse me for having
pained you by my disclosure. Excuse me for having unfolded all my heart
to you, excuse me for having permitted you to read my most secret
sentiments. Your love deserves something better than mine; but if it
inspire you with any pity for me, rescue the Count from the executioner,
and know that to save Monte-Leone is to save La Felina."
"What a woman!" said the Count, as he let fall the letter; "what passion
and devotion!"
"Ah!" said Taddeo, who looked anxiously into the eyes of the Count, to
divine the effect produced by the singer's letter, "you see her devotion
pleases and touches you:--that you love her----"
"Taddeo," said the Count, with great emotion, "that woman was my
providence, and defended me against my accusers.... She saved my
life.... It is a noble heart that thus hopelessly devotes itself. Let me
give her all my gratitude.... A poor and sterile recompense for such
devotion. The other sentiments of my heart you shall also know!"
Rising up with the dignified and lofty air of a noble, he said:
"Taddeo Rovero, Count Monte-Leone asks of you the hand of Aminta Rovero,
your sister."
Just then a painful exclamation was heard in the next room. Monte-Leone
seized his dagger and rushed to the door. He threw it open, and a
strange spectacle presented itself to him. A woman, pale and trembling,
leaned on the arm of an old man. Her eyes, fixed and tearful, seemed to
look without seeing, and her ears appeared to catch no sound. It was La
Felina. She was sustained by old Giacomo.
"Excuse me, Monsignore, she was permitted to come in; for Signor Rovero,
when he brought your ring, said you owed your safety to her."
"Felina!" said Taddeo. He fell at the singer's feet.
She remained motionless as a statue whose lips only were living.
"Signore Monte-Leone," said she, "I leave Naples to-night, and for ever.
Before I did so, however, I wished to see and give you a piece of
advice. Death menaces you from all sides, and your most insignificant
actions are observed. Escape from the country, for here you will no
longer find the faithful friends who have watched over you."
"Say, Signora, the _faithful friend_, the generous providence who saved
me from the axe of the executioner."
"You know all, Signor," said La Felina; and she looked at Taddeo--"my
secret has been revealed to you--for blushing, however, I now
acknowledge with pride that it is true, for it has won for me the
expressions you uttered just now. Alas!" said she bitterly, "I should
have fled and have heard no more."
Tears filled her eyes; overcoming her emotion, however, she said:
"My mission is fulfilled, Count Monte-Leone, for you will live and be
happy. If misfortune, though, befall you, do not forget that one heart
in the world will taste of all your sorrow.--Taddeo," said she, giving
the young man her hand, "time and reason will exert their influence on
so noble a heart, and ere long you will find one worthy of you. Forget
me," she added, when she saw him about to reply, "do not speak to me of
sentiments the intensity of which I know--and I will assist you to
triumph. To-morrow you will love me less. I know so. To-morrow."
"To-morrow!" said Taddeo.
"Yes," said Felina, "and in a little time I shall be but the shadow of a
dream, which some reality will expel from your heart."
She went towards the door.
"Signori," said she, when she saw Monte-Leone and Taddeo preparing to
follow her, "I came hither with confidence in the honor of two
gentlemen, who, I am sure, will not leave the room until I shall have
left. Do not be afraid," she continued, with a faint smile on her lips,
"a carriage awaits, but not to convey me to the Castle _Del Uovo_."
Then casting on the Count a glance instinct with sadness and regret, she
offered her hand to Taddeo, who covered it with kisses, and preceded by
Giacomo left the room. For some moments the two friends looked at each
other in silence. Taddeo then went towards the door, saying:
"But I am a fool to let her escape thus."
He crossed the court and went to the door of the room. The carriage,
however, was gone, and far in the distance he heard the sound of the
wheels.
II.--A LAST APPEARANCE.
The hearts of Monte-Leone and of Taddeo Rovero were, after the departure
of the singer, in very different conditions. Monte-Leone, delighted with
the present, and with the prospect of future success, to be attained as
the husband of Aminta, forgot all else--even the terrible responsibility
which weighed on him as the chief of a faction of forbidden societies,
and the perpetual dangers with which it menaced him. Monte-Leone had an
energetic heart but a volatile mind, over which the accidents of life
glide like the runner of a sleigh over polished ice, almost without
leaving traces.
A circumstance of which we will speak of by and by, aroused the Count
from his peace of soul to cast him in the waves of that sea of politics
where shipwrecks are so common and tempests so usual. The only idea
which occupied Taddeo was to see La Felina again. He said rightly enough
that the rays of such a star could not long be concealed; that its glory
and success would always betray it, and that the farewell token of
Monte-Leone in the Etruscan house would not be for ever.
Under the influence, then, of very different sentiments, the two friends
returned to the Count's hotel at Naples. Less beautiful than the
magnificent palace of Monte-Leone, it did not, like the latter, render
indispensable the numerous and imposing array of servants, of which his
somewhat restricted fortune deprived Monte-Leone. Descried by its master
during the whole time of his seclusion, this hotel had been the scene of
the ruinous pleasures of the Count. Splendid festivals had been given
there; joyous suppers had been proposed, and the shadow of more than
one graceful dame, wrapped in silken folds, had been traced at midnight
on the great white marble wall of the portico.
Giacomo, who had left the Etruscan house at an early hour, had
superintended the preparation of the hotel for its master, and the
unfolding of the tall wide windows made the house seem to stare on the
sunlight, like blind persons who but recently have recovered their
sight. The resuscitation of the hotel of Monte-Leone, as people in the
Toledo-street said, created a great sensation in that quarter. The Count
and Taddeo had been there but a short time, when Giacomo, evidently in a
very bad humor, announced Signor Pignana. Many of the Count's friends
who had heard of his return came to see him and crowded around him. They
arose to leave when the new-comer was announced; but they paused when
they saw the strange person introduced.
"_Buon giorno caro mio Pignana_,"[O] said the Count, advancing to meet
him. "You are not the last to visit me, and I am deeply touched by your
visit. He is my landlord, Signori, an excellent man. Something of an
Arab, it is true, in money matters; but as he is an old tradesman, you
see it is impossible for him to change his habits. For twenty years he
furnished the family liveries, and the result is that now he is richer
than me."
"Ah, my Lord," said Pignana, "you flatter me."
"Not at all, Signor," said Monte-Leone. "Now you can yourself have
liveries with the Pignana arms, '_Two winged shears on a field argent_,'
a regular tailor's escutcheon."
"How then," asked one of the young men, "is Signor Pignana your
landlord--is it of this hotel or of your beautiful palace?"
"Ah," said the Count, "he is not exactly my landlord yet, but he will be
if my friend and creditor, Signor Pignana, continues to lend me money at
cent. per cent. At present, however, the excellent man only owns my
Etruscan house, a very gem of a thing, which he rents to me, and for
which I am much obliged."
"It is I who am obliged," muttered Pignana.
"Ah!" said the Count, with a smile, "I believe you. That house had
nearly become historical. If the executioner of Naples, the father of a
family, and passionately fond of flowers," continued the Count to his
friends, "with whom I passed a fortnight at the Castle _Del Uovo_, had
been forced to arrange matters for me, the house in which Monte-Leone
was arrested would have become historical. Pignana could have let it out
to tourists, and could have retailed the stores for the London museums.
Instead of this piece of good fortune, which I am very glad was not
Pignana's, he possesses a good tenant, who will some day pay him
punctually, when he has himself been paid all that is due him; for you
can fancy how the arrest of one man discourages the business of others.
All his debtors, all the friends of his purse, leap with joy; he seems
at once outlawed, especially to those who are indebted to him. The most
honest merely pray that his imprisonment may be prolonged; the least
delicate pray that the executioner may send them a receipt."
"But the Count also has some true friends who would be distressed at his
death," said Pignana. "Monsignore counts me among them."
Pignana probably uttered these words under the influence of great
emotion, for a tear hung on the lid of his eye above an aquiline nose of
immense size.
"My dear Pignana," said the Count, "I know how far I can depend on you,
for _I know you_."
Monte-Leone accented this word, the significance of which to Pignana was
very expressive, for he looked proudly around, as if the Count had given
him a certificate of valor and courage.
"I am about to give you the list of our men--that is to say of our
transactions,"[P] said the old man, eagerly correcting himself.
"Yes," said Monte-Leone, who had glanced sternly at him, "the list of
our transactions. Go on, Pignana, go on, prove your account and diminish
the total, contrary to your wont; above all, exhibit your vouchers; that
is especially important."
"Do not trouble yourself, Monsignore: I have all regular, and now you
must pay in person."
"In person," replied the Count. "Yes, Pignana, I will thus discharge my
obligations without having recourse to a third party. Go thither,
however, at once," said he, and he pushed the tailor into the next room.
"You will find writing materials," he added, aside, "and no one to
listen to you."
"Excuse me, Signori," said he, speaking to his friends; "you have seen
one of the greatest misfortunes of our rank, the necessity of civility
to a fool who is a creditor."
Just then Taddeo Rovero, who had gone out when Pignana entered, came in,
introducing a handsome lad of about eighteen.
"Count," said he, to Monte-Leone, "let me introduce you to Signor
Gaetano Brignoli, a friend of my family."
"Then, Signor," said the Count, "you are a friend of mine; for all whom
they love are dear to me."
"Ah! Count," said Gaetano, "how much uneasiness your trial has caused
all at Sorrento! Especially to myself, who was particularly charged by
the charming Aminta to inform her of all the details of the trial. I set
out on the night before your trial to be one of the first in the hall."
"I scarcely dare," said the Count, with an expression of great pleasure,
"to think the Signorina entertains such interest in my behalf."
"It was not precisely of yourself that she spoke," replied Gaetano,
"but of my friend Taddeo, her brother, who was known to be compromised
with you, and about whom she, naturally enough, was interested."
The Count grew slightly pale as he saw this gratification wrested from
him.
"By-the-by, Signori," said Gaetano, "you have heard the news with which
all the city and suburbs echo, and which makes almost as much noise as
the trial of the Count Monte-Leone."
"I trust," said the Count, bitterly, "that the news is more pleasant."
"Infinitely more so," continued Gaetano. "Every one is talking of it,
and crazed with it--especially myself, who am a _pazzo per la musica_,
like the here of Fioravanti. You know, Signori, nothing is more pleasant
than to win again a pleasure we fancy to have been lost to us."
"Go on," said Taddeo, who had a presentiment that something pleasant was
about to be related. The very mention of music made him quiver.
"Well, Signori," said Gaetano, "the Sicilian siren, the fairy _La
Felina_, sings to-night at San Carlo."
"La Felina?" said all the listeners at once.
"La Felina! impossible!" said Rovero. "She left Naples last night."
"Certainly she did," said Gaetano; "and that makes the matter more
charming and pleasant. _La Felina_ has her caprices as all pretty women,
and singers especially. That is the condition and very qualification of
talent. A _prima donna_ who did not keep the public uneasy about her
health, her business, or her amours, one who did not outrage the
manager, would not be a complete woman. How could she? One does not earn
a hundred thousand francs a year for acting as if the salary was only a
thousand crowns. It would be vulgar and common and altogether unbecoming
a fine lady. La Felina, therefore, annoyed by the effect produced on the
public mind by the drama of the Trial of Count Monte-Leone, which
occupied the attention she thought should be engrossed by her own
performances, would not appear while the trial was going on. She was
about to throw up her engagement, and actually did so, when she was at
the Porta-Capuana. The patrons of the opera, with the empresario at
their head, accompanied by the orchestra and troupe, not wanting an
enormous crowd of other admirers of _la Diva_, and they are many,
prevented the carriage from passing. She was surrounded, pressed, and
besought to such a degree that she was dragged back to her hotel, and
promised to sing once more in the Griselda of the _Maestro Paer_, the
best of all her characters. You can fancy the enthusiasm thus excited,
and how all struggle to secure seats. I paid for mine thrice the usual
price, and think I am very fortunate."
For a moment Taddeo said nothing, he saw nothing, and scarcely breathed.
He was half stifled with joy and surprise. To see one again, from whom
he had expected to be separated for so long a time, and perhaps for
ever, seemed to him a dream from which he seemed afraid to awake. The
friends of the Count left: all hurried to the theatre to secure an
opportunity of being present at the solemnity.
"Come, come," said Taddeo, hurrying young Brignoli away. "I must go to
San Carlo to-night at any price, even at that of my life!"
"Indeed!" said Gaetano, "I did not think you so passionate a dilettante.
You exceed me--to pay for music with gold is well enough, but with
life--ah, that is altogether a different thing; mine is valuable, and I
keep it for greater occasions."
The Count stopped Rovero just as he was about to leave.
"What," said he, with an air of deep concern, "will you not go with me
to-morrow to Sorrento?"
"To-morrow, to-morrow, for pity's sake," said Taddeo in a low tone. "Let
me be happy to-day, and I will devote all my life to you."
He left with Gaetano.
"No, no," said Monte-Leone, "I will not wait a day, not an hour, before
I see Aminta,--even if I go to Sorrento alone. I will go thither at
once."
"Impossible," said a grave voice behind the Count.
The latter turned around and saw Pignana, who had glided unseen from the
room as soon as he heard the young people leave.
"Why so?" said the Count.
"Why, Monsignore?" replied Pignana, who, casting aside the air and
manner of a retired tradesman, became a dry and cold old man with a
dignified bearing. "Because our brothers, terrified at your arrest, were
on the point of dissolving the _vente_.--Because, it has been reported
that your excellency was on the point of abandoning the cause, and
laying aside the functions of supreme chief:--Because, the principal
_Carbonari_, the agent of whom I am, wish to be informed of your
intentions, and to be assured by you personally that you will not
abandon them."
"Then," said the Count, with a gesture of ill-restrained temper, for
these political embarrassments came in conflict with ideas which were
far dearer to him, "that is the meaning of what you said just now. How
can I restore confidence to our associates? The Neapolitan police
watches over me; the least imprudence, the slightest exhibition of the
existence of our association, would revive all, and endanger the fate
and future success of the society, and also my life. You have few men of
energy among you; you, who are one of the most devoted, trembled _in the
presence of my friends_. You deserve to be hissed like a bad actor in a
good part! Listen to me, Pignana: I wish to be your chief; I wish to
risk a heavy stake in your cause; but now, especially when heavy matters
weigh on me, I do not purpose to appear in _political comedy_. I wish
to play a serious part, the theories of which are actions, with many
deeds and few words. I will do all that is necessary to serve our cause,
but nothing more. Remember this. The Castle _Del Uovo_, dungeons beneath
the sea, the executioner and conversations with the Grand-Judge, warn me
to be careful and prudent. Ask me, then, nothing more. In eight days our
great general _venta_ will be held at the monastery of San Paola, fifty
leagues from Naples. I will be there, and will tell you what our
brethren in France and Germany have informed me of. Until then, however,
question me about nothing."
"We do not, Monsignore," replied Pignana, who was aware of the firmness
of the Count, and saw at once that he had mistaken his course. "The
association, which admires your excellency, especially since the trial,
which looks on your excellency as a martyr, asks nothing except one
favor, which will overwhelm it with gratitude and joy."
"And what is that favor?" rejoined the Count.
"That Monsignore will appear to-night at San Carlo in a box, the key of
which I have with me. This box may be seen from every part of the house.
All of our principal men will be present, and if Monsignore will
advance, during the interlude, to the front of the box, _placing his
hand on his heart_, all our friends will know that they may rely on
him."
"By my faith, shrewd as the Duke of Palma is, suspicious as the police
may be, I do not think this can be construed into an act of treason. It
pledges me to nothing. The ladies to whom we make the gesture understand
it. I will then make this exhibition of my person, as the English say,
and I will increase the interest of the performance by my presence. In a
word, I will appear for the benefit of La Felina. The brave girl and
myself will not even then be quits."
"Thank you, Count," said Pignana, as he left--"and now, adieu, until we
meet at San Carlo."
* * * * *
A few hours after the scene we have described, an immense crowd thronged
every entry to the theatre of San Carlo. It was not, however, the joyous
crowd intoxicated with folly which we have seen hurry into its precincts
at the commencement of this story. On this occasion the public seemed
rather busy than in search of pleasure. It was a matter of importance,
indeed, to be present at the last appearance of La Felina. The keys of
the boxes, therefore, according to the Italian custom, were sold at the
door of the theatre, and at double the usual price. I speak only of the
small number of boxes, the proprietors of which were absent from Naples.
We may also as well add, that in Naples a box is often _property_. All
the other boxes were occupied by illustrious personages, or by the
wealthiest inhabitants of the great city. San Carlo on that night was
brilliant as possible. The Count had just come. The women glittered with
flowers and diamonds. As on the occasion of the masked ball, the theatre
was illuminated _a giorno_. No detail of the festival, no beauty present
could escape observation. Count Monte-Leone appeared in the box which
had been reserved for him, which soon became the object of every
lorgnette and the theme of every conversation. He bore this annoying
attention with icy _sang-froid_, seeming even not to observe it. His
vanity, however, was secretly gratified, and we have said that this was
his weak point. The overture began, and the curtain was finally raised.
During this time, and the first scenes of the opera, the private
conversation was so loud and animated that the singers and orchestra
were almost overpowered. Suddenly silence was restored--admiration as
respectful as that which precedes a sovereign's arrival pervaded all.
The true Queen of Naples, at this moment, was La Felina. This complete
calmness was soon succeeded by a thunder of applause. A thousand voices
uttered a long shout of commingled bravos and hurras. La Felina was on
the stage. This delirium produced by a single person, this passionate
worship expressed by an almost furious admiration, those thousand hearts
hung to the lips of a single person, is found only on the stage, and was
one of the triumphs which Naples decreed to the greatest artist in
Italy. A report was in circulation, also, which added to this almost
furious admiration. It was said, that she was about to retire for ever,
and that this was her last appearance. The eyes of love have a secret
and admirable instinct, enabling them to see what persons who are
indifferent cannot discover. Among this eager and compact crowd, the
glances of La Felina were immediately attracted to a point of the hall,
to a single box in which Monte-Leone sat. To him Felina acted and sang,
and she was sublime. At the moment when Paer's heroine appeared, a
single voice was heard above all others, and the person who had uttered
it, having exhausted all the powers of his soul, during the whole time
Felina was on the stage, stood with his eyes fixed on her, as if he had
been fascinated by some charm he could not shake off.
"Poor Taddeo," said the Count, when he saw him, "why does she not love
him?"
The first act was concluded by a torrent of bouquets, which the audience
threw at the feet of their favorite actress. The curtain fell. This was
the moment expected by the associate of Monte-Leone. Faithful to his
promise, the Count leaned forward in his box, naturally as possible, and
looked around the brilliant assembly. He then placed his hand on his
heart, and disappeared in the recess of his box. Before, however, he
left, he heard a confused and joyous murmur, which rose from the parquet
to the boxes, and became lost in the arch of the gilded ceiling.
"_They were there_," said Monte-Leone, "and Pignana must be satisfied. I
have done all he asked literally."
A few friends joined the Count in his box.
"Indeed, dear Monte-Leone," said one of these, with whom he was most
intimate, a friend of his childhood, "You have resumed your old habits."
"What do you mean?"
"That, scarcely out of prison, I saw you from my box beginning a new
intrigue by exchanging signs with some fair unknown. This, too, at San
Carlo. This is bold, indeed, unless the hand on your heart is the
resumption of an old intrigue, interrupted, perhaps, by your
imprisonment."
"I do not understand you, Barberini," said the Count, not a little
annoyed. "I made no sign to any one."
"Perhaps so: if you please, I was mistaken. But if I am, it is all the
better; for it proves to me that you no longer adhere to the plans you
once confided to me. I was delighted, too, at what I heard yesterday
evening."
"Of what plans do you speak?" replied the Count, moved, in spite of
himself, by this half-confidence.
"Mon Dieu! of your own. Did you not tell me that you were passionately
fond of the sister of Taddeo de Sorrento, of the beautiful Aminta
Rovero, daughter of the old minister of finances of Murat?"
"True," said the Count.
"Well," continued Barberini, "I hope you are cured of that love, for you
have a rival."
"A rival!" said the Count.
"Yes, and perhaps a happy one."
"Signor," said Monte-Leone, restraining himself with difficulty, "let me
tell you I purpose to make that lady my wife. All that touches her
honor, touches mine also."
"I say nothing derogatory to it, but merely repeat what I have heard."
"What have you heard?" said Monte-Leone, and the blood rushed to his
head.
"One of my young relations," continued Count Barberini, "was at an
entertainment given on the recurrence of her daughter's birthday by
Signora Rovero. He spoke to me of a Frenchman who is with them, and who
seems passionately fond of the young Aminta."
"And then?" said Monte-Leone, with the same tone in which he would have
asked the executioner to strike him with certainty.
"And then! why that is all," said Barberini, who had become terrified at
Monte-Leone's manner. "I heard nothing more.... If I did, I would take
care to be silent when you look so furiously. All this interests me very
slightly. One's own love affairs are too troublesome to enable us to
occupy ourselves with those of others.... There, too, is the Countess
d'Oliviero, waving her bouquet so impatiently to and fro that I see she
will break it to pieces unless I go. I must leave you, to save her
flowers." The young man left.
"I was right," said he, "not to tell the story of the night affair of
which my kinsman was a witness. I think he would have killed me at
once."
III. A PATERNAL LETTER
On the day after the terrible night during which Aminta had strayed in
her sleep to the room of Maulear, two ladies met at about nine in the
morning in the saloon of the villa of Sorrento, and were locked in each
other's arms.
"Yes, my child," said one of them, "your sleep has given an
interpretation to all that has passed, and I understand all. Your honor
cannot suffer, for you are chaste and pure."
"In your eyes, dear mother, I am; but in those of the world, which they
tell me is so envious and malicious! Even last night, when every eye was
fixed on me, I fancied that I read suspicion and contempt in the
expression of more than one."
"No, my child," replied Signora Rovero, clasping her to her heart, "I
saw almost all our guests this morning, immediately before they left.
They had already heard of your somnambulism, and our servants had told
how you suffered with it from your childhood. All are convinced of your
innocence."
"Dear mother, do not think so. They spoke to you only with their lips,
but believe me guilty."
"Mother," added she, with that strange emotion to which she was
sometimes a victim, "I think that this unfortunate affair is but the
beginning of the realization of the unfortunate fate which I know is
reserved for me. It seems to me that on yesterday our evil days began."
She hid her head in her mother's bosom to conceal her tears, and to find
a refuge against the misfortunes she feared.
A servant came in, and said, "The Marquis de Maulear wishes to wait on
the ladies."
"Mother, mother," said Aminta, "how can I refrain from blushing before
him?"
Signora Rovero bade the servant show the Marquis in. Then arranging
Aminta's beautiful hair, she kissed her forehead, and said:
"Daughter, one never blushes in the presence of a husband."
Aminta, with great surprise, looked at her mother.
"Ah, ah!" said Madame Rovero, with a smile, "a parent's eyes see much."
Before Aminta had time to speak, the Marquis entered. He was pale and
excited.
"Signora," said he to Aminta's mother, "I come to beg you to pardon me
for a great fault."
"To what, Signor, do you refer?"
"Of the greatest of all faults, after the manner in which I have been
received, and your kindness towards me--for not having confided in you,
and said yesterday what I wish to say to-day. Yet only from you have I
kept my secret. Yesterday, nothing obliged you to grant me the favor I
am about to solicit: yesterday, you might have refused it. To-day,
perhaps, it will be less difficult. A circumstance favorable only to
myself," added he, with a timid glance at Aminta, "marks out my
conduct, which assumes now the aspect of an obligation. It fulfils all
my wishes, and makes me the happiest of men. In one word, signora, I
come to beg that you will suffer me to become allied to your family."
"Marquis," said Signora Rovero, "I expected to hear you speak thus, for
I was sure of your honor. But far from wishing that now for the first
time you had informed my daughter of the sentiments with which she has
inspired you, I rejoice that your course has been different. Without
this motive, signor, neither my daughter nor I would accept the alliance
you wish to offer us. _No reparation can be exacted, where no fault has
been committed._ I wish to strengthen your conscience, by assuring you,
that in my opinion nothing obliges you to the course you have adopted,
if it interferes with your prospects and success."
The last expressions of Signora Rovero produced a deep sensation on
Maulear, and a shadow of uneasiness passed over his brow. She had
ignorantly touched a sensitive chord of the heart of the young lover.
Led astray by his heart, seduced invincibly by charms which were so new
to him, Maulear, under the influence of passion, had entered on the
flowery route, at the end of which he caught a glimpse of happiness. In
the delirium of passion, he had forgotten that a severe judge, that the
imperious master of his destiny, that a father, with principles
eminently aristocratic, like all fathers in 1768, awaited to absolve or
acquit him, to receive or repel him, to unite or to sever--in one word,
to make him happy or miserable. All these important ideas were at once
evoked in the mind of Maulear by the last sentence Signora Rovero had
uttered. It was this hidden and sombre apparition which arose between
Maulear and her he loved, the sinister aspect of which was reflected in
a manner by the expression of Aminta's lover.
Signorina Rovero perceived it, and with the acute discrimination she
possessed to so high a degree, said, in the melodious tones which
touched all who heard them:
"Marquis, my mother has spoken for her family, I will speak for myself.
You have informed us of the noble family to which you belong. I know
that your wife one day will be a princess, and I wish you to remember,
that she, to whom you offer this title, is the daughter of 'a noble of
yesterday;' the glory of whom is derived from her daughter's virtues.
This, Marquis, I say not for you, but for others. Excuse me, too, for
what you are about to hear. If I have need of courage to own it to you,
perhaps you will require all your generosity to hearken to it." With a
trembling voice she added: "As yet, I do not reciprocate the sentiments
you have expressed. To the hope, though, which I permitted you to
entertain yesterday, let me add, that I am additionally gratified by the
offer of your hand; for in the eyes of many persons, signor, in the eyes
of those who were witnesses of our presence together last night, you
would not now marry her you were anxious to espouse yesterday.
"I shall marry an angel!" said Maulear, falling on his knees before
Aminta, "an angel of candor and virtue. If your heart does not yet
reciprocate the love you inspire, my care and tenderness will so delight
you, that some day you will love me."
"Well, then," said she to Maulear, "grant me one favor. Suffer me to
await that day. Take pity on a poor girl full of terror and
apprehension, at a tie she has always feared. Grant her heart time to
make itself worthy of you, Marquis, and remember that until then you are
free. As my mother has told you, nothing binds you to me. Now you owe me
nothing, nor will you, until I shall confide my destiny to your hands,
when you will owe me the happiness you promise me."
"You do not consent? Then, Signorina, I will wait. Henceforth, however,
I am pledged _to you_; and my hand and heart are yours."
Just then a servant told Maulear that a courier from Naples had brought
him important letters. The Marquis bade adieu to the two ladies, and
left.
"My child," said Signora Rovero, in a tone of affectionate reproach,
"what must a man do to win your love?"
"I do not know; I am certainly foolish, but I am afraid!"
Maulear found the courier of the French embassy in his room. "An urgent
letter from France," said he, to Maulear.
Henri read the direction and shuddered. It was from the Prince de
Maulear. The Prince wrote rarely. What did he ask? The son who felt that
he had acted incorrectly in disposing of his hand, without consulting
the head of his family, trembled before he broke the seal. The character
of Maulear was weak, as we have said, and, like people of this kind, the
prospect of danger and misfortune annoyed him more than the reality
itself. At last he resolved to know all, and with a trembling hand
opened the letter. He read as follows:
"Paris, April 10, 1816.
"MY SON:--I often hear of you, not through your own letters, for you
write rarely, but through other friends, whom I have requested to keep
me _au fait_. I know what kind of life you lead at Naples, and am
dissatisfied with you. The son of a shop-keeper and a banker would act
more like a gentleman than you. People talk of you here no better than
they do of the deputy of the hangman. I had hoped the Marquis de Maulear
would behave more correctly in a foreign country. I was no older than
you are, when I went as secretary of legation to Madrid. Three months
afterwards I was recalled. I had run away with three women, fought four
duels, and lost at cards fifty thousand crowns. That was something to be
recalled for. It was an assurance that in future I would be reasonable.
When our youth reasons, and does not laugh, things go wrong. The King
spoke to me yesterday about you. He asked me, if you found any thing to
amuse you at Naples. I replied that you found too much to amuse you. 'I
am glad of it,' said the King, 'so our family honor at least is saved.'
Since, however, you are most ignobly virtuous, I have tried to turn the
affair to the best advantage. I have brought about a magnificent match
for you, to supersede one I have heard you were making for yourself. The
lady is rich, noble, and beautiful. She is the daughter of the Duke
d'Harcourt, one of the gentlemen in waiting of his majesty. You may,
perhaps, at Naples have seen Rene d'Harcourt, the brother of the lady.
The marriage will take place three months hence. I trust I have
surprised you not unpleasantly. Adieu, my son. Your aunt, the Countess,
sends her love to you, and amuses herself with the preparation of your
_corbeille_.
"LE PRINCE DE MAULEAR.
"P.S. You have three months' more folly before you, and for the rest of
your life you must be prudent. I have opened a credit of one hundred
thousand livres in your favor, with the banker Antonio Lamberti."
The letter fell from the hands of the Marquis, and he sank on his chair
completely overwhelmed. Like a thunder-bolt, it aroused him from a happy
dream. There are, in fact, in all love matters, certain moments of
intoxication, when men, ordinarily sensible, become blunderers. For a
month the Marquis had been in this condition, half reasonable, half mad.
Living with one thought prominent, all others were indistinct to him. To
him love was every thing. His father, with his antiquated obstinacy,
imbued with retrograde principles, disappeared like a ghost before the
brilliant reality of passion. Besides, fear of a rival, dread of the
brilliant Count Monte-Leone, who, full of love, as Henri had heard,
aspired to nothing more than to become the husband of Aminta left him no
other alternative, than to do what another was about to--make an
offering of his hand and faith. Lovers, too, see nothing but the object
of their passion; and Henri sometimes thought his father would agree
with him. The strange epistle of the Prince had however reversed all his
dreams. The anger of the Prince when he should learn that a marriage had
been contracted, contrary to his wishes, and in spite of his orders,
might possibly exert a terrible influence on the fortune and future fate
of the young couple; without regarding the chagrin and humiliation to
which he would subject Aminta by bringing her into a family without the
consent of its head.
Maulear passed three days in this cruel perplexity, sometimes hoping and
then fearing that Aminta would yield to his prayer. His heart wished.
His mind feared. If Signorina Rovero should accept his hand, it would be
necessary for him to decide, to act; and then, from the weakness of his
character, Maulear would be subjected to cruel uncertainty.
A few days after the scene which had occurred in his room, Maulear and
the ladies sat together in a boudoir near the _salon_, which opened on
the park, a view of which Aminta was taking. The Marquis had been
reading to the ladies the trial of Count Monte-Leone from the _Diario di
Napoli_. This curious story, full of surprises, the noble energy, the
wonderful _sang-froid_ of the Count, the remarks of the journalist on
the character of the prisoner, and the unjust accusation to which he had
been subjected, and which he had so completely refuted, and to which he
had submitted with such nobleness and heroism, all was listened to with
the greatest interest. Maulear had read all this much to his own
dissatisfaction, because Signora Rovero had requested it. The praises of
Monte-Leone were most unpleasant to him.
Aminta heard every word. Every detail of the Count's daring, every
change of character in this judicial drama, awakened an inexplicable
emotion in her. It seemed that Count Monte-Leone, to whose singular
story she had listened, was a far different man from the one she had
imagined him to be. His powerful mind, his exalted soul, all the powers
of which had been developed by the trial, conferred on Monte-Leone new
proportions hitherto not realized by her. Count Monte-Leone, whom she
had seen at home, almost timid in the presence of her he adored, annoyed
by his false position as a refugee, suffering from a passion he dared
not own, was not the person of whom she had heard for the past month.
Looking down on her drawing, which her increasing absence of mind made
almost invisible to her, Aminta sought to recall the features of the
Count which had been nearly effaced from her memory. Gradually, however,
they arose before her. Had her mother then spoken, had her glances been
diverted from the album on which they were fixed, a strange trouble and
confusion would have been visible, when aroused from this meditation.
The sound of wheels entering the court yard of the villa broke the charm
which entranced Aminta, and made Signora Rovero utter a cry of joy.
"It is he," cried she. "It is he who returns, my son Taddeo. Daughter,
let us hurry to meet him. Let us be the first to embrace him."
Accompanied by Maulear, the two ladies hurried into the vestibule, which
they crossed, standing at the villa-door just as the carriage stopped. A
man left it and bowed respectfully to Signora Rovero and her daughter.
This man was MONTE-LEONE.
IV.--TWO RIVALS.
Much had passed since Count Barberini had told Monte-Leone of the love
of Maulear for Aminta Rovero. Monte-Leone felt all the furies of hell
glide into his heart at this revelation. The idea that Aminta could love
any one had never entered his mind. Whether from confidence in her, or
from that error so common to lovers that they are entitled to love
because they love themselves, Monte-Leone flattered himself that he had
left a pleasant recollection in Aminta's mind. We may therefore imagine
how painfully the Count was disturbed by the half-confidence of
Barberini. Yet Taddeo, his friend, whom, he loved as a brother, could
not have deceived him, and have concealed what had taken place at
Sorrento, when he had received so cordially the hand of his sister.
Taddeo, then, was ignorant of it. Monte-Leone, a prey to a thousand
thoughts, left his box, forgetful of the opera, his friends and
companions, with but one object and wish. He was determined to see
Taddeo, to question him and find out who was the rival that menaced his
happiness, and whom Aminta probably loved. The Count went to that part
of the theatre in which he had seen Aminta. The second act, however, was
about to begin; and the efforts of Monte-Leone to get near his friend
created such murmurs, complaints, and anger, that he was obliged to wait
for a more favorable opportunity. La Griselda was singing the _andante_
of her cavatina, and the artist's magnificent, powerful, and tender
voice, echoing through the vastness of the hall, fell in pearly notes
like a shower of diamonds on the ears of the spectators. After the
_andante_ came the _caballeta_, and then the _coda-finale_. For a while
one might have thought the four thousand spectators had but one breath,
and were animated by a single heart, that they restrained the first to
prevent the pulsations of the other from being disturbed. This gem of
the opera was at last concluded, and mad applause rose from every part
of the room. We are constrained, however, to say, that from this time
the accents of La Felina were less passionate and brilliant, and that a
veil, as it were, was extended over all the rest of the representation,
so that a person who had heard only the second act of La Griselda would
have asked with surprise, if it was really the wonderful prima donna,
the songs of whom were purchased with gold, and the wonderful talent of
whom, had enslaved the audiences of the great Italian theatres. The
reason was, that, after the second act, the star which shone on La
Felina had become eclipsed. Monte-Leone had left his box--the box which
had been the source of Griselda's inspiration from the commencement of
the first act. Hope had sustained the singer during the cavatina, at the
beginning of the second act. She fancied that he whom she loved possibly
heard her from the recess of some other box. When, however, she was
satisfied that he was gone, despair took possession of her. "Nothing
touches his heart," said she, with pain. "Neither my love nor my talent
are able to captivate him--to attach him to me for a time." Thenceforth,
as she sang for him alone, she sang for no one. The holy fire was
extinguished. Genius unfurled its wings and flew to the unknown regions
of art, whence passion had won it. La Felina finished the opera, as a
prima donna should, rendering the music precisely and distinctly, note
for note, and as her score required. She neither added a single
_fioritura_ nor a single ornament which had not been noted by the
composer. In one word, the audience at San Carlo on that day heard the
opera of the _Maestro_ Paer and not La Felina. During this, Monte-Leone,
who had given up all hopes of reaching Taddeo, and whom Taddeo, paying
attention only to the _artiste_, had neither heard nor seen, Monte-Leone
walked in front of the opera-house, a prey to the greatest agitation,
impatiently waiting for the conclusion of the representation, to see his
friend and hear from him what he had to hope or fear at Sorrento.
The opera ended. The crowd slowly dispersed, and Monte-Leone, wrapped up
in his cloak, watched with anxiety every spectator who left the theatre.
Taddeo did not come. The doors of the theatre were closed, and the Count
still waited. Surprised and impatient he went to his hotel, where Taddeo
also lived, but he was not there. Night passed away, and he did not
come. About three in the morning a stranger was shown in, and gave
Monte-Leone three letters. One of them was addressed to the Count: he
opened it anxiously.
"Excuse me, my dear friend, at quitting you thus. Excuse me, especially
the uneasiness I have created in your mind"--wrote Taddeo--"I have
learned that she left Naples to-night, and if I leave her I shall die. I
will follow her by post and on horseback, without stopping, until I
shall learn whither she has gone. What will I do then! I do not
know,--but at least I will know where she is, and I will not fancy that
she is lost to me for ever. 'To-morrow,' said she, when she left us,
'you will love me less.' She was mistaken, my friend, or she has
deceived me; for to-day I love her better than I did yesterday. My heart
suffers too much for me not to sympathize with yours, and I understand
how impatient you are to go to Sorrento. I send a letter to my good
mother--give it yourself to her. I beg her to receive you as a friend,
and as she would receive a brother of mine. Stay with her until I come
back. Say that in three days I will come back to ask her to give you
Aminta's hand."
"Has the person who gave you these letters gone?" asked Monte-Leone of
the messenger.
"He went an hour since from the post-house, on one of our best horses,"
said the messenger.
Monte-Leone gave him a piece of gold and dismissed him.
"Poor Taddeo!" said he, "to suffer as well as I do--no no, not so much
as I do; for earthly love cannot be compared with heavenly passion.
Jealousy such as I suffer can be compared to nothing; and all is derived
from the serpent's stings, with which Barberini pricked my heart."
The time until day seemed interminable to Monte-Leone. It came at last.
The Count rang for Giacomo and dressed himself elegantly. The old man
on this occasion assisted him cheerfully and zealously, as he had
previously shown repugnance on the night of the terrible expedition at
Torre-del-Greco. Monte-Leone ordered his handsomest equipage. A few
minutes afterwards the horses pawed impatiently in the court-yard, so
that the driver could with difficulty restrain them. When the Count came
down, he found Giacomo standing in the door of the saloon so as to bar
his egress. Pale and agitated, the old man restrained the Count, and in
a stern, quarrelsome voice said:
"What is the matter now? what new folly are you about to commit?"
"What the devil do you mean?" asked the Count, taking hold of the
intendant's hand.
"No, Monsignore, you shall not go," said Giacomo, extending his arms so
as completely to shut the door, "unless you serve me as you did Stenio
Salvatori. Is it not a shame that the noblest of the gentlemen of
Naples, that the son of my master, should walk abroad armed like the
bravo of Venice--with a sword, poniard and pistol in his bosom? What, if
you please, was that box of pistols, placed by little Jack, your groom,
as those animals are called in England, in your carriage?"
"What is it to you?" said the Count, impatiently.
"What is it to me?" asked the old man with tears in his eyes. "Are you
not again about to risk your life against I know not whom nor why? What
is it to me? That you may live, that my last days may not be passed in
uneasiness and despair, like those which have gone by--for I love you.
Count," said the old man, kneeling before his master, "I love you as a
father loves his son. I held you in my arms when you were a child. For
heaven's sake renounce your dangerous plans, renounce the acquaintance
of those rascally mysterious looking men who come so often to see you.
Have nothing to say to that rascally Signor Pignana, whom I would so
gladly see hung. Be again happy, gay, and joyous, as you used to he.
True, we were ruining ourselves, but we were not conspirators."
The Count gave his hand to Giacomo.
"Giacomo, my good fellow," said he, "I am about to engage in no
conspiracy."
"What then?"
"I am about to marry," said Monte-Leone, with a smile.
"Marry! with a case of pistols as a wedding present?"
"Why!" said the Count, moodily, "I may perhaps meet enemies on the road.
Now I have more than life to protect: I have my honor."
Monte-Leone, making an affectionate gesture to the old man, descended
gayly and sprang into the coach, which bore him rapidly towards
Sorrento, and stopped at the door of Signora Rovero's house, as we have
previously said.
When she saw Monte-Leone, instead of Taddeo, Signora Rovero trembled.
"Signor," said she to the Count, "for heaven's sake tell me what evil
tidings you bear. What misfortune has befallen Taddeo?"
"In two days, Signora, Taddeo will be here, and I have the difficult
duty to excuse his absence. He has, however, asked me to deliver you his
letter, which explains all."
Signora Rovero took the letter and opened it with eagerness.
"Excuse me, Signor," said she to the Count, "but you must make allowance
for a mother's anxiety."
"So be it," she observed, after having read it. "Taddeo is in no danger
if we except that his fortune may be bad. A hunting party in the
mountains will detain him for two days from us."
"Count," said Signora Rovero, "my son speaks so affectionately of you
that I am led to offer you my own love."
"I have the advantage in that respect, Signora, for the kindness with
which you treated me while here, and the memories I bore away, have ever
since inspired the deepest affection for you."
They entered the saloon, and Signora Rovero introduced Maulear to
Monte-Leone. They saluted each other with the most exquisite politeness,
but without exchanging a glance.
Between love and hate there is this in common: it sees without the eye;
it hears without the ear. Love has a presentiment of love, and hatred of
hatred.
Monte-Leone approached Aminta. All his power and energy were
insufficient to triumph over the violent agitation which took possession
of him when he spoke to the young girl. His loving heart offered but
faint opposition to the torrent of passion, which had been so long
repressed that it was ready to bear away every obstacle. Aminta blushed
and became troubled when she recognized in the vibration of his voice
all the emotion Monte-Leone experienced. The conversation became
general. Signora Rovero spoke to the Count of his trial, the incidents
of which the Marquis had been kind enough to read. The Count bowed to
the Marquis as if to acknowledge a favor. Maulear looked away to avoid
the necessity of acknowledging it. The Count seemed not to perceive it.
Aminta became aware that if he kept silent longer the circumstance would
be remarked.
"During your imprisonment, Count, in the Castle _Del Uovo_, I have heard
that a terrible episode occurred, the details of which the _Diaro_ does
not give."
"The reason was the _Diario_ did not know them. True, like other
journalists he might have invented them, but he did not do so; and,
perhaps, acted well, for his fancies could not have equalled the truth."
The Count then simply, without exaggeration, and especially without that
petition for pity which is so frequently met with, told the story of the
terrible scene in the prison.
Aminta listened to every word. She suffered with the prisoner, hoped
with him, and followed all the details of the story, exhibiting the most
profound pity for the occurrence. Signora Rovero sympathized with her
daughter, and, for the time, Monte-Leone was the hero of the villa. All
the prejudices of Aminta disappeared in a moment in the presence of
Monte-Leone, as the morning vapors are dispersed by the first rays of
the sun.
Maulear, in icy silence, listened to the Count and looked at Aminta. As
he did so, his brow became covered with clouds precisely as that of
Aminta began to grow bright. The latter, perceiving the painful
impressions of the Marquis, extended every attention to him, so that
Monte-Leone began to grow moody. The two rivals passed the whole day in
alternations of hope and fear, happiness and suffering. The state of
things, however, was too tense to be of long duration. These few hours
seemed centuries to the adorers of Aminta, and if any one had been able
to look into the depths of their ulcerated hearts, he would have seen
that a spark would have produced an explosion. Many of the neighbors of
Signora Rovero, who had not visited her since the ball, ventured to
return. Among others present was Gaetano Brignoli. All loved him for his
frank and pleasant off-hand speeches, and all received him with good
humor and confidence. Maulear, who had laid aside his dislike, received
him kindly, as he had previously done distantly. The _Rose of Sorrento_
reproached Gaetano with having forgotten his promise.
"You should yourself on the next day," said she, "have given me news of
Taddeo and of Monte-Leone's trial. You, however, only wrote. Friends
like you, and brothers like mine, are unworthy of the affection bestowed
on them." Then, like a child _making friends_ with a playmate, she took
Gaetano into the embrasure of a meadow, and began to talk with him in a
low tone. The night promised to be brilliant and serene, and the air to
be soft and pleasant. The evening breeze penetrated into the saloon,
refreshing the atmosphere with the respiration of the sea. "What a
magnificent evening, Marquis," said Monte-Leone to Maulear, as he
approached him, and looked at the stars which had begun to dot the sky.
It was the first time the Count had spoken to the Marquis directly. The
latter trembled as a soldier who hears the sound of the first battle
signal. His emotion was short, and saluting the Count affably as
possible, he replied:
"It, is a winter evening in Italy, Count, but in France it would be one
of summer."
"Do you not think," said Monte-Leone, "that this is the proper hour for
exercise, in this country? The complete repose of nature, the eloquent
silence of night, all invite us to confidence, and make us wish for
isolation and solitude--"
"Count," said Maulear, "do you wish for a half solitude; a desert
inhabited by two persons?"
"Certainly, that is what I mean."
"So do I, and would participate in yours."
"Come, then, I never saw a more beautiful night, and I shall be charmed
to enjoy it with you."
These two men, with rage in their hearts, each being an impregnable
barrier to the happiness of the other, loving the same woman in the same
way, resolved to contend for her, to their last breath;--these two men
left the saloon, with smiles on their lips, like friends about to listen
to the secret thoughts of each other beneath the shadow of some
beautiful landscape, in happiness and pleasure.
Aminta saw them go out. She grew pale, and suffered so that she leaned
against the window-case.
V. THREE RIVALS.
Count Monte-Leone and the Marquis de Maulear entered together a vast and
beautiful avenue, silvered over by a brilliant moon.
"Signor," said the Count to Maulear, "do you ever have waking dreams?
Can you, by the power of your imagination, transport yourself into the
future, and, as it were, read your destiny, with all its prosperous and
unfortunate incidents, its pleasures and chagrins? This often happens to
me, especially by day and when I am unhappy. For a long time, too, I
have been unhappy. For instance, not long ago, when shut up in a dark
prison, with no prospect before me but that of an unjust death, and the
headsman's axe bringing to a close my sad and eventful career, my good
angel certainly, for I believe in such beings, sent, two hundred feet
below the surface of the earth, a vision of dazzling light and beauty. I
was transported beneath the green shadows of myrtles and orange-trees; I
breathed an atmosphere impregnated with intoxicating and balsamic
perfumes, while near me, with her hand in mine, and her heart beating on
my bosom, was a young girl, destined to be my guide through this life of
misery; the angel, in fact, of whom I spoke just now. Sorrows,
suffering, injustice, the dungeon, and the executioner, all disappeared,
and I enjoyed all the luxury of this heavenly revelation; and I said,
for the realization of this heavenly revelation, the heart's blood would
not be too dear a price. Do you not think so, Marquis?"
"I do, Count," said Maulear, "and especially so, because what your rich
imagination has created for you, chance, or my good genius--for I too
have faith in them--has displayed before me, not in the delirium of a
dream, but in reality. I have seen the myrtle groves of which you
dreamed: I have breathed the perfumes you describe so well: I have found
the woman your imagination has shadowed to me. I found her one day when
I did not expect to do so. I found one more beautiful than I had fancied
woman could be, gifted with such charms, grace, and virtue, that I ask
myself frequently whether such a being can belong to earth."
"Marquis," said Monte-Leone, and as he spoke he led the Count towards a
darker alley, lighted up only by a few rays of the moon, which
penetrated the interstices of the branches, "would it not be best to
conclude this conversation rather in the dark than in the light? Our
words need not any light, and neither you nor I pay any attention to the
expression of our faces."
"So be it," said Maulear, and they entered the dark alley.
"Marquis," said Monte-Leone, "the divinity of my dream and the object of
your passion are so alike, that I am sure we worship the same idol, and
kneel before the same altar. Fortune has led two men of soul and honor
into the same route. We both struggle for an object which one only can
reach. One of us must tread on a carcass, which must be either yours or
mine."
"Count," said Maulear, "we understand each other. We adore the same
idol, but you are not ignorant that our rights to offer it homage are
different; that I have rights which you have not."
The Count trembled. A word might crush all his hopes. For a few moments
he hesitated, and then in a calm voice said,
"Does she love you?"
Without replying to the question, the Marquis said,
"Signora Rovero, for her name is too deeply engraven on our hearts for
it not to spring to our lips, is aware of my sentiments, of which I have
already told her."
"And has accepted them?" said Monte-Leone, in yet greater trouble.
"No," said the Marquis, honorably; "but bade me hope that some day she
would."
"Then," said the Count, with joy, "nothing is lost. Marquis, the past is
yours, but the future is mine. Had I the mind and grace of a French
nobleman, I would, perhaps, propose to you a contest of courtesy, and
might rely on my hope, my love, my attention, to triumph. But the
contest must be of a different kind; for I will expose myself to no
risks." Lowering his voice, he continued: "Not one and the other can
present his love to the Signorina Rovero, but _one without the other_.
You or I alone; and, as I told you just now, there is a life too many."
"Very well, signor,--you wage your life against mine. I consent,--but
must observe that this duel should, at least, accrue to the interest of
one or the other of us; and yet I do not think that Signorina Rovero
would touch a blood-stained hand."
"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "from the moment you accept my challenge,
the mystery and secrecy with which it must be shrouded shall be my
affair; and, if you please, I will tell you of my plans."
"Do so, signor," said Maulear, coldly.
"Let us leave this alley, and go towards that group of trees in that
direction."
He led Maulear towards the sea. When they stood on the shore, he said,
"Below there is a kind of cove, and in it a gondola like those of
Venice--a pleasure-skiff--built formerly by the minister Rovero for his
family. At this hour to-morrow, we will meet in this wood and go to the
boat-house. We will then put to sea, and with no witness but the sea and
sky, we will settle our affair. Two men will steer the bark to sea, and
one wilt guide it back----"
In spite of his courage, Maulear could not but shudder at one who
detailed with such coolness so horrible a plan. The manner of death
frequently enhances our terror, and he who in a forest would bare his
bosom to his adversary's ball, would shrink from it on the immensity of
the ocean.
"But," said Maulear, "is all this romantic preparation, is this naval
drama in which you insist on appearing, necessary to our purpose? Any
other secret encounter would have the same effect, and would eventuate
equally satisfactorily. At the distance of a few days' travel, would we
not be able to fight more safely than here?"
"No, Marquis, I must remain in this villa until Taddeo de Sorrento shall
have returned. Neither I nor you can leave it without arousing
suspicions, and in two days hence, we would no longer be equals; for
honor compels me to say that Taddeo has promised me his sister's hand,
and that the influence he exerts over his mother will without doubt
induce her to decide in my favor. If, however, you prefer to run that
risk, I will not oppose you."
"No no," said Maulear, who remembered what Taddeo had said to him in
relation to his sister, "I will fight for her I love at the very foot of
the altar--"
"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "let us avoid all scandal. The death of him
who falls may be easily accounted for; and as you said, we must never
suffer her we love to think that the happiness of one of us has cost the
other his life."
"So be it," said Maulear, "I accept your offer."
"To-morrow we will meet," said the Count.
The two enemies returned to the villa calm, and apparently undisturbed,
as if they had been the best friends possible. When they came into the
room again, Aminta sat by her mother. The eyes of the young girl,
however, turning constantly towards the door, seemed to expect the
return of the two young men with anxiety. Her cheeks became slightly
flushed when they entered. The Count approached her and besought her to
sing as he had often heard her. Aminta sat at the piano. Scarcely,
however, had she sung the first bar, than the door of the saloon opened
and Scorpione glided in and sat at the feet of the young girl, where he
laid down as he used to do; not, however, daring to look at her. Since
the scandal he had caused, he had been in disgrace with all the family,
and his mistress did not speak to him. The Count, who had become
acquainted with Tonio during his first visit to Sorrento, could not
repress a movement of horror at the appearance of the wretch. Far,
however, from being angry, Tonio seemed glad to see him, and testified
his pleasure by various affectionate signs. Gaetano, who was absent from
the room, just then returned, and at the request of Signora Rovero sang
several duets with Aminta. An extraordinary feeling seemed to influence
the young man, and only with the greatest difficulty could he get
through his part. When the evening was over, all retired. The next day
rolled by in embarrassing constraint to all the inhabitants of the
villa. An atmosphere of sadness surrounded them, like the dark clouds
which seem at the approach of a storm to overhang the earth. Count
Monte-Leone alone seemed master of himself, and sought to cure the
general _atony_ in which even Maulear was involved. A sensible
difference was remarked between the two men, each of whom loved the same
woman, while one of them must lose her forever. The Count did not take
his eyes from her, and seemed thus to lay in a provision of pleasure for
eternity, which seemed ready to open before him. Maulear, on the other
hand, was sad and pensive, and scarcely dared to lift his eyes to
Aminta, fearing, beyond doubt, that he would thus increase his sorrow
and distress, and diminish his courage when the crisis came. As the day
wore on. Aminta, feeling unwell, retired to her room. Signora Rovero,
accustomed to see her daughter have similar attacks, sat to play
_reversis_ with Count Brignoli and two other persons. Monte-Leone and
Maulear exchanged a mysterious sign and left the room nearly at the same
time. The night was not so beautiful as the preceding one had been. The
disk of the moon sometimes was clouded, and the wind whistled among the
trees of the park; all nature, deeply agitated, seemed to sympathize
with the thoughts which agitated the minds of the two enemies. The dark
and cloudy sky was a meet back-ground for such a picture.
Nine o'clock was struck by the bell of the Church at Sorrento, when two
men met at the cove we have described. One of them wrapped in a cloak
had a case under his arm. They went towards the bank and found the
gondola there. This boat was long, like those of Venice, in imitation of
which it had been made--had a little cabin in its stern, which now was
closed. In it the ladies used to take refuge when bad weather interfered
with their pleasure. The two men used all their strength to detach the
gondola from the shore. At last they succeeded. The most robust then
took one of the oars and pushed the boat from the bank. Just as they
were about to put off, a burst of demoniac laughter rung in their ears.
A very demon, a breathing spirit of evil, had witnessed all their
preparations, and had learned, from its shape, the contents of the box;
the idea of what they meditated caused him to utter this shout of
laughter. This demon was Scorpione. This deformity was the rival of
Monte-Leone and Maulear.
The blue and azure waves of the sea of Naples on that night seemed dark
as ink. The wind agitated them. Calm as they usually are, and like a
vast cemetery, the tombs of which open to receive the dead, they opened
before the prow of the boat like a grave, as they were intended to be.
At a distance of about three hundred fathoms the two adversaries ceased
to row and replaced the oars in the gondola. Without speaking, they took
out the pistols, examined their locks, and opened them.
"Signor," said Monte-Leone, "I thank you for the honor you have done me
in deigning to use my arms."
"The arms of Count Monte-Leone are not to be refused."
"A true hand gives them."
"A true hand receives them."
Nothing more was said. They then proceeded to place themselves at the
several ends of the boat. The Count uncovered himself. Maulear did also.
They let fall their cloaks and opened the linen which covered their
bosoms. They raised their pistols, took aim, and were about to fire.
* * * * *
The door of the cabin was thrown open, and Aminta rushed to the centre
of the gondola. Gaetano followed her. The weapons fell from the hands of
the rivals; and in terror and surprise they looked on this apparition.
Not a cry escaped from their lips. Pale and motionless, they looked at
each other without, at first, recognizing Aminta. Not a word passed
their lips. Terror-stricken, they fancied themselves in the presence of
some heavenly being, sent, like the angel of peace, to rescue them from
death. The voice of Aminta, full of trouble and terror, echoed over the
waves, like that of an angel, and alone aroused them from the ecstatic
state in which they were plunged.
"Signori," said she, "I might sooner have put a stop to this atrocious
duel, the very idea of which terrifies me; had it not have been so near
its completion, you would, perhaps, have denied the intention to fight
after all, within a few days. Thanks to the assistance of Gaetano, my
childhood's friend, who yesterday evening became acquainted with your
intention, I have by God's aid been able to prevent it. I wished my
presence to be grave and solemn, that you might never renew the attempt;
in order that, as it were, in the presence of God and of death, you
might know my fixed determination. I would not be burdened with an
existence which had cost the life of a fellow-being: you, Signor
Monte-Leone, by the revered manes of your father; and you, Marquis de
Maulear, by all you love, I conjure to swear that you will respect the
life of him I shall accept as my husband."
"Impose no such oath on me," said Monte-Leone.
"Let me die first," said Maulear.
"Not you only, but I will die also. If I do not hear you swear, I will
throw myself into the sea."
She placed her foot on the gunwale of the boat.
"We swear," said the rivals, rushing towards her.
"Thanks, Signori, I will trust your oath. Count Monte-Leone," said she,
"the Marquis de Maulear saved my life; you will also learn, hereafter,
how generously he resolved to save my honor when it was compromised. My
heart is de Maulear's, and I give him my hand."
The Marquis fell at Aminta's feet.
"To you," she continued, "Count Monte-Leone, I can offer only my respect
and esteem."
"Signorina," said Monte-Leone, with a voice full of dignity and despair,
"I accept even the boon you offer me; and henceforth he whom you love is
sacred to me."
By a violent effort over himself he extended his hand to Maulear. The
waves had borne the bark towards the shore, and all who had participated
in this scene returned safely to the villa. Signora Rovero, who did not
know what had passed, on the next day received a letter from
Monte-Leone, who, during the night, had left the villa.
VI.--MARRIAGE.
Nothing can describe the intensity of Count Monte-Leone's grief when he
was again in the carriage, which, on the evening before, had borne him
to happiness, and now took him back to Naples, sad and despairing. The
Count had overcome his own nature, and this was a great victory to one
who usually yielded to every prompting of passion. On this occasion he
had restrained himself and overcome his rage at his rival's triumph. He
overcame his agony at the wreck of his hopes. When he left Sorrento, and
awoke, so to say, from the stupefaction into which he had plunged, the
excitable brain and fiery heart again re-opened.
"I was a fool," said he, "I was a fool when I yielded my happiness to
another. I was yet more mad when I swore to respect his life, when
something far more violent than mine is wrested from me. Has he not
crushed and tortured my heart? I regret even my place of imprisonment,"
continued he. "There I had dreams of love; and had death reached me in
that abyss, I should have borne away hopes of the future which now are
crushed for ever."
Two torrents of tears rolled down the cheeks of this iron-hearted man,
over which they had rarely flown before.
On the morning after Monte-Leone's return to his hotel, he might have
been observed sitting before the portrait of the victim of Carlo III.,
the holy martyr of conscience, as he called his father, looking on his
noble brow with the most tender respect. We have spoken of the almost
superstitious faith of the Count in the fact that his father protected
him in all the events of his life. We have heard him call on his father
when about to be buried in the waves of the sea, and then become
resigned to death in the pious faith that his father waited for him.
Whenever danger menaced Monte-Leone; whenever he was unexpectedly
prosperous, or was involved in misfortune; whenever his life was lighted
up with prosperity, or misfortune overwhelmed him, he always looked to
this parent. He thought his pure spirit hovered above him; and
encouraged by this celestial aid, he trusted to the mutations of fortune
without fear or apprehension. When he looked at this adored image,
consolation seemed always to descend on his soul. Overcome by the
boundless love Aminta had inspired, he had forgotten the political
duties to which he was devoted. It seemed to him that this cause, to
which he had consecrated his life, had wonderfully diminished in
importance since his trial.
"Can it be, oh my father, that you were unwilling for my love to
interfere with the prospects of the duties imposed on me by your death?
Or, is it that in your pity you have feared that, in my dangers, the
angel to whom I have devoted my existence would be overwhelmed. If, oh
my father, it be thy will that I suffer these cruel torments; if I am to
reserve my energy for the cause I defend, be rejoiced at my sufferings,
for I am able to bear them. Ere long I will again see those who have
trusted me with their fate, and the suspicions of whom offend and wound
me. They will know my resolutions, and I shall know whether I shall
remain their leader or tread my weary way alone."
Just then the door of his cabinet opened, and a man appeared, or rather
a spectre, so much had his appearance been changed by fatigue and
suffering. He rushed into the arms of Monte-Leone.
"Taddeo," said he, "my God! what has happened? How pale you are! Why are
these tears in your eyes."
"My friend, La Felina has deceived me only by a day. She was, however,
mistaken herself. To-morrow, said she, you will _love me less_. To-day I
love her no more. You see I have done better than she even hoped."
He fell, with his heart crushed, on a chair, and sobbed.
"Speak, speak to me," said Monte-Leone, forgetful of his friend's
suffering in his own.
"As I wrote to you," said Taddeo, "I determined to follow her, and find
out her retreat at all events. Had it been necessary, I would have
followed her to the end of the world. Leaving the horse I had in a
street near the theatre, I went to the door whence I supposed La Felina
would come. I had been there an hour when I saw a post-carriage
approach. A few moments had elapsed when a woman, accompanied by a
servant, left the theatre, and after looking anxiously around, to be
sure that she was unobserved, entered the carriage. The valet got up
behind, and the postillion, who had not left the saddle, whipped up his
horses and left in a gallop. I mounted my horse and followed the
carriage, keeping just two hundred yards behind it. The carriage was
driven towards Rome, and at every post-house the horses were changed, on
which occasions I kept out of sight, and then resumed my pursuit. Thus
we travelled about fifteen leagues; when, however, we reached the eighth
post-house, the carriage spring became broken and the body was thrown
into a ditch. I rushed towards it, opened the door, and, in a fainting
condition, received the person it contained. I bore her to the road,
and, to give her air, threw aside her veil. I uttered a cry of rage and
agony. The woman in my arms was not La Felina. The sound of my voice
aroused the stranger's attention, and she looked at me as if she were
afraid. 'Who are you?' said she, trembling. 'What do you wish?' 'To save
La Felina, whom I thought was here.' 'La Felina! You were in search of
La Felina!' 'Certainly.' 'And you are the horseman whom Giuseppe, the
courier, told me at the last relay, followed us, are you?' 'Certainly I
am.' The woman examined her arms, etc., to see that she was not hurt,
looked at me most ironically, and then bursting into laughter, said:
'Well, after all, the trick was well played.' 'What trick?' 'The one La
Felina has played on all her lovers, the most ardent of whom you are.' I
looked at the woman so earnestly, and sorrow seemed so deeply marked on
my countenance, that I saw an expression of pity steal over her face.
'Poor young man!' said she, 'then you really loved her?' 'I did, and if
I lose her I shall die.' 'Come,' said she, 'you will not die. If all who
have told me the same thing died, Naples would be like the catacombs of
Rome. Come with me,' she continued, 'to the post-house, for now I feel
by the pain I suffer that my arm is out of place. There I will tell you
all.' I went with the woman to the post-house, when a few drops of
cordial soon invigorated her. 'This is the explanation of what is a
matter of so much surprise to you. Perhaps I should be silent; but you
seem to love La Felina so truly, and a young man who really loves is so
interesting that I will tell you all.' The circumlocution of this woman
almost ran me mad! She finally said: 'My mistress was afraid some of her
lovers would follow her, and wishing to conceal the route she had gone,
took the idea of substituting me for herself, and sent me to Rome, where
she is to write me her destination. You followed me instead of her. She
was right, and had good reason to act as she did.' 'Then she has not yet
left,' asked I, thinking of a means to rejoin her. 'She was to leave
Naples,' said the woman, 'an hour after me, and is, no doubt, now far
from the city.' 'And does she travel alone on these dangerous roads?'
said I. 'Oh, no, she travels with him.' 'With him! of whom, for heaven's
sake, do you speak?' 'Ah,' said the woman, 'La Felina would never
forgive me if I told you. He, too, might make me pay dearly for my
indiscretion.' I begged, I besought the woman to conceal nothing from
me, and gave her all the money I had, promising to increase the sum
tenfold. She yielded at last, and told me that _La Felina_ had left
Naples with her lover. Her lover! do you hear?" continued Taddeo, in a
delirium of rage, "and her lover is the minister of police, the Duke of
Palma."
"More perfidious than the water!" said Monte-Leone, contemptuously.
"Poor Taddeo!"
"Do not pity me," said the latter, in a paroxysm of terrible rage. "I
was to be pitied when I loved her, when a divinity dwelt in my soul,
when my love was ecstatic and endowed her with an innocence, which my
reason told me she did not possess. I was fool enough to deceive myself.
Now this woman to be sure is but a woman; she is less than feminine, as
the mistress of a rich and powerful noble, the Duke of Palmo. Love might
have killed me, but contempt has stifled love."
His head fell on his chest, and he wept. He wept as man weeps for a
departed passion, which has vivified his heart, but which yields to
death, or worse still, another passion.
"My friend," said Monte-Leone, "your grief is cruel, but I suffer more
intensely!" Monte-Leone told Taddeo what had taken place at Sorrento.
The friends were again locked in the arms of each other, and mingled
their tears--the one for the loss of an _earthly passion_, and the other
for a _celestial affection_, as Monte-Leone characterized the two
sentiments when he read a letter of Rovero's. Taddeo had appointed the
following day for his return to Sorrento, and faithful to his promise he
left Naples for the villa of his mother. The farewell of the two men was
sad and touching, for a long time must elapse before they met again.
Monte-Leone had resolved to leave Naples for some time. The proximity of
Sorrento lacerated his heart, and to see her he loved the wife of
another would to him be insupportable. Taddeo was aware of the reasons
why the Count had determined to travel, and had he no mother he would
also have been anxious to leave the country.
"Taddeo," said Monte-Leone to his friend, when the former was about to
set out, "I have a favor to ask of you on which I place an immense
estimate, and for which I must be indebted to your love. Here," said he,
presenting the magnificent emerald wrought by Benvenuto Cellini, "take
this ring, and beg your sister to accept it. Tell her, as she offered me
her friendship, I have a right to send a testimonial to her of my
devotion." Then with a voice trembling with emotion, he added, "Say this
ring preserved my life. This will not add to its value in her eyes; but
tell her in confidence the history of this ring, and some day," said he,
with a bitter smile, "it may be looked on as a curious relic."