When the summer, crowned with blossoms,Robes with beauty all the trees,And, with pérfumed breath and fragrant,Loads the idly-floating breeze,Then, with cheerful steps and airy,O’er the fields with flowers upspringing,Comes our pleasant household fairy,Fragrant blossoms round her flinging,While the birds that haunt the tree-topsPause to listen to her singing.Ever cheerful, ever smiling,Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden;And her sunny presence gladdensHearts with deepest sorrow laden.Very few there are, I ween,Quite as fair as Geraldine.When the autumn,—nut-brown autumn,—With its wealth of golden sheaves,Lends a new flush to the applesPeeping from the orchard leaves,Forth unto the sunny harvestRides she in the farmer’s wain,Who, with busy hand and tireless,Gathers in the golden grain;And she cheers his pleasant laborWith a gay, unstudied strain.Ever cheerful, ever smiling,Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden;And her sunny presence gladdensHearts with deepest sorrow laden.Ah! there can be none, I ween,Quite so fair as Geraldine.
When the summer, crowned with blossoms,Robes with beauty all the trees,And, with pérfumed breath and fragrant,Loads the idly-floating breeze,Then, with cheerful steps and airy,O’er the fields with flowers upspringing,Comes our pleasant household fairy,Fragrant blossoms round her flinging,While the birds that haunt the tree-topsPause to listen to her singing.Ever cheerful, ever smiling,Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden;And her sunny presence gladdensHearts with deepest sorrow laden.Very few there are, I ween,Quite as fair as Geraldine.When the autumn,—nut-brown autumn,—With its wealth of golden sheaves,Lends a new flush to the applesPeeping from the orchard leaves,Forth unto the sunny harvestRides she in the farmer’s wain,Who, with busy hand and tireless,Gathers in the golden grain;And she cheers his pleasant laborWith a gay, unstudied strain.Ever cheerful, ever smiling,Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden;And her sunny presence gladdensHearts with deepest sorrow laden.Ah! there can be none, I ween,Quite so fair as Geraldine.
When the summer, crowned with blossoms,Robes with beauty all the trees,And, with pérfumed breath and fragrant,Loads the idly-floating breeze,Then, with cheerful steps and airy,O’er the fields with flowers upspringing,Comes our pleasant household fairy,Fragrant blossoms round her flinging,While the birds that haunt the tree-topsPause to listen to her singing.Ever cheerful, ever smiling,Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden;And her sunny presence gladdensHearts with deepest sorrow laden.Very few there are, I ween,Quite as fair as Geraldine.
When the summer, crowned with blossoms,
Robes with beauty all the trees,
And, with pérfumed breath and fragrant,
Loads the idly-floating breeze,
Then, with cheerful steps and airy,
O’er the fields with flowers upspringing,
Comes our pleasant household fairy,
Fragrant blossoms round her flinging,
While the birds that haunt the tree-tops
Pause to listen to her singing.
Ever cheerful, ever smiling,
Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden;
And her sunny presence gladdens
Hearts with deepest sorrow laden.
Very few there are, I ween,
Quite as fair as Geraldine.
When the autumn,—nut-brown autumn,—With its wealth of golden sheaves,Lends a new flush to the applesPeeping from the orchard leaves,Forth unto the sunny harvestRides she in the farmer’s wain,Who, with busy hand and tireless,Gathers in the golden grain;And she cheers his pleasant laborWith a gay, unstudied strain.Ever cheerful, ever smiling,Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden;And her sunny presence gladdensHearts with deepest sorrow laden.Ah! there can be none, I ween,Quite so fair as Geraldine.
When the autumn,—nut-brown autumn,—
With its wealth of golden sheaves,
Lends a new flush to the apples
Peeping from the orchard leaves,
Forth unto the sunny harvest
Rides she in the farmer’s wain,
Who, with busy hand and tireless,
Gathers in the golden grain;
And she cheers his pleasant labor
With a gay, unstudied strain.
Ever cheerful, ever smiling,
Is the gay, warm-hearted maiden;
And her sunny presence gladdens
Hearts with deepest sorrow laden.
Ah! there can be none, I ween,
Quite so fair as Geraldine.
Heavily, heavily fell the snow, covering the dark-brown earth, already hardened by the frost, with a pure white covering. As the rain falls alike upon the just and upon the unjust; so, too, the snow, God’s kindred messenger, knows no distinction of persons,—visiting all alike, forgetting none, and passing by none.
In one of the principal streets of New York stood a boy of some twelve years. His clothing was poor, and too scanty to afford a sufficient protection against the inclemency of the season. Through the visor of his cap, which had become detached in the middle, having a connection only at thetwo extremities, might be seen his rich brown hair. Notwithstanding the drawback of his coarse and ill-fitting attire, it was evident that he possessed a more than ordinary share of boyish beauty. But just at present his brow is overcast with a shade of anxiety; and his frame trembles with the cold, from which he is so insufficiently shielded.
It is a handsome street, that in which he is standing. On either side he beholds the residences of those on whom Fortune has showered her favors. Bright lights gleam from the parlor windows, and shouts of mirth and laughter ring out upon the night.
All is joy and brightness and festivity within those palace-homes. The snow-flakes fall idly against the window-panes. They cannot chill the hearts within, nor place a bar upon their enjoyment; for this is Christmas Eve, long awaited, at length arrived.Christmas Eve, around which so many youthful anticipations cluster, has enjoyments peculiarly its own, over which the elements, however boisterous, have no control. Yet, to some, Christmas Eve brings more sorrow than enjoyment,—serving only to heighten the contrast between present poverty and discomfort and past affluence.
But all this time we have left our little hero shivering in the street.
Cold and uncomfortable as he was, as well as anxious in mind,—for he had lost his way, and knew not how to find it again,—he could not help forgetting his situation, for the time, in witnessing the scene which met his eye, as, for a moment, he stood in front of a handsome residence on the south side of the street. The curtains were drawn aside; so that, by supporting himself on the railing, he had an unobstructed view of the scene within.
It was a spacious parlor, furnished in astyle elegant, but not ostentatious. In the centre of the apartment was a Christmas-tree, brilliant with tapers, which were gleaming from every branch and twig. Gifts of various kinds were hung upon the tree, around which were gathered a group of three children, respectively of eight, six, and four years. The eldest was a winsome fairy, with sparkling eyes and dancing feet. The others were boys, who were making the most of this rare opportunity of sitting up after nine o’clock. At a little distance stood Mr. Dinsmoor and his wife, gazing with unalloyed enjoyment at the happiness of their children.
While Lizzie was indulging in expressions of delight at the superb wax doll which St. Nicholas had so generously provided, her attention was for a moment drawn to the window, through which she distinctly saw the figure of our hero, who, as we have said, had in his eagerness raisedhimself upon the railing outside, in order to obtain a better view. She uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Why, mother! there’s a boy looking in at the window! Just look at him!”
Mrs. Dinsmoor looked in the direction indicated, and saw the little boy, without his perceiving that attention had been drawn towards him.
“Some poor boy,” she remarked to her husband, in a compassionate tone, “who loses for a moment the sensation of his own discomfort in witnessing our happiness. See how eagerly he looks at the tree! which no doubt appears like something marvellous to him.”
“Why can’t you let him come in?” asked Lizzie, eagerly. “He must be very cold out there, with the snow-flakes falling upon him. Perhaps he would like to have a nearer view of our tree.”
“Very well and kindly thought of, mylittle girl,” said Mr. Dinsmoor, placing his hand for a moment upon her clustering locks. “I will follow your suggestion; but I must do it carefully, or he may be frightened, and run away before he knows what are our intentions.”
So speaking, Mr. Dinsmoor moved cautiously to the front door, and opened it suddenly. The boy, startled by the sound, turned towards Mr. Dinsmoor with a frightened air, as if fearing that he would be suspected of some improper motive.
“Indeed, sir,” said he, earnestly, “I didn’t mean any harm; but it looked so bright and cheerful inside that I couldn’t help looking in.”
“You have done nothing wrong, my boy,” said Mr. Dinsmoor, kindly. “But you must be cold here. Come in, and you will have a chance to see more comfortably than you now do.”
The boy looked a little doubtful; for tohim, neglected as he had been by the rich and prosperous all his life, it was very difficult to imagine that he was actually invited to enter the imposing mansion before him as a guest. Perhaps Mr. Dinsmoor divined his doubts; for he continued,—
“Come: you must not refuse the invitation. There are some little people inside who would be very much disappointed if you should, since it was they who commissioned me to invite you.”
“I am sure, sir, I am very much obliged both to them and to you,” said the boy, gratefully, advancing towards Mr. Dinsmoor, of whom he had lost whatever little distrust he had at first felt.
A moment afterwards, and the boy stepped within the spacious parlor. To him, whose home offered no attractions, and few comforts, the scene spread before him might well seem a scene of enchantment.
“Lizzie,” said Mr. Dinsmoor, “come forward and welcome your guest. I would introduce him to you; but, unluckily, I do not know his name.”
“My name is Willie,—Willie Grant,” was the boy’s reply.
“Then, Willie Grant, this is Miss Lizzie Dinsmoor, who is, I am sure, glad to see you, since it was at her request that I invited you to enter.”
Willie raised his eyes timidly, and bent them for a moment on the singularly beautiful child, who had come forward and frankly placed her hand in his.
There is something irresistible in the witchery of beauty; and Willie felt a warm glow crimsoning his cheeks, as for a moment, forgetful of every thing else, he bent his eyes earnestly upon Lizzie. Then another feeling came over him; and, with a look of shame at his scanty and ill-fitting garments, he dropped her hand, and involuntarilyshrank back, as if seeking to screen them from sight.
Perceiving the movement, and guessing its cause, Mr. Dinsmoor, with a view to dissipate these feelings, led forward Harry and Charlie, the younger boys, and told them to make acquaintance with Willie. With loud shouts of delight, they displayed the various gifts which St. Nicholas had brought them, and challenged his admiration.
Every thing was new to Willie. His childhood had not been smiled upon by Fortune; and the costly toys which the boys exhibited elicited quite as much admiration as they could desire.
Occupied in this way, his constraint gradually wore off to such a degree that he assisted Charlie and Harry in trying their new toys. Soon, however, the recollection that it was growing late, and that he had yet to find his way home, came to him; and,taking his old hat, he said to Mr. Dinsmoor, in an embarrassed manner,—
“My mother will be expecting me home; and I should already have been there, but that I lost my way, and happened to look in at your window, and you were so kind as to let me come in.”
“Where does your mother live, my little fellow?” asked Mr. Dinsmoor.
“On ⸺ Street.”
“Oh! that is not far off. I will myself show you the way, if you will remain a few minutes longer.”
Mr. Dinsmoor rang the bell, and ordered a plate of cake and apples, as he conjectured they would not be unacceptable to his little visitor.
Meanwhile, Lizzie crept to her mother’s side, and whispered,—
“Willie is poor,—isn’t he?”
“Yes. What makes you ask?”
“I thought he must be, because hisclothes look so thin, and patched. Don’t you think he would like a Christmas present, mother?”
“Yes, my darling. Have you any thing to give him?”
“I thought, mother, perhaps you would let me give him my five-dollar gold-piece. I think that would be better than any playthings. May I give it?”
“Yes, my child, if you are really willing. But are you quite sure that you would not regret it afterwards?”
“Yes, mother.” And Lizzie ran lightly to the little box where she kept her treasure, quickly brought it forth, and placed it in Willie’s hand.
“That is your Christmas present,” said she, gayly.
Willie looked surprised.
“Do you mean it for me?” he asked, in a half-bewildered tone.
“Yes, if you like it.”
“I thank you very much for your kindness,” said Willie, earnestly, “and I will always remember it.”
There was something in the boy’s earnest tone which Lizzie felt was an ample recompense for the little sacrifice she had made. Mr. Dinsmoor fulfilled his promise, and walked with Willie as far as the street in which he lived, when, feeling sure that he could no longer mistake his way, he left him.
Mr. Dinsmoor, whom we have introduced to our readers, was a prosperous merchant, and counted his wealth by hundreds of thousands. Fortunately, his disposition was liberal; and he made the poor sharers with him in the gifts which Fortune had so liberally showered upon him.
Notwithstanding the good use which he made of his wealth, he was fated to experience reverses,—resulting, not from his own mismanagement, but from a generalcommercial panic, which all at once involved in ruin many whose fortunes were large, and whose credit was long established. In a word, Mr. Dinsmoor failed.
Eleven years had rolled by since the Christmas night on which our story opens. Lizzie had not belied the promise of her girlhood, but had developed into a radiantly beautiful girl. Already her hand had been sought in marriage; but, as yet, she had seen no one on whom she could look with that affection without which marriage would be a mockery.
Charlie and Harry, too,—eleven years had changed them not a little. The boys of four and six had become fine, manly youths of fifteen and seventeen. The eldest had entered college. Harry, however, who was by no means studious, had entered his father’s counting-room.
That was a sorrowful night on which Mr.Dinsmoor made known to his afflicted wife the bankruptcy which was inevitable. Still sadder, if possible, was the sale which it enforced of the house which they had so long occupied, the furniture which had become endeared to them by memory and association, and the harsh interruption which loss of fortune put to all their treasured schemes.
“My poor boy,” said Mrs. Dinsmoor, sorrowfully, as she placed her hand caressingly on the brown locks of Charlie, the eldest of the two boys, “it will be a hard sacrifice for you to leave the studies to which you are so much attached, and enter a store, as you will be obliged to do.”
“Ah! I had not thought of that,” murmured Charlie. “It will, indeed, be a sacrifice; but, mother, I would not care for that, if you could only be spared the trials to which you will be exposed from poverty.”
“Thank you for your consideration, mychild; but do not fear that I shall not accommodate myself to it. It is a heavy trial; but we must try to think that it will ultimately eventuate in our good.”
At the auction of Mr. Dinsmoor’s house and furniture, the whole property, without exception, was knocked off to a young man, who seemed apparently of twenty-two or three years of age. He was able to secure it at a price much beneath its real value; for times were hard, and money scarce, so that he had but few competitors. Mr. Dinsmoor did not hear his name, and the pressure of sad thoughts prevented his making the inquiry.
Possession was to be given in one week. Meanwhile, Mr. Dinsmoor sought out a small house in an obscure part of the town, which, in point of elegance and convenience, formed a complete contrast to the one he had formerly occupied. He felt, however, that it would be all his scanty salary as clerk—forhe had secured a situation in that capacity—would enable him to afford.
Lizzie looked, with a rueful face, at the piano, as a dear friend from whom she must henceforth be separated, it being quite too costly a piece of furniture to be retained in their reduced circumstances. Her proficiency in music, for which she had great taste, made her regret it doubly, since she might with it have added to the resources of the family by giving music lessons.
On the last evening in which they were to remain in the old house, their sad thoughts were broken in upon by a ring at the bell.
“Can they not even leave us to enjoy the last evening in quiet?” said Charles, half petulantly.
Immediately afterwards, there entered a young man, in whom Mr. Dinsmoor recognized the purchaser of the house.
“I need not bid you welcome,” said he, smiling faintly, “since you have a betterright here now than myself. Had I been told, three months since, that this would be, I would not have believed it; but we cannot always foresee. I shall be prepared to leave to-morrow.”
“I shall be better satisfied if you will remain,” said the young man, bowing.
“What do you mean?”
“Simply, that as this house and furniture are now mine, to do with as I like, I choose to restore you the latter, and offer you the use of the former, rent free, as long as you choose to occupy it.”
“Who, then, are you,” asked Mr. Dinsmoor, in increasing surprise, “who can be so kind to utter strangers, with no claim upon you?”
“You are mistaken. You have a claim upon me. Shall I tell you what it is? Eleven years ago to-morrow,—for to-morrow is Christmas Day,—a poor boy, who had known none of the luxuries, and but few ofthe comforts, of life, stood in this street. His mind was ill at ease; for he had lost his way: but, as he walked on, he beheld a blaze of light issuing from a window,—fromyourwindow,—and, aroused by curiosity, he looked in. Around a Christmas-tree, brilliant with light, a happy group were assembled. As he stood gazing in, he heard the front door open; and a gentleman came out, and kindly invited him to enter. He did so; and the words of kindness and the Christmas gift with which he departed have not yet left his remembrance. Seven years passed, and the boy’s fortune changed. An uncle, long supposed to be dead, found him out, and, when he actually died, left him the heir of a large amount of wealth. Need I say that I am that boy, and that my name is Willie Grant?”
The reader’s imagination can easily supply the rest. Provided with capital by his young friend, Mr. Dinsmoor again embarked inbusiness; and, this time, nothing occurred to check his prosperity. Charlie didnotleave college, nor did Lizzie lose her piano. She gained a husband, however, and had no reason to regret the train of events which issued from herChristmas Gift.
I have a beautiful picture;And gorgeous are its dyes,Wherein the green of the meadowsBlends with the blue of the skies.A forest stands in the background;And hills are at the sides;And a valley lies between them,Through which a streamlet glides.There are fields that teem with a harvestOf rich and ripening grain,That has caught the glow of the sunlight,And will not return it again;—There are broad and spacious pastures,Where the quiet cattle stray,And the schoolboys meet to play at ballOn their weekly holiday;—While here and there a cottagePeeps out from the leafy lane;And through the trees you can catch a glimpseOf the farmer with his wain.And out in the dark old forestThere is many a stately tree,That has seen the green leaves come and goFor more than a century.I have heard of the ancient masters,I have heard of their marvellous skill,And how the dull, dead canvasWould glow with life at their will;—But, when the sunshine fallethThe rifts of the cloudlets through,It lends to my picture a gloryThat Raphael never knew.And, when the solemn moonlightLooks down with its mellow shine,My picture is bathed in beautyThat seemeth almost divine.And whenever I gaze at my picture,Whether sun or stars light the sky,I feel that my spirit is strengthened,And my heart is made richer thereby.
I have a beautiful picture;And gorgeous are its dyes,Wherein the green of the meadowsBlends with the blue of the skies.A forest stands in the background;And hills are at the sides;And a valley lies between them,Through which a streamlet glides.There are fields that teem with a harvestOf rich and ripening grain,That has caught the glow of the sunlight,And will not return it again;—There are broad and spacious pastures,Where the quiet cattle stray,And the schoolboys meet to play at ballOn their weekly holiday;—While here and there a cottagePeeps out from the leafy lane;And through the trees you can catch a glimpseOf the farmer with his wain.And out in the dark old forestThere is many a stately tree,That has seen the green leaves come and goFor more than a century.I have heard of the ancient masters,I have heard of their marvellous skill,And how the dull, dead canvasWould glow with life at their will;—But, when the sunshine fallethThe rifts of the cloudlets through,It lends to my picture a gloryThat Raphael never knew.And, when the solemn moonlightLooks down with its mellow shine,My picture is bathed in beautyThat seemeth almost divine.And whenever I gaze at my picture,Whether sun or stars light the sky,I feel that my spirit is strengthened,And my heart is made richer thereby.
I have a beautiful picture;And gorgeous are its dyes,Wherein the green of the meadowsBlends with the blue of the skies.
I have a beautiful picture;
And gorgeous are its dyes,
Wherein the green of the meadows
Blends with the blue of the skies.
A forest stands in the background;And hills are at the sides;And a valley lies between them,Through which a streamlet glides.
A forest stands in the background;
And hills are at the sides;
And a valley lies between them,
Through which a streamlet glides.
There are fields that teem with a harvestOf rich and ripening grain,That has caught the glow of the sunlight,And will not return it again;—
There are fields that teem with a harvest
Of rich and ripening grain,
That has caught the glow of the sunlight,
And will not return it again;—
There are broad and spacious pastures,Where the quiet cattle stray,And the schoolboys meet to play at ballOn their weekly holiday;—
There are broad and spacious pastures,
Where the quiet cattle stray,
And the schoolboys meet to play at ball
On their weekly holiday;—
While here and there a cottagePeeps out from the leafy lane;And through the trees you can catch a glimpseOf the farmer with his wain.
While here and there a cottage
Peeps out from the leafy lane;
And through the trees you can catch a glimpse
Of the farmer with his wain.
And out in the dark old forestThere is many a stately tree,That has seen the green leaves come and goFor more than a century.
And out in the dark old forest
There is many a stately tree,
That has seen the green leaves come and go
For more than a century.
I have heard of the ancient masters,I have heard of their marvellous skill,And how the dull, dead canvasWould glow with life at their will;—
I have heard of the ancient masters,
I have heard of their marvellous skill,
And how the dull, dead canvas
Would glow with life at their will;—
But, when the sunshine fallethThe rifts of the cloudlets through,It lends to my picture a gloryThat Raphael never knew.
But, when the sunshine falleth
The rifts of the cloudlets through,
It lends to my picture a glory
That Raphael never knew.
And, when the solemn moonlightLooks down with its mellow shine,My picture is bathed in beautyThat seemeth almost divine.
And, when the solemn moonlight
Looks down with its mellow shine,
My picture is bathed in beauty
That seemeth almost divine.
And whenever I gaze at my picture,Whether sun or stars light the sky,I feel that my spirit is strengthened,And my heart is made richer thereby.
And whenever I gaze at my picture,
Whether sun or stars light the sky,
I feel that my spirit is strengthened,
And my heart is made richer thereby.
Alone in his study sat Gottfried the scholar. The shelves which lined the apartment on every side groaned beneath the weight of bulky quartoes and ponderous folios. The accumulated learning of many ages and countries, flowing in diverse channels, had mingled into one stream, and, with its fertilizing current, contributed to enrich the mind of Gottfried. And these many volumes, couched in languages which to all but their owner were a sealed book, which many years’ assiduous labor and midnight vigils alone could unclose,—these were but the index of Gottfried’s attainments.
Never in the palmiest days of chivalryhad knight been more constant to his mistress than Gottfried to his books. Without these, life would have been to him a blank, and the world a desert. What to him were the companionship of friends, the charms of social intercourse? He recognized no friends but his books; and with them alone he held intercourse. He had cultivated his intellect to the neglect of his heart: beneath his fostering care, the former had swelled into the proportions of a giant; the latter, like an untilled garden, had been abandoned to the rank growth of weeds, which had already overshadowed it, and checked the growth of kind feelings and human affections.
But of this defect Gottfried was not conscious; or, at least, he would not have acknowledged it to be such. With all his wisdom, he knew not the meaning of virtue; for he was perpetually confounding it with learning; so that with him the philosophyof life might be said to consist in these few words: “To be learned is to be virtuous.” Thus it was, that, in the pride of his attainments, he looked down upon other men as immeasurably his inferiors, and was even half convinced that they were of a different nature from himself.
He aspired to become in the world of intellect what Alexander was in the physical world, and, like that monarch, sighed to think that there were no more worlds to conquer,—no more victories to be gained.
Gottfried had just written the concluding paragraph of a treatise upon some abstruse subject, which possessed an interest only for scholars like himself. His pen dropped wearily from his fingers, and he passed his hand across his eyes.
“Yes,” said he, musingly, and a smile lighted up his face, “at length it is finished, the labor of many years. But the reward is to come. My fame as a scholar, already greatamong men, will become greater still. Fame, bright goddess of my youthful dreams! how through weary years have I toiled for thee! How willingly have I resigned those objects on which other men set their affections! Wealth, pleasure, love,—I have sacrificed them all to this one engrossing pursuit. Who shall say that I have lived in vain?”
Gottfried had labored for many hours without rest. He took down his scholar’s cap and cloak from the wall against which they were suspended, and attired himself for a walk.
It was a beautiful day. The sun had passed the meridian, and was shining with softened splendor on fields decorated with the green carpet which Nature so bounteously provides. Here a group of cattle reposed in tranquil enjoyment beneath the spreading branches of trees, which afforded a grateful shelter from the sun’s heat. Alittle farther on, a tiny stream was seen rippling on its way. Beside it were childish figures playfully plucking the flowers that grew upon the banks, and tossing them into the water, where they were soon borne down the quick current. Children, however small, have an eye to the beautiful; and the little group sang and shouted in all the exuberance of their spirits. The smile of outward nature was reflected upon the faces of these little ones.
As Gottfried passed by, one of them, supposing that all must share in her feelings, plucked a flower, and, holding it up, exclaimed, “Is it not pretty?”
“What is pretty?” asked Gottfried, looking up.
The flower was held up in answer. “Poh! child: it is only a buttercup.”
The child drew back abashed, and Gottfried pursued his way. He regarded not the fair landscape which like a dream ofbeauty opened upon his steps. His mind was still at home among his books. Indeed, it rarely passed beyond those four dark walls wherein all that he cared for in life was enclosed. With the laws of Nature, so far as they had been ascertained by human wisdom, he was thoroughly conversant; but for Nature itself he cared little. He could tell you all that science has discovered of the mysterious courses of the heavenly bodies; but the finest evening that ever looked down with its thousand glittering eyes from the blue vault above vainly tempted him forth from his study. He would have regarded it as a mere weakness to yield to such an impulse. He at least was in no danger of yielding; for he never felt the impulse.
Gottfried passed on, plunged as before in deep thought, of which the treatise which he had just completed was the absorbing subject.
A woman with a babe in her arms, whose melancholy face and tattered garb spoke sadly of unhappiness and destitution, stood in the path. He would not have noticed her, had she not timidly touched the hem of his garment.
“Why do you disturb me?” he asked impatiently, as he looked up. “You have interrupted the current of my thoughts. What would you have?”
“I hope, sir,” said the woman, in a low tone, “you will pardon the interruption. I would not willingly intrude; but you see my situation. I am left destitute, and without friends. For myself, I care not. Perhaps it is well that I should die; but my child,—I would live for him.”
Gottfried listened with an unmoved countenance, and as one who but half comprehended what he heard.
“If you are poor and in distress,” he said at length, “you can apply to the properauthorities. I have matters of more importance to attend to.”
“Of more importance than the life of a fellow-creature?” interrupted a rough-looking man, in a farmer’s dress, who had just stepped up. “Nay, then, I have not. Come with me, my poor woman. I live in the cottage yonder. It is but a poor place; but it will afford you food and shelter.”
“Such men,” mused Gottfried, “do not estimate the superiority of science over the trivial objects upon which most waste their lives to little purpose. But how should they? They pass their lives in a round of petty duties and petty employments, above and beyond which they care not to look.”
Such were the meditations of Gottfried. Ah! thou that canst see the mote in thy brother’s eye, and dost not discern the beam that is in thine own!
Gottfried was approaching his study on his return from the walk, when his meditationswere disturbed by a cry which always makes the blood course more quickly through the veins,—the fearful cry of “Fire!” Voice after voice took up the cry till it swelled into a terrible and confused clamor. Fire! Gottfried looked up, and, to his inexpressible consternation, beheld the flames rapidly consuming his own dwelling. The conviction flashed upon him, with the speed of lightning, that he had left a candle burning which he had lighted for the purpose of sealing a letter. Undoubtedly it had come in contact with the loose papers which lay about it, andthiswas the result.
“My books! my treatise!” exclaimed Gottfried with anguish, as he contemplated the probability of their destruction. “They will all be consumed!”
He hurried to the scene of disaster. The firemen were plying their utmost efforts to bring the flames under. But the fire hadalready made such headway that they struggled against hope.
Gottfried lent his aid with the energy of despair. Finally, unable to conceal from himself that the building must be consumed, he rushed into the crackling flames, in the hope of at least rescuing the manuscript of which he had written that day the concluding paragraphs.
It was a mad effort, such as nothing but despair could prompt. The smoke stifled him; the flames scorched and burned him. He was dragged out by main force, having succeeded in passing but a few feet beyond the threshold. Luckily he was in a state of insensibility, so that the last scenes in the conflagration passed without his knowledge.
The weeks that succeeded were a blank to Gottfried, for he was plunged in the delirium of a brain fever. When, at length, he awoke to consciousness, it was in a small and poorly-furnished chamber. At the bedsidewas seated a woman, coarsely but neatly attired.
“Where am I?” he inquired, bewildered. “What has happened to me?”
“You are at length better, thank Heaven,” said the woman, earnestly, “since the delirium has left you.”
“Delirium!” said Gottfried, raising himself on his elbow in surprise. “Oh, yes! I now recall the fearful calamity which has befallen me. My books,—are they all gone? Is there not one left?”
“Yes, one was saved.”
“What is it? Bring it to me.”
From a shelf near by, the attendant took down a small volume which had been scorched, but not otherwise injured, by the flames.
He opened it. It proved to be the New Testament in the original tongue. Perhaps out of his whole library this was the book which he had least studied. Now, however,that it was all that was left him, he passed hours in its perusal. Gradually, as he read, a light broke in upon him; and he began to perceive, at first by glimpses, but after a while with all the clearness of light, that his life had been a mistake, and that learning was not, as he had fancied, the great end of existence. He perceived that in its attainment he had neglected what were of infinitely more importance,—his duties to God and his fellow-men. With a feeling of humiliation, he could not but confess that his life had been in vain.
One day, as he was rapidly approaching recovery, he turned to his nurse, and said, abruptly,—
“Where have I met you before? Your face looks familiar.”
“On the day of the fire,” was the reply, “you met me and my little one. We were destitute, and implored charity.”
“Which I denied. Yet you nurse mewith all the devotedness of one who is serving a benefactor. How is this?”
“I am only doing my duty. But it is not to me you are indebted: it is to the good farmer whose hospitality we both alike share.”
“Is it possible?” said Gottfried, with humiliation. “It is, then, he over whom I triumphed in fancied superiority. With all the learning which I have gathered from books, I feel, that, in the true wisdom of life, I am vastly inferior to you both.”
On his recovery, Gottfried again applied himself to his studies; but henceforth he never sought to elevate mere worldly knowledge above “that wisdom which passeth all understanding.”
Contributed by a friend.
The blue sky was her canopy;The flower-gemmed turf, her shrine;Her incense, deep and fervent love,Pure from the heart’s rich mine.Her brow was fair, her eyes were mild,Her sunny smile was bright:No discontent its shadow threwAcross her spirit’s light.Angels their constant vigil kept,And guarded her from harm;Breathing around her, while she slept,A spirit-soothing charm.But she hath left this guilt-stained earth:No more her smiles may cheer;No more her gentle voice of mirthMay breathe its music here.Her haunts are desecrated now,Or desolate and lone;And Psyche’s palace, where she dwelt,Has ceased to be her home.
The blue sky was her canopy;The flower-gemmed turf, her shrine;Her incense, deep and fervent love,Pure from the heart’s rich mine.Her brow was fair, her eyes were mild,Her sunny smile was bright:No discontent its shadow threwAcross her spirit’s light.Angels their constant vigil kept,And guarded her from harm;Breathing around her, while she slept,A spirit-soothing charm.But she hath left this guilt-stained earth:No more her smiles may cheer;No more her gentle voice of mirthMay breathe its music here.Her haunts are desecrated now,Or desolate and lone;And Psyche’s palace, where she dwelt,Has ceased to be her home.
The blue sky was her canopy;The flower-gemmed turf, her shrine;Her incense, deep and fervent love,Pure from the heart’s rich mine.
The blue sky was her canopy;
The flower-gemmed turf, her shrine;
Her incense, deep and fervent love,
Pure from the heart’s rich mine.
Her brow was fair, her eyes were mild,Her sunny smile was bright:No discontent its shadow threwAcross her spirit’s light.
Her brow was fair, her eyes were mild,
Her sunny smile was bright:
No discontent its shadow threw
Across her spirit’s light.
Angels their constant vigil kept,And guarded her from harm;Breathing around her, while she slept,A spirit-soothing charm.
Angels their constant vigil kept,
And guarded her from harm;
Breathing around her, while she slept,
A spirit-soothing charm.
But she hath left this guilt-stained earth:No more her smiles may cheer;No more her gentle voice of mirthMay breathe its music here.
But she hath left this guilt-stained earth:
No more her smiles may cheer;
No more her gentle voice of mirth
May breathe its music here.
Her haunts are desecrated now,Or desolate and lone;And Psyche’s palace, where she dwelt,Has ceased to be her home.
Her haunts are desecrated now,
Or desolate and lone;
And Psyche’s palace, where she dwelt,
Has ceased to be her home.
Some years since, there lived in Portland a worthy shoemaker named Peter Plunkett. Unpoetical as his name may appear, Peter possessed a vivid imagination, which, had it been properly cultivated, might have made him, perchance, a poet or a novelist. As it was, he chiefly employed it in building air-castles of more than royal magnificence, wherein dwelt fairies and genii. If there was any book that approached the Bible, in Peter’s estimation, it was the “Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.” He had a devout belief in all the marvellous storieswhich it contains, and often sighed in secret that it had not been his fortune to live in the days of that potent monarch,—the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid.
Peter Plunkett’s peculiarity was well known. Indeed, his mind was most of the time far back in the golden age of fairies, so that he would sometimes be guilty of amusing mistakes. On one occasion, he addressed his housekeeper as “Most charming princess!” whereupon the good woman was led to entertain serious doubts as to his sanity, which, indeed, were not wholly unreasonable, since, though an excellent cook, she certainly did not look much like a princess.
Not far from Peter’s shop lived Squire Eveleth, who, being mirthfully inclined, resolved to take advantage of the worthy shoemaker’s fancies, and play upon him a practical joke.
Happening into Peter’s shop, he led theconversation to the subject of genii. “I have sometimes thought,” said he, gravely, “that the fairies and genii have not yet abandoned the earth, but still continue, invisibly to us, to exercise an influence over our destinies.”
“So have I,” said Peter, eagerly. “Many a time I have fancied, as I sat here at work, that I could hear the rushing of their wings as they circled about me; and I have sometimes invoked them to appear in visible form; but they never have.”
“Perhaps they will some time,” said the squire, encouragingly. “I wish you would come and take tea with me to-morrow,” he continued, after a pause. “I should like to confer with you about these things.”
Consent was readily accorded; and the next afternoon found Peter Plunkett a guest of the squire. The latter, unperceived, mingled a potion with Peter’s tea; and the result was that in half an hour he wasin a sound sleep. In this condition, the squire had him conveyed in a carriage to the depot; and, in a few minutes, they were travelling towards Boston. They reached the city in the evening; and Peter, still sleeping, was conveyed to the Revere House, carried to a bed-chamber, and deposited in bed. Squire Eveleth then retired, and, after leaving a note on the table, left the house; and, after passing the night at another hotel, returned, in the morning train, to Portland.
The sun was already high in the heavens when Peter Plunkett awoke. He gazed, bewildered, at the unwonted appearance of the room, and, jumping out of bed, walked mechanically to the window.
“Surely this can’t be Portland,” he said to himself, as the towers and steeples of Boston met his view. “Where am I? What can have happened to me?”
Turning from the window, his eye restedupon a letter lying upon the table, addressed to himself.
He opened it hastily, and read as follows:—
“Mortal!be thankful; for to you, in return for your unquestioning faith, has been vouchsafed a favor which distinguishes you above your fellow-men. I who write to you am Aldabaran, the potent genie of the air. Last night, I snatched you from your couch, in the dead of night, and bore you hither. You are now at the Revere House, in Boston. In your pocket you will find gold, which I have placed there. It will defray all your expenses, and bear you back to Portland. But beware lest you divulge to any one the chance that has befallen you; for, should you be so indiscreet, I swear to you by Solomon’s seal, which glows with unapproachable splendor, that you will instantly be transformed into a gigantic jackass, and be doomed in that shape to walk the earth for ever as the penalty of your folly.“Farewell, and beware!“Aldabaran.”
“Mortal!be thankful; for to you, in return for your unquestioning faith, has been vouchsafed a favor which distinguishes you above your fellow-men. I who write to you am Aldabaran, the potent genie of the air. Last night, I snatched you from your couch, in the dead of night, and bore you hither. You are now at the Revere House, in Boston. In your pocket you will find gold, which I have placed there. It will defray all your expenses, and bear you back to Portland. But beware lest you divulge to any one the chance that has befallen you; for, should you be so indiscreet, I swear to you by Solomon’s seal, which glows with unapproachable splendor, that you will instantly be transformed into a gigantic jackass, and be doomed in that shape to walk the earth for ever as the penalty of your folly.
“Farewell, and beware!
“Aldabaran.”
As Peter Plunkett read this terrible missive, his hair stood on end with affright;yet, in the midst of his terror, he was filled with joy at the nature of the favor which had been granted him.
That night, he returned to Portland. Many curious inquiries were made of him as to the object of his journey; for this was the first time he had left Portland for many years. To all these inquiries he preserved an impenetrable silence; merely shaking his head mysteriously, lest he should incur the dreadful doom denounced against him. Henceforth he deemed himself as one singled out from the great mass of mankind. Upon his fellow-mortals he looked with a pitying eye, as beings with whom the invisible spirits of the air had never deigned to hold communication. Happy in his innocent delusion, he would not exchange places with the most powerful monarch. Locked up in his trunk are the gold coins which he found in his pocket in accordance with the mysterious letter. Hewill never spend them; for he regards them as a fairy gift; and he fancies, that, while he holds them in his possession, Fortune will ever smile upon him.
THE END.