SOLITUDE.

SOLITUDE.

———

BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH.

———

Oh! what a solitude doth mind create!A solitude of deep and holy thought⁠—Alone with that Ideal good and great,Which never yet companionship hath sought;E’en as the eagle, when he highest soars,Leaves the dim earth and shadows all behind⁠—Alone, the thunder-cloud around him roars,And the reft pinion flutters in the wind⁠—Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep,And the calm ether knows nor storm nor cloud⁠—And thus the soul its heavenward way must keep,Despite the tempest raging long and loud;Alone, to God bear up its earthly weightOf human hope and fear, nor feel all desolate.

Oh! what a solitude doth mind create!A solitude of deep and holy thought⁠—Alone with that Ideal good and great,Which never yet companionship hath sought;E’en as the eagle, when he highest soars,Leaves the dim earth and shadows all behind⁠—Alone, the thunder-cloud around him roars,And the reft pinion flutters in the wind⁠—Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep,And the calm ether knows nor storm nor cloud⁠—And thus the soul its heavenward way must keep,Despite the tempest raging long and loud;Alone, to God bear up its earthly weightOf human hope and fear, nor feel all desolate.

Oh! what a solitude doth mind create!A solitude of deep and holy thought⁠—Alone with that Ideal good and great,Which never yet companionship hath sought;E’en as the eagle, when he highest soars,Leaves the dim earth and shadows all behind⁠—Alone, the thunder-cloud around him roars,And the reft pinion flutters in the wind⁠—Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep,And the calm ether knows nor storm nor cloud⁠—And thus the soul its heavenward way must keep,Despite the tempest raging long and loud;Alone, to God bear up its earthly weightOf human hope and fear, nor feel all desolate.

Oh! what a solitude doth mind create!

A solitude of deep and holy thought⁠—

Alone with that Ideal good and great,

Which never yet companionship hath sought;

E’en as the eagle, when he highest soars,

Leaves the dim earth and shadows all behind⁠—

Alone, the thunder-cloud around him roars,

And the reft pinion flutters in the wind⁠—

Alone, he soars where higher regions sleep,

And the calm ether knows nor storm nor cloud⁠—

And thus the soul its heavenward way must keep,

Despite the tempest raging long and loud;

Alone, to God bear up its earthly weight

Of human hope and fear, nor feel all desolate.

MUSA; OR THE PILGRIM OF TRUTH.

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BY JAMES K. PAULDING, AUTHOR OF “THE DUTCHMAN’S FIRESIDE,” ETC.

———

In the famous city of Bagdad there lived a rich merchant, named Abdallah, of whose numerous offspring the youngest alone survived in the person of Musa, an ingenuous and sprightly youth, in whom all the hopes and affections of the father were centered. He often pondered on the course of life to which he should direct the attention of his beloved son, and at length consulted the sage dervise Motalleb, celebrated for his learning, wisdom and virtue above all the inhabitants of that renowned city, where the Kaliph Haroun Al Raschid once reigned amid the splendors of oriental magnificence. Motalleb answered in few words, after the manner of wise men, “Thy son will be rich without the labor of acquiring wealth. Make him good, and, for that purpose, let him be taught to distinguish what is true from what is false; for I say unto thee, O Abdallah! that the knowledge and the love of Truth is the foundation of all virtue.”

At the earnest solicitation of Abdallah, the dervise consented to superintend the education of his son, and Musa was accordingly committed to his care. His first lesson was never to depart from the truth, whatever might be the danger or temptation. This was continually repeated, until one day Musa, with all the simplicity of youth, asked, “What is Truth?”

“Truth,” replied the dervise, “is that which is confirmed by the evidence of the senses, or sanctioned by the assent of the understanding. What thouseest, hearest, and feelest, thou mayst be certain is true; and what is sustained by thy reason, or understanding, though it may not be true, thou mayest assert, and believe, without being guilty of falsehood.”

Musa pondered on these definitions until his young and tender intellect became involved in a maze of mystery; and the next time Motalleb repeated his daily injunction, he again asked, “What is truth?” “Have I not already told thee?” replied Motalleb. “True,” answered the other, “but I confess I cannot comprehend what I heard. I may believe what is not true, and if I assert it to be the truth, surely I speak falsely?” “But,” replied the dervise, “thou wouldst not commit a crime, since it is the wilful violation of Truth that constitutes the guilt.”

Just at that moment a great crowd passed, with loud shouting and tumult, outside the garden where Musa received his instructions, and, with the curiosity natural to youth, he climbed up the wall to see what caused the uproar. “What seest thou, my son?” asked the dervise. “I see a man with his hands tied behind him, followed by an enraged multitude, pulling his beard, spitting in his face, and beating him with staves and stones, while he is staggering toward the river. What means all this, O wise Motalleb?” “Allah be praised!” cried Motalleb, who had been tempted by these details to look over the wall, “Allah be praised! it is the recreant Mussulman, who, incited by the spirit of darkness, the other day renounced the Koran and the true Prophet, for the Bible and the false prophets of the Christian dogs. He is going to suffer the penalty of his crime by being impaled alive.”

Musa fell into a profound reverie, from whence suddenly rousing himself, he asked, “If the follower of Mahomet is convinced by the evidence of his senses, or the dictates of his reason, that the religion of the Christian dogs is the true faith, is he guilty of a crime in forsaking that which he believes to be false?” “But,” rejoined Motalleb, “he is deceived by the angel of darkness, or more probably only affects to believe in his accursed creed.” “Methinks, then,” said Musa, with perfect simplicity, “that he must be a great fool either to suffer himself to be deceived, or to sacrifice his life for that in which he does not believe.” “But if his belief in the creed of the Christian dogs should be serious, what then, my son?” asked Motalleb. “Then,” replied Musa, “he ought not to die, for you have often told me, that what is sanctioned by our reason may be adopted without being guilty of falsehood or committing a crime.”

Motalleb hereupon fell into a long dissertation, involving various nice distinctions between wilful and involuntary errors of opinion, owing, in a great measure, sometimes to the influence of early education, habits and example; sometimes to the seduction of the passions, and at others to the weakness or perverseness of the understanding. When he thought he had made the subject quite clear to the comprehension of his pupil, the latter, after reflecting a few moments, asked him how he could distinguish those opinions which were adopted through the influence of education, passion, habit and example, from those derived from the convictions of pure impartial reason. “That is impossible,” said Motalleb; “Allah alone can see into the human heart, and detect the secret springs by which it is directed.” “It seems to me, then,” said the youth, doubtingly, “that to Allah alone should be left the punishment of errors of opinion, since none other can know whether they are wilful or involuntary. But,” continued he, after another pause of deep reflection, “surely there must be some standard of truth, equally invariable and universal, to which mankind may appeal, instead of sacrificing each other, as thispoor man is about to be, for a difference of opinion.” “Thou art right, my son, there is such a standard. Thou shalt study the Koran, for that is the fountain of truth, the only exposition of the wisdom of Allah himself.”

Motalleb placed the Koran in the hands of his pupil, who studied it with equal ardor and intelligence, the dervise having, by his repeated exhortations, inspired him with a fervent admiration of truth, as well as a longing desire to obtain its possession. But there were many portions of the book which neither corresponded with the evidence of his senses nor the dictates of his reason. When he read that the Prophet had, according to his own assertions, ascended to the seventh heaven in company with the angel Gabriel, on the back of a white camel, and advanced alone so near the throne of the Almighty as to be touched on the shoulder by his hand; and that he had, in less than the tenth part of a single night, thus performed a journey of at least a thousand years—these and other miraculous tales confounded his understanding, and contradicted not only the lessons of past experience, but the evidences of his senses. He tried to believe, but found it impossible; and when his preceptor, after allowing him sufficient time to study the great work of the Prophet, asked him whether he had not at length drank at the pure fountain of truth, he frankly expressed his doubts as to the miraculous journey. The dervise stroked his long beard, and frowned indignantly. “What!” cried he, “dost thou disbelieve the revelations of the Prophet himself?”

“I am compelled to do so,” replied Musa, “since they neither accord with the evidence of my senses nor are confirmed by the assent of my reason.”

Motalleb grew angry, and cried out with a loud voice, “What hath the evidence of the senses or the assent of reason to do with that which is beyond the reach of the senses or the comprehension of reason? Know, foolish youth, that these things are miracles, and that neither the understanding nor the reason of mortals can comprehend them. Dost thou doubt the testimony of him who communed with angels, and was inspired by Allah himself?”

“I am neither learned nor wise as thou art, O! Motalleb,” answered Musa, bowing his head, and touching his forehead reverently, “but it seemeth to me that thy words do not exactly accord with the definition of truth which was one of my earliest lessons, and which thou hast repeated to me every day. Thou didst tell me that truth was the evidence of the senses, confirmed by the assent of the understanding. Now thou sayest otherwise, and I am to believe what neither my reason can comprehend, nor my senses realize as possible, because it contradicts all my experience.”

“Thy reason! thy experience!” answered Motalleb, contemptuously. “Thy beard is not yet grown; thou hast as yet read little and seen nothing. When thou hast mastered all the learning of Arabia, and traversed the distant regions of the earth, thou mayest then found thy belief on the evidence of thy senses, the dictates of reason, and the results of experience. Go thy ways, my son. Thou art already too wise for me, since thou doubtest the miracles of the Prophet.” Saying this, he dismissed his pupil, who bent his way homeward, thoughtful and depressed.

Abdallah received him with his usual affection, and being told of the dismissal of Musa by his preceptor, straightway went forth and purchased great store of costly manuscripts, containing all the learning, science and philosophy of the East, together with many translations from the Grecian sages and poets. To these Musa applied himself with such zeal and perseverance for several years, that he at length possessed himself of all the wisdom they contained. Every step, however, that he proceeded in his search after truth, only seemed to render its existence more doubtful. Scarcely any two of those illustrious wise men agreed in their religious, moral or political opinions, and he counted among the philosophers upwards of three hundred different definitions of thesummum bonum—that is, the great constituent of human happiness. “Strange,” thought Musa; “surely that which leads to happiness can be only the truth; and yet, in this most important of all concerns, these sages almost invariably dissent from each other. I will henceforth see with my own eyes, instead of those of others. Surely truth must exist somewhere in this world. I will traverse the earth, according to the advice of Motalleb, until I find it, or perish in the search.”

At this moment he heard a loud cry at the door which opened toward the street, and going hastily forth, encountered four slaves bringing in the body of his father, who had been suddenly smitten by the angel of death, while drinking from a cool fountain in one of the public gardens of the city. Musa fell on the body and wept, and mourned a long while with all the depth and sincerity of filial love. But when time had assuaged his sorrows, he recalled to mind the anxious wishes of his parent, that he should seek and find out the truth; and being now rich, and his own master, he resolved to set out on his pilgrimage without delay. Placing the management of his affairs in the hands of a discreet friend of his father, he one morning, just at the dawning of day, mounted his Arabian steed, and turned his back on the once splendid capital of the Kaliphs.

In the course of twenty years, Musa visited a great portion of the habitable globe, with the exception of the new world, which was not then discovered. He sojourned among the Persians, whom he found almost equally divided between the worshippers of fire and the followers of the sect of Ali, abhorred by all the faithful. Each believed in the truth of their faith, and were ready to die in its defence. He then joined a caravan of merchants, and bent his way toward Hindostan, where, having safely arrived, he quitted his companions, and pursued his journey alone. The first thing that attracted his attention was a party of young people of both sexes bathing promiscuously together, who seemed to be utterly unconscious of any impropriety, and laughed and gamboled with all the hilarity of innocence.To a disciple of Mahomet, accustomed to the jealous seclusion of females, the spectacle was revolting in the extreme, and he turned away in bitter disgust, exclaiming against such a violation not only of decency, but the law of the Prophet.

Proceeding onward, he observed several persons with a piece of fine muslin or gauze before the mouth, and others walking slowly, with brooms, carefully brushing away the dust before they ventured to take a step forward. On inquiring the reason, he was told that the former method was adopted lest they might accidentally swallow some insect, and the latter to prevent their treading on some living thing, and thus depriving it of life—a crime which subjected them to severe penance and mortification, as being against one of the fundamental principles of their faith. On hearing this, Musa pursued his way laughing, though a grave Mussulman; and, having crossed a river, encountered a person uttering the most horrid execrations against an evil spirit, who, it seems, had, in the shape of a dragon or serpent, raised a great thunder storm, which laid waste his fields and destroyed his crop of rice.

“Head of Mahomet!” said Musa, “what a set of ignorant barbarians are these! There is no use in seeking for truth among them. I will visit their wise men, and hear what they have got to say for themselves.”

Learning, on inquiry, that the sect or caste of the Brahmins were considered the most wise and enlightened of all the people of Hindostan, he sought and obtained the society of some of the chief bonzes, under the character of a traveler in search of the truth. From these he learned, with no little surprise, that their religion was a perfect mystery, confined altogether to the priests, and that so far from wishing to make proselytes of strangers, none could be admitted among them but by hereditary succession. “Strange,” thought Musa, “that people should be so selfish. If they believe their faith the only true one, it is cruel to keep it from the knowledge of others.”

Passing away from these exclusives, he came to a temple, where he beheld a number of persons undergoing a variety of the most extraordinary tortures, to which they were voluntarily submitting. Some of these had held up one arm in the same position till it became fixed and inflexible, and so remained during the rest of their lives. Others had clenched their fists with such force, and kept them thus so long, that the nails had grown through the palms, and projected from the back of the hand. Others had turned their faces over one shoulder, until they were irrevocably fixed in that direction. Others were suspended, by iron hooks fixed in the shoulder-blade, to a beam which turned round with great velocity on a pivot at the top of a long pole, while the penitent sometimes sung a song, or blew a trumpet, as he whirled around, to the great admiration of the spectators. On inquiring the meaning of all this, he was told that they were celebrating their religious rites, and exemplifying the sincerity of their devotion.

Musa turned away from this exhibition with mingled feelings of pity and contempt, and pursued his way pondering on the strange diversities of human opinion, most especially on subjects involving not only the temporal but eternal welfare of mankind.

“All cannot be true,” exclaimed he, “and yet one must be the truth. I will not be discouraged, but continue my pilgrimage until I find the fountain of truth, or become involved in endless, inextricable doubt, and believe nothing.”

Continuing his journey, he entered the great empire of China, where he found three hundred millions of people, divided into the followers of Loo Tsee, Fokè, and Confucius, or Confutsee, each equally convinced of the truth of their creed, and each equally despising the others. Thence he proceeded to Japan, where he arrived at the period of celebrating a great religious festival, and saw them trampling the cross under foot, and sacrificing human beings to a great idol, which resembled neither beast, bird, fish, nor man, but exhibited a monstrous combination of the deformities of almost every species of animal.

It would be tedious to follow him throughout his various peregrinations through Asia and Africa. Suffice it to say, that he everywhere encountered the strangest diversities of manners, habits, opinions and modes of faith, and every day became more hopeless of gaining the object of his weary pilgrimage. The course of his wanderings at length brought him to Cairo in Egypt, where he accidentally fell into the company of a learned European traveler, who had visited the country to unravel the mystery of the pyramids, and decipher hieroglyphics. On learning from Musa the object of his journeyings, he turned up his nose somewhat scornfully and exclaimed⁠—

“Pooh! what is the use of seeking for Truth among the barbarians of the East? You should visit enlightened Europe, the seat of learning, philosophy and true religion. I have completed the purposes which brought me hither, and am about to return home, where, I flatter myself, I shall prove to the satisfaction of all reasonable people that the whole tribe of travelers who preceded me are no better than a parcel of ignorant blockheads. You shall accompany me to Europe, where alone is to be found true religion and true philosophy.”

Musa caught at the proposal. They embarked together in a vessel destined for Marseilles, where in good time they arrived without accident. On the night of his first sojourn in that city he was suddenly roused from a sweet sleep by a series of heart-rending shrieks and groans, mingled with loud imprecations and shouts of triumph, that seemed to come from all quarters of the city. Starting from his bed, he ran to the window, where he beheld bodies of armed ruffians raging through the streets,massacring men, women and children without mercy, breaking open the houses, tearing forth their wretched inmates, whom they slaughtered with every species of barbarous ingenuity, and committing their bodiesto the flames of their consuming habitations. While shivering at this exhibition of barbarity, and meditating an escape from its horrors, he was interrupted by his friend, and addressed him in a voice trembling with apprehension,

“In the name of the Prophet!” cried he, “what does all this mean? Is the city become a prey to banditti or hostile barbarians, who spare neither sex nor age, and riot in blood and fire?”

“It is nothing,” answered the other, coolly. “They are only punishing the heretics for not believing in the Pope.”

“And is that the name of your God?” asked Musa, with perfect simplicity.

“No—he is only his vicar on earth.”

“But do not these poor people believe in your Bible, which you have told me is the great volume of Truth, and in that Supreme Being who you say is the only true God?”

“Yes—but they deny the supremacy of the Pope, and deserve to be punished with fire and sword.”

“Then the Pope must be greater than your God,” said Musa.

His friend turned away with a gesture of impatient contempt, and muttered something of which he could only distinguish the words—“Ignorant barbarians!”

At dawn of day he left the city in disgust, but wherever he came he found the country smoking with the blood of helpless innocence and unresisting weakness, and was told by the priests in tones of triumph that in one night all the heretics of the kingdom had been exterminated. He asked then what these poor people had done, whether they were thieves and robbers, traitors or rebels, that they should be cut down in one single night without discrimination and without mercy. But all the answer he received was⁠—

“They deny thesupremacy of the Pope!”

“Strange!” thought Musa. “But I am among true believers and enlightened philosophers, and no doubt shall find the Truth at last.”

He, however, determined to leave the country as soon as possible, and bending his course to the seaside, embarked in a vessel destined for England, but which was driven by stress of weather into a port of Ireland. Here he found every thing in confusion. People were setting fire to the churches, pulling down stately abbeys and convents, and driving their inmates before them with every species of violence and of opprobrium.

“Who are these people?” asked he—“and what have they done—most especially those poor women and children, whom I see fleeing from their pursuers, pale with affright, and crying out in despair?”

“They are heretics and believe in the Pope,” was the cool reply.

“That is very strange,” said Musa—“I am just from a land where they weremassacring men, women and children because they did not believe in the Pope. How is this?”

“We are only retaliating their persecutions. When they had the upper hand they oppressed us, and it is but just that they should suffer in turn.”

“But does not your religion inculcate forgiveness of enemies?”

Before Musa could receive a reply, an aged, bald-headed friar ran tottering past, with a nun holding by his hand, and pursued by several people who seemed half mad with hate and eagerness, and assailed them with missiles of every kind. His companion joined the throng, and left him without an answer. He inquired of another what the old man, and especially the poor woman, had done to merit such unworthy treatment, and was told that one was a friar of the Order of Mercy, and the other a Sister of Charity.

“And what are their occupations?” inquired Musa.

“One is employed in the redemption of captives among the infidels—the other passes her life attending the bedside of the sick, relieving their wants, administering to their comfort, without fee or reward, and devoting herself to charity and devotion. But they both believe in the Pope, and that is the great original sin.”

“Head of the Prophet!” exclaimed Musa—“and yet you persecute these people! Surely that cannot be the true religion which deals thus with the votaries of mercy and charity.”

The man, instead of answering, stooped down and seizing a stone, threw it at Musa with such good aim that it grazed his turban, and began crying out—“A Papist!—A Papist!” whereupon Musa made the best of his way to the ship, where he sought shelter from an angry crowd that was shouting and shrieking in his rear. He continued his journey through England, Spain, Holland, Germany, Switzerland and Italy, and wherever he went perceived such strange diversities and contrasts in the standard of morals and religion, that in despair he at length resolved to return home, having come to the conclusion that there was no such thing as truth in this world. With this intention he arrived at Rome, on his way to Venice, whence it was his purpose to embark for Smyrna, and thence to proceed by land through Asia Minor to Constantinople, on his way to Bagdad. At Rome he saw the Pope, a feeble, decrepit old man, who had, in order to give more imposing dignity to the ceremony, consented to preside at the burning of a heretic, who was convicted before the Inquisition of having pulled off his hat and made a bow to the statue of Hercules and the Centaurs. The poor victim, who was an ignorant peasant, solemnly declared that he mistook Hercules for a saint; but all would not do. He perished at the stake, after which Te Deum was sung, and high mass celebrated throughout the ancient capital of the world.

Sickened and disgusted with Europe, he embarked for Smyrna, and crossing Mount Sipylus on his way to Constantinople, was benighted and lost his way. He wandered about amid the deep recesses, until at length he descried a light at a distance, which, on approaching, was found to proceed from a cave, where Musa beheld an aged man, with a long white beard, reading by the light of a lamp. So deeply washe engaged, that the lost traveler entered the cave and stood beside him ere he was aware of his presence. He was not, however, in the least startled when he perceived the stranger, but courteously requesting him to be seated, closed the manuscript volume in which he had been reading, and kindly inquired into his wants and desires.

Musa related to the old man how he had lost his way in returning homeward, after an absence of twenty years, and requested his hospitality. The old man assured him he was welcome, and having provided a frugal repast of milk, dates and bread, they sat and conversed together, making mutual inquiries of each other. The aged hermit informed his guest that he was of the sect of the Maronites, and had many years ago sought refuge from the persecutions of his fellow Christians in this spot, where he could alone enjoy liberty of conscience. “But thou,” continued he, “hast just informed me that thou art returning home after twenty years of travel. Thou must have gathered vast stores of wisdom and many truths during thy long pilgrimage.”

“I did indeed set forth in search of the truth,” replied Musa, “but am returning only more in doubt than before. I have sought for some standard of manners, morals and religion, by which all mankind might regulate their opinions and conduct, for such a standard can be only the truth.”

“And didst thou find it?” asked the hermit, smiling.

“Alas! no, venerable father,” replied Musa. “I found no two nations agreeing in one or the other. A river, a mountain, or even an imaginary line of separation, not only produced a contrast in all these, but a bitter feeling of hostility, the parent of broils and bloodshed, seeming to proceed from mere differences in opinion, of which a great portion knew neither the grounds of their belief nor the source of their convictions. Even in matters involving their eternal welfare, I found no standard of truth, for millions differ with millions on the subject, and shed each other’s blood for a diversity in creeds which are alike derived from the great book in which they all believe.”

“And to what conclusion has all this travel, study and experience brought thee at last?” asked the hermit.

“I scarcely dare tell thee, O! venerable father. But if I have formed a decided opinion on any one thing, it is that there is no such virtue as truth on earth, and no Supreme Being in Heaven, since there are so many different opinions with regard to one, and so many modes of worshiping the other. Surely where such diversities exist, it is the height of presumption for men to persecute each other for not believing alike.

“But,” asked the hermit, “amid these endless varieties of faith, didst thou ever encounter, in all thy pilgrimage, a people who believed not in a Supreme Being, either by himself or his ministers, presiding over the government of the universe?”

Musa reflected awhile, and then answered, “No; however different might be their faith, in their modes of manifesting it, I do not recollect ever to have found a people, civilized or barbarous, where I could not distinctly perceive, even among the darkest clouds of ignorance, a recognition, more or less distinct, of a Supreme Intelligence, in some shape or other. Even where they worshiped beasts or idols, I thought I could always trace their devotion, step by step, to a Supreme Being.”

“Then,” said the old man, “thou mightest have found in thy long search, hadst thou made a wise use of thine experience, at least one great truth, of more importance to the welfare of mankind than all the conclusions of learning and philosophy. Instead of drawing, from the various modes in which religion manifests itself, the conclusion that there is no God, thou shouldst have gathered, from the universal belief of all mankind, that there is assuredly such a Being, since neither the most wise nor the most ignorant deny his existence.

“This is one great truth thou mightest have learned in thy twenty years of travel. A second, scarcely less important, at least to the temporal happiness of mankind, is, that since almost all nations and communities differ in a greater or lesser degree in their modes of worship, and there is no earthly standard to which all are willing to submit, it becomes us short-sighted, erring beings, instead of persecuting each other by fire, sword and defamation, to be tolerant of that which we call error of opinion in morals or religion. However we may differ in the modes by which these are manifested, we may be assured that though we may be mistaken in abstract points of faith or morality, still there is one great universal truth which all may comprehend, namely—that charity for human errors must be the bounden duty of all, since without such charity on the part of the Most High, the gates of Heaven would be forever closed against his sinful creatures.”

Musa remained several days in the cave of the hermit, during which time the old man often repeated the lesson he had given, and then bent his way toward Bagdad, which he reached without any adventure. Here he passed the remainder of his life in practising the precepts of the wise hermit of Mount Sipylus. He became the friend of the ignorant, the benefactor of the needy; nor did he ever inquire, ere he relieved them, to what sect they belonged, or pamper the pride of superior wisdom by despising their inferiority. And when, after many years of happy repose and wide-spread benevolence, he was smitten by the angel of death, he died in the full conviction that he had found the truth, and that it consisted in reverence for the Creator of the world, and charity toward all his creatures—charity not only for their wants, but their errors and opinions.

THREE ERAS OF DESTINY

IN THE LIFE OF THE PAINTER ANGELICA KAUFFMANN.

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BY MISS H. B. MACDONALD.

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There is perhaps no scenery in the world so ravishingly beautiful as that offered by those vast plains of northern Italy situated at the base of the Rhætian Alps. A champaign elaborately tilled, and laid out into those regular divisions of meadow, corn-field, and vineyard, which make so much of the beauty of cultivated landscape; groves and belts of trees so disposed as to be productive of the highest effect; classic looking villas, villages and towns, with their surrounding orchards and pleasure-grounds; bright rivers winding their way through all this beauty till they lose themselves in those magic lakes, which, with their green banks kissed by the waters, and bordered on every winding promontory and inlet by belts of overshadowing trees, reflect the sunset splendors of the Alps, and seem, in every rainbow grotto and crystal palace mirrored in their lucid depths, meet homes for those genii of the waters with which a graceful superstition peoples their enchanted caverns. All these, with the back ground of gigantic mountains, pile on pile, that seem to raise a barrier from earth to heaven between this Paradise and a ruder world beyond, fill us with the idea of wandering amid some remnant of the scenery of the Golden Age, where of old, as the fables tell, the primeval deities used to dwell with a purer humanity, and in a younger and lovelier earth.

From a village situated at a considerable elevation on the surface of the slopes into which these smiling plains incline themselves as they approach the mountains, one bright spring evening, a troop of young girls might have been seen issuing, apparently as if broken loose from school, so joyous were their gestures, so wild their mirth, as with the vivacious grace belonging to the children of the South they bounded over the grass, some gliding in imitation of the motions of a dance, some skipping, some chasing others with the speed of the wind, till at a call from one, “to the water—to the water!” echoed by a dozen voices, they descended a hollow leading to the bed of the bright Ticino, and in a few moments were plunging and gliding in the stream.

One of them, apparently between fourteen and fifteen years of age, instead of following the example of her companions, had, in the excitement attending this operation, slipped away unperceived, and wandering listlessly along the windings of the river soon found herself out of hearing and sight. Proceeding on her way, and picking up a pebble or a flower just as it suited her, and stopping to observe every effective point of view in the landscape, with a narrowness of observation and sense of its beauty uncommon in one so young, she came to a ravine leading up from the side of the stream, which she ascended, till arriving on a high point that overlooked the channel of the river, she witnessed one of the most superb sunsets that ever gladdened an enthusiast’s eye. Amidst an array of purple clouds, fringed with silver, the sun was descending, gold colored, behind a peak of Mount Rosa, and suffusing the surrounding Alpine masses with a dim violet vapor. At her feet, and flowing in a direction opposite to the eye, was the river, now transformed into a stream of rich ruddy amber, with its sloping and picturesque banks and wooded islands, that diversified its brilliance with emerald shadows, taking its way in a hundred windings, whose succession she could trace, curve beyond curve, as it clove its course through the opening hills—far away, till, in the termination of the vista, gleamed the shining roofs of the Pania, with the white spire of its cathedral seeming to lose itself in the gold of the evening sky. To the left, immediately at the foot of the eminence where she stood, was the little white village, with its orchards and trim vineyards, and, beyond, those vast slopes on which the mountains lose themselves in the Italian plains. To the right, arose perpendicularly from the river a wall of sparkling granite rocks, now of the deepest vermilion in the alchemy of evening; and behind, towered grandly into the sky those white wildernesses of Julian Alps, receiving from their brethren, the Rhætians, the reflections of the opposite sunset in a thousand tints of lingering rose.

A singular effect was produced on the girl by the contemplation of this scene. Her bosom heaved, her cheeks flushed, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh! for the voice of a poet,” said she, speaking to herself, “to celebrate these splendors in some immortal song! Or the hand of a painter, to retain them in undying hues, for a joy to the worshipers of beauty forever. Alas! they are fading—they shall soon be lost to the universe; and there is none here who, with the power of inhaling them into his spirit as I, hath the happier gift of reproducing them in some diviner form. Alas! I am weak, with no power but tofeel; as when gazing on some noble statue—some magic scene—some surpassing human form—an irrepressible emotion seizes me, which, when I would invest with expression, my heart dies away in utter impotence!”

Ah! innocent soul, thou didst not then know that the first power of an artist is tofeel; that in his susceptibility for emotion lie his strength and the spirit of his calling; and that the achievement of the painter, the poet, or the sculptor, is but the expression of that emotion which our common language is too weak to supply, and only acquired, like any other language, through practice and experience. The girl who mused thus was very beautiful, now rendered more so by the freshness and vivacity of her extreme youth. Long tresses of chestnut hair, braided across her temples and slightly twisted up behind, were then suffered to fall in ringlets over her neck. Her complexion was brilliantly fair, with that rather deep carmine tinge on cheek and lip common to the Teutonic race, on the confines of whose clime she was born; while her slender figure and regular features betrayed the vicinage of classic Italy. But the most remarkable feature were the eyes; they were large and of the deepest black, in whose serious, melting, intellectual expression we could read all the soul of Angelica Kauffmann.

Throwing herself on the grass, she gave way to a delicious reverie on the enchantments of the scene, which the twilight, the fading colors and the silence soon deepened into a sort of dream. She thought herself in the midst of a vast temple, whose dome expanded into the skyey concave above her head, lamp-lighted with its thousand stars. Its area, whose termination on any side she could not descry, seemed to extend into an interminable space, lost amid a wilderness of surrounding columns. By degrees she became aware of the presence of groups of majestic statues, that seemed, by some enchantment, one after another to strike her view, like the scenery of a diorama. Watching them attentively, she saw that though raised on pedestals, in the attitudes and repose of statuary, they were endowed with all the features of animated life, but a life more than human—it seemed immortal, divine; and she recognized in these forms the presence of that gifted and glorious company enshrined in the temple of the immortal heart of man. Amidst the group in whose immediate vicinity she found herself, stood “Rafaelle the Divine,” with that countenance of his so expressive of the spirit of the sainted religion whose attributes he has embodied in glorious painting, and his melancholy eyes filled with the presentiment of his early death. Angelo, grand and majestic like his own Moses, and a brow worthy of the conception of that great St. Peter’s—the temple of the Christian world. Murillo, glorifying in his aspect the stolid simplicity of that humble life whence he drew his origin, and the delineation of which he made peculiarly the subject of his design. Carracci, with that forsaken look when the child of genius, like, alas! too many of his calling, lay down to die of a broken heart. Titian, beautiful as his own Apollos—and many more. But among these her attention was directed in surprise to a conspicuous pedestal, deficient of its statue, whereon was engraven in large letters, on the granite of its base, the name of “Angelica Kauffmann.” Looking up at the same moment to the vast sky-blue dome above her head, she saw blazing directly over the vacant pedestal a large, bright, solitary star, that lighted the whole temple with its radiance. After a long riveted gaze toward it, she became slowly sensible of looking on the true sky, from which the sunset and the twilight had now quite faded, abandoning it to the deep cobalt blue of the approaching darkness. The statues had vanished; the pillars had resolved themselves into the surrounding trees of the landscape; and, instead of the temple, were the familiar features of the scenery, though now almost lost in the darkness, she had gazed upon before falling into slumber. Every thing had vanished except that bright, solitary star, which, though now restored to complete consciousness, she continued to gaze upon with eyes riveted by wonder and delight. Familiar with the geography of the heavenly world, she was wholly unable to account to herself for the appearance of this particular star, which differed in position and lustre from any of the heavenly bodies she had hitherto been familiar with. It was evidently some new comer, and the girl thought to herself of those presiding stars that were of old said to arise over the destinies of the great ones of the earth, and dreamed—who can tell in that hour—wild dreams to herself of future glory and renown.[3]

[3]This seemingly supernatural orb was probably one of those since classed under the catalogue of “Variable Stars,” which disappear for stated periods, and then become visible again, to blaze for a short time with extraordinary lustre.

[3]

This seemingly supernatural orb was probably one of those since classed under the catalogue of “Variable Stars,” which disappear for stated periods, and then become visible again, to blaze for a short time with extraordinary lustre.

——

There were preparations for a festival in the halls of the “Royal Academy” of London. A distinguished foreign member of the profession was expected to be present, and the first individual not a native on whom the fellowship of the Academy had hitherto been conferred. The king and royal family had promised the honor of their attendance, and the prize medals of the exhibition were to be presented, of which the eminent foreign artist alluded to had carried off the first. The saloons were gorgeously lighted. All the pictures of the exhibition had been removed from the walls, except those few favored masterpieces obtaining the award of the prizes—and one surpassing work of art that hung by itself at the head of the principal saloon, with a delicate wreath of laurel suspended above it, betokening it the first in honor as in place. It consisted of two figures, of which the most conspicuous was that of a shrinking, prostrate female, expressing the highest ideal of loveliness and grace, joined to utter abandonment, contrition and shame; appearing as if the whole soul had imbued itself through every muscle and lineament of the frame, for the delineation of these emotions, that none could mistake that model of penitential sorrow, afterward so celebrated as “The Weeping Magdalene.” The face was completely buried in her hands, but so far from the absence of this most essential tablet of female beauty being felt as a defect, it was rather an adjunct tothe effect, inasmuch as it left to the imagination’s heightening conception the modeling of a countenance meet for such a form, and such magic tones of color—burning with blushes—we know it from the roseate tint that almost seemed reflected from it along the pearly edges of the enshrouding hands—and drowned in tears, that fell like liquid diamonds over the snow of the Redeemer’s feet. The accompanying figure was somewhat inferior, yet it expressed that union of majesty and sweetness joined to godlike compassion, in as great a degree as human art has ever been able to embody in its ideas of the Divine man. On the side of the hall opposite the picture was erected a pavilion, emblazoned with the royal arms of England, and surmounted by a crown, under which George the Third had just seated himself, habited in his usual dress of a marshal’s uniform, with the rather vulgar, squat figure of his queen, the German Charlotte, surrounded by theirsuite, who gazed, with curious though certainly not very connoisseur like eyes, occasionally through their opera glasses at the divine picture suspended in front of them on the opposite wall.

The Academicians had severally arrived in their badges; there were gentlemen in the splendid Windsor uniform—officers glittering in epaulettes and gold lace—collars and grand crosses of knighthood—ladies in coronets and plumes. The music played, and the festival was begun. Theéliteof England’s ennobled by birth and ennobled by mind were there, and mingled in conversation—some in animated groups round the pictures and statuary—some promenading the halls, when suddenly the buzz of conversation ceased, and an expression of eagerness pervaded the assembly, greater than that which had greeted the entrance of royalty itself, and there entered through the yielding crowds, conducted by a gentlemanly looking person in the badge of the Academy, a young slender girl—a child indeed no more, but still retaining the chestnut ringlets and glorious black eyes of Angelica Kauffmann. Conducting the young Academician, and the first woman ever invested with such a distinction, toward the pavilion, Sir Joshua Reynolds presented her to their majesties; when the peasant girl of the Alps, as she knelt before them, told that high-born and high-bred throng of a grace derived from the sense of the beautiful in the soul, and which the atmosphere of a court could neither add to nor bestow. Raising her hastily, George the Third, after a few words addressed to her, and graciously made in German by his queen, conducted her, leaning on his arm, through the saloons, rendering her the envied of all the envious.

“Such amiable condescension! But his majesty has such a passion for foreigners—beside his patronage of the Fine Arts—quite indeed auspicious of their restoration to the age.”

“It is whispered,” said another, “that she has been commanded to paint the royal family.”

“By no means,” interposed a gentleman in plain clothes. “My information came from an individual who had it from a high quarter, that such a report is incorrect. I understood that this honor was in contemplation for the signora, but no positive orders have been yet issued on the subject.”

It is to be doubted whether the object of these remarks was so highly sensible of these distinctions as a refined education would have taught her; and we have even a suspicion that she might have gone so far as to wish to escape from the gracious condescension of the conversation with which George honored her, as promenading round the hall she found herself obliged to standanswerto the abrupt and sometimes ridiculous questions originating in the royal mind, after the catechumenical method of conversation then in vogue in intercourse with majesty.

But higher honors awaited the young artist. Sir Joshua Reynolds, then President of the Academy, having mounted the chair, proceeded to descant upon the excellencies of the several productions distinguished by the Society’s prizes—but there was one, he said, which he could not pass over without some more especial notice.

“Need I direct attention,” said he, “to that noble work at the head of the hall, whose magic beauties, as they shine from the canvas, have enchained the admiration of the most distinguished connoisseurs, and evidence stronger reasons for the decision we have come to in its favor than any words of mine could adduce. Although the age and sex of the artist invested the work with an interest in our eyes it would not otherwise perhaps so strongly possess, we would not for a moment have it supposed that they exercised the smallest influence upon our suffrages. We adore beauty, womanhood and youth, but we adore Art more, and have too high a sense of its dignity to permit any extrinsic consideration, however fascinating to the imagination, to divert us from our undivided homage toward it. It is to the solid excellence of the work itself—the new principles which it involves—principles, for the acquirement of which, I am not ashamed to say that I myself, as well as many others grown old in honors as in years, are not unwilling to descend into the character of pupilage—and not the less that we sit at the feet of a genius and a woman. While awarding in this direction the highest distinction, we can speak for our brethren of Art that have come forward in competition for the honors of this day, that they will feel satisfied in withdrawing into an inferior place before her who, from a distant land, chose to throw her merits upon our judgment, and her talents into the service of the British nation. Therefore I bestow the First Prize of the Institution upon the ‘Weeping Magdalene,’ property of the Academy, and executed by the Signora Angelica Kauffman, of the Grisons, whom I have great pleasure in investing with the medal.”

So saying, the President descended, and presented to Angelica, who stood up to receive him, a massive gold medal and chain. There was neither bashfulness nor awkwardness in her demeanor as she stood up amid that vast assembly, whose shouts and plaudits now shook the building to its foundation—only a vivid blush passed over her face as she gazedround the assembly for a moment with an almost bewildered look; but it seemed of some higher emotion than vanity—as if the consciousness and the exultation of genius—the satisfaction of having achieved something for Art—the experienced realization of the hopes and the labors of years—and the knowledge of having won for herself a place among the Immortals, and in the sympathies of her race, which is, perhaps, the principal ingredient in a woman’s passion for fame—were all crowded into the emotion which gave it birth. The simplicity of her appearance contrasted strangely with the splendor of her reputation—young looking for her years, which then amounted to no more than twenty-two, her dress, too, plain and unadorned, and as much after the modest form of the antique as conformity with modern usage would allow without the charge of being particular or fantastic—no less added to this effect, contrasted, as it was, with the gauds and superfluity of hoop and head-dress then in vogue; her arms were bare nearly to the shoulder—and her hair, confined by a bandeau of pearls made to imitate a pointed coronet, was braided over her temples, and twisted up into a loose knot behind, as in times long ago, from which a few rich tresses escaping, fell over a neck possessing the contour and graceful set of an antique statue.

Fatigued and excited, she was glad to escape from the glare of the rooms into an adjoining balcony, to cool her eyes in the dim gleam of the stars—in all moments of excitement or passion, still the same bright, unchanging stars, ever ready to tranquilize us with thoughts of that world where passion and excitement cannot enter. A young man, who had watched her unceasingly all the evening with a deeper interest in his glance than mere curiosity, followed her hastily and in a moment was by her side. She did not attempt to conceal her pleasure at his appearance. “Where have you been, Alexander?” she said; “I often looked for you, but could not recognize yours among the bewildering crowd of faces that swarm in these busy halls.”

“And you thought of me, amid honors and applause, and the caresses of the enlightened, and the smiles of a king!—but oh! Angelica, they may give you praise, they may give you wealth; they may elevate you to a lofty place in the world’s view, where thy beauty and thy worth being recognized, may command the homage of the great and good; they may appoint you to a high rank among the hierarchy of genius that minister in the temple of fame—but I, only I, love thee! Poor in circumstances, poor in dignity, with no other advantage to offer you but a heart rich in affection, I have chosen this moment to lay it at your feet, in homage to a nobleness which, if my thought mistakes not, knows how to esteem such above all other gifts the world else can bestow.” And with many more impassioned words and adoring glances did he woo her, she responding in tones and looks as endearing as his own. Just then, in the midst of her triumphs of art, honors, and of love, she looked up toward the heavens, and saw shining above her that bright, still, solitary star—the same that had risen above the fantasies of her childhood, when she dreamed amid the sunny hills of Italy, far away! Many a strange experience, many a scene had passed before her since it first met her gaze; and now they all seemed to be crowded, as bestirred from her memory, into one moment of review. Her progress from the child to the woman—the strange intervening changes—the same, as she felt herself, yet not the same;—the vistas of fame opened to her with the first appearance of that star—her early struggles, and the space between, to the exulting consciousness of the pinnacle where she now stood, loftier than even her visions had conceived.

“The star triumphs!” thought she; “I am not superstitious,” she continued, aloud, “but, Alexander, I have seen that orboncebefore, and feel as if I should see it butonceagain. With every hour of joy does there not mingle a pang?—that telling of the dark reverse, which, in this unstable scene, must sooner or later await the most fortunate.”

“Hush! dear Angelica,” said her lover, laying his finger on her lips; “to-night let us only think of being happy.”

“You are right,” replied she, and, seizing his arm, they were soon mingling and jesting with the crowds of the saloon.

——

It had been a day of clouds and heavy rain, and now the night was closing over a dreary and scantily furnished apartment in one of those ruined palaces of Florence, which, like so many objects in Italy, are invested with the romantic prestige of grandeur passed away. A single rushlight threw into view the dilapidated marble walls, on which were the tattered remains of what might once have been gorgeous tapestry, and a large oriel window, in whose immediate vicinity stood a mean uncurtained bed, where lay a woman apparently dying. A single female, sitting near her to administer such assistance as she needed, and a cold, indifferent looking man, who had his chair drawn up in an opposite corner of the room, and evidently stationed there more from duty or necessity than any feeling of interest, were the sole occupants beside. Low murmuring sounds broke from the lips of the dying woman. She was talking incessantly, as in that thronging of indistinct, though perhaps not undelightful images that often flit across the brain of the departing, her thoughts seemed to be wandering over many varied scenes, and her consciousness of existence to be quickened as it was about to be closed forever. Her speech was of flowers and of sunshine, and of every thing fullest of life. Distant, happy years seemed to be restored to her, for her imagination transported her back to the era of her childhood, and she talked of wandering in old familiar places with her companions, many of them dead and gone—for by some subtle process of association, those of them mainly seemed present to her visions—and of “bounding,” as she said, “fast, fast” after something she could not detain. “Let me rest!” she would murmur, “Iam breathless with running—let me rest!” The passionless placidity of the countenance was in strange contrast with this—and the helplessness of the limbs, which, cold and nearly motionless, began to assume the semblance of that clay to which they were fast returning. Suddenly she opened her eyes, restored to the full consciousness of her situation. The eyes—those mirrors of the soul which neither time nor sorrow can rob of their magic, as long as they are the reflection of that which is immortal—were all that told of Angelica Kauffmann—and the long chestnut hair, which, though now hard and icy to the touch, still clung round her temples with some of the old luxuriance of those days when she dreamed inspired visions by the Alpine streams, or shone, the star of genius, in metropolitan saloons. For the rest, her features were faded and pale, their classic outline vanished in the hollows of time and the sharpness of death—haggard, too, but bearing that pathetic expression which told it might be the result more of suffering than years. And that cold, almost repulsive looking man!—can he be the same who knelt beside her beneath the stars and talked of unperishing love? Yes, such is life! In those worldly reverses which are too often the doom of the mentally gifted, poverty and neglect arrived—years of indifference followed, the character of the lover soon merging into that of the selfish and somewhat exacting husband—and now it had come to this. Calling him toward her, he took her proffered hand with a look of cold compassion. “I have been dreaming strangely to-night, Alexander,” said she, “and have the strangest sensations, as if all past life were passing in review before me, and its experiences crowded into a few fleeting hours—circumstances which I had believed long since forgotten, and feelings which I had thought to have outlived or crushed into oblivion. Yet there is none that return to me with a more vivid consciousness than my old feeling for you; and even now I seem to leap back over long, weary years of coldness, indifference, and estrangement, and the sad imprints with which they have dimmed your features, and to see you stand before me, ardent and beautiful as when I dreamed that Heaven had no brighter reflection than the fondness of your eyes. You will pardon this,” said she, on perceiving that such sympathies moved him not; “I have no wish to recall you to the past, nor too late to revive an extinguished affection, which can so seldom be brought into review without pain—far less with a thought of reproach for any, except for myself. It is but to testify to you in parting, that with the life I have led, happy as it was before I knew you—spent amid dreams of beauty, and the caresses of a family that sympathized with the delights of my calling, and were proud of my fame, honored as it afterward became when my achievements as an artist, extolled in every country in Europe, drew me forth from my retreat to receive that brief and brilliant homage, less intoxicating to me on the score of my individual self, than as a tribute to the success of that art to which I had consecrated the energies of my existence—yet there is no part of it I would willingly live over again but the early, too brief moments spent near you—no part of it than this I more fervently hold to my heart, as the true gold hoarded from what else appears, in this hour whose solemnity dispels all illusions, the dross and scum of existence. Does not this prove that love is immortal? And now a thought has struck me, that that sweet, bright blossoming which, alas! for us yielded so little fruit, may yet offer a harvest to be reaped in some other world. Will you think of this, Alexander?—let us part forgiving each other—our next meeting will be happier—and brighter!”

She turned her eyes toward the window, which had been thrown open to admit the cool air of the evening, for the wind had died away, and the heavens were clear—and there, conspicuous amongst its fiery brethren, shone that bright, still, solitary star—still fair and tranquil, when life with all its excitements and hopes was passing away, as when shining above the passion of her young life. It spoke to her of the glory of other worlds contrasted with the vapidity of this, which she had weighed in the balance and found wanting—a high and unchangeable emblem of thatwhich is above usamid all the storms, treacherous calms, and exulting yet bewildering spring-tides of life—the star of her destiny, indeed, if it pointed to Heaven as the haven where her hopes should at last find rest! Her soul passed away in that gaze; they could not tell the exact moment when, but by the dull fixture of the eye, and the dead weight of the hand which lay in his, Alexander knew that he gazed upon the dead.

That oracle spoke truth, which told there is nothing stable in the universe but Heaven and Love!

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