Sleep well! Sleep well!To music’s spell;Thus hushing theeTo reverie,Like ev’ning breeze,Through whisp’ring trees;Till mem’ry and the layFloat dreamily away.Sleep well! Sleep well!May dreams bring nearAll who are dear,With festal flow’rsFrom early hours;While, softly free,This melodyDrifts through thy tranquil dream,Like lilies on a stream.Sleep well! Sleep well!
Sleep well! Sleep well!To music’s spell;Thus hushing theeTo reverie,Like ev’ning breeze,Through whisp’ring trees;Till mem’ry and the layFloat dreamily away.Sleep well! Sleep well!May dreams bring nearAll who are dear,With festal flow’rsFrom early hours;While, softly free,This melodyDrifts through thy tranquil dream,Like lilies on a stream.Sleep well! Sleep well!
Sleep well! Sleep well!To music’s spell;Thus hushing theeTo reverie,Like ev’ning breeze,Through whisp’ring trees;Till mem’ry and the layFloat dreamily away.Sleep well! Sleep well!
May dreams bring nearAll who are dear,With festal flow’rsFrom early hours;While, softly free,This melodyDrifts through thy tranquil dream,Like lilies on a stream.Sleep well! Sleep well!
Soften his hard, cold heart! and showThe power which in forbearance lies,And let him feel that mercy nowIs better than old sacrifice!J. G.Whittier.
Soften his hard, cold heart! and showThe power which in forbearance lies,And let him feel that mercy nowIs better than old sacrifice!J. G.Whittier.
Soften his hard, cold heart! and showThe power which in forbearance lies,And let him feel that mercy nowIs better than old sacrifice!J. G.Whittier.
Peter Barkerbelonged to that numerous class, who are neither better nor worse than other men. Left an orphan in his infancy, the paths of life were rough and lonely at the outset. He had a violent temper and a good heart. The first was often roused into activity, and punished with energy kindred to its own; the last remained almost undeveloped, for want of genial circumstances and reciprocated affection. One softening gleam fell upon his early path, and he loved it like the sunshine, without comprehending the great law of attraction that made it so very pleasant. When he attended school in the winter months, he always walked home with a little girl named Mary Williams. On the play-ground he was with her, always ready to do battle with anybody who disobliged her. Their comrades laughed, and called him Mary’s beau; and they blushed and felt awkward, though they had no idea what courting meant. Things had arrived at this state of half-revealed consciousness, he being fourteen years old, and Mary twelve, when her friends removed to the West, and the warm, bright influence passed out of his life. He never rightly knew whether he was in love with Mary; but years afterwards, when people talked to him about marrying, he thought of her, wondering where she was, and whether she remembered him. When he drove his cows home from pasture, the blackberry bushes on the way brought up visions of his favourite school-mate, with her clean cape-bonnet thrown back, her glossy brown hair playing with the winds, and her innocent face smiling upon him with friendly greeting. “She was the best and prettiest child I ever saw,” he often said to himself; “I wonder whether she would be as pleasant now.” Sometimes he thought of going to the West and seeking her out. But he knew not where to find her; his funds were small, and his courage fell at the thought; “Oh, it is many years ago since we were children together. Perhaps I should find her married.” Gradually this one ray of poetry faded out of his soul, and all his thoughts fell into the common prosaic mould. His lot was cast with rough people, who required much work, and gave little sympathy. The image of his little mate floated farther and farther away, and more and more seldom her clear blue eyes smiled upon him through the rainbow-mists of the past, or fromthe air-castles of the future. In process of time, he married, after the same fashion that a large proportion of men do; because it was convenient to have a wife, and there was a woman of good character in the neighbourhood, willing to marry whoever first offered her a respectable home. Her character bore the stamp of harmless mediocrity. She was industrious and patient, but ignorant, dull, and quietly obstinate. The neighbours said she was well suited to him, he was so rough and passionate; and in the main he thought so himself; though her imperturbable calmness sometimes fretted him, as a rock chafes the lashing ocean into foam. The child that was born to them, they both loved better than they had ever loved; and according to their light, they sincerely strove to do their duty. His bodily wants were well supplied, often at the cost of great weariness and self-sacrifice; but their own rude training had given them few good ideas concerning the culture of an immortal soul. The infant did more for them, than they for him. Angelic influences, unseen and unheard amid the hard struggles of their outward life, became visible and audible through the unconscious innocence of their little one. For the second time in his life, a vision of beauty and love gleamed across the rugged path of that honest, laborious man. Vague impressions of beauty he had constantly received from the great panorama of the universe. His heart sometimes welcomed a bright flower in the sunshine, or a cluster of lilies on the stream; he marvelled at the splendor of the rainbow, and sometimes gazed reverently at the sun sinking to rest in his rich drapery of purple and gold. But these were glimpses of the Infinite; their beauty did not seem to appertain tohim; it did not enter like a magic charm into the sphere of his own existence, as did the vision of Mary Williams and his own little Joe. The dormant tenderness there was in him leaped up at the smile of his babe, and every pressure of the little fingers made a dimple in the father’s heart. Like the outbursts of spring, after a long cold winter, was this revelation of infancy to him. When he plodded home, after a hard day’s work, it rested him body and soul to have the little one spring into his arms for a kiss, or come toddling along, tilting his little porringer of milk, in eagerness to eat his supper on father’s knee.
But though this new influence seemed to have an almost miraculous power over his nature, it could not quite subdue the force of temperament and habit. As the darling babe grew into boyhood, he was sometimes cherished with injudicious fondness, and sometimes repelled by bursts of passion, that made him run and hide himself from the over-indulgent father. Mr. Barker had himself been educated under the dispensation of punishment, rather than attraction, and he believed in it most firmly. If his son committed a fault, hethought of no other cure than severity. If a neighbour did him an ill turn, he would observe, in presence of the boy, “I will watch my chance to pay him for it.” If the dog stole their dinner, when they were at work in the woods, he would say, “Run after him, Joe, and give the rascal a sound beating.” When he saw the child fighting with some larger lad, who had offended him, he would praise his strength and courage, and tell him never to put up with an insult. He was not aware that all these things were education, and doing far more to form his son’s character than any thing he learned at school. He did not know it, because his thoughts had never been directed toward it. The only moral instruction he had ever received, had been from the minister of the parish; and he usually preached about the hardheartedness of Jews two thousand years ago, rather than the errors and temptations of men and boys, who sat before him.
Once he received an admonition from his neighbour Goodwin, which, being novel and unexpected, offended him, as an impertinent interference with his rights. He was riding home with Joe, then a lad of thirteen, when the horse took fright at a piece of white paper, that the wind blew across the road. Mr. Barker was previously in an ill humor, because a sudden squall of rain had wet some fine hay, all ready for the barn. Pursuing the system on which he had himself been educated, he sprangto the ground and cudgelled the poor beast unmercifully. Mr. Goodwin, who was passing by, inquired the cause of so much severity, and remonstrated against it; assuring him that a horse was never cured of bad habits by violence. He spoke mildly, but Mr. Barker was irritated, and having told him to mind his own business, he continued to whip the poor frightened animal. The humane neighbour turned away, saying, “That is a bad lesson for your son, Mr. Barker.”
“If you say much more, I will flog you, instead of the horse,” muttered the angry man. “It is’nthishorse. What business is it tohim?” he added, turning to his son.
He did not reflect in what a narrow circuit he was nailing up the sympathies of his child, by such words as those. But when he was reseated in the wagon, he did not feel altogether pleased with himself, and his inward uneasiness was expended on the horse. The poor bewildered animal, covered with foam, and breathing short and hard, tried his utmost to do his master’s will, as far as he could understand it. But, nervous and terrified, constantly in expectation of the whip, he started at every sound. If he went too fast, he was reined in with a sudden jerk, that tore the corners of his mouth; if he went too slow, the cruel crack of the whip made him tear over the ground, to be again restrained by the violent jerk.
The sun was setting, and threw a radiant glowon every tree and little shrub, jewelled by the recent shower. Cows grazed peacefully in verdant hollows; birds sang; a little brook rippled cosily by the wayside; winds played gently with the flowers, and kissed the raindrops from their faces. But all this loveliness passed unheeded by those human hearts, because they had at the moment no inward beauty to harmonize with nature. Perhaps the familiar landscape seemed quite otherwise to the poor horse, than it would have done, had he travelled along those pleasant paths guided by a wise and gentle hand.
Had Joseph continued to be little Joe, his eager welcome and loving prattle might soon have tamed the evil spirit in his father’s soul that night. But he was a tall lad, who had learned to double up his fists, and tell other boys they had better let him alone, if they knew what was good for themselves. He still loved his father better than any thing else in the world, but the charm and the power of infancy were gone. He reflected back the vexed spirit, like a too faithful mirror. He was no longer a transparent, unconscious medium for the influence of angels.
Indeed, paternal affection gradually became a hardening, rather than a softening influence. Ambition for his son increased the love of accumulation; and the gratification of this propensity narrowed his sympathies more and more. Joseph had within him the unexpanded germs of some noblequalities; but he inherited his father’s passionate temperament with his mother’s obstinacy; and the education of such circumstances as I have described turned his energies and feelings into wrong channels. The remark, “It is’nthishorse; what business is it tohim?” heard in his boyhood, expressed the views and habits of his later years. But his mental growth, such as it was, pleased his father, who often said exultingly, “There is no danger of Joe. He knows how to fight his own way through the world.”
Such was their mutual product of character, when Mr. Barker was summoned to a jury, in a case involving life or death. He was vexed to be called away from his employments, and had never reflected at all upon the fearful responsibility of a juryman. James Lloyd, the prisoner, was a very young man, and his open, honest countenance gave no indication of capacity for crime; but he was accused of murder, and circumstantial evidence was strong against him. It was proved that a previous quarrel had existed between him and the murdered man; and that they had been seen to take the same road, the prisoner in a state of intoxication, the night the violent deed was committed. Most people thought there was no doubt of his guilt; others deemed the case by no means certain. Two of the jury were reluctant to convict him, andwishedto find the evidence insufficient; the penalty was so dreadful, and their feelings were so much touchedby the settled misery of his youthful countenance. Others talked sternly of justice, and urged that the Scripture demanded blood for blood. Of this number was Peter Barker. From the beginning, he was against the prisoner. The lawyer who pleaded for him had once been employed in a law-suit against Mr. Barker, and had gained the cause for his client. The juryman cherished a grudge against him for his sarcastic eloquence on that occasion. Moreover, it so happened that neighbour Goodwin, who years ago had reproved his severity to the horse, took compassionate interest in the accused. He often consulted with his lawyer, and seemed to watch the countenances of the jury anxiously. It was a busy season of the year, and the jury were impatient to be at their workshops and farms. Mr. Barker would not have admitted it, even to himself, but all these circumstances helped to increase his hardness against the prisoner. By such inconceivably slight motives is the conduct of men often swayed on the most important occasions.
“If the poor young fellow really did commit the act,” said one of the jury, “it seems likely that he did it in a state of intoxication. I was once drunk myself; and they told me afterward that I had quarrelled with a man, and knocked him down a high flight of steps; but I had no recollection of it. If I had killed him, and they had hung me for it, what an awful thing it would have been for my poor father and mother. It taught me a good lesson,for I was never again intoxicated. Perhaps this poor youth might profit by his dreadful experience, if a chance were allowed him. He is so young! and there is nothing bad in his countenance.”
“As for his womanly face,” replied Mr. Barker, “there is no trusting to that. The worst villains are not always the worst-looking. As for his being intoxicated, there is no telling whether it is true or not. That cunning lawyer may have made up the story, for the sake of exciting compassion; and the witnesses may be more than willing enough to believe every thing strange in the prisoner’s conduct was the result of intoxication. Moreover, it won’t do to admit that plea in extenuation; for then, don’t you see, a man who wants to kill his enemy has only to get drunk in the first place? If anybody killed my Joe, drunk or not drunk, I should want him to swing for it.”
By such remarks, urged in his vehement way, he swayed minds more timid and lenient than his own, without being fully aware of what he was doing. He was foreman of the jury; and when the awful moment arrived on which depended the life of a fellow being, he pronounced the word “Guilty,” in a strong, firm voice. The next instant his eye fell on the prisoner, standing there so pale, and still, looking at him with such fixed despair. There was something in the face that moved him strongly. He turned quickly away, but the vision was before him; always, and everywhere before him. “Thisis weakness,” he said to himself. “I have merely done my duty. The law required it. I have done my duty.” But still the pale young face looked at him; always, and everywhere, it looked at him.
He feared to touch a newspaper, for he wished not to know when the day of execution would arrive. But officious neighbours, ignorant of his state of mind, were eager to talk upon the subject; and when drawn into such discourse, he strove to fortify his own feelings by dwelling on all the worst circumstances of the case. Notwithstanding all his efforts, the night preceding the execution, he had troubled dreams, in which that ghastly young face was always conspicuous. When he woke, he saw it in the air. It walked beside him as he ploughed the fields, it stood before him on the threshold of his own door. All that the merciful juryman had suggested came before him with painful distinctness.Couldthere be a doubt that the condemned had really committed murder?Washe intoxicated?Mighthe have happened to be intoxicated for thefirsttime in his life? And he so young! But he drove these thoughts away; saying ever to himself, “The law required it. I merely did my duty.” Still every thing looked gloomy to him. The evening clouds seemed like funeral palls, and a pale despairing face gazed at him forever.
For the first time in his manhood, he craved a companion in the darkness. Neighbours came in, and described the execution; and while they talked,the agitated juryman beat the fire-brands into a thousand pieces, and spoke never a word. They told how the youth had written a long letter to his mother, and had died calm and resigned. “By the way, perhaps you knew his mother, Mr. Barker,” said one; “they tell me she used to live in this neighbourhood. Do you remember a girl by the name of Mary Williams?”
The tongs dropped from Mr. Barker’s hand, as he gasped out, “Mary Williams! Was heherson? God forgive me! Was heherson?” And the strong man laid his head upon the table and wept.
There was silence in the room. At last, the loquacious neighbour said, in a subdued tone, “I am sorry I hurt your feelings. I didn’t know she was a friend of yours.”
The troubled juryman rose hastily, walked to the window, looked out at the stars, and, clearing his choked voice, said, “It is many years since I knew her. But she was a good-tempered, pretty girl; and it seems but yesterday that we used to go together to pick our baskets full of berries. And so she washismother? I remember now there was something in his eye that seemed familiar to me.”
Perhaps the mention of Mary’s beauty, or the melting mood, so unusual with her husband, might have excited a vague feeling of jealousy in Mrs. Barker. Whatever might have been the motive, she said, in her demure way, without raising her eyes from her knitting, “Well, it was natural enoughto suppose the young manhada mother; and other mothers are likely to have hearts that can feel, as well as this Mary Williams.”
He only answered by shaking his head slowly, and repeating, as if to himself, “Poor Mary! and so he washerson.”
Joseph came in, and the details of the dreadful scene were repeated and dwelt upon, as human beings are prone to dwell on all that excites strong emotion. To him the name of Mary Williams conjured up no smiling visions of juvenile love; and he strove to fortify his father’s relenting feelings, by placing in a strong light all the arguments in favour of the prisoner’s guilt. The juryman was glad to be thus fortified, and replied in a firm, reassured voice, “At all events, I did my duty.” Yet, for months after, the pale young face looked at him despairingly from the evening air, and came between him and the sunshine. But time, which softens all things, drifted the dreary spectre into dim distance; and Mr. Barker’s faculties were again completely absorbed in making money for his son.
Joseph was called a fine, promising young man; but his conduct was not altogether satisfactory to his parents. He was fond of dress and company, and his impetuous temperament not unfrequently involved him in quarrels. On two or three of these occasions, they feared he had been a little excited by drink. But he was, in reality, a good-hearted fellow, and, like his rough father, had undevelopedgerms of deep tenderness within him. His father’s life was bound up within his; his mother loved him with all the energy of which her sluggish nature was capable; and notwithstanding the inequalities of his violent and capricious temper, the neighbours loved him also.
What, then, was their consternation, when it was rumoured that on his twenty-fourth birth-day he had been arrested for murder! And, alas! it was too true that his passions had thus far over-mastered his reason. He wished to please a young girl in the vicinity; and she treated him coolly, because a rival had informed her that he was seen intoxicated, and in that state had spoken over-boldly of being sure of her love. He drank again, to drown his vexation; and while the excitement of the draught was on him, he met the man who informed against him. His exulting rival was injudicious enough to exclaim, “Ho! here you are, drunk again! What a promising fellow for a husband!” Unfortunately, an axe was at hand, and, in the double fury of drink and rage, he struck with it again and again. One hour after, he would have given all he ever hoped to possess, nay, he would gladly have died, could he have restored the life he had so wantonly destroyed.
Thus, Mr. Barker was again brought into a court of justice on an affair of life and death. How differently all questions connected with the subject presented themselves now! As he sat beside thatdarling son, the pride of his life, his only hope on earth, oh, how he longed for words of fire, to plead that his young existence might be spared for repentance and amendment! How well he remembered the juryman’s plea for youth and intoxication! and with what an agony of self-reproach he recalled his own hard answer! With intense anxiety he watched the countenance of the jury for some gleams of compassion; but ever and anon, a pale young face loomed up between him and them, and gazed at him with fixed despair. The vision of other years returned to haunt him; and Joseph, his best beloved, his only one, stood beside it, pale and handcuffed, ashehad been. The voice that pronounced his son guilty sounded like an awful echo of his own; and he seemed to hear Mary Williams whisper, “Andmyson also was very young.”
That vigorous off-shoot from his own existence, so full of life and feeling, and, alas, of passion, which misguides us all—he must die! No earthly power can save him. May theAll Mercifulsustain that poor father, as he watches the heavy slumber of his only son in that dark prison; and while he clasps the cold hand, remembers so well the dimpled fingers he used to hold in his, when little Joe sat upon his knee and prattled childish love.
And theAll Mercifulwaswith him, and sent influences to sustain him through that terrible agony. It did not break his heart; it meltedand subdued him. The congealed sympathies of his nature flowed under this ordeal of fire; and, for the first time, he had a realizing sense thateveryhuman being is, or has been,somebody’slittle Joe.
“How kind you are to me!” said the prisoner, in answer to his soothing words and affectionate attentions.
He replied meekly, “Would I hadalwaysbeen so!” Then turning his face away, and earnestly pressing Joseph’s hand, he said, in an agitated voice, “Tell me truly, my son, does it ever occur to you, that I may have been to blame for this great misfortune that has befallen you?”
“You, dear father!” he exclaimed. “I do not understand what you mean.”
Still keeping his face turned away, and speaking with effort, Mr. Barker said, “Do you remember once, when I was beating my horse cruelly, (you were a boy of twelve then) neighbour Goodwin remarked to me, that I was giving a bad lesson to my son? I was angry with him at the time; and perhaps that resentment helped to make me hard toward a poor young fellow who is dead and gone; but his words keep ringing in my earsnow. May God, in his mercy, forgive me, if I have ever done or said any thing to lead you into this great sin! Tell me, Joseph, do you ever think it might have happened otherwise, if you had had a less violent father?”
“My poor father!” exclaimed the prisoner, pressing his hand convulsively, “it almost breaks my heart to hear you thus humble yourself before me, who so little deserve it at your hands. Only forgive memyviolent outbreaks, dear father! for in the midst of them all, I always loved you. You have always sought to do me good, and would rather have died, than have led me into any harm. But since I have been here in prison, I have thought of many things, that never occurred to me before. The world and all things in it are placed before me in a different light. It seems to me men are all wrong in their habits and teachings. I see now that retaliation and hatred are murder. I have read often, of late, the exhortation of Jesus to forgive our brother his offences, not only seven times, but seventy times seven; and I feel that thus itoughtto be with human beings in all their relations with each other. What I have done cannot be undone; but if it will be any satisfaction to you, rest assured that I did not intend to kill him. I was wretched, and I was fool enough to drink; and then I knew not what I did. Violent as my temper has been, I never conceived the thought of taking his life.”
“I know it, my son; I know it,” he said; “and that reflection consoles me in some degree. While I have a loaf of bread, I will share it with the mother and sister of him you——” he hesitated, shuddered, and added in a low deep tone—“you murdered.”
“I was going to ask that of you,” replied the prisoner; “and one thing more, dear father; try to bear up bravely under this terrible blow, for the sake of my poor patient mother.”
“I will, I will,” he answered; “and now my dear misguided boy, say you forgive your poor father for the teachings of his violent words and actions. I did not foresee the consequences, my child. I did it in my ignorance. But it was wrong, wrong, all wrong.”
The young man threw himself on his father’s bosom, and they had no other utterance but tears.
* * * * *
After his only strong link to life was broken by the violent arm of the law, Mr. Barker was a changed man; silent, and melancholy, patient, gentle, and forgiving to all. He never complained of the great sorrow that wasted away his life; but the neighbours saw how thin and sad he looked, and the roughest natures felt compassion for him.
Every year, she who had been Mary Williams received a hundred dollar note. He never whispered to any mortal that it was sent by the juryman who helped to condemn her son to death; but when he died, a legacy of a thousand dollars to her showed that he never forgot the pale despairing face, that for years had haunted his dreams.
Spirit, who waftest me where’er I will,And see’st with finer eyes what infants see;Feeling all lovely truth,With the wise health of everlasting youth.Leigh Hunt.
Spirit, who waftest me where’er I will,And see’st with finer eyes what infants see;Feeling all lovely truth,With the wise health of everlasting youth.Leigh Hunt.
Spirit, who waftest me where’er I will,And see’st with finer eyes what infants see;Feeling all lovely truth,With the wise health of everlasting youth.Leigh Hunt.
Inthese rational days, most people suppose that fairies do not exist; but they are mistaken. The mere fact that fairies have been imagined proves that there are fairies; for fancy, in her oddest freaks, never paints any thing which has no existence. She merely puts invisible agencies into visible forms, and embodies spiritual influences in material facts. It seems a wild fiction when we read of beautiful young maidens floating in gossamer, and radiant with jewels, who suddenly change into mocking old hags, or jump off into some slimy pool, in the form of a frog; or like the fair Melusina, doomed to become a fish on certain days of the year, and those who happened to see her in that plight could never again see her as the Fair Melusina. Yet who that has grown from youth to manhood, who that has been in love and out of love, has not found the fairies of his life playing him just such tricks?
In the fascinating ballet of Giselle, so poetic inconception, and so gracefully expressed in music, there is deep and tender meaning for all who have lived long, or lived much. Is not Memory a fairy spirit, like Giselle, dancing round graves, hovering between us and the stars, flitting across our woodland rambles, throwing us garlands and love-tokens from the past, coming to us in dreams, so real that we clasp our loved ones, and gliding away when morning gleams on the material world?
Oh yes therearefairies, both good and bad; and they are with us according as we obey or disobey their laws of being. One, with whom I made acquaintance as soon as I could run alone, has visited me ever since; though sometimes she pouts and hides herself, and will not soon come back. I am always sad when she is gone; for she is a wonder-working little sprite, and she takes all my wealth away with her. If you were to gaze on a field of dandelions, ifshewere not at your elbow, you would merely think they were pretty posies, and would make excellent greens for dinner. But ifshetouches you, and renders you clairvoyant, they will surprise you with their golden beauty, and every blossom will radiate a halo. Sometimes she fills the whole air with rainbows, as if Nature were out for a dance, with all her ribbons on. A sup of water, taken from a little brook, in the hollow of her hand, has made me more merry than would a goblet of wine. She has often filled my apron with opals, emeralds, and sapphires, and Iwas never weary of looking at them; but those who had wandered away from the fairy, and forgotten her treasures, sneered at my joy, and said, “Fie upon thee! Wilt thoualwaysbe a child? They are nothing but pebbles.”
Last Spring, my friendly little one guided me to a silver-voiced waterfall at Weehawken, where a group of German forget-me-nots were sitting with their feet in the water. Their little blue eyes laughed when they saw me. I asked what made them smile in my face so lovingly. They answered, “Because we hear a pleasant song, andyouknow what it says to us.” It was not I who knew; it was the fairy; but she had magnetized me, and so I heard all that was said to her.
A wealthy invalid passed by, afflicted with dyspepsia. He did not see the flowers smile, or hear the waterfall singing his flowing melody of love to the blue eyes that made his home so beautiful. He had parted from the fairy long ago. He told her she was a fool, and that none would ever grow rich, who suffered themselves to be led by her. She laughed and said, “Thou dost not know that I alone am rich; always, and every where, rich. But go thy ways, vain worldling. Shouldst thou come back to me, I will ask if thou hast ever found any thing equal to my gems and rainbows.” She gazed after him for a moment, and laughed again, as she exclaimed, “Aha, let him try!”
The gay little spirit spoke truly; for indeedthere is nothing so real as her unrealities. Those who have parted from her complain that she made them large promises in their early time, and has never kept them; but to those who remain with her trustfully, she more than fulfils all. Forthemshe covers the moss-grown rock with gold, and fills the wintry air with diamonds. It is many years since she first began to tell me her fine stories. But this very last New Year’s day she led me out into the country, and lighted up all the landscape as I went, so that it seemed lovelier than the rarest pictures. The round bright face of the moon smiled at me, and said, “I know thee well. Thou hast built many castles up here. Come to them whenever thou wilt. Their rose-coloured drapery, with rainbow fringes, is more real than silken festoons in Broadway palaces.” I was glad at heart, and I said to my fairy, “The sheriff cannot attachourfurniture, or sellourcastles at auction.” “No indeed,” she replied. “He cannot evenseethem. He has forgotten me. He thinks all the gems I show are only pebbles, and all my prismatic mantles mere soap-bubbles.”
This simple little sprite says much richer things than the miracles she does. Her talk is all alive. She is a poet, though she knows it not; or, ratherbecauseshe knows it not. She tells me the oddest and most brilliant things; and sometimes I write them down imperfectly, as well as I can remember them. Matter-of-fact persons shake theirheads, and say, “What on earth does the woman mean? I never see and hear such things.” And grave people raise their spectacles and inquire, “Can you point me out any moral, or any use, in all this stuff?” “There is no sense in it,” says one; “The writer is insane,” says another; “She’s an enthusiast, but we must pardonthatweakness,” says a third, more magnanimous than others. The fairy and I have great fun together, while we listen to their jokes and apologies. The frolicsome little witch knows very well that it isshewho says the things that puzzle them; andsheknows the meaning very well; but she never tells it to those who “speer questions.”
She is a philosopher, too, as well as a poet, without being aware of it. She babbles all manner of secrets, without knowing that theyaresecrets. If you were to propound to her a theory concerning the relation between tones and colours, she would fold her wings over her face and drop asleep. But sound a flute, and she will leap up and exclaim, “Hear that beautiful, bright azure sound!” And if oboës strike in, she will smile all over, and say, “Now the yellow flowers are singing. How pert andnaïvethey are!” It was she who led the little English girl to the piano, and put a melody of cowslip meadows in her brain; and as the child improvised, she smiled, and said ever to herself, “This is the tune with the golden spots.”
But this genial little fairy is easily grieved andestranged. Her movements are impulsive, she abhors calculators, and allows no questions. If she shows you a shining gem, be careful not to inquire what would be its price in the market; otherwise its lustre will fade instantly, and you will have to ask others whether the thing you hold in your hand has any beauty or value. If she beckons into blooming paths, follow her in simple faith, whether she leads to castles in the moon, or lifts up a coverlet of leaves to peep at little floral spirits sound asleep, with their arms twined round the fragrant blossoms of the arbutus. She carries with her Aladdin’s lamp, and all the things she looks upon are luminous with transfigured glory. Take heed not to inquire where the path will lead to, whether others are accustomed to walk in it, or whether they will believe your report of its wonderful beauty. Above all, be careful not to wish that such visions may be kept from the souls of others, that your own riches may seem marvellous and peculiar. Wishthisbut for a single instant and you will find yourself all alone, in cold gray woods, where owls hoot, and spectral shadows seem to lie in wait for you. But if with a full heart you crave forgiveness for the selfish thought, and pray earnestly that the divine Spirit of Beauty may be revealed to all, and not one single child of God be excluded from the radiant palace, then will the fairy come to you again, and say, “Now thou and I are friends again. Give me thy hand, and I will leadthee into gardens of paradise. Because thou hast not wished to shut upanything, therefore thou shalt possessallthings.” Instantly the cold gray woods shine through a veil of gold; the shadows dance, and all the little birds sing, “Joy be with thee.” A spirit nods welcome to you from every cluster of dried grass; a soul beams through the commonest pebble; ferns bow before you more gracefully than the plumes of princes; and verdant mosses kiss your feet more softly than the richest velvets of Genoa.
Trust the good little fairy. Be not disturbed by the mockery of those who despise her simple joys. She said truly, “I alone am rich; always, and everywhere, rich.”
The busy bees, up coming from the meadowsTo the sweet cedar, fed him with soft flowers,Because the Muse had filled his mouth with nectar.Leigh Hunt.
The busy bees, up coming from the meadowsTo the sweet cedar, fed him with soft flowers,Because the Muse had filled his mouth with nectar.Leigh Hunt.
The busy bees, up coming from the meadowsTo the sweet cedar, fed him with soft flowers,Because the Muse had filled his mouth with nectar.Leigh Hunt.
Wergelandwas one of the most popular poets Norway has ever produced. He rhymed with wonderful facility, and sometimes, when a rush of inspiration came upon him, he would write verses during a whole day and night, with untiring rapidity, scarcely pausing to eat, or to rest his hand. In the poems which expressed his own inward life there was often something above common comprehension; but, in addition to those higher efforts, he wrote a great number of verses for the peasantry, in all the peculiar dialects of their various districts. The merest trifle that flowed from his pen is said to have contained some sparkling fancy, or some breathing of sentiments truly poetic. He was an impassioned lover of nature, and in his descriptions of natural objects was peculiar for making them seem alive. Thus in one of his poems he describes the winds coming through clefts of rock, forming a powerful current in thefiord, driving white-crested waves before them, like a flock of huge storm-birds. A lawyer, who passes through the current in a boat, imagines the great waves to be angry spectres of the many poor clients whom he has wronged. He throws one ten dollars, another twenty, another fifty, to pacify them. At last, a wondrous tall wave stretches forth his long neck, as if to swallow him. The terrified lawyer throws him a hundred dollars, imploring him to be merciful. Just then, the boat turns a corner of the rock, out of the current. The great wave eagerly bends his long arm round the rock, and tries to clutch him; then retreats, disappointed at his escape.
Wergeland had a strongly marked head, full of indentations, like a bold rocky shore. He was an athletic, earnest, jovial man, and enjoyed life with a keen zest. His manner of telling a story was inimitably funny and vivacious. While he was settling his spectacles, before he began to speak, a smile would go mantling all over the lower part of his face, announcing that something good was coming. His soul went forth with warm spontaneousness to meet all forms of being; and this lively sympathy seemed to attract both men and animals toward him magnetically. He was accustomed to saddle his own horse, which stood loose in the barn, among pet rabbits, pet pigeons, pet birds, all sorts of poultry, and a favourite cat. These creatures all lived in the greatest friendship together. Theyknew their master’s voice perfectly well; and the moment he opened the door, they would all come neighing, purring, cooing, singing, crowing, capering and fluttering about him. His cottage was a picturesque place, ornamented with all sorts of mosses, vines, and flowers. Under it was a grotto made of rocks and shells, in which were an old hermit, with a long beard, and various other grotesque figures, carved in wood. The grotto was occasionally lighted up in the evening, and the images, seen among flickering shadows, excited great awe in the minds of peasant children.
This gifted and genial man, who lived in such loving companionship with nature, was called away from the earth, which seemed to him so cheerful, before he had passed the middle term of human life. The news of his death was received with lamentation by all classes in Norway. Crowds of people went to Christiana to bid farewell to the lifeless body of their favorite poet. While in the last stage of consumption, in May, 1845, he wrote the following verses, which were read to me by one of his countrymen, who translated them literally, as he went along. Even through this imperfect medium, my heart was deeply touched by their childlike simplicity and farewell sadness. The plaintive voice seemed to become my own, and uttered itself thus, in English rhyme, which faithfully preserves the sense of the original:
Oh, save me, save me, gentle Spring!Bring healing on thy balmy wing!I loved thee more than all the year.To no one hast thou been more dear.Bright emeralds I valued less,Than early grass, and water-cress.Gem of the year I namedthyflower,Though roses grace fair Summer’s bower.The queenly ones, with fragrant sighs,Tried to allure thy poet’s eyes;Buttheywere far less dear to me,Thanthysimple wild anemone.Bear witness for me, little flower!Beloved from childhood’s earliest hour;And dandelions, so much despised,Whose blossoms more than gold I prized.I welcomed swallows on the wing,And loved them for their news of Spring.I gave a feast for the earliest one,As if a long-lost child had come,Blest harbingers of genial hours,Uniteyourvoices with the flowers!Dear graceful birds, pour forth your prayer,That nature will her poet spare!Plead with the Maker of the rain!That he will chilling showers restrain;And my poor breast no longer feelSharp needle-points of frosty steel.Thou beautiful old maple tree!For mylove’ssake, praythoufor me!Thy leaf-buds, op’ning to the sun,Like pearls I counted ev’ry one.I wished I might thy grandson be,Dear, ven’rable old maple tree!That my young arms might round thee twine,And mix my vernal crown with thine.Ah, even now, full well I ween,Thou hast thy robe of soft light-green.I seem to hear thee whisp’ring slowTo the vernal grass below.Stretch thy strong arms toward the sky,And pray thy poet may not die!I will heal thy scars with kisses sweet,And pour out wine upon thy feet.Blessings on the patriarch tree!Hoarsely he intercedes for me;And little flowers, with voices mild,Beg thee to spare thy suff’ring child.Fair season, so beloved by me!Thy young and oldallplead with thee.Oh, heal me, with thy balmy wing!I have soworshippedthee, sweet Spring!
Oh, save me, save me, gentle Spring!Bring healing on thy balmy wing!I loved thee more than all the year.To no one hast thou been more dear.Bright emeralds I valued less,Than early grass, and water-cress.Gem of the year I namedthyflower,Though roses grace fair Summer’s bower.The queenly ones, with fragrant sighs,Tried to allure thy poet’s eyes;Buttheywere far less dear to me,Thanthysimple wild anemone.Bear witness for me, little flower!Beloved from childhood’s earliest hour;And dandelions, so much despised,Whose blossoms more than gold I prized.I welcomed swallows on the wing,And loved them for their news of Spring.I gave a feast for the earliest one,As if a long-lost child had come,Blest harbingers of genial hours,Uniteyourvoices with the flowers!Dear graceful birds, pour forth your prayer,That nature will her poet spare!Plead with the Maker of the rain!That he will chilling showers restrain;And my poor breast no longer feelSharp needle-points of frosty steel.Thou beautiful old maple tree!For mylove’ssake, praythoufor me!Thy leaf-buds, op’ning to the sun,Like pearls I counted ev’ry one.I wished I might thy grandson be,Dear, ven’rable old maple tree!That my young arms might round thee twine,And mix my vernal crown with thine.Ah, even now, full well I ween,Thou hast thy robe of soft light-green.I seem to hear thee whisp’ring slowTo the vernal grass below.Stretch thy strong arms toward the sky,And pray thy poet may not die!I will heal thy scars with kisses sweet,And pour out wine upon thy feet.Blessings on the patriarch tree!Hoarsely he intercedes for me;And little flowers, with voices mild,Beg thee to spare thy suff’ring child.Fair season, so beloved by me!Thy young and oldallplead with thee.Oh, heal me, with thy balmy wing!I have soworshippedthee, sweet Spring!
Oh, save me, save me, gentle Spring!Bring healing on thy balmy wing!I loved thee more than all the year.To no one hast thou been more dear.
Bright emeralds I valued less,Than early grass, and water-cress.Gem of the year I namedthyflower,Though roses grace fair Summer’s bower.
The queenly ones, with fragrant sighs,Tried to allure thy poet’s eyes;Buttheywere far less dear to me,Thanthysimple wild anemone.
Bear witness for me, little flower!Beloved from childhood’s earliest hour;And dandelions, so much despised,Whose blossoms more than gold I prized.
I welcomed swallows on the wing,And loved them for their news of Spring.I gave a feast for the earliest one,As if a long-lost child had come,
Blest harbingers of genial hours,Uniteyourvoices with the flowers!Dear graceful birds, pour forth your prayer,That nature will her poet spare!
Plead with the Maker of the rain!That he will chilling showers restrain;And my poor breast no longer feelSharp needle-points of frosty steel.
Thou beautiful old maple tree!For mylove’ssake, praythoufor me!Thy leaf-buds, op’ning to the sun,Like pearls I counted ev’ry one.
I wished I might thy grandson be,Dear, ven’rable old maple tree!That my young arms might round thee twine,And mix my vernal crown with thine.
Ah, even now, full well I ween,Thou hast thy robe of soft light-green.I seem to hear thee whisp’ring slowTo the vernal grass below.
Stretch thy strong arms toward the sky,And pray thy poet may not die!I will heal thy scars with kisses sweet,And pour out wine upon thy feet.
Blessings on the patriarch tree!Hoarsely he intercedes for me;And little flowers, with voices mild,Beg thee to spare thy suff’ring child.
Fair season, so beloved by me!Thy young and oldallplead with thee.Oh, heal me, with thy balmy wing!I have soworshippedthee, sweet Spring!
The following lines, written two days before he died, were addressed to a fragrant, golden-coloured flower whose English name I cannot ascertain.
Sweet flower! before thy reign is o’er,I shall be gone, to return no more,Before thou losest thy crown of gold,I shall lie low in the cold dark mould.Open the window, and raise me up!My last glance must rest on her golden cup.My soul will kiss her, as it passes byAnd wave farewell from the distant sky.Yea,twicewill I kiss thy fragrant lip,Where the wild honey-bee loves to sip.Thefirst, I will give for thyowndear sake;Thesecond, thou must to myrose-bushtake.I shall sleep sound in the silent tomb,Before the beautiful bush will bloom;But ask her the first fair rose to layOn her lover’s grave, to fade away.Give her the kiss I gave thee to keep,And bid her come on my breast to sleep;And, glowing flower, with sweetest breath,Be thou our bridal torch in death!
Sweet flower! before thy reign is o’er,I shall be gone, to return no more,Before thou losest thy crown of gold,I shall lie low in the cold dark mould.Open the window, and raise me up!My last glance must rest on her golden cup.My soul will kiss her, as it passes byAnd wave farewell from the distant sky.Yea,twicewill I kiss thy fragrant lip,Where the wild honey-bee loves to sip.Thefirst, I will give for thyowndear sake;Thesecond, thou must to myrose-bushtake.I shall sleep sound in the silent tomb,Before the beautiful bush will bloom;But ask her the first fair rose to layOn her lover’s grave, to fade away.Give her the kiss I gave thee to keep,And bid her come on my breast to sleep;And, glowing flower, with sweetest breath,Be thou our bridal torch in death!
Sweet flower! before thy reign is o’er,I shall be gone, to return no more,Before thou losest thy crown of gold,I shall lie low in the cold dark mould.
Open the window, and raise me up!My last glance must rest on her golden cup.My soul will kiss her, as it passes byAnd wave farewell from the distant sky.
Yea,twicewill I kiss thy fragrant lip,Where the wild honey-bee loves to sip.Thefirst, I will give for thyowndear sake;Thesecond, thou must to myrose-bushtake.
I shall sleep sound in the silent tomb,Before the beautiful bush will bloom;But ask her the first fair rose to layOn her lover’s grave, to fade away.
Give her the kiss I gave thee to keep,And bid her come on my breast to sleep;And, glowing flower, with sweetest breath,Be thou our bridal torch in death!