“Learn of the little nautilus to sail;”
“Learn of the little nautilus to sail;”
“Learn of the little nautilus to sail;”
“Learn of the little nautilus to sail;”
for that this mollusc has no membrane that it can elevate to catch the wind, has been satisfactorily demonstrated. It is manifest, in other ways, that very different vessels from any having sails were first used. The raft, constructed of rude timbers lashed together, would, for example, be devised at an early period. The means employed to this day on the Euphrates must also have been adopted in a very distant age. The kelck is composed of goat or sheep skins, inflated and fastened close together, on which cross-pieces of wood are placed. The skins, of which great care is taken lest they should burst from becoming dry, are examined and inflated afresh during a voyage. Floated down by the strength of the current, with the occasional use of rudely-formed oars, the materials of the raft are sold on the cargo being discharged, while the skins, exhausted of air, are carried back overland, to be used on the next voyage.
The Arabs, male and female, still cross the Euphrates, or pass upon it to a considerable distance, for agricultural and other purposes, by means of inflated skins; which were probably employed by the patriarch Jacob when he fled from Padan-aran, and “carried away all his cattle and all his goods.” In after times armies crossed rivers by inflated skins, and other contrivances. And among the sculptures of Nineveh obtained by Mr. Layard, is one representing three warriors passing a river: one struggles with the current, the others are sustained by inflated skins.
The ark of bulrushes prepared by the parents of Moses for their beloved child, presents another type of ancient modes of conveyance. Egypt is described by the prophet Isaiah as sending “ambassadors by the sea;”
“And in vessels of papyrus on the face of the waters.”
“And in vessels of papyrus on the face of the waters.”
“And in vessels of papyrus on the face of the waters.”
“And in vessels of papyrus on the face of the waters.”
That the ancients were accustomed to make light boats or vessels of this substance is well known. Theophrastus, describing the papyrus as useful for many things, says, “for from this they make vessels,” or ships; while Pliny observes, “from the papyrus they weave vessels.” Herodotus speaks of covered coracles, or basket-boats, their ribs being formed of poplar, united and lined within with reeds, covered without with leather, and worked by two men, each having a paddle, as common in his day. Similar vessels, excepting only that a covering of bitumen is substituted for one of leather, are still to be seen floating on the bosom of the Euphrates. But to these Egyptian art was not restricted. Herodotus describes boats formed of planks laid together in the manner of bricks, and fastened by an outer layer of deals, the joinings of which were stopped up by cement.
Large vessels, capable of performing long and distant voyages, appear also to have been constructed in early times. They were impelled by oars, or by these combined with sails. Not venturing into the high seas, the mariners merely cruised along the coast, so that in stress of weather a port might easily be gained. Slow and tedious were those early voyages, as they could be directed only by an observation of the stars, which a hazy atmosphere would effectually obscure. In winter no progress could bemade; the vessel was then laid up in harbor until the return of the sailing season.
If, in conclusion, we turn to the contemplation of man in the city, we shall observe the arts at their greatest elevation. It is worthy of remark that the valleys of the Tigris and Euphrates, and also of the Nile, as well as of Syria, from the sea-coast eastward to the great desert that parts it from Mesopotamia, were occupied by highly-civilized nations, clothed in fabrics of cotton, linen, and wool; while the grassy, treeless plains, extending from the Arab sea westward, as far as the mouths of the Danube, and along the northern borders of the Caspian and Euxine seas, and the intervening chain of the Caucasus, were traversed by independent tribes, clothed in skins and furs. Commercial intercourse and visits took place, as well as hostile excursions, and thus the manufactures of Babylonia were exchanged for the native productions of the Scythian plains and of the interminable forests on their northern boundary.
The Jews seem to have been precluded by the Mosaic law from the preparation and use of fur; and the Greeks and Romans considered the skins of animals badges of rusticity and barbarism; but the finer kinds of fur were known and esteemed by the nobles of Babylon. Ælian, who wrote about the year 110, states that a certain species of mice are found in the district of Teredon, in Babylonia, the soft skins of which are taken to Persia, where they are sewn together into garments remarkable for their warmth.
Of the use of fur both among civilized and barbarous people there are many traces. Thus we have notices of the employment of the skins of sables, ermine, and squirrels, with various contrivances to produce a variegated surface. The practice is supposed to be of Oriental origin, and the tent of Sapor to supply the earliest instance of this parti-colored arrangement. Tacitus, however, describes the same fashion of variegating furs to have been in use among the German tribes at a still earlier period.
The costume of the people who live in cities attains to the highest elegance, splendor, and gorgeousness of which it is capable. Here we discover all that properly belongs to rank, with the means of appeasing an insatiable vanity. Oriental women, in every age, have been distinguished by a passion for dress, personal decoration constituting one of the chief occupations and pleasures of their life. Variety becomes, therefore, an element of delight as well as splendor. But rare and costly garments are also highly prized by the other sex, who frequently regard an immense wardrobe as indicative of rank and taste.
“Solomon made for himself a chariot of the wood of Lebanon. He made the pillars thereof of silver, the bottom thereof of gold, and the covering of it of purple;” and the city is traversed by the varied equipages of an opulent people, in which many of the arts are clearly discernible. War-chariots, observable among other nations, were not to be seen among the forces of the Hebrews, whose great men used them chiefly for purposes of state.
Even the tents in which the modern princes of the East often spend the season of summer are arrayed in beauty and magnificence, of which such a fabric might scarcely be deemed susceptible. One belonging to a late king of Persia is said to have cost two millions of money. It was called “the house of gold,” because it was everywhere resplendent with the precious metal. An inscription on the cornice or the antechamber described it as “the throne of the second Solomon.”
The Dewan Khass of the far-famed Shah Allun is a building situated at the upper end of a spacious square, elevated upon a terrace of marble. In former times it was adorned with excessive magnificence. It is about a hundred and fifty feet in length, and forty in breadth. The flat roof is supported by numerous columns of fine white marble, which have been richly ornamented with inlaid flowered work of different colored stones, the cornices and borders having been decorated with a frieze and sculptured work. Formerly the ceiling was encrusted, throughout its whole extent, with a rich foliage of silver. The compartments of the walls were inlaid with the greatest delicacy. Around the exterior of the cornice are the following lines, written in letters of gold, on a ground of white marble—“If there be a paradise upon earth, it is this, it is this.”
In some Oriental edifices, the lower part of the walls is adorned with rich hangings or damask, tinged with the liveliest colors, and investing the apartments “with purpureal gleams.” In the royal garden at Shushan there were “white, green, and blue hangings, fastened with cords of fine linen and purple to silver rings and pillars of marble.” Ingenious devices, as wreaths and festoons in stucco and fretwork, are the ornaments of the upper part of the walls. In the days of Jeremiah, we read of apartments “ceiled with cedar and painted with vermilion;” and since then, costly and fragrant wood, on which exquisite decorations in colors and gold are displayed, have been frequently employed. Painted tiles or slabs of the finest marble have formed the floors, reminding us of the palace of Ahasuerus, where “the beds,” or couches “were of gold and silver, upon a pavement of red and blue, and white and black marble;” and all the furniture of the house was in full accordance with the imperial state of the sovereign.
Some of the edifices of the East are thus associated in our minds with the greatest splendor and magnificence. The choicest marble, granite and porphyry form their walls, columns, and floors; silver and gold supply some of their decorations, while others are adorned with the costliest gems. The effect of light falling on such resplendent materials is indescribably dazzling and imposing. The allusions to such buildings in the prophecies of Isaiah, and the Revelation of “the beloved disciple,” will at once occur to those who are familiar with the Scriptures.
The remains of the departed greatness of Egypt, which the congeniality of its climate has contributedso remarkably to perpetuate, consist generally of places for civil assemblies and religious ceremonies. In Upper or Southern Egypt, the site of almost every memorable city is marked by the ruins of a temple, or palace-temple, which was appropriated to both these purposes. The visitor cannot fail to be struck by the vastness of the edifice, or the solemn air by which its ruins are pervaded. The walls bear upon them the records of the past. Covered with reliefs, which are generally colored, the idols appear receiving the homage of the sovereign who founded the structure, together with the battles, sieges, and other events of the wars, out of the spoils of which the majestic pile was reared. Sometimes the king is portrayed returning as a conqueror in triumph, and dragging a long series of captives of different nations to the feet of the presiding divinity. These pictures frequently cover a large extent of surface, and are crowded with figures in action, executed with great spirit and fidelity; the peculiar features and color of the different people being strictly preserved. Explanatory inscriptions in the hieroglyphics of Egypt accompany these reliefs. Some of these halls are six hundred feet both in length and breadth, and are crowded throughout their entire area with massive columns of majestic height. On first surveying the immense cavern temple at Ipsambul, in Nubia, the spectator might well imagine, from the whiteness of its walls, the sharpness of its figures, their brilliant hues, and especially from the parts where the tracings and first outlines appear, showing that this stupendous edifice was never completed, that the artists had only just left their work. But as his eye falls on the deep, black dust, covering the rocky floor on which he treads, into which have mouldered the doors, the door-posts, and all the inner fittings of the temple, he feels that ages have rolled away since the artisans were numbered among the dead.
The art of design, whether apparent in painting or sculpture, was used in Egypt, as must already have appeared, not to excite the imagination, but to inform the understanding. According to Clement of Alexandria, an Egyptian temple was “a writing,” addressing itself, like a volume, to the mind. Accordingly, their artists imitated nature only so far as to convey the intended idea clearly and precisely; generally they did not aim at beauty and grace. When, however, they wished to give a portrait of any particular individual, we find so exact a representation that the features of several of the Pharaohs may be easily recognized. But it is evident that they were ignorant of perspective, and that they did not feel the necessity of studying light and shade in the use of colors. Analogous to the practice of the Egyptians is that of the Chinese, in reference to the rooms of their dwellings, in our own day; for they are adorned with pictorial characters, conveying wise sayings and moral precepts; combining in the person of one artist the work of the scribe, the painter, and the engraver.
Recent discoveries enable us to call up before the mind Nineveh, that “exceeding great city,” where the arts of life attained their utmost elevation. Passing a ponderous and richly-sculptured gate, we see, at certain distances within the walls, other gates flanked by towers adorned by sculptures, or gigantic figures, as winged bulls or lions. Lofty pyramidal structures arise, which served as watch-towers. Tents, often visible within the walls of Oriental cities, occupy open spaces. Other spaces, without the great public edifices, are covered by private houses, standing in the midst of gardens, and built at a distance from each other, or forming streets, which inclose gardens and even arable land, and stretch out to a vast extent.
Distinguished from all other residences is a palatial edifice: its doorways are formed by gigantic winged lions or bulls, or by figures of guardian deities, and lead into apartments which again open into more distant halls. The pavement of these rooms is of sunburnt bricks, or alabaster slabs, of a color agreeable to the eye; and the ceilings are divided into square compartments, inlaid with ivory, adorned with gold, and richly painted with flowers. The tables, seats, and couches are made of metal and wood, some being inlaid with ivory; the legs of the chairs are tastefully carved, and terminate in the feet of a lion or the hoofs of a bull, made of gold, silver, or bronze.
In the walls of the chambers, as in those of the hall, are alabaster slabs, used as panels, with various scenes depicted upon them, and painted in gorgeous colors.Hereappears the colossal figure of a king, in the act of adoring his chief divinity, or of receiving from his eunuch the holy cup; the robes of the sovereign and his attendants being painted with brilliant colors, and adorned with groups of animals, figures and flowers.Thereis a scene of a different character: the king, attended by his eunuchs and warriors, is entering into alliance with other monarchs, or receiving the homage of his captives. And beneath this range there is still a different spectacle: the siege—the battle—the triumph, are all sculptured by the artist’s hand, and decorated with rich and glowing tints, while under each picture are engraved in characters filled up with bright copper, the descriptions of the various objects that are portrayed.
But as we survey building after building, the vast city teems with life. Myriads of rational and intelligent beings occupy its habitations and crowd its streets. Here are the architects, of consummate skill and taste—the builders who can rear edifices of the loftiest proportions and of real grandeur—the sculptors, who cannot only decorate with exquisite ability, but chronicle to coming ages events of the highest interest in the annals of Assyria—and the painters, who array their productions with the liveliest and brightest hues. Here, too, are the artisans, who work with ingenuity, taste, and skill, in wood, silver, copper, gold, lead, ivory, and glass—supplying the costume of the people, the furniture of their houses, their chariots, and missiles of war, and all that is required for the comfort, indulgence, luxury, defense, and enterprise of Nineveh’s vast, energetic, and prosperous population.
But imagination only calls up the spectacle.
“Her walls are gone; her palaces are dust;The desert is around her, and withinLike shadows have the mighty passed away!So let the nations learn, that not in wealth,Nor in the grosser pleasures of the sense,Nor in the glare of conquest, nor the pompOf vassal kings and tributary lands,Do happiness and lasting power abide;That virtue unto man’s best glory is,His strength and truest wisdom; and that guilt,Though for a season it the heart delight,Or to worst deeds the bad man do make strong,Brings misery yet, and terror, and remorse;And weakness and destruction in the end.”[2]
“Her walls are gone; her palaces are dust;The desert is around her, and withinLike shadows have the mighty passed away!So let the nations learn, that not in wealth,Nor in the grosser pleasures of the sense,Nor in the glare of conquest, nor the pompOf vassal kings and tributary lands,Do happiness and lasting power abide;That virtue unto man’s best glory is,His strength and truest wisdom; and that guilt,Though for a season it the heart delight,Or to worst deeds the bad man do make strong,Brings misery yet, and terror, and remorse;And weakness and destruction in the end.”[2]
“Her walls are gone; her palaces are dust;The desert is around her, and withinLike shadows have the mighty passed away!So let the nations learn, that not in wealth,Nor in the grosser pleasures of the sense,Nor in the glare of conquest, nor the pompOf vassal kings and tributary lands,Do happiness and lasting power abide;That virtue unto man’s best glory is,His strength and truest wisdom; and that guilt,Though for a season it the heart delight,Or to worst deeds the bad man do make strong,Brings misery yet, and terror, and remorse;And weakness and destruction in the end.”[2]
“Her walls are gone; her palaces are dust;
The desert is around her, and within
Like shadows have the mighty passed away!
So let the nations learn, that not in wealth,
Nor in the grosser pleasures of the sense,
Nor in the glare of conquest, nor the pomp
Of vassal kings and tributary lands,
Do happiness and lasting power abide;
That virtue unto man’s best glory is,
His strength and truest wisdom; and that guilt,
Though for a season it the heart delight,
Or to worst deeds the bad man do make strong,
Brings misery yet, and terror, and remorse;
And weakness and destruction in the end.”[2]
There is yet, however, one art, to which, in conclusion, a brief reference must be made; it is that by which thought is embodied in written and “winged words.” We look with interest on the historic paintings of the Mexicans, on the hieroglyphics of Egypt, and on the cuneiform characters of Assyria and Persia; but we must not forget the fact, that the people of Israel—to whom we have frequently had occasion to refer throughout this paper—are distinguished from all other nations by the authentic history which they possess of their origin and of the most remarkable events of their subsequent progress, as well as by the predictions that regard their future lot. The most ancient books in the world were written, under Divine inspiration, by the hand of Moses; and Herodotus, “the father of history,” was a contemporary of Malachi, the last of the prophets.
In general literature Egypt attained the earliest pre-eminence. To that country many went athirst for wisdom, while none of its children sought it in other climes. At Thebes was its library of sacred books, over which was the inscription, “The Remedy for the Soul;” while the hieroglyphics above the heads of “Thoth” and “Safk,” as deciphered by Champollion, denote that the one was the “Lady of Letters,” and the other the “President of the Library.” Where, then, are we to look for the origin and early history of the arts associated with letters? Before the time of the patriarch Abraham the Egyptians were furnished with the scroll, or papyrus, and with the pen dipped in ink, with which its characters were inscribed. All the implements required for the process are exhibited in pictures of the remotest date. Even the Arabic numerals are older than any of the pyramids.
Small as is the number of our alphabetic signs, they are proved to be capable of more than six hundred thousand millions of billions of different horizontal arrangements. What a power is thus entrusted to the hand at the dictate of the mind—a power which, whether its range, its variety, or its permanence be considered, is alike unparalleled! When the costliest fabrics are moth-eaten, and the colors of the picture have fled, and the marble statue is defaced, and the proud and towering edifice is hurled into ruins, the written words may live, retaining all their power to strike on the mind, to touch the inmost chords of the soul. “Words,” it has been said, “are the only things that last for ever.” “The images of men’s wits,” says Lord Bacon, “remain unmaimed in books for ever, exempt from the injuries of time, because capable of perpetual renovation. Neither can they properly be called images, because they cast forth seeds in the minds of men, raising and producing infinite actions and opinions in succeeding ages; so that if the invention of a ship was thought so noble and wonderful, which transports riches and merchandise from place to place, and consociates the most distant regions in participation of their fruits and commodities—how much more are letters to be magnified, which, as ships passing through the vast seas of time, connect the remotest ages of wits and inventions in mutual traffic and correspondence!”
To write is therefore the noblest of the arts of life, and fearful is the responsibility of its exercise. Happy is he who constantly remembers it; and whose maturest thoughts, fixed in the palpable and deathless form of words, enlighten, elevate, and bless, even when the verdant grass is flourishing over his ashes.
[2]
Atherstone.
SINGING IN A GRAVE-YARD.
———
BY E. ANNA LEWIS.
———
Why, melancholy singer,Dost thou hover here at eve,Like one who loves to lingerAround the dead and grieve?Why, in the night-time only,Do we hear thy pensive lay?Why art thou ever lonely—Why shunnest the garish day?Art thou minstrel born from Heaven,Who comest to our earth,At the silent hour of even,To mock the voice of mirth;And to soothe the sad and weary,Who steal away to weep,In the church-yard lone and dreary,Or by the mountain-steep?Art thou spirit of a maiden,That restless roam’st the air,With sorrow heavy laden,And breathing thy despair?Or one loved, but long departed,That nightly dost draw near,To soothe the broken-hearted,Who are weeping, pining here?I know not, solemn singer,What thy deep grief may be;Nor why thou here dost linger,But oft thou seem’st like me—A lonely one each morrow,Apart from all the throng,Whose deep and hidden sorrowBursts forth in plaintive song.
Why, melancholy singer,Dost thou hover here at eve,Like one who loves to lingerAround the dead and grieve?Why, in the night-time only,Do we hear thy pensive lay?Why art thou ever lonely—Why shunnest the garish day?Art thou minstrel born from Heaven,Who comest to our earth,At the silent hour of even,To mock the voice of mirth;And to soothe the sad and weary,Who steal away to weep,In the church-yard lone and dreary,Or by the mountain-steep?Art thou spirit of a maiden,That restless roam’st the air,With sorrow heavy laden,And breathing thy despair?Or one loved, but long departed,That nightly dost draw near,To soothe the broken-hearted,Who are weeping, pining here?I know not, solemn singer,What thy deep grief may be;Nor why thou here dost linger,But oft thou seem’st like me—A lonely one each morrow,Apart from all the throng,Whose deep and hidden sorrowBursts forth in plaintive song.
Why, melancholy singer,
Dost thou hover here at eve,
Like one who loves to linger
Around the dead and grieve?
Why, in the night-time only,
Do we hear thy pensive lay?
Why art thou ever lonely—
Why shunnest the garish day?
Art thou minstrel born from Heaven,
Who comest to our earth,
At the silent hour of even,
To mock the voice of mirth;
And to soothe the sad and weary,
Who steal away to weep,
In the church-yard lone and dreary,
Or by the mountain-steep?
Art thou spirit of a maiden,
That restless roam’st the air,
With sorrow heavy laden,
And breathing thy despair?
Or one loved, but long departed,
That nightly dost draw near,
To soothe the broken-hearted,
Who are weeping, pining here?
I know not, solemn singer,
What thy deep grief may be;
Nor why thou here dost linger,
But oft thou seem’st like me—
A lonely one each morrow,
Apart from all the throng,
Whose deep and hidden sorrow
Bursts forth in plaintive song.
HESPERIUS—A VISION.
———
BY WM. ALBERT SUTLIFFE.
———
“Whither, sweet lady, whither? the night is chill;Weary and worn, say, whither tend thy feet?”“Stranger! I come o’er moor and steepy hill,To hear the beatOf ever-toiling billows—and to sailThe midnight deep with daring canvas spread;To seek some isle where storm may not prevail—Where tombs are never shaped for loved ones dead—Where palmy summits layTheir shadows in clear fountains all the day,Where lilies laveTheir shining tresses in the resting wave;Thither, kind stranger, through the night at rest,I chase the stars down-sloping to the west.”“Lady, sweet lady, let me guard thee thither!The wave is treacherous, shivered oft by storm,And many an ambushed wind quick-bringeth cloudy weather,And towering thunder-mist with secret lightnings warm;Many unseemly rocks love human prey,And devious currents often thrust astray;A thousand maelstroms sing harsh Runic rhyme,And sturdy gales beleaguer any time.Let us be twin in hope, in weal or wo,—Sweet lady, let me go!”She smiled a quiet smile, and “Come,” she said—We entered in, our scanty sail we spread;And as thin mists that creepOut of a dingle deep,Where zephyrs dally,And, wind-caught, float across the dewy lawn,When comes the dawn;So we before the breeze, that then did rallyIts powers to bear us on;While she, wrapt up as from the night’s cool kiss,Lay like a chrysalis.Westward we bore through that propitious night—Through the slow-creeping hours the moonshine layUpon her alabaster breast and tresses bright,Like furbished silver—Houri gone astrayFrom Mahomet’s heaven seemed she—gloriouslyShone her deep eyes, till down the silvered westPale Dian hid her shield in Ocean’s breast.And now ApolloSprang, golden-sandaled, from his orient bed,And quick his upward wonted path ’gan followWhile westward still we sped.Apollo clombThe star-deserted dome,And, at the zenith sat, a noontide king;There with his outspread hands,Flaring upon the lands,Watched our white sail in the wind shivering.Apollo sankAdown the west, where many a cloudy bankWaited his coming, as the down, a king—While careful shades ’gan clamber,Out of the night’s dim chamber,Night of the many eyes and dusky wing.“Farewell, Apollo!”The lady sang, “we followThee to thy home, thy golden-curtained West;Amid the occident seas,Seeking Hesperides,Floating, we chase thee o’er the rippled breastOf Ocean in his rest.“Come Venus from thy lair,Up through the stirless air,Quivering with Love’s young heat and sweet despair;As thou wast wont to quiverUpon my childhood’s river,Where all the pendulous willows thrilled to bearThe breeze, as men do, care.“Come out ye many stars!The liberal night unbarsYour doors impalpable, that ye may see,And gaze a twinkling fillOn human good and ill,Till daybreak’s irksome goad compelleth yeBehind the azure sea.“We come, we come,Seeking an islet home,Whose breezes all are balm, whose seas are calm;Where, when the eyes grow dim,Fair myths forever swimAbout the inward vision, and no harmE’er spreads a palsying arm.“Here would we lieAmid this tremulous beauty till we die;Here would descryThrough roofing orange-boughs the pleasant sky,And silently decay in rapturous ease,When death so please.”She ceased; and now we slid along a seaOf tinted wavelets, such as ne’er beforeHad blest my seeing; on one side a shoreSlipt past us backward, thickly over-bowedWith flowered shrubs and trees, all such as fleeHarsh Boreal bitings where the North blows loud.And now a quay we neared, whence led abackFull many a leafy-hung, nymph-haunted track.Then, slow-ascending a white marble stair,A grove we entered in, all carpetedWith rarest moss, and every way there ledDim paths ’mid obelisks and fountains fair,And sculptured graces, and some streamlets fledAll day and night down to the circling sea,Singing fore’er in music’s earnest glee.Up ’mid the boughs the zephyrs went a-playing,Making the stars like swinging cressets seem;And from the east came silver arrows strayingOf Dian at her moonrise; while a streamOf melody, the Bulbul, rose-embowered,Incessant through the dew-tipt leaflets showered,Sweeter than any dream.No earthly night,Mantled with dismal lightThis paradise; but a broad lovely moon,Made a glad twilight here,Unsoiled by any fear,Or harsh intruding doubt, that comes too soon,And lays our bright-eyed hopes upon a cypress bier.Anon, emerging from the woody maze,There sudden sprang upon the pleased vision,Glimpses of far Elysian,Green meadows glowing through a golden haze,And far-meandering walks, that rose and fell’Twixt bedded asphodel.And purling brooks went leaping here and thereOver the flowered slopes all in a foam,Pealing like vesper bells that win the prayer—Or silver voices calling loved ones home;And many bees enringed the fragrant thyme,And windy melodies stirred every full-leaved lime.Here flowers grew in circles round and round,With broad, rich petals for queen’s gathering,There fountains sprang up with a clear, quick soundFrom vases, such as Babylonian kingNe’er saw the like of; and their spray did flingO’er pure white statues having marble careOver the showered pearls and moistened air.And ever as we past there ever grewWondrous variety to stir the sense,Begetting impotenceOf fond expression, but a rapture trueClaspt all the spirit in a dreamy foldOf ecstasy and gold.Until, through shady ranges of tall trees,Threaded by every breeze,And well-determined beds of every hue,Orange, vermeil, and blue,A central, templed hill, was near espied,Down-slanting to the sea on every side,With greensward terraces and blooming meet,Sloped even to our feet.Over the lawns were Dryads tripping far,And Hamadryads peeping from the wood,And now and then a Naiad, like a star;And all were clothed in a merry mood—For not a care there was o’er which to solely brood.Upon the summit, soothed with lasting ease,Sat the HesperidesBeneath the orchard trees—Sipping the beakered nectar seasoned well,And temperate hydromel;And tasting luscious fruitage, such as fellFrom boughs ’neath which the scaly dragon rolled,Lay glaring fold in fold.“O can we herein bide!” the lady said,“I feel my head doth swim—My weary eyes are dim—With too much pleasure is the sense o’erfed;How can we herein bide,And not some ill betide!”Then said a voice, “Ye may not herein stay!But immortalityMay here incloséd be;And ye are mortals—ye must hence away,Or ere the night unwombs the clearer day.“And ye must wait the riving of the chainThat gives surcease of pain,And linger lone upon the evening shoreTill ye be ferried o’er.But now the nymphs shall cease their merriment,Ere yet your stay be spent,And music shall be struck—shall charm and pleaseYou to contented ease.”Then dropt a quiet o’er the enhancéd glee,As when a Boreal night dusks o’er a frigid sea.Next grew a hymning sonnet, worded well,Up ’mid the oaken boles, whose listening greenTented the Dryad scene,Wavering across the silence with a spellWorthy to sink the yesty broil of waves,And bid huge winds creep into airless graves,In barred Æolian caves.“We sing, we sing,The sweet lyre fingeringOn every vibrant string;The sisters of the sea,Whose silken dynastyHolds us in light, and long, and glad captivity.“We sing, we sing,The sweet lyre fingeringWith sound like Hermes’ wing—Of nectarous draughts and deep,Wooing the gods asleep,What time the crystal honey-dews of heaven weep.“We sing, we sing,The sweet lyre fingeringTill windless woodlands ring;How rich the lofty chime,When gods converse in rhyme,And far Olympian peaks reëcho all the time.“We sing, we sing,The sweet lyre fingeringWith notes that ever cling,The blue and airy domeThat floors the godly homeWhere thunderous Jove is throned, and Here dwells at home.“We sing, we sing,With silver vibratingOf every tuneful string,The effervescing wine,In beakers most divine,By Hebe overbrimmed for whom the half-gods pine.“Ah, well! ah, well!Our island home we tell,Where peace for aye doth dwell;Where, from the drowsy deep,A gilded mist doth creepUp all the sanded shore to shrine us in our sleep.“Away, away!Our fingers cease to playFor alien ears our lay;But, by the sea’s low moan,Sportive we go alone;Our lyre’s notes are dead—our measured hymn is done.”Then died the hymning sonnet, worded well,Adown the oaken boles that pillared all the dell.* * * * *Then all a day and night athwart the sea—A day and night complete we backward sped—And as the dawn grew red—Our half-moon prow slid upward easilyUpon the margent of the ocean foamThat murmured by our home.
“Whither, sweet lady, whither? the night is chill;Weary and worn, say, whither tend thy feet?”“Stranger! I come o’er moor and steepy hill,To hear the beatOf ever-toiling billows—and to sailThe midnight deep with daring canvas spread;To seek some isle where storm may not prevail—Where tombs are never shaped for loved ones dead—Where palmy summits layTheir shadows in clear fountains all the day,Where lilies laveTheir shining tresses in the resting wave;Thither, kind stranger, through the night at rest,I chase the stars down-sloping to the west.”“Lady, sweet lady, let me guard thee thither!The wave is treacherous, shivered oft by storm,And many an ambushed wind quick-bringeth cloudy weather,And towering thunder-mist with secret lightnings warm;Many unseemly rocks love human prey,And devious currents often thrust astray;A thousand maelstroms sing harsh Runic rhyme,And sturdy gales beleaguer any time.Let us be twin in hope, in weal or wo,—Sweet lady, let me go!”She smiled a quiet smile, and “Come,” she said—We entered in, our scanty sail we spread;And as thin mists that creepOut of a dingle deep,Where zephyrs dally,And, wind-caught, float across the dewy lawn,When comes the dawn;So we before the breeze, that then did rallyIts powers to bear us on;While she, wrapt up as from the night’s cool kiss,Lay like a chrysalis.Westward we bore through that propitious night—Through the slow-creeping hours the moonshine layUpon her alabaster breast and tresses bright,Like furbished silver—Houri gone astrayFrom Mahomet’s heaven seemed she—gloriouslyShone her deep eyes, till down the silvered westPale Dian hid her shield in Ocean’s breast.And now ApolloSprang, golden-sandaled, from his orient bed,And quick his upward wonted path ’gan followWhile westward still we sped.Apollo clombThe star-deserted dome,And, at the zenith sat, a noontide king;There with his outspread hands,Flaring upon the lands,Watched our white sail in the wind shivering.Apollo sankAdown the west, where many a cloudy bankWaited his coming, as the down, a king—While careful shades ’gan clamber,Out of the night’s dim chamber,Night of the many eyes and dusky wing.“Farewell, Apollo!”The lady sang, “we followThee to thy home, thy golden-curtained West;Amid the occident seas,Seeking Hesperides,Floating, we chase thee o’er the rippled breastOf Ocean in his rest.“Come Venus from thy lair,Up through the stirless air,Quivering with Love’s young heat and sweet despair;As thou wast wont to quiverUpon my childhood’s river,Where all the pendulous willows thrilled to bearThe breeze, as men do, care.“Come out ye many stars!The liberal night unbarsYour doors impalpable, that ye may see,And gaze a twinkling fillOn human good and ill,Till daybreak’s irksome goad compelleth yeBehind the azure sea.“We come, we come,Seeking an islet home,Whose breezes all are balm, whose seas are calm;Where, when the eyes grow dim,Fair myths forever swimAbout the inward vision, and no harmE’er spreads a palsying arm.“Here would we lieAmid this tremulous beauty till we die;Here would descryThrough roofing orange-boughs the pleasant sky,And silently decay in rapturous ease,When death so please.”She ceased; and now we slid along a seaOf tinted wavelets, such as ne’er beforeHad blest my seeing; on one side a shoreSlipt past us backward, thickly over-bowedWith flowered shrubs and trees, all such as fleeHarsh Boreal bitings where the North blows loud.And now a quay we neared, whence led abackFull many a leafy-hung, nymph-haunted track.Then, slow-ascending a white marble stair,A grove we entered in, all carpetedWith rarest moss, and every way there ledDim paths ’mid obelisks and fountains fair,And sculptured graces, and some streamlets fledAll day and night down to the circling sea,Singing fore’er in music’s earnest glee.Up ’mid the boughs the zephyrs went a-playing,Making the stars like swinging cressets seem;And from the east came silver arrows strayingOf Dian at her moonrise; while a streamOf melody, the Bulbul, rose-embowered,Incessant through the dew-tipt leaflets showered,Sweeter than any dream.No earthly night,Mantled with dismal lightThis paradise; but a broad lovely moon,Made a glad twilight here,Unsoiled by any fear,Or harsh intruding doubt, that comes too soon,And lays our bright-eyed hopes upon a cypress bier.Anon, emerging from the woody maze,There sudden sprang upon the pleased vision,Glimpses of far Elysian,Green meadows glowing through a golden haze,And far-meandering walks, that rose and fell’Twixt bedded asphodel.And purling brooks went leaping here and thereOver the flowered slopes all in a foam,Pealing like vesper bells that win the prayer—Or silver voices calling loved ones home;And many bees enringed the fragrant thyme,And windy melodies stirred every full-leaved lime.Here flowers grew in circles round and round,With broad, rich petals for queen’s gathering,There fountains sprang up with a clear, quick soundFrom vases, such as Babylonian kingNe’er saw the like of; and their spray did flingO’er pure white statues having marble careOver the showered pearls and moistened air.And ever as we past there ever grewWondrous variety to stir the sense,Begetting impotenceOf fond expression, but a rapture trueClaspt all the spirit in a dreamy foldOf ecstasy and gold.Until, through shady ranges of tall trees,Threaded by every breeze,And well-determined beds of every hue,Orange, vermeil, and blue,A central, templed hill, was near espied,Down-slanting to the sea on every side,With greensward terraces and blooming meet,Sloped even to our feet.Over the lawns were Dryads tripping far,And Hamadryads peeping from the wood,And now and then a Naiad, like a star;And all were clothed in a merry mood—For not a care there was o’er which to solely brood.Upon the summit, soothed with lasting ease,Sat the HesperidesBeneath the orchard trees—Sipping the beakered nectar seasoned well,And temperate hydromel;And tasting luscious fruitage, such as fellFrom boughs ’neath which the scaly dragon rolled,Lay glaring fold in fold.“O can we herein bide!” the lady said,“I feel my head doth swim—My weary eyes are dim—With too much pleasure is the sense o’erfed;How can we herein bide,And not some ill betide!”Then said a voice, “Ye may not herein stay!But immortalityMay here incloséd be;And ye are mortals—ye must hence away,Or ere the night unwombs the clearer day.“And ye must wait the riving of the chainThat gives surcease of pain,And linger lone upon the evening shoreTill ye be ferried o’er.But now the nymphs shall cease their merriment,Ere yet your stay be spent,And music shall be struck—shall charm and pleaseYou to contented ease.”Then dropt a quiet o’er the enhancéd glee,As when a Boreal night dusks o’er a frigid sea.Next grew a hymning sonnet, worded well,Up ’mid the oaken boles, whose listening greenTented the Dryad scene,Wavering across the silence with a spellWorthy to sink the yesty broil of waves,And bid huge winds creep into airless graves,In barred Æolian caves.“We sing, we sing,The sweet lyre fingeringOn every vibrant string;The sisters of the sea,Whose silken dynastyHolds us in light, and long, and glad captivity.“We sing, we sing,The sweet lyre fingeringWith sound like Hermes’ wing—Of nectarous draughts and deep,Wooing the gods asleep,What time the crystal honey-dews of heaven weep.“We sing, we sing,The sweet lyre fingeringTill windless woodlands ring;How rich the lofty chime,When gods converse in rhyme,And far Olympian peaks reëcho all the time.“We sing, we sing,The sweet lyre fingeringWith notes that ever cling,The blue and airy domeThat floors the godly homeWhere thunderous Jove is throned, and Here dwells at home.“We sing, we sing,With silver vibratingOf every tuneful string,The effervescing wine,In beakers most divine,By Hebe overbrimmed for whom the half-gods pine.“Ah, well! ah, well!Our island home we tell,Where peace for aye doth dwell;Where, from the drowsy deep,A gilded mist doth creepUp all the sanded shore to shrine us in our sleep.“Away, away!Our fingers cease to playFor alien ears our lay;But, by the sea’s low moan,Sportive we go alone;Our lyre’s notes are dead—our measured hymn is done.”Then died the hymning sonnet, worded well,Adown the oaken boles that pillared all the dell.* * * * *Then all a day and night athwart the sea—A day and night complete we backward sped—And as the dawn grew red—Our half-moon prow slid upward easilyUpon the margent of the ocean foamThat murmured by our home.
“Whither, sweet lady, whither? the night is chill;
Weary and worn, say, whither tend thy feet?”
“Stranger! I come o’er moor and steepy hill,
To hear the beat
Of ever-toiling billows—and to sail
The midnight deep with daring canvas spread;
To seek some isle where storm may not prevail—
Where tombs are never shaped for loved ones dead—
Where palmy summits lay
Their shadows in clear fountains all the day,
Where lilies lave
Their shining tresses in the resting wave;
Thither, kind stranger, through the night at rest,
I chase the stars down-sloping to the west.”
“Lady, sweet lady, let me guard thee thither!
The wave is treacherous, shivered oft by storm,
And many an ambushed wind quick-bringeth cloudy weather,
And towering thunder-mist with secret lightnings warm;
Many unseemly rocks love human prey,
And devious currents often thrust astray;
A thousand maelstroms sing harsh Runic rhyme,
And sturdy gales beleaguer any time.
Let us be twin in hope, in weal or wo,—
Sweet lady, let me go!”
She smiled a quiet smile, and “Come,” she said—
We entered in, our scanty sail we spread;
And as thin mists that creep
Out of a dingle deep,
Where zephyrs dally,
And, wind-caught, float across the dewy lawn,
When comes the dawn;
So we before the breeze, that then did rally
Its powers to bear us on;
While she, wrapt up as from the night’s cool kiss,
Lay like a chrysalis.
Westward we bore through that propitious night—
Through the slow-creeping hours the moonshine lay
Upon her alabaster breast and tresses bright,
Like furbished silver—Houri gone astray
From Mahomet’s heaven seemed she—gloriously
Shone her deep eyes, till down the silvered west
Pale Dian hid her shield in Ocean’s breast.
And now Apollo
Sprang, golden-sandaled, from his orient bed,
And quick his upward wonted path ’gan follow
While westward still we sped.
Apollo clomb
The star-deserted dome,
And, at the zenith sat, a noontide king;
There with his outspread hands,
Flaring upon the lands,
Watched our white sail in the wind shivering.
Apollo sank
Adown the west, where many a cloudy bank
Waited his coming, as the down, a king—
While careful shades ’gan clamber,
Out of the night’s dim chamber,
Night of the many eyes and dusky wing.
“Farewell, Apollo!”
The lady sang, “we follow
Thee to thy home, thy golden-curtained West;
Amid the occident seas,
Seeking Hesperides,
Floating, we chase thee o’er the rippled breast
Of Ocean in his rest.
“Come Venus from thy lair,
Up through the stirless air,
Quivering with Love’s young heat and sweet despair;
As thou wast wont to quiver
Upon my childhood’s river,
Where all the pendulous willows thrilled to bear
The breeze, as men do, care.
“Come out ye many stars!
The liberal night unbars
Your doors impalpable, that ye may see,
And gaze a twinkling fill
On human good and ill,
Till daybreak’s irksome goad compelleth ye
Behind the azure sea.
“We come, we come,
Seeking an islet home,
Whose breezes all are balm, whose seas are calm;
Where, when the eyes grow dim,
Fair myths forever swim
About the inward vision, and no harm
E’er spreads a palsying arm.
“Here would we lie
Amid this tremulous beauty till we die;
Here would descry
Through roofing orange-boughs the pleasant sky,
And silently decay in rapturous ease,
When death so please.”
She ceased; and now we slid along a sea
Of tinted wavelets, such as ne’er before
Had blest my seeing; on one side a shore
Slipt past us backward, thickly over-bowed
With flowered shrubs and trees, all such as flee
Harsh Boreal bitings where the North blows loud.
And now a quay we neared, whence led aback
Full many a leafy-hung, nymph-haunted track.
Then, slow-ascending a white marble stair,
A grove we entered in, all carpeted
With rarest moss, and every way there led
Dim paths ’mid obelisks and fountains fair,
And sculptured graces, and some streamlets fled
All day and night down to the circling sea,
Singing fore’er in music’s earnest glee.
Up ’mid the boughs the zephyrs went a-playing,
Making the stars like swinging cressets seem;
And from the east came silver arrows straying
Of Dian at her moonrise; while a stream
Of melody, the Bulbul, rose-embowered,
Incessant through the dew-tipt leaflets showered,
Sweeter than any dream.
No earthly night,
Mantled with dismal light
This paradise; but a broad lovely moon,
Made a glad twilight here,
Unsoiled by any fear,
Or harsh intruding doubt, that comes too soon,
And lays our bright-eyed hopes upon a cypress bier.
Anon, emerging from the woody maze,
There sudden sprang upon the pleased vision,
Glimpses of far Elysian,
Green meadows glowing through a golden haze,
And far-meandering walks, that rose and fell
’Twixt bedded asphodel.
And purling brooks went leaping here and there
Over the flowered slopes all in a foam,
Pealing like vesper bells that win the prayer—
Or silver voices calling loved ones home;
And many bees enringed the fragrant thyme,
And windy melodies stirred every full-leaved lime.
Here flowers grew in circles round and round,
With broad, rich petals for queen’s gathering,
There fountains sprang up with a clear, quick sound
From vases, such as Babylonian king
Ne’er saw the like of; and their spray did fling
O’er pure white statues having marble care
Over the showered pearls and moistened air.
And ever as we past there ever grew
Wondrous variety to stir the sense,
Begetting impotence
Of fond expression, but a rapture true
Claspt all the spirit in a dreamy fold
Of ecstasy and gold.
Until, through shady ranges of tall trees,
Threaded by every breeze,
And well-determined beds of every hue,
Orange, vermeil, and blue,
A central, templed hill, was near espied,
Down-slanting to the sea on every side,
With greensward terraces and blooming meet,
Sloped even to our feet.
Over the lawns were Dryads tripping far,
And Hamadryads peeping from the wood,
And now and then a Naiad, like a star;
And all were clothed in a merry mood—
For not a care there was o’er which to solely brood.
Upon the summit, soothed with lasting ease,
Sat the Hesperides
Beneath the orchard trees—
Sipping the beakered nectar seasoned well,
And temperate hydromel;
And tasting luscious fruitage, such as fell
From boughs ’neath which the scaly dragon rolled,
Lay glaring fold in fold.
“O can we herein bide!” the lady said,
“I feel my head doth swim—
My weary eyes are dim—
With too much pleasure is the sense o’erfed;
How can we herein bide,
And not some ill betide!”
Then said a voice, “Ye may not herein stay!
But immortality
May here incloséd be;
And ye are mortals—ye must hence away,
Or ere the night unwombs the clearer day.
“And ye must wait the riving of the chain
That gives surcease of pain,
And linger lone upon the evening shore
Till ye be ferried o’er.
But now the nymphs shall cease their merriment,
Ere yet your stay be spent,
And music shall be struck—shall charm and please
You to contented ease.”
Then dropt a quiet o’er the enhancéd glee,
As when a Boreal night dusks o’er a frigid sea.
Next grew a hymning sonnet, worded well,
Up ’mid the oaken boles, whose listening green
Tented the Dryad scene,
Wavering across the silence with a spell
Worthy to sink the yesty broil of waves,
And bid huge winds creep into airless graves,
In barred Æolian caves.
“We sing, we sing,
The sweet lyre fingering
On every vibrant string;
The sisters of the sea,
Whose silken dynasty
Holds us in light, and long, and glad captivity.
“We sing, we sing,
The sweet lyre fingering
With sound like Hermes’ wing—
Of nectarous draughts and deep,
Wooing the gods asleep,
What time the crystal honey-dews of heaven weep.
“We sing, we sing,
The sweet lyre fingering
Till windless woodlands ring;
How rich the lofty chime,
When gods converse in rhyme,
And far Olympian peaks reëcho all the time.
“We sing, we sing,
The sweet lyre fingering
With notes that ever cling,
The blue and airy dome
That floors the godly home
Where thunderous Jove is throned, and Here dwells at home.
“We sing, we sing,
With silver vibrating
Of every tuneful string,
The effervescing wine,
In beakers most divine,
By Hebe overbrimmed for whom the half-gods pine.
“Ah, well! ah, well!
Our island home we tell,
Where peace for aye doth dwell;
Where, from the drowsy deep,
A gilded mist doth creep
Up all the sanded shore to shrine us in our sleep.
“Away, away!
Our fingers cease to play
For alien ears our lay;
But, by the sea’s low moan,
Sportive we go alone;
Our lyre’s notes are dead—our measured hymn is done.”
Then died the hymning sonnet, worded well,
Adown the oaken boles that pillared all the dell.
* * * * *
Then all a day and night athwart the sea—
A day and night complete we backward sped—
And as the dawn grew red—
Our half-moon prow slid upward easily
Upon the margent of the ocean foam
That murmured by our home.
THE PEDANT:
OR CHAPTERS FROM A LIFE SPENT PARTLY IN CAROLINA.
———
BY HENRY HOLM, ESQ.
———
(Continued from page 24.)
And as they oft had heard apart,Sweet lessons of her forceful art,Each, for Madness ruled the hour,Would prove his own expressive power.Collins.
And as they oft had heard apart,Sweet lessons of her forceful art,Each, for Madness ruled the hour,Would prove his own expressive power.Collins.
And as they oft had heard apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
Collins.
The reason why I came home without completing the tour of Europe was that my worthy father died insolvent. The little severalty which I had from my grandfather Winston, was in that most unmanageable of realties, which Randolph of Roanoke used to describe as the designation of a Virginian estate—“plenty of woolly-heads, plenty of gullies, but ne’er a shilling of coin.” I managed, however, by favor of a young friend, an attaché of the Marshall and Pinckney legation at Paris, to go freely into the Low Countries, and as far up the Rhine as Heidelberg and the Schwarzenwald.
At the borders of Holland and Germany I lingered awhile, in the flat country near the Lippe, in the house of a licentiate in physic, who was about to emigrate to Philadelphia, and who was eager to learn English. In my turn I took some lessons in German. Pfeiffers was a smoker, and so was I. He was a violinist, and I played the flute. He loved to read aloud, and I loved to loll and listen, among the lindens of a low-lying but verdant village on the Rhine.
The book which engaged him just then, was a publication of Goethe’s, translated from Diderot, entitledRameau’s Nephew. I mean Rameau the great musical composer. The original French I could never alight on; but the version was irresistibly comic, as I find on reperusal many years since. Diderot used to frequent theCafé de la Régence, then as now, the resort of chess-players. There he found Légal, Philidor, and Mayot. And there he encountered the Nephew aforesaid, an odd mixture of pride and meanness, a man of drunken eloquence, venomous sarcasm, and music-mad enthusiasm.
“Ah, Monsieur Philosophe, so I meet you again! What are you after here among idlers? Do you likewise lose your time in peg-pushing? (Thus he denominated chess and draughts.)
“I.—No, but when I have nothing else to do, it is a momentary diversion to see whether they move aright.
“He.—A singular diversion, indeed. Leave out Philidor and Légal—the others know nothing.
“I.—And Monsieur de Bussi; what say you to him?
“He.—As chess-player, that he is what Mlle. Clairon is as actress; both know as much of their play as one can learn.
“I.—You are hard to please. I observe that none but preëminent men meet your approbation.
“He.—Ay, at chess and draughts, poetry, eloquence, music, and such like trumperies. Who wants mediocrity in these cases?
“I.—I almost agree with you. But many must attempt these arts in order that the man of genius may overtop them. Thenceforth he is one among many. But I have not seen you for an age. I never think of you but when I see you. Yet I am rejoiced whenever I recover you. What have you been about?
“He.—That which you and the others are about—good, bad, and naught. I have moreover, hungered and eaten if occasion served. Then I was sometimes athirst, and often drank; yes, and my beard grew and I was shaved.
“I.—There you were wrong; for the beard is all you lack in order to be a sage.
“He.—Quite so! My brow is large and wrinkled, my eye flashes, my nose is high, my cheek is broad, my eyebrows brown and heavy, the mouth well-disclosed, lips well-turned, and the face square. Take notice, this huge chin, if covered by a long beard, would look well in brass or marble.
“I.—Beside Cæsar, Marcus Aurelius, Socrates?
“He.—No! I would rather stand betwixt Diogenes and Phryne. I am as shameless as one, and would gladly visit the other.
“I.—You are always in good case?
“He.—Yes, usually; but not particularly so to-day.
“I.—What! with this rotundity of Silenus, and a countenance—
“He.—A countenance that— Do you consider that the bitter humor which shrivels up the uncle, makes the nephew fat?
“I.—Apropos!Your uncle. Do you see him often?
“He.—Yes, often passing in the street.
“I.—Does he render you no service?
“He.—If he serves any body, it is without knowing it. He is a philosophe in his way; he thinks only of himself, and the rest of the world he regards as his bellows-hand. His wife and daughter may die for all that he cares, provided the bells that toll them to their grave ring in just twelfths and seventeenths. A lucky man is he! and I know how to reckon thisquality in your men of genius, that they are good at one thing, and over and above this nothing. Nothing know they of being citizens, fathers, mothers, kinsmen or friends.Inter nos, one would crave to be like them; only wishing that the growth should not become too common. We must have men—not men of genius. No, surely no! These are they who turn the world upside down, and the folly of individuals runs so high at present that one can’t repress them without manœuvre.—No! the monk’s wisdom, in Rabelais, is the true wisdom for our peace, and the peace of others. To do duty, as far as may be, to speak well of the prior, and to let the world wag as it will. And things go right well, for the mass is content with this. If I knew history, I would prove to you, that all the ills on earth come of your men of genius; but history I know none, because I know nothing. Confound me if I ever learnt any thing, and I find myself none the worse off. One day I was at the table of a royal minister, who had mind enough for a dozen. He proved, as plain as two and two make four, that nothing is more useful to nations than lies, and nothing more hurtful than truth. I can’t recall his argument, but it followed as clear as a sunbeam, that men of genius are utterly abominable, and that if a man discerns in his child a token of this perilous gift of nature, he should strangle or drown him.
“I.—And yet the people who deem thus of genius all think they possess it.”
Such is an introduction to this odd creation, on which the merry Frenchman dwells for a hundred and fifty pages. Some of the passages which my host gave with energy, between the gusts of his meerschaum, are altogether untranslatable. And yet am I tempted to essay one of the vagaries of the mad satirist.
“I.—There is some reason in all that you say. [He had been enlarging on the French music of that period.]
“He.—Reason? So much the better. That comes seasonably. Think you I am like the musician in thecul-de-sac, as my uncle showed himself? For my part, I make a hit. A collier ’prentice shall talk better of his trade, than an academy and all the Duhamels on earth.
“Here he paced up and down, murmuring airs out of theIle des Fous, thePeintre amoureux de son modèle, theMaréchal ferrant, thePlaideuse—while ever and anon he would stretch hands and eyes and cry, ‘Is that fine? Heavens, is that fine! Can a man have two ears on his head and ask such a question?’ Upon which he would become sentimental again, sing softly, and then elevate his voice as he grew more passionate. Then came grimaces, twists of visage, and contortions of body. Said I to myself, ‘Well, he is losing his wits, and some new scene is coming.’ And in fact he burst out afresh, singing,Je suis unpauvre miserable—Aspettar e non venire, etc. etc. He collected and confounded thirty airs, Italian, French, tragic, comic, of every sort and character. Now, with a deep basso he would sink down to the shades; then, contracting his throat, he would rend the heights of air with a pipe-like note, imitating with gait,pose, and motions, different musical personages, by turns raving, melted, beseeching and derisive. Now he is a little maid, weeping, and he represents all her petty blandishments. Then he is a priest, a king, a tyrant; he threatens, prays or rages—again, he is a hearkening slave. He grows tender, he despairs, he bewails and laughs, always in tune, in time, in full sense of the words, character and action.
“All the chess-players had left their boards and gathered around him; the windows of the café were besieged outside by passers-by attracted by the noise. The laughter was a peal which threatened the roof. But he perceived nothing, but ran on, carried away by such an alienation of mind and an enthusiasm akin to mania, that it is doubtful whether he would have come to himself, or have to be thrown into a hackney coach and carried to a mad-house singing a snatch from the lamentations of Jomelli.
“Anon, with the utmost precision, truth and incredible warmth, he repeated the finest passages of that portion; the beautiful obligato recitative, where the prophet depicts the desolation of Jerusalem, till he drew a flood of tears; there was not a dry eye. There was nothing more to be desired in tenderness of singing, or force of expression and of grief. He dwelt especially on the places where the artist most evinced himself the great maestro. He abandoned the vocal part, flew to the instrument, and then returned in an instant to singing, so hurrying this transition, that the connection and unity of the whole were maintained. Was I astonished at him? Yes, I was astonished. Was I moved to sympathy? I was, indeed, so moved, but with a dash of the comic mingling with the emotion and modifying its nature.
“But you would have broken into laughter at the way in which he imitated the different instruments. With swoln, out-puffed cheeks, and a rough, obtuse tone, he represented horns and bassoons; with a crying, nasal tone the oboes; with incredible quickness he hurried his voice to mimic stringed-instruments, trying most exactly to give their respective sounds; piping for the piccolos, cooing for the flutes, screaming, chanting with the looks of a maniac, and representing solo the danseurs and danseuses, the men-singers and women-singers, a whole orchestra, a whole opera-house, splitting himself into twenty different roles, hastening, retarding, with the mien of one ’rapt, with eyes winking and mouth in a foam.
“The heat was overpowering, and the moisture, following the furrows of his brow and the length of his cheeks, mingled with his hair-powder, and drizzled the upper part of his coat in gutters. What did he not attempt? He cried, he laughed, he sighed, he gave looks of tenderness, quiet and rage. Now it was a woman, sinking in wo, a wretch yielding to despair, a lofty temple, or birds losing themselves in the silence of eve. Then it was brooks of water, gurgling in some cool and lonesome place; or a torrent dashing down from mountains; a tempest; the wailing of dying men, mingled with the whistling of the wind; the roar of thunder; then night with its darkness,stillness and shade—he even represented silence by sounds. He was entirely beside himself. Exhausted by effort, like a man awakened from sleep or a long swoon, he remained motionless, heavy and stunned. He cast glances around, like one bewildered who tries to recognize the place in which he comes to himself. Awaiting the return of his forces and his senses, he mechanically dries his face. Like one who, awaking, finds his bed surrounded by a great number of persons, in utter forgetfulness and deeply unconscious of all he has been doing, he exclaims at the first moment—‘Now, Messieurs, what is this? Why this mirth? What are you wondering at? What is the matter?’ . . . Then he adds, ‘This is what they call being a musician! But, indeed, some of Lulli’s songs are not to be despised. The sceneJ’attendrai l’aurorecan’t be bettered, unless you alter the words. I challenge any man. No man shall condemn certain passages of Campra, his military marches, the violin-pieces of my uncle, his gavottes, his priestly and opera parts,Pâles flambeaux, Nuits plus affreuses que les ténèbres. . . . Dieu duTartare, Dieu de l’oubli.’ . . . (Here he strengthened his voice and sustained the tone with power. Neighbors thrust their heads through the windows; we put our fingers in our ears.) ‘For this,’ said he, ‘one must have lungs, a great organ, and plenty of air. But Ascension is arrived, Lent and the Three Kings are over, and yet they do not know what to set to music, nor consequently what benefits the composer. Lyric poesy is yet unborn; but they already approach it, if they give head enough to Pergolesi, to the Saxon, the Terradeglids, Traetta and others; and if they only read Metastasio often enough, they have already attained it.’”
——