[1]The tale ofLorrois founded on an actual occurrence: one of the incidents has already been turned to advantage by a prose writer. This poem will be followed by another, in which I have attempted to show the rewards of virtue.
[1]
The tale ofLorrois founded on an actual occurrence: one of the incidents has already been turned to advantage by a prose writer. This poem will be followed by another, in which I have attempted to show the rewards of virtue.
THE CHEVALIER GLUCK.
———
BY W. W. STORY.
———
During the latter part of the autumn in Berlin there are usually some fine days. The cloudless sun shines pleasantly out and evaporates the moisture from the warm air which blows through the streets. Mingling together in motley groups, you may see a long row of fashionables, citizens with their wives, little children in Sunday clothes, priests, Jewesses, young counsellors, professors, milliners, dancers, officers, &c. walking among the lindens in the Park. All the seats in Klaus & Weber’s coffee-house are soon occupied; the coffee throws off its steam. The fashionables light their cigars; everywhere persons are talking; here an argument is going on about war and peace, there about Madame Bethman’s shoes, whether the last ones she wore were green or gray, or about the state of the market and the bad money, &c., until all is hushed by an Aria from “Tanchon,” with which an untuned harp, a pair of ill-tuned violins, a wheezing flute, and a spasmodic bassoon torment themselves and their audience. Upon the balustrade which separates Weber’s place from the high-way, several little round tables and garden chairs are placed; here one can breathe in the free air and observe the comers and goers, at a distance from the monotonous noises of the accursed orchestra. There I sat down, and, abandoning myself to the light play of my fancy, conversed with the imaginary forms of friends who came around me, upon science and art, and all that is dearest to man. The mass of promenaders passing by me grows more and more motley, but nothing disturbs me, nothing can drive away my imaginary company. Now the execrable Trio of an intolerable waltz draws me out of my world of dreams. The high, squeaking tones of the violins and flutes, and the growling ground bass of the bassoon are all that I can hear; they follow each other up and down in octaves, which tear the ear, until, at last, like one who is seized with a burning pain, I cry out involuntarily,
“What mad music! Those detestable octaves!”—Near me some one mutters.
“Cursed Fate! Here is another octave-hunter!” I look up and perceive now for the first time that imperceptibly to me a man has taken a place at the same table, who is looking intently at me, and from whom I cannot take my eyes away again. Never did I see any head or figure which made so sudden and powerful an impression upon me. A slightly crooked nose was joined to a broad open brow, with remarkable prominences over the bushy, half-gray eyebrows, under which the eyes glanced forth with an almost wild, youthful fire, (the age of the man might be about fifty;) the white and well-formed chin presented a singular contrast to the compressed mouth, and a satirical smile breaking out in the curious play of muscles in the hollow cheeks, seemed to contradict the deep melancholy earnestness which rested upon the brow; a few gray locks of hair lay behind the ears, which were large and prominent; over the tall, slender figure was wrapped a large modern overcoat. As soon as I looked at the man he cast down his eyes and gave his whole attention to the occupation from which my outcry had probably aroused him. He was shaking, with apparent delight, some snuff from several little paper horns into a large box which stood before him, and moistening it with red wine from a quarter-flask. The music had ceased and I felt an irresistible desire to address him.
“I am glad that the music is over,” said I, “it was really intolerable.”
The old man threw a hasty glance at me and shook out the contents from the last paper horn.
“It would be better not to play at all,” I began again, “Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t think at all about it,” said he, “you are a musician and connoisseur by profession”—
“You are wrong, I am neither. I once took lessons upon the harpsichord and in thorough-bass, because I considered it something which was necessary to a good education, and among other things I was told that nothing produced a more disagreeable effect than when the bass follows the upper notes in octaves. At first I took this upon authority, and have ever since found it to be a fact.”
“Really?” interrupted he, and stood up and strode thoughtfully towards the musicians, often casting his eyes upwards and striking upon his brow with the palm of his hand, as if he wished to awaken some particular remembrance. I saw him speak to the musicians whom he treated with a dignified air of command—He returned and scarcely had he regained his seat, before they began to play the overture to “Iphigenia in Aulis.”
With his eyes half-closed and his folded arms resting on the table he listened to the Andante; all the while slightly moving his foot to indicate the falling in of the different parts; now he reversed his head—threw a swift glance about him—the left hand, with fingers apart, resting upon the table, as though he were striking a chord upon the Piano Forte, and the right raised in the air; he was certainly the conductor who was indicating to the orchestra the entrance of the various Tempos—The right hand falls and the Allegro begins—a burning blush flew over his pale cheeks; his eyebrows were raised and drawn together; upon his wrinkled brow an inward rage flashed through his bold eyes, with a fire, which by degrees changed into a smile that gathered about his half-open mouth. Now he leaned back again, his eyebrows were drawn up, the play of muscles again swept over his face, his eyes glanced, the deep internal pain was dissolved in a delight which seized and vehemently agitated every fibre of his frame—he heaved a deep sigh, and drops stood upon his brow. He now indicated the entrance of the Tutti and the other principal parts; his right hand never ceased beating the time, and with his left he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his face—Thus he animated with flesh and color the skeleton of the Overture, formed by the two violins. I heard the soft plaintive lament breathed out by the flutes, after the storm of the violins and basses died away, and the thunder of the kettle drums had ceased; I heard the lightly touched tones of the violoncello and the bassoon, which fill the heart with irrepressible yearning—again the Tutti enters treading along the unison like a towering huge giant and the hollow lamenting expires beneath his crushing footsteps.
The overture was finished; the man suffered both his arms to drop, and sat with closed eyes, like one who was exhausted by excessive exertion. This bottle was empty; I filled his glass with the Burgundy, which in the meantime I had procured. He heaved a deep sigh, and seemed to awaken out of his dream. I motioned him to drink; he did so without hesitation, and swallowing the contents of the glass at one draught, exclaimed,
“I am well pleased with the performance! The orchestra did bravely!”
“And yet,” added I, “yet it was only a feeble outline of a master-piece finished in living colors.”
“Am I right? You are not a Berliner.”
“Perfectly right; I only reside here occasionally.”
“The Burgundy is good; but it is growing cold here.”
“Let us go into the house and finish the flask.”
“A good proposal—I do not know you; neither do you know me. We will not ask each other’s names. Names are sometimes in the way. Here am I drinking Burgundy without it costing me anything. Our companionship is agreeable to both, and so far so good.”
All this he said with good-humored frankness. We entered the house together. As soon as he sat down and threw open his overcoat, I perceived with astonishment, that under it he wore an embroidered vest with long lappels, black velvet breeches, and a very small silver-hilted dagger. He again buttoned up his coat carefully.
“Why did you ask me if I was a Berliner?” I resumed.
“Because in such a case it would be necessary for me to leave you.”
“That sounds like a riddle.”
“Not in the least, when I tell you that I—that I am a composer.”
“I have no idea of your meaning.”
“Well then excuse me for my exclamation just now. I see that you understand yourself thoroughly and nothing of Berlin and Berliners.”
He rose and walked once hastily up and down; then went to the window, and in a scarcely audible voice hummed the chorus of Priestesses from the Iphigenia in Tauris, while at intervals he struck upon the window at the entrance of the Tutti. To my great astonishment I observed that he made several modifications of the melody, which struck me with their power and originality. I let him go on without interruption. He finished and returned to his seat. Surprised by the extraordinary bearing of the man, and by this fantastic expression of his singular musical talent—I remained silent. After some time he began—
“Have you never composed?”
“Yes, I have made some attempts in the art; only I found that all which seemed to me to have been written at inspired moments, became afterwards flat and tedious; so that I let it alone.”
“You have done wrong: for the mere fact of your having made the attempt is no small proof of your talent. We learn music when we are children, because papa and mamma will have it so; now you go to work jingling and fiddling, but imperceptibly the mind becomes susceptible to music. Perhaps the half-forgotten theme of the little song, which you formerly sang, was the first original thought, and from this embryo, nourished laboriously by foreign powers, grows a giant, who consumes all within his reach, and changes all into his own flesh and blood! Ah, how is it possible to point out the innumerable influences which lead a man to compose. There is a broad high-way, where all are hurrying round and shouting and screaming; we are the initiated! we are at the goal! Only through the ivory door is there entrance to the land of dreams; few ever see the door and still fewer pass through it. All seems strange here. Wild forms move hither and thither and each has a certain character—one more than the others. They are never seen in the high-way; they only can be found behind the ivory door. It is difficult to come out of this kingdom. Monsters besiege the way as before the Castle of Alsinens—they twirl—they twist. Many dream their dream in the Kingdom of Dreams,—they dissolve in dreams,—they cast no more shadows—otherwise by means of their shadows they would perceive the rays which pass through this realm; only a few awakened out of this dream, walk about and stride through the Kingdom of Dreams—they come to Truth. This is the highest moment;—the union with the eternal and unspeakable! It is the triple tone, from which the accords, like stars, shoot down and spin around you with threads of fire. You lie there like a chrysalis in the fire, until the Psyche soars up to the sun.”
As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and raised his eyes, and threw up his hand. Then he seated himself and quickly emptied the full glass. A silence ensued, which I would not break, through a fear of leading this extraordinary man out of his track. At last he continued in a calmer manner—
“When I was in the kingdom of dreams a thousand pangs and sorrows tormented me. It was night, and the grinning forms of monsters rushed in upon me, now dragging me down into the abyss of the sea, and now lifting me high into the air. Rays of light streamed through the night, and these rays were tones which encircled me with delicious clearness. I awoke out of my pain and saw a large clear eye, gazing into an organ, and while it gazed, tones issued forth and sparkled and intervened in chords more glorious than I had ever imagined. Up and down streamed melodies, and as I swam in this stream, and was on the point of sinking, the eye looked down upon me and raised me out of the roaring waves. It was night again. Two colossi in glittering harnesses stepped up to me—Tonic and fifth! they lifted me up but the eye smiled; I know what fills thy breast with yearnings, the gentle tender third will step between the colossi; you will hear his sweet voice, will see me again, and my melodies shall become yours.”
He paused.
“And you saw the eye again?”
“Yes, I saw it again. Long years I sighed in the realms of dreams—there—yes, there!—I sat in a beautiful valley, and listened to the flowers as they sang together; only one sun-flower was silent and sadly bent its closed chalice towards the earth. Invisible bonds bound me to it—it raised its head. The chalice opened, and streaming out of it again the eye met mine—The tones, like rays of light, drew my head toward the flower which eagerly enclosed it. Larger and larger grew the leaves—flames streamed forth from it—they flowed around me—the eye had vanished and I was in the chalice.”
As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and rushed out of the room with rapid youthful strides. I awaited his return in vain; I concluded at last to go down into the city.
As I approached the Brandenburg gates, I saw in the gloaming a tall figure stride by me, which I immediately recognized as my strange companion—I said to him—
“Why did you leave me so abruptly?”
“It was too late and the Euphon began to sound.”
“I don’t know what you mean!”
“So much the better!”
“So much the worse: for I should like to understand you.”
“Do you hear nothing?”
“No.”
“It is past! Let us go—I do not generally like company; but—you are not a composer—you are not a Berliner?”
“I cannot conceive what so prejudices you against the Berliners. Here, where art is so highly esteemed and practised by the people in the highest degree—I should think that a man of your genius in art would like to be.”
“You are mistaken. I am condemned for my torment to wander about here in this deserted place like a departed spirit.”
“Here in Berlin—a deserted place?”
“Yes, it is deserted to me, for I can find no kindred spirit here. I am alone.”
“But the artists!—the composers!”
“Away with them. They criticise and criticise, refining away everything to find one poor little thought—but beyond their babble about art and artistical taste, and I know not what—they can shape out nothing, and as soon as they endeavor to bring out a few thoughts into daylight—their fearful coldness shows their extreme distance from the sun—it is Lapland work.”
“Your judgment seems to me too stern. At least you must allow that their theatrical representations are magnificent.”
“I once resolved to go to the theatre to hear the opera of one of my young friends—what is the name of it? The whole world is in this opera—through the confused bustle of dressed up men, wander the spirits of Orcus. All here has a voice and an almighty sound. The devil—I mean Don Juan. But I could not endure it beyond the overture, through which they blustered as fast as possible without perception or understanding. And I had prepared myself for that by a course of fasting and prayer, because I know that the Euphon is much too severely tried by this measure and gives an indistinct utterance.”
“Though I must admit that Mozart’s masterpieces are generally slighted here in a most inexplicable manner—yet Gluck’s works are very much better represented.”
“Do you think so? I once was desirous of hearing the Iphigenia in Tauris. As soon as I entered the theatre, I perceived they were playing the Iphigenia in Aulis. Then—thought I, this is a mistake. Do they callthisIphigenia? I was amazed—for now the Andante came in, with which the Iphigenia in Tauris opens, and the storm followed. There is an interval of twenty years. All the effect, all the admirably arranged exposition of the tragedy is lost. A still sea—a storm—the Greeks wrecked on the land—this is the opera. How?—has the composer written the overture at random, so that one may play it as he pleases and when he will, like a trumpet-piece?”
“I confess that is a mistake. Yet in the meantime, they are doing all they can to raise Gluck’s works in the general estimation.”
“Oh yes!” said he shortly—and then smiled more and more bitterly. Suddenly he walked off, and nothing could detain him. In a moment he disappeared, and for many successive days I sought him in vain in the park.
Several months had elapsed, when one cold, rainy evening, having been belated in a distant part of the city, I was going towards my house in Friedrich street. It was necessary to pass by the theatre. The noisy music of trumpets and kettle drums reminded me that Gluck’s Armida was to be now performed, and I was on the point of going in, when a curious soliloquy spoken from the window, where every note of the orchestra was distinctly audible, arrested my attention.
“Now comes the king—they play the march—beat, beat away on your kettle drums. That’s right, that’s lively. Yes, yes, you must do that eleven times now—or else the procession won’t be long enough. Ha, ha—Maestro—drag along, children. See there is a figurant with his shoe-string caught. That’s right for the twelfth time!—Keep beating on that dominant—Oh! ye eternal powers this will never cease. Now he presents his compliments—Armida returns thanks. Still once more? Yes, I see all’s right—there are two soldiers yet to come. What evil spirit has banished me here?”
“The ban is loosed,” cried I—“come!”
I seized my curious friend by the arm (for the soliloquist was no other than he,) and hurrying him out of the park, carried him away with me. He seemed surprised, and followed me in silence. We had already arrived in Friedrich street when he suddenly stopped.
“I know you,” said he.—“You were in the park. We talked together. I drank your wine—grew heated by it. The Euphon sounded two days afterwards—I suffered much—it is over.”
“I am rejoiced that accident has thrown you again in my way. Let us be better acquainted. I live not far from here—suppose you—”
“I cannot, and dare not go with any one.”
“No, you shall not escape me thus—I will go with you.”
“Then you must go about two hundred steps. But you were just going into the theatre?”
“I was going to hear Armida, but now—”
“You shall hear Armidanow—come!”
In silence we went down Friedrich street. He turned quickly down a cross street, running so fast that I could with difficulty follow him—until he stopped at last before a common-looking house. After knocking for some time the door was opened.—Groping in the dark, we ascended the steps and entered a chamber in the upper story, the door of which my guide carefully locked. I heard a door open; through this he led me with a light, and the appearance of the curiously decorated apartment surprised me not a little—old-fashioned, richly adorned chairs, a clock fixed against the wall with a gilt case, and a heavy broad mirror gave to the whole the gloomy appearance of antiquated splendor. In the middle stood a little Piano Forte, upon which was placed a large inkstand; and near it lay several sheets of music. A more attentive examination of these arrangements for composition made it evident to me that for some time nothing could have been written; for the paper was perfectly yellow, and thick spider webs were woven over the inkstand—the man stepped towards a press in the corner of a chamber which I had not perceived before, and as soon as he drew aside the curtain I saw a row of beautifully bound books with golden titles. Orfeo—Armida—Alcesti—Iphigenia—&c.—in short a collection of Gluck’s master pieces standing together.
“Do you own all Gluck’s works?” I cried.
He made no answer, but a spasmodic smile played across his mouth, and the play of muscles in the hollow cheeks distorted his countenance to the appearance of a hideous mask—He fixed his dark eyes sternly upon me, seized one of the books—it was Armida—and stepped solemnly towards the piano forte.—I opened it quickly and drew up the music rack; that appeared to give him pleasure—He opened the book—I beheld ruled leaves, but not a single note written upon them.
He began; “now I will play the overture—Do you turn over the leaves at the proper time”—I promised—and now grasping the full chords, gloriously and like a master, he played the majestic Tempo di Marcia with which the overture begins, without deviating from the original; but the Allegro was only interpenetrated by Gluck’s principal thought. He brought out so many rich changes that my astonishment increased—His modulations were particularly bold, without being startling, and so great was his facility of hanging upon the principal idea of a thousand melodious lyrics, that each one seemed a reproduction of it in a new and renovated form—His countenance glowed—now he contracted his eyebrows and a long suppressed wrath broke powerfully forth, and now his eyes swam in tears of deep yearning melancholy. Sometimes with a pleasant tenor voice he sang the Thema, while both hands were employed in artist-like lyrics, and sometimes he imitated with his voice in an entirely different manner the hollow tone of the beaten kettle drums. I industriously turned over the leaves, as I followed his look. The overture was finished and he fell back exhausted with closed eyes, upon the arm chair. But soon he raised himself again and turning hastily over a few blank leaves, said to me in a hollow tone—
“All this, sir, have I written when I came out of the kingdom of dreams, but I betrayed the holy to unholy, and an ice-cold hand fastened upon this glowing heart. It broke not. Yet was I condemned to wander among the unholy like a departed spirit—formless, so that no one knew me until the sun-flower again lifted me up to the eternal—Ha, now let us sing Armida’s Scena.”
Then he sang the closing scene of the Armida with an expression which penetrated my inmost heart—Here also he deviated perceptibly from the original—but the substituted music was Gluck-like music in still higher potency.—All that Hate, Love, Despair, Madness, can express in its strongest traits—he united in his tones—His voice seemed that of a young man, for from its deep hollowness swelled forth an irrepressible strength—Every fibre trembled—I was beside myself—When he had finished I threw myself into his arms, and cried with suppressed voice—“What does this mean? Who are you?”
He stood up and gazed at me with earnest, penetrating look—but as I was about to speak again he vanished with the light through a door and left me in the darkness—He was absent a quarter of an hour—I despaired of seeing him again and ascertaining my position from the situation of the piano forte sought to open the door, when suddenly in an embroidered dress coat, rich vest and with a sword at his side and a light in his hand he entered—
I started—he came solemnly up to me, took me softly by the hand, and said, softly smiling—
“I am the Chevalier Gluck!”
VENUS AND THE MODERN BELLE.
———
BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
———
Young Beauty looked over her gems one night,And stole to her glass, with a petulant air:She braided her hair, with their burning light,Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there.Then she folded, over her form of grace,A costly robe from an Indian loomBut a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face,And Love’s sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.“It is useless!” she murmured,—“my jewels have lostAll their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”And she snatched off the treasures, and haughtily tost,Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies and pearls.Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion;“And what?” she exclaimed, “shall the star of the ballBe seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion?”—Away went the robe,—ribbons, laces and all!“Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sighed in despair,“Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,Which Juno of old condescended to wear,And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—She said and she started; for lo! in the glass,Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!She turned,—it was Venus herself! and the lassStood blushing before her, in silence and shame.“Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek,Is one you can summon at once, if you will;It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes, fill.“No gem in your casket such lustre can lend,No silk wrought in silver, such beauty, bestow,With that talisman heed not, tho’ simply, my friend,Your robe and your ringlets unjewelled may flow!”“Oh! tell it me! give it me!”—Beauty exclaimed,—As Hope’s happy smile, to her rosy mouth, stole,—“Nay! you wear it e’en now, since your temper is tamed,’Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul.”
Young Beauty looked over her gems one night,And stole to her glass, with a petulant air:She braided her hair, with their burning light,Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there.Then she folded, over her form of grace,A costly robe from an Indian loomBut a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face,And Love’s sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.“It is useless!” she murmured,—“my jewels have lostAll their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”And she snatched off the treasures, and haughtily tost,Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies and pearls.Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion;“And what?” she exclaimed, “shall the star of the ballBe seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion?”—Away went the robe,—ribbons, laces and all!“Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sighed in despair,“Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,Which Juno of old condescended to wear,And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—She said and she started; for lo! in the glass,Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!She turned,—it was Venus herself! and the lassStood blushing before her, in silence and shame.“Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek,Is one you can summon at once, if you will;It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes, fill.“No gem in your casket such lustre can lend,No silk wrought in silver, such beauty, bestow,With that talisman heed not, tho’ simply, my friend,Your robe and your ringlets unjewelled may flow!”“Oh! tell it me! give it me!”—Beauty exclaimed,—As Hope’s happy smile, to her rosy mouth, stole,—“Nay! you wear it e’en now, since your temper is tamed,’Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul.”
Young Beauty looked over her gems one night,And stole to her glass, with a petulant air:She braided her hair, with their burning light,Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there.
Young Beauty looked over her gems one night,
And stole to her glass, with a petulant air:
She braided her hair, with their burning light,
Till they played like the gleam of a glowworm there.
Then she folded, over her form of grace,A costly robe from an Indian loomBut a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face,And Love’s sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.
Then she folded, over her form of grace,
A costly robe from an Indian loom
But a cloud overshadowed her exquisite face,
And Love’s sunny dimple was hid in the gloom.
“It is useless!” she murmured,—“my jewels have lostAll their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”And she snatched off the treasures, and haughtily tost,Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies and pearls.
“It is useless!” she murmured,—“my jewels have lost
All their lustre, since last they illumined my curls!”
And she snatched off the treasures, and haughtily tost,
Into brilliant confusion, gold, rubies and pearls.
Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion;“And what?” she exclaimed, “shall the star of the ballBe seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion?”—Away went the robe,—ribbons, laces and all!
Young Beauty was plainly provoked to a passion;
“And what?” she exclaimed, “shall the star of the ball
Be seen by the beaux, in a gown of this fashion?”—
Away went the robe,—ribbons, laces and all!
“Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sighed in despair,“Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,Which Juno of old condescended to wear,And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—
“Oh! Paphian goddess!” she sighed in despair,
“Could I borrow that mystic and magical zone,
Which Juno of old condescended to wear,
And which lent her a witchery sweet as your own!”—
She said and she started; for lo! in the glass,Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!She turned,—it was Venus herself! and the lassStood blushing before her, in silence and shame.
She said and she started; for lo! in the glass,
Beside her a shape of rich loveliness came!
She turned,—it was Venus herself! and the lass
Stood blushing before her, in silence and shame.
“Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek,Is one you can summon at once, if you will;It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes, fill.
“Fair girl!” said the goddess—“the girdle you seek,
Is one you can summon at once, if you will;
It will wake the soft dimple and bloom of your cheek,
And, with peerless enchantment, your flashing eyes, fill.
“No gem in your casket such lustre can lend,No silk wrought in silver, such beauty, bestow,With that talisman heed not, tho’ simply, my friend,Your robe and your ringlets unjewelled may flow!”
“No gem in your casket such lustre can lend,
No silk wrought in silver, such beauty, bestow,
With that talisman heed not, tho’ simply, my friend,
Your robe and your ringlets unjewelled may flow!”
“Oh! tell it me! give it me!”—Beauty exclaimed,—As Hope’s happy smile, to her rosy mouth, stole,—“Nay! you wear it e’en now, since your temper is tamed,’Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul.”
“Oh! tell it me! give it me!”—Beauty exclaimed,—
As Hope’s happy smile, to her rosy mouth, stole,—
“Nay! you wear it e’en now, since your temper is tamed,
’Tis the light of Good Humour,—that gem of the soul.”
MY BARK IS OUT UPON THE SEA.
———
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
———
My bark is out upon the seaThe moon’s above;Her light a presence seems to meLike woman’s love.My native land I’ve left behind;Afar I roam;In other climes no hearts I’ll find,Like those at home.Of all yon sisterhood of stars,But one is true;She paves my path with crystal spars,And beams like you,Whose purity the waves recallIn music’s flow,As round my bark they rise and fallIn liquid snow.The freshening breeze now swells the sails,A storm is on;The weary moon’s dim lustre fails,The stars are gone.Not so fades love’s eternal lightWhen storm-clouds weep;I know one heart’s with me to-nightUpon the deep.
My bark is out upon the seaThe moon’s above;Her light a presence seems to meLike woman’s love.My native land I’ve left behind;Afar I roam;In other climes no hearts I’ll find,Like those at home.Of all yon sisterhood of stars,But one is true;She paves my path with crystal spars,And beams like you,Whose purity the waves recallIn music’s flow,As round my bark they rise and fallIn liquid snow.The freshening breeze now swells the sails,A storm is on;The weary moon’s dim lustre fails,The stars are gone.Not so fades love’s eternal lightWhen storm-clouds weep;I know one heart’s with me to-nightUpon the deep.
My bark is out upon the seaThe moon’s above;Her light a presence seems to meLike woman’s love.My native land I’ve left behind;Afar I roam;In other climes no hearts I’ll find,Like those at home.
My bark is out upon the sea
The moon’s above;
Her light a presence seems to me
Like woman’s love.
My native land I’ve left behind;
Afar I roam;
In other climes no hearts I’ll find,
Like those at home.
Of all yon sisterhood of stars,But one is true;She paves my path with crystal spars,And beams like you,Whose purity the waves recallIn music’s flow,As round my bark they rise and fallIn liquid snow.
Of all yon sisterhood of stars,
But one is true;
She paves my path with crystal spars,
And beams like you,
Whose purity the waves recall
In music’s flow,
As round my bark they rise and fall
In liquid snow.
The freshening breeze now swells the sails,A storm is on;The weary moon’s dim lustre fails,The stars are gone.Not so fades love’s eternal lightWhen storm-clouds weep;I know one heart’s with me to-nightUpon the deep.
The freshening breeze now swells the sails,
A storm is on;
The weary moon’s dim lustre fails,
The stars are gone.
Not so fades love’s eternal light
When storm-clouds weep;
I know one heart’s with me to-night
Upon the deep.
THE LATE SIR DAVID WILKIE.
———
BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.
———
Under the head of Painting, England undoubtedly at present stands considerably above any of the continental nations; but they surpass her perhaps in an equal degree, in the sister Art of Sculpture, and in Music,—Italy in both of these, and Germany in the latter. France may perhaps be said to have reached the same general point that England has in all these Arts; but she cannot claim the same exceptions in favor of individual instances, in either of them. In musical composers, on the other hand, she surpasses England, and yet reaches to only a very moderate degree of excellence.
Sir David Wilkie was one of the most distinguished Artists, in his particular line, that England, or any other country ever possessed. He has, to be sure, produced, comparatively speaking, but few pictures; but in force and richness of expression, in truth and depth of character, in subtlety of thought, and felicity of invention, I have seen none in the same class that at all equal these few. In the above particulars, and in a marvellous truth and simplicity of pencil in delineating what he sees or remembers, Wilkie as far surpasses Teniers himself, as Teniers surpasses him in freedom and felicity of touch, and freshness, transparency, and beauty of coloring. And important as these latter qualities are in a picture, those which spring from, and appeal to, the intellect chiefly, must be allowed to be still more so.
The subject of Wilkie’s pictures are confined to what may be called the higher classes of low life, where the habits and institutions of modern society have hitherto, in a great measure, failed to diffuse that artificial and conventional form of character, which, if it does not altogether preclude theactionof the feelings, at least forbids all outward manifestation of them. If Sir David had unfortunately devoted his peculiar and unrivalled power of depicting whatis, to scenes in high, or even in middle life, he would have produced works altogether feeble and worthless; because he could only represent what actually did exist; and, in these classes of life,this, as far as regards its outward attributes, is smoothed and polished down to a plane and colorless surface, which will not admit the passage of any thing from within, and from which every thing without slides off like water-drops from the feathers of a bird.
Only think of making a picture of a party ofladies and gentlemen, assembled to hear a piece of political news read; or of the same persons listening to a solo on the violin by an eminent professor! And yet these are the subjects of Wilkie’s Village Politicians, and his Blind Fiddler; two of the most interesting and perfect works that ever proceeded from the pencil; and which at once evince in the artist, and excite in the spectator, more activity of thought, and play of sentiment, than are called forth at all the fashionable parties of London and Paris for a whole season.
Wilkie’s power was confined, as I have said, to the representation of what he saw; but he selected and combined this with such admirable judgment, and represented it with such unrivalled truth and precision, that his pictures impress themselves on the memory with all the force and reality of facts. We remember, and recur to, the scenes he places before us, just as we should to the real scenes if we had been present at them; and can hardly think of, and refer to them as any thingbutreal scenes. They seem to become part of our experience—to increase the stores of our actual knowledge of life and human nature; and the actors in them take their places among the persons we have seen and known in our intercourse with the living world.
Wilkie’s pictures are, in one sense of the term, the mostnationalthat were ever painted; and will carry down to posterity the face, character, habits, costume, etc. of the period and class which they represent, in a way that nothing else ever did or could; for they are literally the things themselves—the truth, and nothing but the truth. The painter allows himself no liberty or licence in the minutest particulars. He seems to have a superstitious reverence for the truth; and he would no morepainta lie than he would tell one. I suppose he has never introduced an article of dress or furniture into any one of his pictures, that he had not actually seen worn or used under the circumstances he was representing. If he had occasion to paint a peasant who had just entered a cottage on a rainy day, he would, as a matter of conscience, leave the marks of his dirty footsteps on the threshold of the door! This scrupulous minuteness of detail, which would be the bane of some class of art, is the beauty of his, coupled, and made subservient, as it was, to the most curious, natural, and interesting development of character, sentiment and thought.
But the most extraordinary examples of this artist’s professional skill, are those in which he has depicted some peculiarexpressionin the face and action of some one of his characters. The quantity and degree of expression that he has, in several of these instances, thrown into the compass of a face and figure of less than the common miniature size, is not to be conceived without being seen, and has certainly never before been equalled in the Art. His most extraordinary efforts of this kind are two, in which the expressions are not very agreeable, but which become highly interesting, on account of the extreme difficulty that is felt to have been overcome in the production of them. One of these is an old man, in the act of coughing violently; and the other is a child, who has cut his fingers.
But if this is the most extraordinary part of Wilkie’s pictures, and the part most likely to attract vulgar attention and curiosity, it is far from being the most valuable and characteristic. If it were, I should not regard him as the really great artist which I now do. The mere overcoming of difficulty, for the sake of overcoming it, and without producing any other ulterior effect, would be a mere idle waste of time and skill, and quite unworthy either of praise or attention. It is in these particular instances which I have noticed above, as in numerous others in different lines of art, a mere sleight of hand, exceedingly curious, as exhibiting the possible extent of human skill, but no more.
In Wilkie’s pictures, this exhibition of mere manual skill is used very sparingly, and is almost always kept in subjection to, or brought in aid of, other infinitely more valuable ends. With the single exception of the “Cut Finger,” which is a mere gratuitous effort of this manual dexterity, all his pictures are moral tales, more or less interesting, from their perfectly true delineation of habits and manners, or impressive, from their development of character, passion, and sentiment. The “Opening of the Will” is as fine in this way, as any of Sir Walter Scott’s novels; and the “Rent Day” includes a whole series of national tales of English pastoral life in the nineteenth century.
It is a great mistake to consider Wilkie as a comic painter, in which light he is generally regarded by the public on both sides of the Atlantic. When they are standing before his pictures, they seem to feel themselves bound to be moved to laughter by them, as they would by a comedy or a farce; and without this, they do not show their taste; whereas laughter seems to me to be the very last sensation these works are adapted to call forth.
Speaking of the best and most characteristic of them, I would say, that scarcely any compositions of the art, in whatever class, are calculated to excite a greater variety of deep and serious feelings; feelings, it is true, so uniformly tempered and modified by a calm and delightful satisfaction, that they can scarcely be considered without calling up asmileto the countenance. But the smile arising from inward delight is as different from the laughter excited by strangeness and drollery as any one thing can be from another. It is, in fact, the very essence of Wilkie’s pictures, that there is literally nothing strange, and consequently nothing droll and laughter-moving about them.
From the works of no one English artist have I received so much pure and unmixed pleasure and instruction as I have from those of Sir David Wilkie. He differs from all the great old masters, inasmuch as I think he possesses more vigor of pencil, and more natural and characteristic truth of expression than any of them. His style cannot, indeed, be said to possess the airy and enchanting graces of Claude, or the classic power and beauty of the Poussins, or the delicious sweetness of Paul Potter, or the sunny brightness of Wynants, or the elegant warmth of Both, or the delightfully rural and country-fied air of Hobbima. In fact, he has no peculiar or distinguishing style ofhis own; and this is his great and characteristic beauty. There is nothing in his pictures but what belongs positively and exclusively to the scene they profess to represent. When any of the above qualities are required in his pictures, they are sure to be found there; not because they are part ofhisstyle, but because they are part ofNature’s, in the circumstances under which he is representing her. Theartistnever obtrudes himself to share with nature the admiration of the spectator. And this is a very rare and admirable quality to possess in these days of pretence and affectation; whensubjectis usually but asecondaryconsideration, and is kept in submission to the display of style, manner, and what is calledeffect.
TO AMIE—UNKNOWN.
———
BY L. J. CIST.
———
They tell me, lady! thou art fairAs pale December’s driven snow;That thy rich curls of golden hairAre bright as summer-sunset’s glow;That on the coral of thy lipsDwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips;And in thy deep cerulean eyeA thousand gentle graces lie;While lofty thought, all pure as thou,Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow!Lady! I love thee! though I ne’erHave seen that form of faultless grace;Though never met mine eyes the fairAnd perfect beauty of thy face:Yet not for that thy face is fair—Nor for thy sunny golden hair—Nor for thy lips of roseate hue—Nor for those eyes of Heaven’s own blue—Nor swan-like neck—nor stately brow—I love thee:—not totheseI bow!I love thee for the gifts of mindWith which they tell me thou’rt endow’d;And for thy graceful manners—kind,And gently frank, and meekly proud!And for thy warm and gushing heart,And soul, all void of guileful art,And lofty intellect, well storedWith learning’s rich and varied hoard;For gifts likethese(gifts all thine own)I love thee!—BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN!
They tell me, lady! thou art fairAs pale December’s driven snow;That thy rich curls of golden hairAre bright as summer-sunset’s glow;That on the coral of thy lipsDwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips;And in thy deep cerulean eyeA thousand gentle graces lie;While lofty thought, all pure as thou,Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow!Lady! I love thee! though I ne’erHave seen that form of faultless grace;Though never met mine eyes the fairAnd perfect beauty of thy face:Yet not for that thy face is fair—Nor for thy sunny golden hair—Nor for thy lips of roseate hue—Nor for those eyes of Heaven’s own blue—Nor swan-like neck—nor stately brow—I love thee:—not totheseI bow!I love thee for the gifts of mindWith which they tell me thou’rt endow’d;And for thy graceful manners—kind,And gently frank, and meekly proud!And for thy warm and gushing heart,And soul, all void of guileful art,And lofty intellect, well storedWith learning’s rich and varied hoard;For gifts likethese(gifts all thine own)I love thee!—BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN!
They tell me, lady! thou art fairAs pale December’s driven snow;That thy rich curls of golden hairAre bright as summer-sunset’s glow;That on the coral of thy lipsDwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips;And in thy deep cerulean eyeA thousand gentle graces lie;While lofty thought, all pure as thou,Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow!
They tell me, lady! thou art fair
As pale December’s driven snow;
That thy rich curls of golden hair
Are bright as summer-sunset’s glow;
That on the coral of thy lips
Dwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips;
And in thy deep cerulean eye
A thousand gentle graces lie;
While lofty thought, all pure as thou,
Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow!
Lady! I love thee! though I ne’erHave seen that form of faultless grace;Though never met mine eyes the fairAnd perfect beauty of thy face:Yet not for that thy face is fair—Nor for thy sunny golden hair—Nor for thy lips of roseate hue—Nor for those eyes of Heaven’s own blue—Nor swan-like neck—nor stately brow—I love thee:—not totheseI bow!
Lady! I love thee! though I ne’er
Have seen that form of faultless grace;
Though never met mine eyes the fair
And perfect beauty of thy face:
Yet not for that thy face is fair—
Nor for thy sunny golden hair—
Nor for thy lips of roseate hue—
Nor for those eyes of Heaven’s own blue—
Nor swan-like neck—nor stately brow—
I love thee:—not totheseI bow!
I love thee for the gifts of mindWith which they tell me thou’rt endow’d;And for thy graceful manners—kind,And gently frank, and meekly proud!And for thy warm and gushing heart,And soul, all void of guileful art,And lofty intellect, well storedWith learning’s rich and varied hoard;For gifts likethese(gifts all thine own)I love thee!—BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN!
I love thee for the gifts of mind
With which they tell me thou’rt endow’d;
And for thy graceful manners—kind,
And gently frank, and meekly proud!
And for thy warm and gushing heart,
And soul, all void of guileful art,
And lofty intellect, well stored
With learning’s rich and varied hoard;
For gifts likethese(gifts all thine own)
I love thee!—BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN!
EDITH PEMBERTON.
———
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
———
Oh! days of youth and joy long clouded,Why thus forever haunt my view?While in the grave your light lay shrouded,Why did not memory die there too?Moore.
Oh! days of youth and joy long clouded,Why thus forever haunt my view?While in the grave your light lay shrouded,Why did not memory die there too?Moore.
Oh! days of youth and joy long clouded,
Why thus forever haunt my view?
While in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not memory die there too?
Moore.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton, drawing her needle through a very dilapidated stocking which she was darning, “my dear, do you know how much your old friend Ellis is worth?”
Mr. Pemberton looked up from his newspaper with some surprise, as he replied, “I can’t tell exactly, but I should think his property cannot fall short of one hundred thousand dollars.”
“That will be twenty thousand a piece for each of his five children,” said Mrs. Pemberton, apparently pursuing some hidden train of thought.
“I am not so sure of that,” returned her husband, with a smile, “it is difficult to calculate the fortune of a child during the life of a parent. Mr. Ellis is a hale hearty man, and may live long enough to double his fortune or perhaps toloseit all. But why are you so interested in his affairs just now, Sarah?”
“To tell you the truth, husband, I have been thinking that Edward Ellis would be a good match for Caroline.”
“Pooh! pooh! Carry is but sixteen, it will be time enough three years hence, to think of a husband for her.”
“But if a good opportunity should offer, it would be the height of folly to let it slip only on account of her youth. Edward is certainly very constant in his visits.”
“His intimacy with Charles, sufficiently accounts for his frequent visits, and his attentions, if they mean anything, are rather directed to Edith, as far as I can judge,” said Mr. Pemberton.
“Oh that is only because Edith is the eldest. I could easily manage to keep her out of the way, if she were to interfere with Caroline’s prospects.”
“But why not secure him for Edith, if you are so desirous of allying him to the family?”
“Mercy on me, husband, what should I do without Edith? I would not, upon any account, put such a notion into her head; nobody could supply her place if she were to marry just now.”
“Rotation in office, my dear, is the true and just system in family government, whatever it may be in politics; it is time that Caroline shared some of Edith’s manifold duties,” said Mr. Pemberton.
“How little men know of domestic affairs,” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton; “do you suppose that such a giddy creature as Carry could ever be taught the patience, industry and thoughtfulness which seem so natural to Edith? No, no, I must keep Edith at home as long as possible.”
“So you have come to the conclusion that she is too useful to be allowed to seek her own happiness.”
“Oh, Mr. Pemberton how can you talk so? I am sure if Edith really loved any body I would never throw any obstacle in her way. She is quite contented now and I don’t believe marriage is necessary to the happiness of every body.”
“Why then are you so anxious to make matches for your girls? Why not wait and see whether Carry is not also content to be single?”
“Because Caroline is such a hare-brained, thoughtless girl, that nothing but domestic duties will ever give her steadiness of character, and therefore I am anxious to see her settled in life.”
“Well I don’t think you need waste any feminine manœuvres upon Edward Ellis, for whatever fortune his father may possess, he will never support his sons in idleness. He means that they shall work for themselves as he has done, and though he has given Edward a liberal education, he intends to make him a thorough merchant.”
“Edward wishes to study a profession.”
“I know old Ellis well enough to believe that he sets too high a value on time and money to consent to such a plan. He would never be willing to maintain Edward during the next ten years, as must necessarily be the case, if he adopted a profession.”
“Edward is a remarkably fine young man.”
“Yes, he possesses excellent talents and an amiable disposition, but his character is yet to be formed by time and circumstance.”
“He is two and twenty, husband; and you were married when you were not that age.”
“I know it, Sarah,” said Mr. Pemberton, drily, “and we both married five years too soon. I became burdened with the support of a family at the outset of life, and you were weighed down with domestic cares, while yet in your girlhood; the consequence to me has been, that I am now obliged to labour as hard for a living at forty-five as I did at twenty, and with as little prospect of making a fortune; while the result to you has been broken health and wearied spirits.”
“I am sure I never repented our marriage, my dear,” said Mrs. Pemberton half reproachfully.
“Nor I, my dear Sarah,” replied her husband kindly, “it would be but an ill requital for all your affection and goodness; but should we not be equally happy and less care-worn now, if we had deferred our union until we had been a little older and wiser?”
“Ah well,” sighed Mrs. Pemberton, feeling the truth of her husband’s remark, but unwilling to confess it, “there is no use in such retrospection; we have a large family around us, and there are no finer children than ours in the whole circle of our acquaintance. If I am broken down with the care of bringing them up, I can forget all my trouble, when I have so much cause to be proud of them. A better daughter than Edith, a more steady boy than Charley, and prettier girls than Caroline and Maria, are not to be found anywhere in society; and I dare say I shall be just as proud of the little ones in the nursery as they grow up.”
“I dare say you will, my dear,” said her husband, smiling good-humoredly, “it would be very strange if you were not, and quite as strange if I had not similar opinions; Edith is as good as she is handsome and I only wish young Ellis was in circumstances to marry her.”
“Don’t speak of such a thing, husband, I cannot consent to part with her for the next four or five years.”
“Yet you want to get rid of Caroline.”
“I have already told you my motives; there never were two sisters more unlike.”
“Edith has all the prudence and kindliness which befits a good wife, and therefore deserves to be well mated.”
“She does not seem to think of such a thing as marriage, and I am truly glad she is so indifferent about it, indeed I almost believe that Edith is destined to be an old maid.”
“It needs no great prophetic skill to predict that, if you keep her forever in the back-ground.”
“I am sure I do no such thing,” said Mrs. Pemberton, warmly.
“I don’t pretend to know much about these matters but I have noticed that when the girls are invited to a party it is generally Edith who is left at home.”
“It is not my fault, Mr. Pemberton, if she takes no pleasure in gay society.”
“Are you certain she always stays at home from choice?”
“I dare say she does, at least she is never controlled by me.”
“But you know as well as I do, that the slightest expression of a wish is sufficient to influence her. The truth is, Edith has made herself so useful in the family that we all depend upon her for a large portion of our comforts, and are too apt to forget that she often sacrifices her own. Do you suppose that she actually preferred staying at home to nurse little Margaret, the other night, to going to Mrs. Moore’s grand ball?”
“No, I can’t say she did, for she seemed rather anxious to attend that ball, and had trimmed a dress beautifully for the occasion.”
“The child was certainly not so ill as to require her attendance in addition to yours, and why, therefore, was she obliged to remain?”
“No, the baby was not very sick, but she cried so bitterly when she saw Edith dressed for the party, that I was afraid she would bring on a fever.”
“Therefore you disappointed Edith merely to gratify the whim of a petted infant.”
“I left her to do as she pleased; she immediately changed her dress, to pacify Margaret, and took her usual place by the cradle.”
“Yes, you left her to do as she pleased, after she had been allowed to discover exactly what you wished she should do. This is always the way, Sarah; the incident just mentioned, is only one out of hundreds, where Edith’s kind feelings have been made to interfere with her pleasures. I have long seen in the family a disposition to take advantage of her unselfish character, and it seems to me exceedingly unjust. I do not want to part with Edith, and should give her to a husband with great reluctance, but I insist that she should have a fair chance, and not be compelled to join the single sisterhood whether she will or not. You had better let match-making alone, Sarah; leave the girls to choose for themselves; only be careful that they have the right sort of admirers, from which to select their future master.”
Edith Pemberton was the eldest of a large family. Her father, immersed in business like most of our American merchants, spent the working days of every week at his counting room, only returning at evening, jaded and fatigued, to read the newspaper, and to doze upon the sofa till bed time. Governed by the erroneous ideas, which led men, in our country, to attempt the accumulation of a rapid fortune, in the vain hope of enjoying perfect leisure in their later years, Mr. Pemberton had become little more than a money-making machine. He loved his family but he had little time to devote to them. He spared no expense in the education of his children, liberally provided them with comforts, and punctually paid all the family bills, but he left all the management of household matters to his wife, who soon found it utterly useless to consult him on any domestic arrangement. His purse was always open to her demands, but his time he could not give. The consequence was that Mrs. Pemberton while endeavoring conscientiously to perform her duties, made the usual mistake, and fell into those habits which often convert our good wives into mere housekeepers and nurse maids; “household drudges” as our grumbling cousin Bull calls them. A rapidly increasing family, and her utter ignorance of her husband’s business prospects, induced her to practise the strictest economy which was consistent with comfort. Abandoning the elegant accomplishments which she had acquired with so much expense of time and labor at school, she secluded herself in her nursery, and in the care of her children and the duties of housekeeping found full employment.
In childhood, Edith was what old ladies call ‘a nice quiet little girl.’ Her delicate features, fair complexion, and blonde hair, established her claim to infantile beauty, while her bright smile, sweet voice and graceful gentleness seemed to win the love of all who knew her. Endowed with no remarkable intellect, no decided genius, she yet managed, by dint of good sense, industry and perseverance, to maintain her place at the head of her classes, and to leave school, which she did at fifteen, with the reputation of a very good scholar. A plain, but thorough English education, a little French, a few not very ill done drawings in water colors; some velvet paintings and a profound knowledge of the art of stitching in all its varieties, were the fruits of Edith’s studies. Gentle reader, do not despise the scanty list of accomplishments which she could number. It comprised the usual course of education at that time, and perhaps, in point of real usefulness, would bear a fair comparison with the more imposing “sciences” and “ologies” which are nowpresumedto be taught in schools of higher pretensions. Her skill inneedlecraftwas a most valuable acquisition to the eldest daughter of so numerous a family, and Mrs. Pemberton availed herself fully of its aid. Edith returned from school only to take her place as an assistant to her mother in the nursery. The maid whose business it was to take care of the children, was not trustworthy, and it became the duty of Edith to watch over the welfare of the little ones, while she employed her busy fingers in shaping and sewing their multifarious garments. Kindly in her feelings, affectionate in her disposition, gentle and patient in temper, she was dearly loved by the children. It was soon discovered that her influence could do more than the clamor of an impatient nursemaid, or the frown of a mother whose natural good temper had been fretted into irritability. If a child was refractory, sister Edith alone could administer medicine, or smooth the uneasy pillow,—and in short Edith became a kind of second mother to her five sisters and three brothers.
Had her nature been in the slightest degree tainted with selfishness, she might have reasonably murmured against the heavy burdens which were laid upon her at so early an age. But Edith never thought of herself. To contribute to the happiness of others was her chief pleasure, and she seemed totally unconscious of the value of her daily sacrifices. If any particularly disagreeable piece of work was to be done, it was always concluded that Edith would not refuse to undertake it; if any one was compelled to forego some anticipated pleasure, the lot was sure to fall on Edith; and in short the total absence of selfishness in her seemed to be the warrant for a double allowance of that ingredient in the characters of all around her. Have you never met, friend reader, with one of those kind, affectionate, ingenuous persons who have the knack of doing every thing well, and the tact of doing every thing kindly? and did you never observe that with this useful and willing person, every body seemed to claim the right of sharing their troubles? Such an one was Edith Pemberton.
But Edith was not proof against that passion which is usually libelled as selfish and engrossing. Edward Ellis had cultivated an intimacy with her young and studious brother, solely on her account, and the patience with which the gifted “senior,” assisted the efforts of the zealous “sophomore,” might be attributed less to friendship than to a warmer emotion. Ellis was talented, ambitious and vain, but he was also warm-hearted, and susceptible to virtuous impressions. The perfect gentleness, the feminine delicacy, the modest beauty of Edith had charmed the romantic student, and her unaffected admiration of his superior mental endowments, completed the spell of her fascination. His parents, well knowing how strong a safeguard against evil influences, is a virtuous attachment, rather encouraged his intimacy with the Pemberton family, without enquiring closely into his motives; and Edward was content to enjoy the present, leaving the future to take care of itself. In compliance with his wishes, his father had given him a liberal education, but when, upon leaving college he requested permission to study some profession, he met with a decided negative. “I wish you to be a merchant, Edward,” said his father, “I have given you an education which will enable you to be an enlightened and intelligent one, but upon yourself it depends to become a rich one. Talents and learning without money are of as little use as rough gems; they are curiosities for the cabinet of the virtuoso, not valuables to the man of sense; they must be polished and set in a golden frame before they can adorn the possessor, or seem precious in the eyes of the multitude. If you are wealthy, a little wisdom will procure you a great reputation; if you are poor your brightest talents only serve as a farthing rush-light to show you your own misery!” Such were the views of Mr. Ellis, and though his son differed widely from him in feeling, yet he dared not gainsay the assertions which he deemed the result of experience and worldly wisdom.
It was but a few days after the conversation just narrated that another of a different character took place between two of the parties interested. Edith was returning from a visit to a sick friend, just as evening was closing in, when she was met at her door, by Edward Ellis.
“Come with me, Edith,” said Edward hurriedly, “wrap your shawl about you, and walk with me on the Battery.”
“Not now, Mr. Ellis,” replied Edith, “it is quite late, and little Madge is waiting for me to sing her to sleep.”
“Psha! Edith, you are always thinking of some family matter; do you ever think of your own wishes?”
“Yes,” replied Edith, laughing, “and I confess I should prefer a pleasant walk with you to a warm and noisy nursery.”
“Then come,” said Edward, drawing her arm through his, “I have something of great consequence to say to you.”
Edith looked surprised, but the expression of Edward’s countenance was anxious and troubled, so she offered no further opposition. They entered the Battery, and walked along the river side, for some minutes in perfect silence, before Edward could summon courage to enter upon the subject nearest his thoughts. At length as they turned into a less frequented path, he abruptly exclaimed, “Do you know, Edith, that I am going away?”
Edith’s heart gave a sudden bound, and then every pulsation seemed as suddenly to cease, as with trembling voice she uttered a faint exclamation of astonishment.
“You are surprised, Edith, I knew you would be so, but have you no other feeling at this announcement of my departure? Nay, turn not your sweet face from me; I must know whether your heart responds to mine.”
Edith blushed and trembled as she thus listened, for the first time, to the voice of passionate tenderness. Feelings which had long been growing up unnoticed in her heart, and to which she had never thought of giving a name—fancies, beautiful in their vagueness,—emotions undefined and undetermined, but still pleasant in the indulgence,—all the