“Once I beheld a splendid dream—A visionary scene of bliss;Truth, wherefore did thy hated beamAwake me to a world like this?”
“Once I beheld a splendid dream—A visionary scene of bliss;Truth, wherefore did thy hated beamAwake me to a world like this?”
“Once I beheld a splendid dream—A visionary scene of bliss;Truth, wherefore did thy hated beamAwake me to a world like this?”
“Once I beheld a splendid dream—
A visionary scene of bliss;
Truth, wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?”
Thus ended my first misfortunes, which, being the most serious, I have dwelt upon at some length. I now turn with a lighter heart to my subsequent career. To avoid all such affairs in future, I resolved to visit Texas, where, I was informed, women were uncommonly scarce. This great inducement balanced all the disadvantages of climate and warfare. I never wished to look upon a bright eye or a dimpled cheek again. Texas, therefore, was my destination.
A few months calmed the turbulence of my mind; and I believed I was now forever qualified to withstand the charms of woman, and exempt from the troubles of the heart. Experience had taught me that everything is not gold which glitters. I had also learned to doubt the lauded constancy of the opposite sex, in that tender passion to which I was so susceptible. Indeed I had good reason to believe that caprice and fickleness of heart were their ruling traits; and I fully determined to avoid, in future, building my hopes of happiness on such baseless foundations. So far I acted with prudence; and I felt very well satisfied with my embryo philosophy. During my tour, however, an incident occurred that greatly altered my opinions on this subject. It effected a wonderful change, too, in my estimation of woman’s constancy.
I had stopped to spend a few days in the city of T——. There was nothing about this place, but its picturesque situation, worthy of a traveller’s attention. I soon became satiated with the beauties of the surrounding scenery; and as the accommodations of the hotel were very limited, I determined to pursue my journey by the first means of conveyance. To my chagrin I learned that several days would elapse before I could find a stage for my place of destination. What to do with myself in the meantime, I could scarcely divine. Society had lost its charm; public amusements had become nauseous and uninteresting; and I was heartily tired of rambling about, without a congenial friend to commune with, or admire what I admired. In this dilemma I chanced to find, on ransacking my apartment, a neatly bound novel—the “Pilgrims of the Rhine.” I had read this beautiful romance, with great delight, some years previously; but I discovered, on opening the present volume, that there were criticisms and observations on the margin, which offered some room for studying the mind and character of one of its readers; and I was induced to peruse it again. The pencilings were in the delicate hand of a female. Passages, which, for their beauty of diction and refined sentiment, I recollected having greatly admired, were carefully marked; and in many instances they elicited acute observations, and eloquent eulogies from the fair reader. As I progressed, I became as much interested in these comments, as I had formerly been in the work itself. They evinced at once a highly cultivated imagination—a depth and tenderness of feeling—and a visionary turn of mind, extremely captivating to a young reader. That sympathy, which the author of Hyperion so eloquently remarks is requisite for the appreciation of genius, seemed characteristic of the fair unknown. The gradual development of her history, as gleaned from these scattered thoughts and opinions, and the general tenor of her mind, interested me far more than I was disposed to admit, even to myself. That I may not be deemed unnaturally visionary, or sentimental, I shall quote a few passages, which, though taken at random, may serve to show the source from which I drew my deductions. The delicate hand of the commentator had slightly touched the following:
“Her youth was filled with hope, and many colored dreams; she loved, and the hues of morning slept upon the yet disenchanted earth. The heavens to her were not as the common sky; the wave had its peculiar music to her ear, and the rustling leaves a pleasantness that none, whose heart is not bathed in the love and sense of beauty, could discern.”
From the remarks that were attached to this, I pictured the sympathising reader, who so feelingly dwelt upon it, as one, beautiful like Gertrude, and constituted to love with the same fervency and devotion. She was evidently young—her thoughts were tender—her sentiments lively and refined. That she was beautiful, my fancy did not permit me to doubt.
The next passage left rather a disagreeable impression:
“I look upon the world, and see all that is fair and good; I look uponyou, and see all that I can venerate and adore.”
She doubtless intended this quotation for one she loved. I began to experience all the pangs of jealousy; for well convinced that she was beautiful, young, and gifted, I did not conceive it improbable that I might have a rival, whose precedence in her affections could not but materially affect my chances of success, should I ever be fortunate enough to find her. As soon as I became sufficiently calm, I pursued my task. The concluding pages were evidently stained with tears. This greatly excited my curiosity; but I fancied her grief was attributable to the recollection of some misfortune conjured up by an allusion to the grave:
“The chords of thought, vibrating to the subtlest emotions, may be changed by a single incident, or in a single hour; a sound of sacred music, a green and quiet burial place, may convert the form of death into the aspect of an angel. And, therefore, wisely, and with a beautiful love, did the Greeks strip the grave of its unreal gloom; wisely did they body forth the great principle of rest, and by solemn and lovely images—unconscious of the northern madness that made a spectre of repose!”
Here was all I could require. Her lover had died in all the promise of genius and beauty. His death was simply and solemnly commemorated by a quiet burial in some sylvan solitude. The allusion, in the passage quoted, had revived all the poignancy of his loss, and her tears were evidences of the purity and sincerity of her affection. Although there now appeared no rival to fear, I was aware that love survives death; but as I never had much confidence in woman’s constancy, this did not alarm me.
Forgetting my past experience and my vows of celibacy, I devoted myself immediately to this new chimera. On the title page of the book, which had caused such wild fantasies, I perceived the initials—“E. S. C——.” On examining the page more minutely, I found written in various places, “Emma,” which I knew must be the name for one of the initials. All further search proved vain; and I resolved to examine the “traveller’s register” in hope of procuring more exact information. About a month back, were written in a bold, free hand, the names of Col. Robert St. Clair and Sister—at least the surname of Miss St. Clair, and the name in full of her military brother. My next care was to find out their destination. With surprise and gratification, I perceived that it was precisely where I was journeying myself. My plan for an introduction was quickly made up. I would call on Miss St. Clair and restore her the lost book. My remarks on her criticisms would of course be flattering; and she could not avoid entering into a conversation. Common politeness would induce her to ask me to call again. Thus clear seemed the road to happiness! Let me now pursue it.
Nothing of interest occurred on my journey to P——. Immediately after my arrival I made inquiries for Colonel St. Clair. There was little difficulty in finding his residence. The purport of my mission induced me to devote more than usual care to my toilet; and as I knocked at the polished and brass-mounted door of Colonel St. Clair’s house, the reflection therefrom satisfied me that I was a very passable personage. I was ushered into the drawing-room. “The Colonel was not at home; but the white lady would be down directly”—so the servant informed me, grinning admiration from ear to ear. Who the “white lady” was, I could not imagine; but her appearance dissipated all suspicion that it might be Miss St. Clair herself. She was apparently a lady of forty, much worn and faded by the cares of life. Her countenance was emaciated and melancholy; but her eyes were still bright and expressive; and her features were not uninteresting. She might once have been beautiful. Her form, though somewhat ghastly, was still symmetrical; and her quiet address and dignified manners proved that she had moved in the best society. After a few preliminary remarks, I entered on the subject which was nearest my heart:
“You will pardon my curiosity, madam, when I tell you I have a particular reason for inquiring if there is a young lady in this house, who is very fond of reading? I am uncertain about her name, but I shall give you a brief description, which will enable you to judge whether I am right in my conjectures respecting her identity. She is, I presume, about eighteen; and in rather a delicate state of health, I should imagine, though I will not be certain as to that. She has lately lost a friend, dearer to her than life, and I am led to believe his death occasions her the most poignant grief. I will not say she was betrothed to him. It is not, however, improbable that she was. I have no very exact recollection of her features; but I can give you an idea of her mental traits. She is highly imaginative; and takes great delight in elegant works of fiction. Her taste is remarkably good; and I believe she has written a great deal—probably contributed to the periodicals of the day. On so slight an acquaintance, madam, I feel a delicacy in declaring my motives for the minuteness of my inquiries; but you cannot avoid perceiving that I feel singularly interested in the history and identity of the young lady to whom I allude.”
“Really, sir,” she replied, with a lurking smile, “I can scarcely divine what you are seeking for. However, I am only sorry you have mistaken the place. There is no young lady here, such as you describe. In fact I am the only female belonging to the house; and I can hardly conceive how you were misled.”
“Then,” I observed with a fallen countenance, “youare Miss Emma St. Clair?”
“That is my name, sir.”
It was evident, now, that I had been laboring under a very serious mistake. My situation was really embarrassing. It was not at all unlikely that the elderly spinster would consider me out of my senses, if I openly avowed the error my imagination had caused me to make. I therefore feigned as creditable a story as the existing circumstances would permit; and in conclusion, asked Miss St. Clair if she had lost a volume containing Bulwer’s romance of the Rhine, during her sojourn at T——?
“I believe,” she replied, blushing slightly, “my carelessness caused me to mislay a copy of that work. I regret the loss, not for its value, but simply because there were some pencillings in it which I did not wish to be perused.”
I then produced the book, and confessed having read it and the comments with great delight. This led to a general discussion on the subject of fictitious literature, in which I discovered Miss St. Clair was deeply versed; nor did the discernment and susceptibility evinced in her random pencillings, mislead me as to the character of her mind. The result of my visit was an invitation to call again. I did not neglect the opportunity thus afforded, of cultivating the acquaintance of the accomplished spinster.
In due time I learned many circumstances of her early history. At the age of eighteen, she had plighted her faith to a young officer in the navy. Before arrangements could be effected for their marriage, he was compelled to depart on an expedition to the South Seas. For nearly two years, Emma St. Clair received occasional letters—all evincing unchangeable love in her betrothed. After this period he ceased to correspond. The agony of separation was enhanced by doubts as to his fate. In a state of mind bordering on distraction, she passed many a weary year. Time at length soothed her sorrow; but her love was the true—unchangeable love of woman, and the wounds of a bleeding heart were never closed. Various offers of marriage were rejected—she could never love again.
This affecting little sketch brought tears to the eyes of the narrator. She proved to me, in her melancholy history, that the female heart is not fickle when it truly loves, and that the constancy of woman “passeth all understanding.”
No alternative was now left me, but to continue my travels. Having taken a place in the stage for W——, I set out on my journey, consoling myself with the reflection that I was destined to be miserable all the days of my life. My attention, however, was diverted from this gloomy presentiment, by a young lady of seventeen, who was returning from a boarding-school in the city, to her parental domicil at W——, and who unfortunately chanced to be the only passenger beside myself. Taking the liberty of a fellow traveller, I addressed her with becoming gallantry.
“You are travelling to W——?” I said.
“Yes, sir,” she blushingly replied.
“Have you ever been there?”
“Yes—my parents reside in W——.”
“Indeed!—you have been on a visit, then, to P——?”
“No sir—I have been to school; and I am going home to spend the vacation. Pa would have come for me, but he could not spare time.”
“Oh,” said I, “you will not be unprotected. Fortunately I am going to W—— myself.”
“But Pa says I mustn’t talk to strangers.”
“Ah, your Pa is—an old gentleman! My name is Weston—Harry Weston, so I hope I am no longer a stranger.”
“Indeed—I don’t know sir; I never heard of you before.”
This was very candid, and very discreet. I remained silent; and my fair companion seemed to be deeply engaged in perusing a little work which she drew from her reticule.
“What may that be?” I at length ventured to inquire, although I was pretty well convinced it was the ‘Young lady’s Amaranth,’ or a Pocket Lacon, containing ‘Good Advice in small Parcels.’
“This book, sir?”
“Yes.”
“A hymn-book, I think—that is, itisa hymn-book, which Mrs. Wriggleton told me to read on the way.”
“Mrs. Wriggleton is a very accomplished lady,” I observed. By the by, I had never heard of her before.
“You know her then!” cried my fair young traveller.
“Yes—I am slightly acquainted.”
“Well,—IthinkI heard her mention your name!”
“Very probably. Yours is Miss Fanny Cullobe.”
“No. Mine is Corinna Wilton.”
As the reader may presume, I had never heard of either names; nevertheless, I did not like to appear ignorant. In Miss Corinna, I discovered a transient acquaintance, to whom I had been introduced at a ball; which reminded Miss Corinna that she had an indistinct recollection of my features. Not aware that I had made a vow to remain invincible forever more, she laid siege to my heart during the greater part of the journey. We soon became quite familiar. I perceived that my fair acquaintance was quite sprightly and talkative; and did not venture to remind her of her Pa’s injunction. Eventually she handed me her hymn-book, with the following passage marked for my perusal:—
“Thine, wholly thine alone, I am,Be thou alone my constant flame!”
“Thine, wholly thine alone, I am,Be thou alone my constant flame!”
“Thine, wholly thine alone, I am,Be thou alone my constant flame!”
“Thine, wholly thine alone, I am,
Be thou alone my constant flame!”
Fancying this was a piece of premeditated coquetry, I laughed, and acknowledged the compliment. My Dulcinea, however, encouraged by the reception of her first advance, next pointed out, with an almost irresistible smile, the verse commencing—
“Pleasure, and wealth, and praise, no moreShall lead my captive soul astray;”
“Pleasure, and wealth, and praise, no moreShall lead my captive soul astray;”
“Pleasure, and wealth, and praise, no moreShall lead my captive soul astray;”
“Pleasure, and wealth, and praise, no more
Shall lead my captive soul astray;”
which somewhat alarmed me; but I read on—
“My fond pursuits I all give o’erThee, only thee resolved to obey;My own in all things to resign,And know no other will but thine.”
“My fond pursuits I all give o’erThee, only thee resolved to obey;My own in all things to resign,And know no other will but thine.”
“My fond pursuits I all give o’erThee, only thee resolved to obey;My own in all things to resign,And know no other will but thine.”
“My fond pursuits I all give o’er
Thee, only thee resolved to obey;
My own in all things to resign,
And know no other will but thine.”
Not a little astonished, I looked up in the countenance of the besieger. She was pretty, and sprightly too; but now all mirth had fled, and I fancied a bright tear glittered in her eye. At all events she seemed a good deal agitated. I scarcely knew what to say. I was becoming incredibly nervous. At this moment, fate for once befriended me. We were in W——. The stage had stopped; and I stepped out to aid Corinna in a similar process. As I took her hand, I perceived that she trembled. The spirit of mischief induced me to ask her how she had enjoyed her journey.
She answered—“I shall never forget it!”
“Why?” I very innocently asked.
There was an embarrassing pause. She looked at me, and sighed, and I repeated the question.
“How can I forget it,” she replied, “when it has caused me to meet one whom I shall never forget?”
This alarmed me considerably; but I could only look sentimental, and give her a parting squeeze. Before our final farewell, however, she gave me an invitation to pay her a visit, which I had not the firmness to resist.
During my rambles round the village for the next few days, I learned that the Wiltons were a highly respectable family of great wealth, and that Corinna was an heiress, who had never made her appearance in the matrimonial market. Though I had not the least intention of taking advantage of my conquest, I considered myself bound in common politeness, to pay her the promised visit. After some little attention to my toilet, I set out for the residence of Mr. Wilton. This personage had formerly been an officer in the Navy; and I was not surprised to find that he was precisely such a bluff, hale-looking old gentleman, as my fancy led me to picture him.
“Sir,” said he, when Corinna had formally introduced me, “I consider you a great young rascal!”
Thunderstruck at such a reception, I answered—“May I ask, what induces you to form such an opinion of me?”
“Damme!” cried the old gentleman, “but youarean impudent dog! Haven’t you stolen my daughter’s heart, without leave or license? But I forgive you, sir, for I was just such a young scoundrel at your age. Didn’t I run away with your mother, Corinna, before I was eighteen? Ah,” continued the ex-officer, “that was a rare adventure! It was, you scapegrace!—what are you gaping at?”
“Nothing,” I replied.
“You are an impudent dog, as I said before; but I’ll be square with you. Corinna, you say he is of good family, and all that sort of flummery?”
“Oh, Pa!”
“Don’tPame!—you are dead in love with him!”
“Indeed, Papa—”
“Hush! you hussey—don’t I know human nature? See here, younker, you can take her; and it’s a d—d sight too good a bargain for you!”
“Really, sir,” I stammered, “she mistook my attentions. My sentiments are entirely—”
“Sentiments, fudge!—none of this palaver! You want to make me believe you’re the pink of modesty; but I’ve studied human nature. Here she is with a fortune you’ll not find every day, and I know you love her—so no more of your sentimental nonsense, but prepare to get spliced to-morrow. I go in for doing things off-hand, as the skipper of the Long-Tom used to say, when—”
“My dear, sir,” I interrupted; “this is altogether a misunderstanding. It is utterly impossible for me to marry your daughter!”
“See here!” cried the venerable gentleman, in a great rage—“I told you before that I wanted no more fandangling. Be off, sir! and let me see that your rigging be in order, by to-morrow!—I’ve studied human nature, sir!”
From the little experience I had in that line myself, I perceived that argument or remonstrance would not avail; so I bowed myself very politely out, resolved to leave W——, as soon as possible.
I could not think, however, of leaving Corinna to the desolation of unrequited love, without a word of excuse or consolation. The result of “mature consideration” on the subject was the following note:
B——’sHotel, Tuesday Night,My dear Friend:—Never till now did I really believe such misery as I experience, could be mine. Truly I am the most unhappy being on the face of the earth! Without the slightest design on my part, it appears that I have won your affections—at a time too, when it is utterly impossible I can requite them. Your father’s precipitancy prevented an explanation that might have saved you the mortification of a written avowal respecting my sentiments; but I assure you, however desirous I am that you should be as happy as you desire to be, I cannot love you. The contemplated union can never be. Truly grateful for your good opinion of me, and for the honor of the intended alliance,I remain, if you permit me,Ever sincerely your friend,Henry Weston.To Miss Corinna Wilton.
B——’sHotel, Tuesday Night,
My dear Friend:—Never till now did I really believe such misery as I experience, could be mine. Truly I am the most unhappy being on the face of the earth! Without the slightest design on my part, it appears that I have won your affections—at a time too, when it is utterly impossible I can requite them. Your father’s precipitancy prevented an explanation that might have saved you the mortification of a written avowal respecting my sentiments; but I assure you, however desirous I am that you should be as happy as you desire to be, I cannot love you. The contemplated union can never be. Truly grateful for your good opinion of me, and for the honor of the intended alliance,
I remain, if you permit me,
Ever sincerely your friend,
Henry Weston.
To Miss Corinna Wilton.
At four o’clock in the morning, I was in the stage, on my way to the nearest seaport town. I had made up my mind to embark for Europe. The packet ship A—— was ready to start, and awaited only a fair wind. I engaged a passage for Bordeaux; and the delay being transient, I was soon beyond the reach of Captain Wilton, and the wiles of Corinna.
But alas! what hope is there for the unfortunate? I discovered to my sorrow that new troubles awaited me. As I sat one evening on the bulwark, brooding over my past career, a female voice of exquisite pathos, accompanied by the guitar delicately and tastefully touched, ascended from the ladies’ cabin. I fancied there was something heavenly in the soft, melancholy strain that was wafted from the lips of the songstress. The words were beautiful and touching, and entirely in unison with my feelings. Under any circumstances, the performance would not have appeared commonplace; but at a moment like this, sounds which alone were the soul and essence of poetry, borne to my ear so softly, so unexpectedly, entranced my senses, till I voluntarily exclaimed—
“Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mouldBreathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?Sure something holy lodges in that breastThat with these raptures moves the vocal air!”
“Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mouldBreathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?Sure something holy lodges in that breastThat with these raptures moves the vocal air!”
“Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mouldBreathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?Sure something holy lodges in that breastThat with these raptures moves the vocal air!”
“Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould
Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment?
Sure something holy lodges in that breast
That with these raptures moves the vocal air!”
Not a breath ruffled the calm, swelling ocean. The rays of a departing sun gilded every object around me, with a mellow lustre. A scene of such expanse and grandeur completed the effect which the music had wrought upon me; and I was overpowered with the tenderest emotions. Visions of Home and its happy associations, came upon me in rapid succession. But these “thick-coming fantasies” were verging me towards the melting mood. To hide my weakness, I entered into a sociable dialogue with one of my fellow passengers.
“Yes—a very delightful voice,” he observed in answer to an observation of mine.
“Is she ill?—I have not seen her at the dining table,” said I; for I felt more than ordinary interest in her.
“Delicate, I presume, she prefers the solitude of her cabin.”
“Ah, yes: her voice indicates a pensive disposition.”
“Just hers, exactly, sir.”
“Then you are acquainted with her?” I observed.
“I ought to be,” said my travelling acquaintance.
“Is she young?”
“Yes—about nineteen.”
“And pretty?”
“Beautiful,Ithink.”
Now I really began to imagine I was deeply in love. This unknown songstress had created strange sensations in me. I had some thoughts of asking an introduction; but my acquaintance was almost too slight with my new friend. After a moment’s thought, I observed—
“I should like to know her.”
“Would you? I shall introduce you, sir, with pleasure,” was the generous reply.
“In fact,” I whispered, drawing my quondam acquaintance aside, “to tell you the truth, I am very much in love with her!”
“The devil you are!” cried he, with a hearty laugh.
“Yes—I fancy she is a most fascinating woman.”
“Ah, you may say that,” replied Mr. Templeton, whose name I discovered on the corner of his pocket handkerchief.
“Shall we go down now?” said I, for I was very anxious to see her.
“Just as you please;” and we were soon in the presence of the fair unknown. She was quite as beautiful as I expected. Mr. Templeton having learned my name, presented me with due ceremony—“Mr. Weston, I’ll introduce you to my wife. Mrs. Templeton, allow me to introduce to you Mr. Weston.”
I was thunderstruck! Mr. Templeton enjoyed a hearty laugh at my confusion; but I was too cruelly disappointed to join in it. Making the best apology in my power, I hurried upon deck to conceal my chagrin. It is needless to add that during the rest of the voyage I kept aloof from all company—especially that of the fascinating Mrs. Templeton.
I shall not dwell upon my tour through Europe. I spent the winter in France; and proceeded thence through Spain to Italy. Nearly a year was devoted to this part of my continental ramble. After my visit to Italy I embarked for England, whence I proceeded to the highlands of Scotland. I spent an adventurous season here; and set sail for America. Three years of my early life thus glided away. On my journey home, I passed through W——. Captain Wilton, I learned, had died about a year previously, of an apoplectic stroke. Corinna had married a country merchant, a month after my departure. Her fortune was only nominal; the Captain having deeply involved himself in debt; but she made amends to her disappointed spouse by presenting him, a few months after their marriage, with a fine pair of twins. So much for the charms of lucre!
My old friend Desmond informed me of various changes which had taken place during my absence. I shall only allude to one or two, in which the reader may feel an interest.
Mr. Martagon, the poet, won the heart of a Southern lady, rich, accomplished and beautiful. The natural result was marriage; although, in extenuation, he wrote a poem, in the style of Ovid, showing that such a course was necessary at a certain period of life.
Miss Emily Melville became a nun; and enjoyed thenceforth the quiet charms of a life of peace and devotion.
“——Waking as in sleep,She seemed but now a lovely dream;A star that trembled o’er the deep,Then turned from earth its tender beam.”
“——Waking as in sleep,She seemed but now a lovely dream;A star that trembled o’er the deep,Then turned from earth its tender beam.”
“——Waking as in sleep,She seemed but now a lovely dream;A star that trembled o’er the deep,Then turned from earth its tender beam.”
“——Waking as in sleep,
She seemed but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o’er the deep,
Then turned from earth its tender beam.”
My early flame, Miss Virginia Melville, at length found one whose talents she admired—whose virtues and personal gifts won her affection. She discovered that love, with all its follies, is neither unnatural or improper; and in yielding her hand to the possessor of her heart, found that the greatest source of happiness, in this life, is the pure and sacred affection of two devoted souls.
And now, kind reader, a word more and we are done. Impressed with the belief that a faint heart never would procure me a wife, I managed to get rid of my timidity as age progressed; and popped the question at various times. But, alas! some objected that my hair was getting gray—others that my complexion was too dark—and one cruel little beauty told me I looked better as a bachelor, than I would as a husband. So here I am, verging to a very uncertain age, with every prospect of a life of single blessedness. I can only say to those of my fair readers, who are opposed to bachelorship, that I am not in fault; and that it is in their power to remedy the evil by addressing me a word of hope.
To all who have found anything amusing or interesting in these memoirs thus far, I beg leave to remark that when I am snugly settled, enjoying the sweets of matrimony, I shall present them with the third and last book, of theMisfortunes of a Timid Gentleman.
[2]See September Number.
[2]
See September Number.
THE LYRE BIRD.
———
BY N. C. BROOKS.
———
TheMenura Superba, a species of the Bird of Paradise, is also called the Lyre Bird, from the perfect resemblance of the tail to an ancient lyre. Its powers of song are very great. It commences singing in the morning, and gradually ascends some eminence as it sings.—Shaw’s Zoology.
TheMenura Superba, a species of the Bird of Paradise, is also called the Lyre Bird, from the perfect resemblance of the tail to an ancient lyre. Its powers of song are very great. It commences singing in the morning, and gradually ascends some eminence as it sings.—Shaw’s Zoology.
Bird of the forest, thy form is fairAs a summer cloud on the evening air,And the golden plumage upon thee liesIn tintings rich as a rainbow’s dyes;Yet fairer wert thou when thy form, at firstFrom the hands of God like a sunbeam burst,When the velvet shades of the forest gloomsWere lit with the light of thy golden plumes,And angel eyes as they passed were turnedTo the place where thy plumy glory burned.But Sin, that with curse upon all hath lain,Has dimmed thy gloss with many a stain;And the summer’s heat, and the winter’s stormHave blighted and blasted thy early form.Bird of the forest, thy song is sweetAs breezes that summer wavelets greet,And thy liquid notes melt into one,Like hearts of lovers in unison.Yet sweeter far were thy tones that brokeThe spell of silence when Eden woke,And angel forms on their plumes delayed,To list to thy notes ’mid the garden shade;And, ceasing to sweep their chords of fire,In wonder gazed on thy mimic lyre.Since the eve when the stilly grove was stirredBy the voice of God in the garden heard,And the cherubs waved the fiery swordAt Eden’s gate ’gainst its banished lord—Since the brow of the guilty Earth was bent’Neath the sentence of sin’s dread punishment,A spell of woe on thy heart has lain,Sorrow has saddened thy dulcet strain;And the grief of the exile that pines aloneIs heard in the breathing of every tone.Still pour thy song; and still mount higherWith the day-god. Bird of the plumy lyre!And know as thou pourest thy saddened strain,That the meek heart is purified by pain,And at length will rest on a palmy shore,Where grief and suffering are no more.In that sweet land from all sorrow free,There’s a place of bliss, lone bird, for thee;With the beasts of the field and the birds of the shade,Immortal as first when God had made.There shall the strains of thy music flowIn a ceaseless stream, without note of woe;And the gloss of thy pinions forever playIn the glorious beams of eternal day.
Bird of the forest, thy form is fairAs a summer cloud on the evening air,And the golden plumage upon thee liesIn tintings rich as a rainbow’s dyes;Yet fairer wert thou when thy form, at firstFrom the hands of God like a sunbeam burst,When the velvet shades of the forest gloomsWere lit with the light of thy golden plumes,And angel eyes as they passed were turnedTo the place where thy plumy glory burned.But Sin, that with curse upon all hath lain,Has dimmed thy gloss with many a stain;And the summer’s heat, and the winter’s stormHave blighted and blasted thy early form.Bird of the forest, thy song is sweetAs breezes that summer wavelets greet,And thy liquid notes melt into one,Like hearts of lovers in unison.Yet sweeter far were thy tones that brokeThe spell of silence when Eden woke,And angel forms on their plumes delayed,To list to thy notes ’mid the garden shade;And, ceasing to sweep their chords of fire,In wonder gazed on thy mimic lyre.Since the eve when the stilly grove was stirredBy the voice of God in the garden heard,And the cherubs waved the fiery swordAt Eden’s gate ’gainst its banished lord—Since the brow of the guilty Earth was bent’Neath the sentence of sin’s dread punishment,A spell of woe on thy heart has lain,Sorrow has saddened thy dulcet strain;And the grief of the exile that pines aloneIs heard in the breathing of every tone.Still pour thy song; and still mount higherWith the day-god. Bird of the plumy lyre!And know as thou pourest thy saddened strain,That the meek heart is purified by pain,And at length will rest on a palmy shore,Where grief and suffering are no more.In that sweet land from all sorrow free,There’s a place of bliss, lone bird, for thee;With the beasts of the field and the birds of the shade,Immortal as first when God had made.There shall the strains of thy music flowIn a ceaseless stream, without note of woe;And the gloss of thy pinions forever playIn the glorious beams of eternal day.
Bird of the forest, thy form is fairAs a summer cloud on the evening air,And the golden plumage upon thee liesIn tintings rich as a rainbow’s dyes;Yet fairer wert thou when thy form, at firstFrom the hands of God like a sunbeam burst,When the velvet shades of the forest gloomsWere lit with the light of thy golden plumes,And angel eyes as they passed were turnedTo the place where thy plumy glory burned.But Sin, that with curse upon all hath lain,Has dimmed thy gloss with many a stain;And the summer’s heat, and the winter’s stormHave blighted and blasted thy early form.
Bird of the forest, thy form is fair
As a summer cloud on the evening air,
And the golden plumage upon thee lies
In tintings rich as a rainbow’s dyes;
Yet fairer wert thou when thy form, at first
From the hands of God like a sunbeam burst,
When the velvet shades of the forest glooms
Were lit with the light of thy golden plumes,
And angel eyes as they passed were turned
To the place where thy plumy glory burned.
But Sin, that with curse upon all hath lain,
Has dimmed thy gloss with many a stain;
And the summer’s heat, and the winter’s storm
Have blighted and blasted thy early form.
Bird of the forest, thy song is sweetAs breezes that summer wavelets greet,And thy liquid notes melt into one,Like hearts of lovers in unison.Yet sweeter far were thy tones that brokeThe spell of silence when Eden woke,And angel forms on their plumes delayed,To list to thy notes ’mid the garden shade;And, ceasing to sweep their chords of fire,In wonder gazed on thy mimic lyre.
Bird of the forest, thy song is sweet
As breezes that summer wavelets greet,
And thy liquid notes melt into one,
Like hearts of lovers in unison.
Yet sweeter far were thy tones that broke
The spell of silence when Eden woke,
And angel forms on their plumes delayed,
To list to thy notes ’mid the garden shade;
And, ceasing to sweep their chords of fire,
In wonder gazed on thy mimic lyre.
Since the eve when the stilly grove was stirredBy the voice of God in the garden heard,And the cherubs waved the fiery swordAt Eden’s gate ’gainst its banished lord—Since the brow of the guilty Earth was bent’Neath the sentence of sin’s dread punishment,A spell of woe on thy heart has lain,Sorrow has saddened thy dulcet strain;And the grief of the exile that pines aloneIs heard in the breathing of every tone.
Since the eve when the stilly grove was stirred
By the voice of God in the garden heard,
And the cherubs waved the fiery sword
At Eden’s gate ’gainst its banished lord—
Since the brow of the guilty Earth was bent
’Neath the sentence of sin’s dread punishment,
A spell of woe on thy heart has lain,
Sorrow has saddened thy dulcet strain;
And the grief of the exile that pines alone
Is heard in the breathing of every tone.
Still pour thy song; and still mount higherWith the day-god. Bird of the plumy lyre!And know as thou pourest thy saddened strain,That the meek heart is purified by pain,And at length will rest on a palmy shore,Where grief and suffering are no more.In that sweet land from all sorrow free,There’s a place of bliss, lone bird, for thee;With the beasts of the field and the birds of the shade,Immortal as first when God had made.There shall the strains of thy music flowIn a ceaseless stream, without note of woe;And the gloss of thy pinions forever playIn the glorious beams of eternal day.
Still pour thy song; and still mount higher
With the day-god. Bird of the plumy lyre!
And know as thou pourest thy saddened strain,
That the meek heart is purified by pain,
And at length will rest on a palmy shore,
Where grief and suffering are no more.
In that sweet land from all sorrow free,
There’s a place of bliss, lone bird, for thee;
With the beasts of the field and the birds of the shade,
Immortal as first when God had made.
There shall the strains of thy music flow
In a ceaseless stream, without note of woe;
And the gloss of thy pinions forever play
In the glorious beams of eternal day.
THE IDEAL.
GERMAN LITERATURE, AND A LOVE STORY.
———
BY C. G. FOSTER.
———
I perceivewith regret that it has of late become fashionable among the critics and mediocre authors, on both sides of the water, to decry German literature. Having rifled the gems—and bright and precious are they—the casket is now to be kicked aside as useless lumber. Even Blackwood—so long an oracle almost of the literary world—even Kit North himself, than whom a better man or truer poet never existed—has turned cynic and snarler in his old age, and after having marched side by side with Scott, Göethe, Byron, Coleridge, Schiller, Schlegel, and Shelley, through the brightest era of literature that has dawned and blazed upon the world since Johnson, has at last sunk to the level of a literary parvenu, and laughs at German literature!Heshould not have done it! I tell you, Christopher, that the inspiration of a century was concentrated in a few mighty brains, which, within the last century, have returned to dust. For another hundred years to come, human intellect will seldom rise above the mere practical concerns of life—railroads, manufactures, and machinery. Practical science and natural philosophy will progress; but not that sublime and immediate gift of God, the embodying of the Ideal Perfect. The old world is exhausted. Greece, and her mouldering monuments of classic beauty—Rome, and her magnificent mementos of the shadowy past—Spain with her high romance, and Asia with her gorgeous grandeur—who will venture again to explore? Chateaubriand, Byron, De Stäel, Moore, Rogers—are not such names barriers to frighten all aspirants? No—not till America—the new world—becomes rich and settles herself down in quiet grandeur—not till her thousand mountains, her mighty lakes, her stupendous cataracts, and her boundless prairies, become invested with the magic of intellectual association—not until history begins to lose itself in dreamy and indistinct fable, to cast a vague interest over every charmed spot—will the bright-winged Ideal rouse from her sleeping nest. She shrinks from every thing practical, palpable, and common-place, as the rainbow loses its hues as it approaches the earth.
Let us then cherish and protect the thoughts and aspirations which these mighty minds have bequeathed us. Never did I think to findWilsondepreciating German literature. He is old, and should almost fear that posterity will retort upon him! A remnant of the old worshippers of the Ideal yet remain, haunting the ploughed fields of modern improvement, like the scattered and timid deer which are sometimes seen bounding along the margin of civilization. Like the White Lady of Avenel, they are year by year fading away—the golden zone which binds their misty drapery is becoming smaller and smaller—the clack of the useful mill, or the clashing of machinery, drowns their voices at their favorite fountains; and they are forced to shut up the beautiful visions which haunt their breasts, in the deep sources of emotion which glow and bubble in silence.
The source of our most exquisite happiness is the cause of our keenest sufferings. The constant and feverish search after perfection soon disgusts the seeker. Expecting every thing for which the heart panteth, we rush onward from disappointment to despair. Hope’s false mirror is reversed; and pleasure appears as much diminished as it was before enlarged.
He who is blest with an organization in which Ideality holds a conspicuous place, will be sure to form a complete system of metaphysics, graduated upon its impulses. If he be permitted to inhale the odor of the German Ideology, or of Platonism in its sublime beauty, he will thence be satisfied; and will yield up his own dreamings to the more powerful enchantments which the beautiful dead have thrown around him—for Ideality is the least conceited of the feelings. It is only proud of itscapacity to enjoy.
It was my fortune to be born and educated on the banks of the Hudson, where the noble river makes a long sweep westward, affording now an excellent landing for steamboats; but which, when I first snuffed up the free mountain air, resounded to nought but the wild warbling of the merry birds, or the occasional halloo of the far-off husbandman, as he urged his reluctant plough through the rich soil. There is now a nail-factory on the very spot where I used to stand, watching the glorious sunrise as its golden light filtered through the trees which crowned the eastern hill, and lit up the joyous brook which danced at my feet—while Ifeltthat the broad and whirling river at my back, was leaping and quivering in the gleam. Each tiny grot and harbor which my young imagination erst peopled with denizens from the land of dreams, now resounds to the uncouth “clink of hammers,” or the sacrilegious wheezing of a steam-engine! When I last visited my native village—’tis ten years ago—to seek once more the remembered haunts of childhood, I found a railroad dépôt on the very spot where the church in which I was christened once stood, and a cotton factory on my former bathing-ground by the margin of my dear old lake.
Vexed and disappointed, I flung myself along an old heap of logs which had escaped the demon of improvement, and were still in their old position, crumbling quietly and decently to dust. Here I lay until the sun clambered awkwardly down the western sky, and the shadows of evening came out from their hiding places to meet the bat and owl, and hold their nightly revels in the moonshine. Gradually I sunk into a new and pleasing state of existence. I had been reading “Undine,” a literary gem of so pure and perfect a form and structure, that the only wonder is how it should have been created by the mere spontaneous working of the imperfect human brain. It is now ten years since I read it—nor have I presumed to look into a modern “translation,” of which I have heard—and yet you shall see how well I remember it.
Undine is the favorite child of a water-goddess, and like all fairies with whom I was ever acquainted, holds her ethereal attributes only at the expense of her natural affections, and becomes mortal at the touch of man. Well—her mother being an exception of a fairy woman, has no small degree ofcuriosityin her composition, and places this darling daughter of hers under the protection of an old anchorite who lived in a beautiful green island, all alone, as he thought; but he was mistaken, as you shall see: for this very island was the most frequent haunt of the fairies, gnomes, salamanders, and other such grave and respectable people—a sort of coffee-house, in fact, where they met nightly to talk over the politics of Elfinland, criticise the Queen’s last head-dress, laugh at Puck’s latest epigram, toss off their bumper of “mountain dew,” and stagger soberly to bed under the violet.
And so, in this wild, fragrant solitude—unknown to vulgar eyes and therefore unsoiled and untrampled upon—grew up this flower in all the luxuriant beauty of mortality, softened and spiritualized by her yet immortal nature. And, as the grape is most luscious and tempting the very moment ere it is tainted by the sun’s unhallowed kisses, and drops, a disgusting thing, from the green and immortal vine, so she grew ripe with loveliness and so intense in beauty, that, Narcissus like, she fell enamored of her own sweet image, as it was reflected in the pure spring sacred to the innate Ideal which bubbled within her own bosom. The old hermit marked anxiously and tenderly the growth of his young charge: and when, in the evening time—when the rose’s bosom swelled and panted beneath the night wind’s passionate embrace—she came and kissed his brow and nestled her beautiful curly head in his bosom, the old man was wild with joy, and his heart beat again as it did in youth, like the sleeping tide awakened to convulsions by the gentle moon.
But anon a brave and beautiful knight—whose ancestral castle still frowns above the Rhine, parting reluctantly, like a decaying beauty, one by one, year after year, with its fair proportions—came dashing through the foam to our dainty islet. He had been hunting in the forest; and a terrible storm coming up—no doubt set on foot by the mischievous fairies, who, like all other supernatural beings, are accused of frequently overturning the economy of a whole world to advance some particular whim of their own—he rode wildly through the intricate labyrinths of the woods for some hours to no purpose, and at length gave up the reins to his noble steed, who bore him wherever he would: and, landing on our beautiful island, the knight saw the twinkle of the anchorite’s torch, which he had lighted to tell his rosary at the midnight hour. The stranger was kindly welcomed, and the hermit’s homely fare cheerfully set before him.
And now, out peeped Undine—the little rogue—from her fairy slumbers, with her night-dress scarce hanging about her beautiful shoulders, and her large eyes dazzling and sinking into shade like the opal. Such visions may have broken upon Guido’s dreams, ere yet his hand had been trained by art to grasp the impalpable lightning of his mind, and chain it to the canvas. In vain the old man pleaded and expostulated—nay once in an angry tonecommandedher to go back instantly. I wish you could have seen her then. It was like the uncoiling of a beautiful snake, disturbed in its playfulness by the rash intruder’s foot. With eye-balls darting fire—throat swelling and falling with beautiful rage—and every movement indicating the contortions of a fiend, who had in vain endeavored to disguise himself in the robes of spiritual beauty—she rudely pushed the old man aside, sprung lightly into the room, and stood, in an attitude of wild and timid repose, directly in front of the stranger knight.
——
And the knight, being entranced with the supernatural beauty of Undine, rushed eagerly towards her with his arms extended, as if he would clasp her to his bosom; but she shrunk from his approach like the sensitive plant, which thrillingly feels, yet dares not meet, man’s touch—and the eager knight embraced the empty air.
When I was a little child, I once tried to catch a beautiful bird that sat singing in a green bush; but when my hand, certain of its victim, closed to grasp it, a gleam of loveliness shot across my eyes—a wild burst of joyous melody smote my ears—and that bird like a midnight dream, passed from my sight forever. Hope ceased her guardian watch, and as she turned her face from me, threw deep black shadows far into my heart. So felt the strange knight, as he stood with extended arms motionless and eyes gazing wildly in the direction whence Undine had vanished, until the good old hermit came and laid his hand upon the youth’s shoulder, and spoke kindly to him—for he knew that his guest was in a charmed spell, and could no more control his thought.
So he led the knight, as he would have done a child, to a beautiful arbor at the bottom of the garden, where the moon-beams had stolen through the vine leaves, and were dallying with the dew—for the tempest had suddenly ceased, and the majestic night had come forth uncovered, to hold her starry court—and pointed to a rustic bed made of dry leaves and moss. Then he blessed him and departed—and the stranger slept sweetly beneath the sheltering wings of night. But it was his body alone that slumbered: for no sooner had he closed his eyes than a thousand faces, radiant with smiles and witching tenderness, clustered around him—and, oh rapture! among them was Undine, who came joyously towards him, and flung herself confidingly into his arms; and, as she looked up in his face, he thought he had passed the cloudy shadows which separate earth from heaven, and was already in the abode of immortal bliss.
But I will not protract my story. The knight fell impetuously in love with the little fairy girl, who told him that she had sacrificed her immortality out of pure love for him, and promised him every delight that physical or intellectual longing could possibly conceive—so long as he was faithful to her: and the little witch kept her word, and had told him the truth, too, as you shall presently see—for her father, Kuhleborn, and all the rest of her fairy acquaintances, gradually forsook her, and she held no more communion with the winged spirit of the ideal world, save with thatonewho is ever near the object of her anxiety and love—her mother! Aye, that fairy mother, in the still star-light, when Undine slept like a rose upon the bosom of her lord, would come and fan her with her musical wings, and breathe fragrance over her, and spangle her hair with tears of love and fondness—and then the knight would wake and kiss them up, and fold her more closely to his breast; and the mother would glide noiselessly away, and sit in pleasant sadness by the river’s bank, until the garish day-light frightened her back to her haunts in the deep forest.
Well—this lasted for some time; the old hermit sanctioning with his smiles the endearments of the fond pair; for he knew that Undine’s only chance of happiness was in the constancy of the stranger knight—for she had forfeited her immortal nature, and trusted all her rich treasure of hope and happiness to a human love! How precious the cargo! how frail the bark! what a little tempest will shatter this slight vessel, and strew the glittering fragments of its freight upon the sands!
Anon came a gallant array of knights from his father’s court, to conduct our bewildered lover back to life. Congratulations upon his safety, and the evident joy which dwelt upon the features of his friends, at length subdued him, and he consented to return to the gay world. He sought once more his Undine in her favorite bower; and as he approached, a strain of most exquisite music stole upon his ear. He listened, and heard the voice of his own—his beloved—pour forth her soul: