DIRGE,

The beautiful is vanished, and returns not.—Coleridge’s Wallenstein.

Thou art gone!We shall miss thee when the flowersCome again with vernal hours,Brightly though thy roses bloom,They will whisper of the tomb!And thy voice will linger stillIn the gurgle of the rill,In the murmurs, low and sweet,Where the silver waters meet,In the summer even’s gale,Sporting with the violets pale.Meekly will their blue eyes weepO’er thy still and solemn sleep;And the wild-bird’s gentle moanMurmur o’er thy slumbers lone,Like a viewless spirit’s lay,Asking of thee Far Away!Fare thee well!Thou art gone!On thy brow, so pale and fair,On thy dark and glossy hair,Wreathed in many a shining braid,Sad, autumnal flowers were laid.Slowly to thy tomb they bore thee,Tender farewells murmured o’er thee,Veiled thee in its silence deep,In thy last and dreamless sleep.Where thou liest, soft and low,Winter spreads his sheet of snow,Pure and spotless as thy form.Thou hearest not the surly stormSweeping o’er the dazzling wold;Stars are gleaming, pale and cold,On thee from the vault above,Like the watchful eyes of Love.Fare thee well!

Thou art gone!

We shall miss thee when the flowers

Come again with vernal hours,

Brightly though thy roses bloom,

They will whisper of the tomb!

And thy voice will linger still

In the gurgle of the rill,

In the murmurs, low and sweet,

Where the silver waters meet,

In the summer even’s gale,

Sporting with the violets pale.

Meekly will their blue eyes weep

O’er thy still and solemn sleep;

And the wild-bird’s gentle moan

Murmur o’er thy slumbers lone,

Like a viewless spirit’s lay,

Asking of thee Far Away!

Fare thee well!

Thou art gone!

On thy brow, so pale and fair,

On thy dark and glossy hair,

Wreathed in many a shining braid,

Sad, autumnal flowers were laid.

Slowly to thy tomb they bore thee,

Tender farewells murmured o’er thee,

Veiled thee in its silence deep,

In thy last and dreamless sleep.

Where thou liest, soft and low,

Winter spreads his sheet of snow,

Pure and spotless as thy form.

Thou hearest not the surly storm

Sweeping o’er the dazzling wold;

Stars are gleaming, pale and cold,

On thee from the vault above,

Like the watchful eyes of Love.

Fare thee well!

THE FUGITIVE.

———

BY THE VISCOUNTESS D’AULNAY.

———

[Most of our readers are familiar with “Claire d’Albe,” the work spoken of in the following pages, either in the original or as translated, and will recollect the pleasure its perusal gave them. Its author is better known in America, however, by one of her subsequent works, which has been translated into almost every written language, admired wherever it has been read, and which has been justly ranked among the first productions in that department of French literature to which it belongs. We refer to that affecting story, over which so many tears have been shed, “Elizabeth, Or The Exiles of Siberia.” In translating the following account we have been obliged, from its great length, to condense from the original—leaving out nothing, however, which was essential to the interest of the story. It will be recollected that the incidents of our tale took place in 1793, when France was convulsed by political revolutions.]

“Madam, this is beautifully written,” said an old nurse, looking up with the familiarity of an ancient and privileged servant.

The person thus addressed was a young woman, clothed in black, so small and so frail, that at first sight, without doubt, one would have taken her for a child. She was seated before a table of dark wood, drawn up in front of a good fire, upon which burned two wax candles, shining upon a heap of loose leaves, one of which she had just finished writing, and was then reading. Laughing at the admiration of her nurse, she asked,

“And do you, then, find it so beautiful?”

“Do I find it beautiful?” replied Marianne; “never since the world began have I read any thing so affecting. What an interesting creature that Claire was! and what a pity that she died! Ah, her death grieved me much; one might say that it frightened me; but that would not be astonishing in such a great lonely room as this. I hate these great rooms, I do;” added the nurse, looking cautiously around her, and gazing with a look of affright at the window the most distant from where she and her mistress were sitting.

“Oh how the curtain moves! did you not leave the shutters badly closed, madam?”

“It was not I who shut them,” tranquilly replied Madam Cottin, for it was of her old Marianne asked the question.

“Not you?” cried Marianne, in a frightened voice. “Who then could have shut them?”

“You, most probably, Marianne.”

“Me! I tell you, madam, I swear to you, as true as I am a good and sincere Christian, I swear to you, upon my soul—”

“Do not swear at all, Marianne; there is no one here but we two; if it were not me, it could have been no one else but you, and it was not me—”

“I am not a fool, out of my senses!” replied the Bordelaise. “I believe, rather,” she added in a solemn tone, “that there is some mystery behind the curtain—”

“We will admit that it was I who closed the shutters,” interrupted Madam Cottin, impatiently again taking up the papers, and reading them.

“But was itreallyyou?” importuned the nurse.

“Why do you wish me to tell a lie? Shall I read you another page of my romance?”

“Oh yes, I love to hear you read,” replied the old woman. “But what are you going to do with that romance, as you call it?”

“Ah, Marianne, if I dared, if I did not fear the ridicule attached to the name of a female author, I would have it published, and the money that it would bring would ameliorate our condition. I would buy some articles of furniture—a piano, for instance—lonely and sad as I now am, music would charm my retreat.”

“Ah yes, Sophie, buy a piano; that will enliven you a little—may I call you Sophie?—for what else should I call you? It always seems as if I saw you as you looked when you were a child. I see now the house at Tonniens—the two steps you had to ascend on entering, then the little green gate, opening upon a lawn; then the garden to the right; upon the ground-floor was the kitchen, the dining-room and the parlor; on the first floor, the chamber of your mother, Madame Ristaud, that of your father, and yours, which was also mine. O, yes, I see it all! and your little bed with the figured coverlet! And the day you were born, it seems to me as yesterday! It was the fifteenth of August, 1773—that was twenty years ago. And then the day of your wedding at Bordeaux, (we lived then at Bordeaux;) didn’t your marriage make a noise?—you recollect it?—the little Ristaud, who married a rich banker of the capital, Monsieur Cottin. ‘Well, what is there astonishing about that?’ said I, ‘the little Ristaud is worth a banker of the capital two or three times over!’ I had only one fear, which I kept to myself, and that was, that when you should once be married and in Paris, you would not want your old nurse any longer. ‘Leave my nurse!’ you said, when you saw me weeping, and found why, ‘leave my nurse! no, no, I couldn’t do without her; I should feel lost if I should lose her.’ And you were right, my dear little one; your mother died, and your father, and then, in three years and six months after your wedding, your husband died; and now your fortune is gone, no one knows where, and not one is left but your nurse, your old nurse, who would give her blood, her life, every thing, that she might see you more happy. Yes, if you had a piano here, you could sing; you have such a sweet voice, and that would do well for us both. If by selling my cross of gold we might have one—what do you say?”

“It would need twelve hundred francs to purchase a piano, and the cross would not procure them;these” she added, striking her hand upon the papers scattered upon the table, “these would give them to me if I had the courage to go and sell them; but I dare not, I would only get a refusal.”

“Do you wish me to go, Sophie?” replied the nurse, “only tell me where, and it shall be done quickly—there!—what was that? This chamber is very gloomy, and that curtain is always moving!”

“I will go myself to-morrow,” said Madam Cottin, looking at her watch. “It is eleven o’clock—I must work a little longer; leave me, Marianne, and go to your rest.”

“Ah! now you are quite sure it was you who closed the shutters and drew down the curtains?” asked Marianne, reluctantly complying with her mistress’s command—“you are not afraid?”

“No!” answered Madam Cottin, who, as soon as she found herself alone, resumed her labor; but, whether it was the solitude and silence of the place, or because Marianne had really frightened her, she paused from her writing every few moments to look around her. By chance her eyes rested on the window-curtain, which, by the position of the lights, was thrown into the shade, and the words of Marianne recurred to her mind, “that, if she had left the window open on going out to walk, who could have shut it?” She thought, all at once, that she saw the cloth falling in numberless folds upon the floor, and moving in a most mysterious way. Fear bound her to the spot where she was standing, and for some moments she was unable to move; but at length, with a desperate effort, she advanced toward the curtain, and raised it up with a stifled cry.A man was standing behindwith his back placed against the window-panes.

“Do not cry out, madam,” he said, “or I am a dead man.”

“What would you have me do?” said Madam Cottin, pale, but determined. “I am poor, and have nothing to tempt the cupidity of any one, nevertheless, if you are in want, here is a little money. But depart instantly, without approaching me; in Heaven’s name, go—go instantly!”

To the great astonishment of Madam Cottin, in place of taking the silver which she had offered him, the man threw back his cloak, and in a trembling, broken voice, said to her,

“Pardon me, madam, for having frightened you; can it be that you have forgotten me?”

“I do not know you,” replied Madam Cottin, scrutinizing the intruder, an old man, and whose disordered clothes, long, ragged beard, disheveled, gray hair, and the livid palor which overspread his features, prevented her from recognizing him.

“I am Monsieur de Fombelle,” said he, “proscribed and pursued—”

“Ah, good heaven!” interrupted Madam Cottin, running to bolt the door, “ah, sir, what can I do to assist you?”

“Alas! nothing, madam,” replied Monsieur de Fombelle, “for I have heard your conversation with your nurse, and can ask nothing of you.”

“If it is money you want, alas! I have none, sir! but approach the fire, and pardon me for not having recognized you sooner.”

Her visiter mechanically complied, while he abruptly addressed her.—

“Denounced by the law—pursued, tracked as a wild beast—finding no where an asylum, not even daring to seek one amongst my best friends, I wander in the streets of Paris—and—and—since yesterday I have not tasted food,” speaking with the air of a man with whom hunger stifled the shame of avowing it.

Madam Cottin immediately brought from a cupboard some bread, a pot of preserves, and a bottle of wine, saying as she did so,

“Believe me, this is the best I have.”

And she looked, with tears in her eyes, and a sad heart, upon that old man, whom she had known in better times, so polished, so dignified, so amiable, and so well beloved. He spoke not a word while eating, and when he looked up, at the end of his meal, he saw that she wept.

“Is it for me, or for yourself that you weep?” said he.

“For both of us,” replied Madam Cottin; “for you, that you suffer so much in your old age, and for me, that I am unable to assist a sincere friend of my husband.”

“Do you know no one?” he demanded.

“No one, sir; since my widowhood, I have seen no one.”

“Alas!” said Monsieur de Fombelle, lifting his eyes despondingly toward the ceiling, “and when I saw into what company I was cast, I believed I had found some assistance.”

“Was it not of your own accord that you came to me?”

“No, madam. A friend, who is actively endeavoring to assist me, but who scarcely has the means, for, like me, he is without money, appointed a place of rendezvous, after night-fall, in the open fields behindla rue Ceruti. I was returning from this rendezvous, when suddenly I found myself confronted face to face with my most mortal enemy—the same who had denounced me, and caused the decree against me. I endeavored to elude him, and had been running until almost exhausted, when a window, low and opened, attracted my attention. I obeyed my first impulse, made a spring, and found myself here. There was no one in the room, and, to guard against discovery, I closed the casement and the outer shutters; I lowered the curtains and concealed myself behind them. Scarcely had I done this, when you entered. As soon as you spoke, I recognized you, the wife of my best friend; I should certainly not have hesitated to have presented myself before you, but your good nurse was with you, and I believed it prudent to await her departure. In overhearing your conversation, I learned how your condition, once so happy, had changed since the sad events which have desolated our dear country, and I resolved to escape, if possible, without causing you fear or danger. Hence my immovability while you lifted the curtain; for I supposed that in the obscurity of the place you would not perceive me. But I ought not, madam, longer to interrupt your repose.”

“No, do not go,” replied Madam Cottin, “until you tell me if I can in any way assist you.”

“In three days I am to quit France; all is arranged, and my flight is certain, if I can accomplish what seems to be an impossibility—I must raise twelve hundred francs.”

“Twelve hundred francs,” said Madam Cottin, thoughtfully.

“Otherwise, since I cannot hope always to elude my enemies, I shall be lost.”

“Monsieur de Fombelle,” said Madam Cottin, after a moment of silence, “I have but few means, yet I have such a desire to assist you, that perhaps God will aid me. Day after to-morrow, at this same hour, you will find my window open; enter, and perhaps I will then have some good news for you. And now, adieu, sir! be of good cheer;—stop, take under your cloak this bread, and this bottle of wine. Leave me to close the window—the street is deserted, and not a soul is passing. Remember, on the night of day after to-morrow, at eight o’clock, be under my window; strike three times on the glass. If I have succeeded, I will reply to you; if not, I will not have the courage to answer. Go, now, and be assured that I will do all in my power to assist you.”

Too much moved to venture a single word in reply, M. de Fombelle pressed her hand, leaped out of the window, and disappeared at the corner of a street yet inhabited by theChaussée d’Antin.

The next morning had scarcely dawned, when Madam Cottin importuned her nurse to get breakfast; as soon as it was over, she gave her no time to arrange the furniture of the room.

“Come with me,” she said; “come with me, it is absolutely necessary that I sellClaire d’Albethis morning.”

“Ah, these young women!” exclaimed the nurse, as she complied; “these young women! when they once take a fancy, they have neither quiet nor reason. If the bookseller is as impatient to buy, as you are to sell, we shall soon have a piano, I see.”

Fromla rue Chanterieneto the quay, where, from time immemorial, the booksellers have had their shops, the walk was long, and Marianne harped upon the one idea of getting a piano, until they arrived at the place of their destination. After scrutinizing the long row of shops for a few moments, Madam Cottin selected one which had the most promising exterior.

“I can but fail,” said she, as she crossed the threshold. But as soon as she entered, she stopped, and remained, blushing, and with downcast eyes, before the bookseller, who advanced toward her, asking her what work she wished to purchase.

“It is not to purchase, but to sell, sir,” said Marianne, replying for her mistress, who could not overcome her embarrassment. “We have written a romance, and we have come to see if you wish to buy it. It is superb! I assure you, you have nothing in your shop which can compare with it.”

“Tut, tut, Marianne!” interrupted Madam Cottin, now sufficiently reassured to continue the negotiation. “Do you never buy manuscripts, sir?”

“Yes—no—that is—what is the name of the author?”

“The name of the book, sir, you mean to say?” timidly observed the young woman.

“No, of the author, not having time to read our books ourselves, you understand, it is almost always the name of the author that we buy.”

“But, sir, the work is written by me, and my name is not known,” said Madam Cottin, almost discouraged;“if you would take the trouble to read it,” and she presented, hesitatingly, a little roll of papers.

“I have no doubt,” replied the bookseller, blandly, “it is a master-piece; it would be useless for me to read it—I would find it perfect. But business is not profitable just at this time. Some other time, when you shall have become known—”

“If all booksellers were like you, we would never be known,” impatiently interrupted Marianne. “Let us go, we have not got the piano yet.”

“No,” replied Madam Cottin, “but God always places good and bad fortune side by side; we will go in here,” and she boldly crossed the threshold of a second shop.

The appearance of this bookseller was more engaging than that of his neighbor. On seeing a lady enter, he advanced courteously toward her.

“What can I do to serve you?” he asked; then offering a seat to Marianne, and one to Sophie, he remained standing before the latter, who said to him,

“I am afraid of a disappointment, sir, after one failure to-day. I have written a little story—”

“Which you wish to have printed?” asked the bookseller.

“If you think it worthy of it, sir.”

“It will be necessary to see it, madam—have you the manuscript?”

Sophie’s hand trembled as she presented it to him.

“It is very small,” said the bookseller, glancing at it; “it will make a very small volume. It is a romance, in letters. Will you allow me to look at it?”

“Certainly. I am ignorant of the value of the work; having written it within the last five days, I have not bestowed upon it either the time or labor of retouching it; but I am in need of twelve hundred francs. I need it by to-morrow evening; see, sir, if you can give them to me.”

“Since you request so early a decision, I will ask only time to read three letters—one at the commencement, one in the middle, and one at the end of the book; and I will then be able to give you my opinion of the rest.”

With these words the bookseller retired behind a railing, hung with green curtains, and applied himself to reading the manuscript. Meanwhile Madam Cottin remained seated with her old nurse, unable to conceal the anxiety which devoured her.

“You are afraid that you will not get your piano, are you not, madam?”

“Yes, yes,” she replied, without knowing what she was saying.

“But why is it necessary for you to have the money to-morrow evening? Is it because the poor countess, who offers to sell you one, demands it immediately? Jean Paul, her porter, told me that she would give long time. You have spoken of it, then, to the countess?”

“Yes, yes, he seems satisfied!” exclaimed Sophie, anxiously scrutinizing the countenance of the bookseller.

At this moment the bookseller rose from his seat. Sophie’s heart beat as he approached.

“It is good, madam, very good! the conception is perfect; only one can see that you are not in the habit of writing, and it seems to me impossible to print it without corrections. As to the price, it is rather dear; but as you are in need of money, I will not deny it you. You will repay the difference in some other book which you will write for me, will you not?”

“Oh, yes, sir, yes!” eagerly replied Madam Cottin. “Give me the manuscript, sir; to-morrow, at six o’clock, you shall have it corrected.”

“And to-morrow, at six o’clock, your money shall be ready. Shall I bring it to you, that you may avoid going out at that hour? Do you wish this little sum in paper, in gold, or in silver?”

“In gold, sir. Oh! you have saved more than my life!” said Madam Cottin, departing.

“At last we shall have the piano!” said Marianne, running by the side of her mistress, scarcely able to keep even with her rapid pace.

“Jean Paul,” said she, when they had arrived opposite to the countess’s residence, stopping a moment behind her mistress, “Jean Paul, you may tell the countess we will purchase the piano, and that we will pay her to-morrow evening—do you hear, Jean Paul?”

“What have you been doing this morning, that you have found so much money to-day?” replied the porter, with a sneer; “has your mistress found a treasure?”

“No, sir,” replied Marianne, angrily, “it is in her mind that she has a treasure—it is in her head.”

“A trifle, citizen Marianne—a trifle! You told me she wrote, did you not? Now look you, I’ll put both of my hands into the fire, if your mistress is not a conspirator!”

“What!—a conspirator! Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Jean Paul?”

“Perfectly, citizen Marianne; and since your mistress loves ink, they are going to give her and her nurse some. Listen; I do not meddle—I say nothing, but I see all. This morning I had a little talk with the officer who lives near, and he is of my opinion concerning your mistress. She holds correspondence with the enemy—the English! Otherwise, why should she be writing all day? It is not natural for a woman to write so much. My wife never writes; it is true, she does not know how to write—but that makes no difference. Now I have an idea—I may have an idea, may I not?—well, I have an idea that she wishes to sell France; who knows but that she has already sold it, and that it is with some of the money she is going to buy the piano! O, my country—my poor country! into what hands have you fallen!”

“You are either a fool, or you don’t love music, which is the same thing; for if I understand a word you say, I hope my head may be cut off!” With this retort, Marianne turned toward Madam Cottin’s apartments.

Madam Cottin did not go to bed that night, but labored without relaxation to have her book ready by the appointed hour, and to receive the twelve hundred francs, by which she was to aid the escape of her husband’s friend. Morning and noon passed, the sun began to decline, and as the clock sounded five, she finished the last letter. The same moment the door of her chamber was opened with violence, and Marianne, weeping, rushed in, followed by a motley crowd of soldiers and “citizens,” the porter at their head.

“In the name of the law, search every where,” said a municipal officer; and in an instant they were ransacking every corner of the apartment. As soon as Madam Cottin could recover her self-possession, which had deserted her at first sight of these intruders, she demanded,

“What do you here—and what do you wish of me, sirs?”

Carrying his hand to his cap with a military air, the officer replied,

“Citizen, you are accused of holding correspondence with the enemies of France, and we are ordered to seize your papers.”

“Me, sir, holding correspondence with the enemy!” cried Madam Cottin, in a tone of surprise; “me, a poor widow, without friends and without experience! Who has been so base as to invent this falsehood?”

“If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,” replied the officer, “and the examination of your papers will clear you without doubt.”

“Take them, then,” said Madam Cottin, assisting them in the search. The officer examined packages of letters from her husband, her mother, her schoolmates, some large writing books in which were registered the fruits of her studies, and some loose papers in her port-folio, without finding any thing which could excite suspicion.

At length the manuscript ofClaire d’Albe, lying on the table, attracted his eye, and approaching it, he laid his hand upon it. Madam Cottin could not refrain from a cry of affright.

“Oh, for pity! pity! do not touch that!”

“Ah! we have reached the hiding-place at last!” said the officer, beginning to collect the scattered leaves.

“Sir,” said the lady, anxiously, “those papers do not endanger in any way the security of the state, I assure you; nay, I will most solemnly swear it!”

“Why then this fear?” said the officer, still gathering up the leaves.

“Because—because—they are invaluable to me, though they can be of little use to you. Oh! I am telling you the truth! Give them back, I beseech you!”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Officer!” interposed Marianne, “that is nothing but a romance, which my mistress sold yesterday for twelve hundred francs, to buy a piano. This is all the mystery, and if I were to dieto-day, I have told you the exact truth. But if you do not believe what I have said, here comes the bookseller, and you can ask him yourselves.”

As she spoke, this personage entered the apartment.

“Speak, sir,” cried Marianne, rushing toward the bookseller, “make clear the innocence of my mistress. Say to these gentlemen what these papers are.”

The bookseller looking at the packet which the officer held in his hand, replied, “That is a romance which I bought yesterday of madam.”

Madam Cottin, seemingly insensible to what was passing around her, followed with her eyes the minute-hand of the clock, which was approaching nearer and nearer to the eighth hour. There was a short interval of silence, when the officer replied,

“I am inclined to believe, sir, that this is, as you say, a romance; but what difference can it make to you or madam, if I carry it to theSection? I will return it in the morning.”

Madam Cottin grew desperate. The hands on the dial-plate marked seven o’clock and five minutes.

“Let me read you one of the letters, sirs, and if you find in it a line to suspect, I will give the book into your hands.”

“I see no objection,” repliedthe officer, and accordingly, Madam Cottin, taking up the first letter, commenced reading. As she proceeded, the attention of her audience became more and more profound; their countenances betrayed emotion; soon tears started from their eyes, and at length one of the auditors, interrupting the fair reader, threw himself upon his knees before her.

“I am a miserable wretch, madam, do what you please with me! It was I who denounced you—I who first suspected your daily habit of writing; no, there is no torture that I do not deserve! Oh! what you have written is beautiful! it is beautiful! I will buy the book when it is printed; I will learn to read—I, and my wife, and my children. Sir,” he added, turning toward the bookseller, “I wish the first copy you send out of your shop, and I will pay you any price you ask. I am Jean Paul, porter of house number forty-six, inla rue Chanteriene. And now, madam, pardon me—will you say that you pardon me?”

Madam Cottin cast a look at the dial—it wanted but five minutes of eight!She rose hastily.

“Yes, yes, I pardon you. Sir Officer, you leave me my manuscript, do you not?” added she, turning to the officer, who wiped his eyes, while the porter remained sobbing in his place.

“Certainly, madam,” replied he; “I leave you all your papers. I see that the republic of France has nothing to fear from you; and in taking my leave; I beg you to excuse our seeming rudeness.”

At this moment three blows were struck upon the window. Madam Cottin turned pale as death—

“Not yet—not yet!” said she, recovering herself instantly, and intending the words to have a meaning which should apply to the person without, as well as to those within. As she turned toward her secretary, the bookseller, unobserved by the rest, slipped a small roleau of gold into her hand—the price of the romance.

“We fear we are abusing your politeness,” said the officer, rising to leave. A second blow, strongerthan the first, rattled upon the glass. Sophie turned paler than before.

“I pray you remain,” she replied, in a loud voice, adding, in a lower tone, “and you also, Jean Paul. Marianne, bring some of the wine of our country—Bordeaux. Gentlemen, you can not refuse to drink the prosperity of France? And now,” added she, “the excitement I have undergone—this fire, which is so warm—you will excuse me, if I step to the window a moment for fresh air.”

So saying, she went to the window, and opened the shutters, letting the curtains fall before her.

“Stop!” she said to M. de Fombelle, restraining him from entering the chamber, which he attempted, and handing him the rouleau oflouis-d’ors—the price of her first book—“take this, and begone quickly; you are in danger if you remain. Adieu!”

Closing the shutters and the sash, she again appeared, smiling in the midst of the soldiers. Marianne returned the same moment with a salver covered with glasses, and bottles of wine.

“At last we shall have a piano, Sophie,” said she, turning toward her mistress to drink.

“Not yet, my good Marianne,” replied Sophie, with a joyful tone, which contradicted her reply.

Such was thedébutof the gifted woman who has written so many charming romances. Late in life she commenced a work on Education; but a cruel malady surprised her in the midst of her labor, and after three months of suffering, which were, however, alleviated by the tenderness of friends, and the consolations of religion, she died on the 25th of August, 1807, aged thirty-four years.

THE GENTLE STEP.

———

BY HARRIET J. MEEK.

———

Hearts somewhere beat, from which it cannot pass;Earth has no sunshine left, nor time nor place,But a new scene slides o’er the magic glass,Andweforget the space.Light, and still lighter seemed that step to fall;I scarce could tell you when it ceased, or how;A breathing spirit walked the earth—’tis all—That does not walk it now.I think sometimes upon the sunny floorI see the shadow of her golden hair;And turn half-dreaming to the open door,To look if she is there.And then I mind. Life’s rough and thorny roundWould long ere this have torn the folded wingWhose downy waving glided over sound,And left it slumbering.Death came, when flowers were passing from the earth;We thought to hear the clanking of his chain,But the light step one evening left the hearth,And came not back again.

Hearts somewhere beat, from which it cannot pass;

Earth has no sunshine left, nor time nor place,

But a new scene slides o’er the magic glass,

Andweforget the space.

Light, and still lighter seemed that step to fall;

I scarce could tell you when it ceased, or how;

A breathing spirit walked the earth—’tis all—

That does not walk it now.

I think sometimes upon the sunny floor

I see the shadow of her golden hair;

And turn half-dreaming to the open door,

To look if she is there.

And then I mind. Life’s rough and thorny round

Would long ere this have torn the folded wing

Whose downy waving glided over sound,

And left it slumbering.

Death came, when flowers were passing from the earth;

We thought to hear the clanking of his chain,

But the light step one evening left the hearth,

And came not back again.

BARBARA UTTMAN’S DREAM.

———

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

———

In the little hamlet of Anneberg, far up among the Erzberges or Copper Mountains of Saxony, there dwelt, once upon a time, a gentle child named Barbara. She was so fair, with such soft blue eyes, such long golden curls, and withal wearing a look of such exceeding sweetness, that the people of the hamlet, who were all miners, or workers in metal, called her by a name that signified the “Lily of the Mines.” Barbara was an orphan, a little lone creature, whom no one claimed, but whom every body loved. Her father had been a delver into the depths of the earth, and when she was only a tiny little baby, he had kissed her round cheek, and gone to his daily labor at early dawn; but ere the shadows of the dark trees fell toward the eastern slope of the hills, he was brought home mangled and lifeless. The “fire-damp” had seized him and his companions; or, as the simple peasants believed, the demon of the mine had arisen in his might, and torn to pieces the daring spoilers of his treasure-house. Barbara’s mother did not long outlive the dreadful sight. She pined away, with a dull aching at her heart, and one morning a kind neighbor found the child sleeping calmly on the cold bosom of her dead mother.

From that moment the little Barbara became the nursling of the whole hamlet. The good women of the village remembered that she had been born on a Sunday morning, and according to their tender and beautiful faith, the “Sabbath-child” had received a peculiar blessing, which was shared, in some degree, by all who ministered to her wants. So Barbara was the foster-child of many mothers, and found heart-kindred in every cottage. But chiefly did she dwell, after she had grown beyond the swaddling-bands of infancy, in the house of the good Gottlieb, the pastor of this little mountain flock of Christians. Barbara grew up a gentle quiet child, rarely mingling in the noisy sports of the villagers, and loving nothing so well as to steal away to some forest nook, where she would sit for hours looking out upon the rugged face of nature, and weaving dreams, whose web, like that of the wood-spider, was broken by a breath.

Some said—“little Barbara is moping for the lack of kindred.” Others said more truly—“Nay, is she not a blessed Sabbath-child? It may be that the spirit of her dead mother is with her in the lonely places where she loves to abide; hinder her not, therefore, lest ye break the unseen bond between the living and the dead.” So Barbara was left to the guidance of her own sweet will, and long ere she had grown beyond childhood she was familiar with all the varied aspects of nature in the wild and beautiful country of her birth. It seemed as if some holy charm had indeed been bestowed on the little orphaned Sabbath-child, for every living thing seemed to recognize in her a gentle and loving companion. All the children of the hamlet loved her, and it was wonderful to see the little shy birds hopping about her feet to pick the crumbs which she always scattered for them in her wanderings.

But Barbara was not a merry, light-hearted maiden. Cheerful she was and gentle, but not gay, for a cloud had fallen upon her earliest years, and a shadow from Death’s wing had thrown a gloom over her infant life, darkening those days which should have been all sunshine. True, she had found friends to shield her from want, but never did she see a child nestling upon its mother’s bosom, without feeling a mournful loneliness of heart. Therefore it was that she loved to steal away to the green foldings of the hills, and hold companionship with the pleasant things of earth, where, in the quietude of her own pure nature, she could commune with herself. She had early learned to think of her mother as an angel in heaven, and, when she looked up to the blue sky, gorgeous in its drapery of gold and purple clouds, or shining with its uncounted multitude of stars, she never forgot that she was gazing upon the outer gates of that glorious home, where dwelt her long lost parents. Yet she was not an idle or listless dreamer in a world where all have their mission to fulfill, and where none are so desolate as to have no duties to perform. She learned all the book-lore that the good pastor chose to impart to the little maidens of the hamlet, and no hand was more skillful than hers with the knitting-needle and distaff. Thus she grew up, delicate and fair, with eyes as blue as summer skies, and long golden locks, hanging almost to her feet, for she was as tiny as a fairy in stature.

There came sometimes to the cottage of Father Gottlieb, a dark-browed man, whose towering form and heavily-built limbs gave him the semblance of some giant of the hills. His voice was loud and as clear as a trumpet-call, and his step was bold and firm, like that of a true-born mountaineer. He was the owner of vast tracts in the mine districts, and stores of untold wealth lay hidden for him in earth’s deep caverns. Herr Uttman was stern of visage, and bold—it may be rough—in his bearing, but his heart was as gentle as a woman’s. He loved to sit at Gottleib’s board, and, while partaking of his simple fare, to drink in the wisdom which the good pastor had learned in far-off lands. The wonders of Nature—the mystic combinations that are ever going on in her subterranean laboratory—the secret virtues, or the equally secret venom, which is found in her humblest plants—the slow but unfailing process of her developments, by which the small and worthless acorn grows into the towering oak, and the winged seed lifts its broad pinions in the new form of leafybranches toward the skies—all these things Herr Uttman loved to learn from the lips of the wise old man. Therefore did he seek the pastor’s cottage whenever he had leisure to listen to his teachings.

Uttman’s kindly heart had early warmed toward the orphan child of Gottlieb’s adoption. He won her infantine love by telling her wild tales of the dark mines, and the fantastic spirits of the nether world. He had tales of the Fire-Demon, and the Water-Dragon, of the Mocking-Imp, who led poor miners to their destruction, by mimicking the voice of a companion, and of the dazzling Cavern-Queen, the flash of whose diamond crown, and the gleam of whose brighter eyes, lured the poor workman to a frightful death. To sit on his knee, twining her small fingers in the black curls which fell unshorn upon his shoulders—to look in his great dark eyes as they gleamed with the enthusiasm of that half-poetic nature which is the inheritance of a high-hearted mountaineer—to feel herself nestling like a dove on his broad breast, and clinging to him half in terror, half in delight, as his strong words brought all those fearful shapes vividly before her eyes—these had been Barbara’s pleasures when a little child.

But Barbara could not always remain the petted child, and the time came when the budding maiden sat on a stool at Uttman’s feet, and no longer leaned her head upon his bosom while she listened to his wild legends. At first Herr Uttman was troubled at the change in Barbara’s manner, then he pondered over its meaning, and at last he seemed to awaken to a new perception of happiness. So he asked Barbara to be his wife, and though his years doubly numbered hers, she knew that she loved no one half so well, and, with the affection which a child might feel for a tender parent, she gave him the troth-pledge of her maiden faith. Nor was Barbara mistaken in her recognition of his real nature. A rough and stern man did he seem to many, but his heart was full of kindness, and his affections, though repressed and silent, yet, like a mountain stream, made for themselves only a deeper channel. He had an abiding love for Nature. He defaced not her fair bosom with the scars of the plough or the pick-axe, but following the course of the dark ravine, and entering into the yawning chasm, he opened his way into earth’s treasure-house, leaving the trees to tower from the mountain’s brow, the streams to leap down their rocky beds, and the green sward to stretch down the sunny slopes. Barbara was as a dove nestling in the branches of a stately tree. No wonder her husband worshiped her, for his affections were like a full, deep stream rushing through a mine, and she was like the star, which, even at noonday, may be seen reflected in its depths. She was the angel of his life, the bright and beautiful spirit of truth and love within his household.

Years passed on and Barbara had but one ungratified hope within her heart. God had given her no children, and the tenderness of her nature found no vent save in her kindly charities. To the poor, and needy, and sorrowful, she was the friend and benefactress, but her heart sometimes thrilled with a vain repining, and she felt a thirst for those pure waters which spring up only in a mother’s pathway. One night she was oppressed with sadness, and ere she yielded herself up to sleep, she prayed that this vain longing within her heart might be quenched for ever, or find some solace in the duties which lay around her.

Scarcely had she closed her eyes in slumber, when her couch was visited by a wild and wonderful dream. She dreamed she was standing within the porch, when a lady clad in shining raiment, emerged from the foldings of the hills and slowly approached her. The lady’s face was hidden beneath a snow-white veil of some transparent fabric, which though it seemed as translucent as water, yet, like water, gave an indistinctness to the object seen through it. But when the strange visitant spoke, her voice thrilled through Barbara’s inmost heart, for it was the spirit-voice which she had so often heard in her childhood—the voice of her dead mother. It seemed to Barbara that the lady stood close beside her, and then, without fear Barbara laid her head on the stranger’s bosom and clasped her arms around her tall form, while she ratherfeltthan heard these words:

“Daughter lift up thine eyes, and behold the children which the Lord hath given unto thee.”

Barbara raised her head and beheld a train of young maidens clad in the simple costume of the Saxon peasant, and linked together as it seemed by webs of the same transparent texture as that which veiled the lady’s face. Slowly they passed before her wondering eyes, fading into thin air as they became lost in the distance, but still succeeded by others, similarly clad and holding webs of the same delicate fabric, until Barbara’s brain grew giddy as the troop swept on and on unceasingly. Weary with gazing she closed her eyes, and when she re-opened them the maidens had vanished; only the strange lady in her shining garments was beside her, and she heard a low, silvery voice saying:

“They who are called to fulfill a mission among nations must find their sons and their daughters beneath the roof-tree of the poor and the oppressed. Childless art thou, Barbara, yet the maidens of Saxony through yet uncounted ages shall call thee mother.”

Barbara awoke from her dream, but so strongly was it impressed upon her memory, that she could not banish it from her thoughts for many days. But it had done its work upon her gentle spirit, for from that hour she felt that Heaven had some recompense in store for her, and though utterly unable to interpret her vision, she endeavored by redoubling her charities to find for herself children among the needy and sorrowful.

But year after year fleeted on, and the Herr Uttman’s coal-black locks had become almost silver-white, while Barbara’s cheek had lost nothing of its smoothness, and her golden locks, though gathered beneath a matron’s coif, were still as glossy and sunny as in her girlhood. (For time seemed to have spared her gentle beauty, as if in reverence for the gentle spirit which it had so long clothed in a fittinggarb.) She had long since forgotten her youthful repinings, for from every cottage in the hamlet had blessings gone up to heaven upon her who was the friend of the friendless, and, though her dream was still vivid in her remembrance, she fancied that she had already attained its fulfillment in the gratitude of the poor.

“Come with me, sweet wife, and I will show thee a new wonder in the mines,” said the good Herr Uttman, one summer’s morning.

Barbara looked up with a pleasant smile:

“Have I not threaded with thee all the mazes of the dark mountains, and gathered the glittering spar, the many-tinted stone, and the rough gem? Are there yet more marvels in thy dark domain?”

“Nay, don thy wimple and hood, and thou shalt see.”

So Barbara went forth with her husband, and he led her to the yawning mouth of a dark cavern in the mountains. Carefully enfolding her in a thick cloak, to protect her from the jagged points of the rocks, he took her in his arms, (for he had lost none of his gigantic strength,) and bore her like a child, into the cavern. For a time they wended their way in what seemed to her total darkness, and she was only conscious of being carried along winding passages, where she felt the spray of a subterranean torrent, and heard the dash of its waters in some unfathomed chasm. At length her husband, setting her feet upon a broad ledge of rock, lifted the cloak from her face and bade her look upon the scene before her.

Barbara found herself at the entrance of a long gallery in the mine, in the roof of which an aperture had been made up to the outer surface of the mountain, and through which a flood of sunshine was pouring down into what seemed a glittering corridor, hung with festoons of the most exquisitely wrought tapestry. Never had Barbara beheld any thing so fantastically beautiful. The sides of the shaft were covered with a half transparent fabric, enwrought with patterns like rich embroidery, through which the gleam of the metal shone like gold, as the sunbeam danced into the cavern depths.

It was a gallery in the mine, which years before had been closed up and forgotten. The workmen, while digging an air-shaft, had struck into the disused chamber. Cut in the solid ore, the pillars which supported its roof were carved into grotesque shapes, as the whim of the old miners had directed the stroke of their tools. During the years that it had been closed, the spiders had taken possession of its walls, and their webs, spun over and over again, for more than half a century, had produced a tapestry richer in design, and more airy in fabric than ever came from the looms of Ispahan. It needed but little stretch of imagination to behold the vine with its tiny tendrils and drooping fruit, the rose with its buds and leaves, the fantastic arabesque border, and the quaint devices of ancient emblazoning in that many-tissued yet translucent web. No where else could the same humble material have worn the same magical beauty, for the mingled colors of the ore which formed the walls, and the golden sunshine pouring in through the roof, tinted the woven tracery with all the hues of the rainbow.

Barbara stood entranced before this strange spectacle, but while she gazed, dim and vague recollections came thronging upon her mind. At length all was clear to her. In the webs which adorned the walls of the mine, she recognized the beautiful drapery which had veiled the face of her dream-visitant, and had linked together the band of dream-children in former years. A cry of wild surprise broke from her lips, and from that moment she felt that there was a mysterious connection between her fate and this haunted chamber of the mine.

Now when Barbara returned to her home, and sat down amid her workwomen, she told of this wondrous fabric woven by the little fairy spinners in the mine. It happened that among the pensioners of her bounty was numbered a certain woman from Brabrant who had been driven from her home by the cruelties practiced by the Duke of Alva in the Low Countries. In her own country she had learned to weave a coarse kind of lace, and when she heard her lady describe the delicate texture of the spiders’ webs, she drew forth some flaxen threads, and wove them into meshes resembling somewhat the drapery which Barbara had so admired. This was all that was wanting to give purpose and definiteness to Barbara’s vague fancies.

They who look with most pleasure on a finished work, are oft-times most easily wearied with tracing the slow footsteps of the patient laborer. The reader would tire of this faithful chronicle if called to watch the gradual progress of Barbara Uttman’s schemes of wide spread good. By unwearied toil she made herself acquainted with the means of perfecting the new manufacture, which offered to her prophetic spirit a means of livelihood to the feebler portion of the poor. Going on from one improvement to another, she finally invented the cushion, the bobbins, and the pins, by which hand-woven lace is wrought with such perfect symmetry and regularity of fabric and design as make it, even now, the costliest of all the trappings of wealth. Then—when the invention was perfected—by offering premiums to those who would engage in the work, by establishing manufactories in her own domain, by precept and example, and all the varied means of influence which wealth and virtue had placed within her power, she established the weaving of lace as the especial employment of the women of Saxony. Thousands of maidens have found their sole support in this employment, and for nearly three hundred years the name of Barbara Uttman has been revered as the “mother” of many daughters, and the benefactress of the women of more than one nation in Europe.

Gentle reader, I have beguiled you with no fictitious tale. In the church-yard of the little mountain hamlet of Anneberg lie the remains of Barbara Uttman, who was born in 1514, married in 1531 to Christopher Uttman, a rich mine-owner, and died a widow in 1575. A visit to a long-disused shaft in a mine, where the spiders’ had woven their webs for fiftyyears, gave her the first idea of that beautiful fabric, which, under the various names of Mechlen, Valenciennes, and Brussels lace, makes the choicest of all additions to a lady’s toilet. It is said that since her establishment of its manufacture in 1560, upwards of a million of women are supposed to have obtained a comfortable livelihood by this species of employment. Notwithstanding the general introduction of a much inferior kind of lace, which is woven by machinery, at least twenty thousand women in Europe, annually obtain their support from the manufacture of hand-woven lace. With the far-seeing spirit of true philanthropy a woman thus solved for her country the problem which statesmen yet cavil over, and by affording the poor a means of humble independence, rescued the females of her own land from want and destitution. Yet how few of those who deck themselves with lace, only less costly than diamonds, have ever heard the name of Barbara Uttman!

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