The eye of the venerable accuser, regarded the face of the speaker with a sad and touching solemnity; but at this moment, the little girl who had before accompanied him, was conducted into the foreground by the Archbishop. She bore in her hand a sarbacane,—seemingly of brass, long and narrow like a wand, and crowned, at the extremity, by a small globe or bulb of the same material. The length of this instrument was fully six feet or more. The old man took it into his hands, and having unscrewed a part of the bulb—which seemed a mere sheathing of brass, he discovered beneath it another globe, similar, in shape and size, to that which had been removed; but the inner bulb was manufactured of glass, of a whiteness equally chrystallic and beautiful. He then took from beneath his robes a little box of ebony, which he unlocked, and from which he produced a head-piece, the face of which, instead of being hard steel or iron, was of glass also, very thin, and quite transparent, through which every muscle and motion of the features might be seen with the greatest distinctness. To the thoughtless vulgar, such a shield seemed only a mockery of that more solid furniture of metal, which, in those days, thoroughly encased the warrior for battle. The inference, accordingly, was very general, that if by any possibility, the accuser succeeded in the combat, he would be indebted solely to supernatural agency for his good fortune. His wand of brass, with its chrystal bulb—his glassy vizor and helmet,—were only regarded as designed to divert the scrutiny from the more secret agency which he employed.
“I am ready,” said the accuser.
“Hast thou prayed?” demanded his enemy in a mocking fashion. “If thou hast not, get thee to thy knees quickly, and renounce the devil whom thou servest. Verily, but little time is left thee.”
“I have prayed and confessed to the Holy Father. Do thou likewise, and make thyself humble and contrite. Repent thee,—for, of a truth, my lord, if the King forbid not this combat, thou art doomed this day, to go to judgment.”
The heart of the accused was hardened within him. He replied with a hiss of defiance and contempt to this last appeal; at the same moment he declared himself in readiness also. They were then withdrawn from the presence for a brief space, and were severally approached by their friends and attendants. The Archbishop, and the King’s favorite went aside with the accuser, and when the latter returned to the arena, in order to the combat, the Archbishop led away with him the little girl, upon whom, at parting, the old man bestowed many caresses, accompanied by many tears. The spectators were all very much moved by this tenderness, and now began to regard him as one set apart for sacrifice—doomed to be separated forever, and by a violent death, from the object of his affections. And when the opponents stood, at length, confronting each other—with none to go between—awaiting only the word for the combatà l’outrance;—when they regarded the strong soldier-like frame, and the warlike bearing of the accused—beheld the ease with which he strode the lists, and displayed his weapon;—and contrasted this image of dire necessity and war, with the feeble, though erect form of his venerable accuser,—habited in vestments like a priest or woman—with the simple unmeaning wand within his grasp, and the frail mask of brittle chrystal upon his face—a loud murmur of regret and commisseration prevailed among the multitude. But this murmur was soon quieted by the cry of the master of the tourney—
“Laissez aller!”
Then followed a painful silence.
“Now, sorcerer,” cried the knight, raising his glittering sword, and advancing as deliberately and with the confident manner of the executioner. The aged accuser simply presented the bulbous extremity of his wand, and before the accused could smite, the frail glass was shivered against the bars of his enemy’s mouth-piece. At this moment the knight was seen slightly to recoil; but it was for a moment only; in the next instant he darted forward, and with a fierce cry, seemed about to strike. The old man, in the meantime, had suffered his wand to fall upon the ground. He made no further effort—offered no show of fear or fly, but with arms folded, seemed in resignation to await the death-stroke of his enemy. But while the weapon of the man of war was in air, and seemingly about to descend, he was seen to pause, while his form suddenly became rigid. A quick and awful shudder seemed to pass through his whole frame. Thus, for a second, he stood paralyzed, and then a thin, mistlike vapor, which might be called smoke, was seen to creep out from various parts of his frame, followed by a thin but oily liquor, that now appeared oozing through all the crevices of his armor. His arm dropped nervelessly by his side; the sword fell from the incapable grasp of his gauntleted hands, and in an inconceivable fraction of time, he himself with all his bulk, sunk down upon the earth—falling, not at length, prostrate, either backward or forward, but in a heap, even upon the spot which he had occupied when standing; and as if every bone had suddenly been withdrawn which had sustained them, the several parts of his armor became detached, and rolled away—his helmet, his gorget, his cuirass, his greaves, his gloves—disclosing beneath a dark, discolored mass—a mere jellied substance, in which bones and muscles were already decomposed and resolved into something less than flesh. Above this heap might be seen astill bright and shining eye, which, for a single second, seemed to retain consciousness and life, as if the soul of the immortal being had lingered in this beautiful and perfect orb, reluctant to the last. But in a moment it, too, had disappeared—all the brightness swallowed up and stifled in the little cloud of vapor which now trembled, heaving up from the mass which but a moment before had been a breathing, a burning, an exulting spirit. A cold horror overspread the field, followed by a husky and convulsive cry, as from a drowning multitude. The people gazed upon each other and upon the awful heap in unspeakable terror. It was annihilation which had taken place before them. Awful was the silence that prevailed for several minutes; a vacant consternation freezing up the very souls of the spectators. But the reaction was tremendous.
“Seize upon the sorcerer! Tear him in pieces!” was the cry from a thousand voices. This was followed by a wild rush, like that of an incoming sea struggling to overwhelm the headlands. The barriers were broken down, the cries swelled into a very tempest, and the mammoth multitude rolled onward, with souls on fire, eyes glaring with tiger fury, and hands outstretched, clutching spasmodically at their victim. Their course had but one centre, where the old man calmly stood. There he kept his immovable station, calm, firm, subdued, but stately. How will he avert his fate—how stay this ocean of souls, resolute to overwhelm him. I trembled—I gasped with doubt and apprehension. But I was spared the further contemplation of horrors which I could no longer bear to witness, by the very intensity of the interest which my imagination had conceived in the subject. There is a point beyond which the mortal nature cannot endure. I had reached that point, and was relieved. I awakened, and started into living consciousness, my face covered with clammy dews, my hair upright and wet, my whole frame agitated with the terrors which were due wholly to the imagination.
It would be easy, perhaps, to account for such a dream, assuming, as we did at the outset, that the mental faculties never know abeyance—that the thought never sleeps. Any speculation in regard to the transition periods in English history, would give the requisite material. From a survey of the powers of physical manhood to those rival and superior powers which follow from the birth of art and science, the step is natural enough, and the imagination might well delight itself by putting them in contrast and opposition. But we have no space left for further discussion.
REQUIEM.
———
BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.
———
Forget the dead, the past? O yetThere are ghosts who may take revenge for it;Memories that make the heart a tomb,Regrets which glide through the spirit’s gloomAnd with ghostly whisper tellThat joy, once lost, is pain.—Shelley.When the warring voice of storm is heardAcross the sea goes the summer bird,But back again the wanderer fliesWhen April’s azure drapes the skies,With carol sweetThe morn to greet,But the radiant girl whom we deploreTo the bower of Home will return no more.Decay, a loathsome bridegroom, nowKisses with mildewed lip her brow;Her heart is colder than the rillWhen winter bids its tongue be still;Yet Spring will come,With song and bloom,And unchain the silvery feet of waves,But break no bonds in voiceless graves.Wasting away with a sad decline,Far from these northern hills of pine,She would wander back to them in dreams,To hear the roar of their rushing streams;And often spokeOf a favorite oakOn the door-sill flinging pleasant shade,And under which, a child, she played.When beat no more her snow-white breast,Strange hands the lovely ruin-drest,Smoothing, upon the forehead fair,Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair;And strangers gaveTo our dead a grave,Sprinkling above the frail remainsMould, moistened by autumnal rains.Ah! since she died a wilder wailIs uttered by the midnight gale,And voices, mourning something gone,Rise from the dead leaves on the lawn;And sadness broodsAbove the woodsMoaning as if endowed with soul,For through their depths she loved to stroll.The lute that answered when she sungOld airs, at twilight, is unstrung—She wakes where thesainteddwell aloneAn instrument of richer tone;And angel’s smileOn her the while,And to garland her sinless brow of snowThe rarest blossoms of Heaven bestow.
Forget the dead, the past? O yetThere are ghosts who may take revenge for it;Memories that make the heart a tomb,Regrets which glide through the spirit’s gloomAnd with ghostly whisper tellThat joy, once lost, is pain.—Shelley.When the warring voice of storm is heardAcross the sea goes the summer bird,But back again the wanderer fliesWhen April’s azure drapes the skies,With carol sweetThe morn to greet,But the radiant girl whom we deploreTo the bower of Home will return no more.Decay, a loathsome bridegroom, nowKisses with mildewed lip her brow;Her heart is colder than the rillWhen winter bids its tongue be still;Yet Spring will come,With song and bloom,And unchain the silvery feet of waves,But break no bonds in voiceless graves.Wasting away with a sad decline,Far from these northern hills of pine,She would wander back to them in dreams,To hear the roar of their rushing streams;And often spokeOf a favorite oakOn the door-sill flinging pleasant shade,And under which, a child, she played.When beat no more her snow-white breast,Strange hands the lovely ruin-drest,Smoothing, upon the forehead fair,Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair;And strangers gaveTo our dead a grave,Sprinkling above the frail remainsMould, moistened by autumnal rains.Ah! since she died a wilder wailIs uttered by the midnight gale,And voices, mourning something gone,Rise from the dead leaves on the lawn;And sadness broodsAbove the woodsMoaning as if endowed with soul,For through their depths she loved to stroll.The lute that answered when she sungOld airs, at twilight, is unstrung—She wakes where thesainteddwell aloneAn instrument of richer tone;And angel’s smileOn her the while,And to garland her sinless brow of snowThe rarest blossoms of Heaven bestow.
Forget the dead, the past? O yet
There are ghosts who may take revenge for it;
Memories that make the heart a tomb,
Regrets which glide through the spirit’s gloom
And with ghostly whisper tell
That joy, once lost, is pain.
—Shelley.
When the warring voice of storm is heard
Across the sea goes the summer bird,
But back again the wanderer flies
When April’s azure drapes the skies,
With carol sweet
The morn to greet,
But the radiant girl whom we deplore
To the bower of Home will return no more.
Decay, a loathsome bridegroom, now
Kisses with mildewed lip her brow;
Her heart is colder than the rill
When winter bids its tongue be still;
Yet Spring will come,
With song and bloom,
And unchain the silvery feet of waves,
But break no bonds in voiceless graves.
Wasting away with a sad decline,
Far from these northern hills of pine,
She would wander back to them in dreams,
To hear the roar of their rushing streams;
And often spoke
Of a favorite oak
On the door-sill flinging pleasant shade,
And under which, a child, she played.
When beat no more her snow-white breast,
Strange hands the lovely ruin-drest,
Smoothing, upon the forehead fair,
Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair;
And strangers gave
To our dead a grave,
Sprinkling above the frail remains
Mould, moistened by autumnal rains.
Ah! since she died a wilder wail
Is uttered by the midnight gale,
And voices, mourning something gone,
Rise from the dead leaves on the lawn;
And sadness broods
Above the woods
Moaning as if endowed with soul,
For through their depths she loved to stroll.
The lute that answered when she sung
Old airs, at twilight, is unstrung—
She wakes where thesainteddwell alone
An instrument of richer tone;
And angel’s smile
On her the while,
And to garland her sinless brow of snow
The rarest blossoms of Heaven bestow.
ST. VALENTINE’S DAY.
———
BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER
———
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
Happiness, it appears to us, isacause, as well astheeffect of virtue. When the heart is warmed with rational enjoyment, it is naturally grateful to those that promote the pleasure. When it is excited to the indulgence of generous feelings by the operation of kindness in others, it pours out those feelings upon all within its influence. It does not confine the reflection of pleasure to those from whom the pleasure springs; but seeks to dispense it upon all within its influence, as the planets, receiving their light from the sun, dispense that light to all the stars in the system. And the effort to promote the enjoyment of others—the true rational enjoyment of others—is a virtue. Those, therefore, who create an occasion for such social intercourse as produces rational pleasure, are promoting, in some degree, the cause of virtue.
It has been a common remark that there were not enough holydays in this country—general holydays—those that areholyor sacred toall. We have indeed theChristmas, but that day, though it would seem to be commended to the observance of all Christians, yet is not, for reasons well understood by most of our readers, a general observance; not from any want of respect to the event which the day is intended to celebrate, but partly for a disagreement as to the mode or the time of the celebration—and what is worse, perhaps, while one part of our countrymen have grown up in a sort of doctrinal disrelish of any celebration of the day, another part has extended its celebration through many days, in a way which deprived the whole of all ideas of sanctity, and gave to the rejoicings an appearance of those orgies which paganism devoted to the honor of some impure divinity and the gratification of some unclean appetite.
Christmas, it may be remarked, however, is gradually coming into a more appropriate appreciation; and, throughout the length and breadth of the land there is a growing disposition to honor to the day, and to make it a season of renewed thankfulness to God, and of the exercise of good-willto, and among, men. So much the better, it is one day redeemed and set apart for the exercise of high and holy feelings, and the indulgence of domestic intercourse, enlarged by the temporary union of various branches of the family-tree with the fruits thereof.
Washington’s Birth-daywas once more generally celebrated than it is now; and even now when a celebration is had on that day, so sacred to the dearest recollections of patriotism, and the sons of freedom assemble together, Satan comes also among them to embitter the occasion with the gall of party feeling, infused into every toast which is offered, and squeezed into every glass that is emptied. So that Washington’s birth-day has ceased to be a general holyday, or rather to be celebrated with that community of feeling which makes a true holyday.
The Fourth of July, one would suppose, should be set apart for universal celebration wherever an American can be found, or wherever national freedom can be appreciated. But the day, even when celebrated without reference to party politics is not inclusive. Patriotism has in it a dignified reserve which asks for asolemnityon the national birth-day; and so instead of a general rejoicing, there is a special and limited celebration—and when the celebration falls into party hands, then the day is neitherholynor sanctified. At best the Fourth of July must be celebrated with pomp, show, military display, bonfires, and eating and drinking. Appropriate as all these may be, they are not the ingredients for a real general holyday in which the fancy, the feelings, and the affections find play, and gravity is dismissed to the next sun rise.
We are not referring of course toSunday, and other days set apart for religious services; they are, as they should be, made specially referable to our connection with, our dependence upon, and our duty and obligations to, our God. May they be kept sacred from allworldly intrusion, and by their holy character lend a sanctifying influence unto all the other days of the week, so that whether we eat or drink, whether we laugh or cry, whether mourn or rejoice, (for there is a time for each of these,) we shall do all with a solemn deference to the duties which we owe our Maker.
There is a movement, or rather there has been a movement toward the restoration of aholyday, in which childhood and youth have a direct interest, and manhood and age may find, if not a direct, at least, a reflected pleasure; and we shall think better of the age in which we live for the restoration to homage and joyful devotion of good old St. Valentine of blessed memory. Who, whether he was a bachelor or a widower, gave encouragement to the good work of courtship, and became canonized, if not for the miracles he wrought upon the bodies of his devotees, at least for his wonderful work upon the hearts of those who knelt at his shrine. It has always been a matter of regret that the proceedings of the sacred conclave in which Valentine obtained canonization were not made public. We are sure that the cardinal who took the part of Devil’s advocate in the trial of the saint’s claim to the honors, must have labored hard if he meant to obtain future fees; for, of all the antagonism to real sanctity nothing is equal to hatred, and of all the principles which the Evil Spirit would oppose nothing can equal affection.No one could get Satan’s permission to promote loving feelings.
We are glad, on more accounts than one, that St. Dominic was not selected, and even St. Augustine. They had their respective merits and deserve special consideration, but dear old St. Valentine is commended to the gentler affections of all, by the loveliness and beauty which his own purity and grace threw around the affections of the human heart, and the loftiness which his own goodness gave to the character of earthly love, assimilating that passion with our affections for things divine, and showing the intimate connection between the two—the difference being only in degree consequent upon the objects.
Valentine was one of the early Christians; whether he was a bishop or only a presbyter, it is now difficult to ascertain; and, truth to say, it does not make a button’s difference, for he would not be the better for his mitre nor the worse for his stole in the good work of love to which he devoted himself, and for which he is now distinguished and remembered. He was a good man and full of affection, and so Claudius caused him to be put to death, and for good reason too, we think, at least on principles of consistency—what could the murderer find to admire in the mild and lovely character of Valentine, and what but exposure to the husband of Messalina must be the chaste and affectionate teaching of the apostle of pure affection.
We shall be told, we suppose, one day in February was set apart by the pagan Romans for the celebration of theirLupercalia, when young men drew from a box the name of some female favorite for the year. Well, what then? Shall we not thank the returning sense of the people that installs a Christian saint in the niche into which the pagans had thrust their god Pan, who, by his ugly face and hideous howls, could drive away wolves? Do we not all owe a tribute of thanks to those who instituted the delightful festival of St. Valentine to supply the beastly orgies of the Luperci? There is indeed some similarity in the merriment. The Roman youth ran through the street with thongs, and the Christian youth hasten with more agreeable presents; but in both ancient and modern times it seems that the females were anxious, for various reasons, to be the objects of the merriment.
Before we issue another number of Graham, the high and the augmenting festival of St. Valentine will be celebrated. Celebrated this year, we venture to assert, with a pomp and circumstance very far beyond that of any other February since theofficeof Juno gave a name to the month. Celebrated in a way to demonstrate the growing estimation in which the kindly feelings are held.
This will be as it should be. A day has been found in which all may have an occasion for present pleasure; some (and most) to be active in the circulation of those delicate compositions or handy-works which express regard and sometimes promote affection; others will look back upon the years past, and remember with a silent tear how the beautiful and beloved ones, that made them happy by the transmission or the acceptance of the token, are now mouldering in the earth, insensible to all those affections which once made them happy, unconscious even of the regret which their departure created and their absence keeps alive. Mournful indeed is it to take from the secret ark, where affection has enshrined it, the emblem of a love that death has severed; and still more painful is it to gaze on the return of the anniversary of proffered vows, upon that pledge which time never redeemed, and to feel that she who might have been happy in ministering to your happiness, is miserable in a union (the only point of union) with another.
We saw a lad conveying to the residence of the loved one the Valentine, whose form and decoration told of its donor—no record of name was made, nor was it necessary to the receiver—none waspoliticfor the witnesses. There was a secret love—a love unannounced to the world, yet not unknown. The giver and the receiver of the Valentine were married before July—yet not to each other. That Valentine was the cause of misery. The new husband knew that she loved another, yet persisted in his courtship, and with the influence of his wealth over the mother, procured marriage. He knew during the honeymoon all that had ever occurred, and yet was content with his winnings—the accidental discovery of the Valentine, though not where it could have been hoarded away, as if of value, not placed as a memento of affection, but as if thrown aside, because useless, and left as forgotten—the accidental discovery of that Valentine awakened the bitterness of jealousy—not jealousy of honor, but that contemptible narrowness of selfish esteem, which demands that the eyes of a wife should alwayshave beenclosed—while the eyes and appetites of the husbandarealways roving. Was the Valentine then an evil? Nay—rather would not any object, or rather no object, in two months have roused the unreasonableness of the discoverer? Where there is much filth, spontaneous combustion will save the application of the lighted match.
One who is reading the preceding paragraph while we are preparing forthis, tells us she obtained the best husband in the world by means of a Valentine, and she has never forgotten the saint’s day since. It would, probably, be more germain to the matter to say, that her husband got the best wife in the country by a Valentine—though on second thought, she may be right—women generally know best, and remember most.
We repeat our expression of pleasure, that there has arisen such a general devotion to good St. Valentine, and we are sure that regard to that canonized Christian’s memory will enlarge the spirit of true devotion, so that if we had another saint in the calendar who stood in the same relation to the paganCupidwhich Valentine does to the Luperci, that saint would find his shrine greatly enriched by those who commenced their devotion on the 14th of February.
We are glad to see that the regard to good St. Valentine is presenting of works, and that the devotion does not pass away in the breath that utters vows; but, beside the incense that springs from theburning thurible, there areofferingslaid upon the altar—rich, tasteful, elaborate, simple, magnificent or humble. Every kind may be had, and will be had from those who minister to the wants of the Valentinans, as of old did the sellers of doves in the temple provide the means of sacrifice to the unprepared devotee.
St. Valentine’s day then is becoming, nay, it has become, a national holyday—one that brings smiles of pleasure to the young of both sexes, and the joy of recollected pleasure to the old. It is a festival in which the feelings need no stimulant, and in which it asks no boisterous expression. Beautiful is the anticipation of such a season. Some hearts beat quickly in the thought of what may be sent, and who will send it. Some hopes will be excited by the manner of reception—all will be joyful in preparing to give; all will be gratified in examining the gift. Not all—one at least will go to the shrine where affection has deposited the gift—and as she drops a tear upon the cherished memorial, will send her thoughts far, far upward to thehomeof the giver—or backward to the hour in which it was given. Yet this is joy—this sanctified Sabbath of the young heart seems doubly hallowed when its light is reflected from the memorial of affection, an affection made sure inoneby the icy hand of death; fixed undyingly in the other, by a consecration which no change can divert from its hallowing purpose.
THE PAST.
———
BY MISS CAROLINE E. SUTTON.
———
When the young bird goes from her early home,Though the swift-winged moments in happiness fly,Though the bridegroom is near with a gentle toneAnd a truthful love in his deep dark eye—Though the future is strewn with the roses of hope,And peopled with phantoms too brilliant to last—She turns with a tear to the friends of her youth,To those who were dear in the past.The wanderer far, far from kindred and friends,In fancy revisits his dear native cot;He views the clear stream where the willow tree bends,And the cowslips that brighten the spot.He views the dark wood and the green sloping hill,The porch, with its graceful white jessamine hung,The half-open window that looks on the mill,And the garden where honey-bees hum.And before him appear, as distinct as of yore,His mother’s soft eye, and his sire’s furrowed brow;His Mary’s light form, as when last on the shoreHe bade her remember her vow;His sister’s long hair, with its sunshiny gleam,Like a banner of gold to the summer wind cast—But one touch of the present dissolves the light dream,And he sighs for the joys of the past.Though surrounded with blessings, and favored with allThat God in his bounty bestows,We revert to the pleasures we ne’er can recall,And the tear-drop unconsciously flows.While roving, entranced, ’mid the fairest of scenes.A cloud o’er our warm glowing hearts will be cast,If we think of the blossoms, the birds and the streamsThat were lovely and loved in the past.Creator and Father! Oh! teach me to liveWith thy precepts divine for my guide,Oh! let my young bosom thy lessons receive,And divest it of folly and pride,That, when this lithe form is decrepit and bent,When my color is fading, my pulse waning fast—I can look back with joy to the moments well spent,And muse with delight on the past.
When the young bird goes from her early home,Though the swift-winged moments in happiness fly,Though the bridegroom is near with a gentle toneAnd a truthful love in his deep dark eye—Though the future is strewn with the roses of hope,And peopled with phantoms too brilliant to last—She turns with a tear to the friends of her youth,To those who were dear in the past.The wanderer far, far from kindred and friends,In fancy revisits his dear native cot;He views the clear stream where the willow tree bends,And the cowslips that brighten the spot.He views the dark wood and the green sloping hill,The porch, with its graceful white jessamine hung,The half-open window that looks on the mill,And the garden where honey-bees hum.And before him appear, as distinct as of yore,His mother’s soft eye, and his sire’s furrowed brow;His Mary’s light form, as when last on the shoreHe bade her remember her vow;His sister’s long hair, with its sunshiny gleam,Like a banner of gold to the summer wind cast—But one touch of the present dissolves the light dream,And he sighs for the joys of the past.Though surrounded with blessings, and favored with allThat God in his bounty bestows,We revert to the pleasures we ne’er can recall,And the tear-drop unconsciously flows.While roving, entranced, ’mid the fairest of scenes.A cloud o’er our warm glowing hearts will be cast,If we think of the blossoms, the birds and the streamsThat were lovely and loved in the past.Creator and Father! Oh! teach me to liveWith thy precepts divine for my guide,Oh! let my young bosom thy lessons receive,And divest it of folly and pride,That, when this lithe form is decrepit and bent,When my color is fading, my pulse waning fast—I can look back with joy to the moments well spent,And muse with delight on the past.
When the young bird goes from her early home,
Though the swift-winged moments in happiness fly,
Though the bridegroom is near with a gentle tone
And a truthful love in his deep dark eye—
Though the future is strewn with the roses of hope,
And peopled with phantoms too brilliant to last—
She turns with a tear to the friends of her youth,
To those who were dear in the past.
The wanderer far, far from kindred and friends,
In fancy revisits his dear native cot;
He views the clear stream where the willow tree bends,
And the cowslips that brighten the spot.
He views the dark wood and the green sloping hill,
The porch, with its graceful white jessamine hung,
The half-open window that looks on the mill,
And the garden where honey-bees hum.
And before him appear, as distinct as of yore,
His mother’s soft eye, and his sire’s furrowed brow;
His Mary’s light form, as when last on the shore
He bade her remember her vow;
His sister’s long hair, with its sunshiny gleam,
Like a banner of gold to the summer wind cast—
But one touch of the present dissolves the light dream,
And he sighs for the joys of the past.
Though surrounded with blessings, and favored with all
That God in his bounty bestows,
We revert to the pleasures we ne’er can recall,
And the tear-drop unconsciously flows.
While roving, entranced, ’mid the fairest of scenes.
A cloud o’er our warm glowing hearts will be cast,
If we think of the blossoms, the birds and the streams
That were lovely and loved in the past.
Creator and Father! Oh! teach me to live
With thy precepts divine for my guide,
Oh! let my young bosom thy lessons receive,
And divest it of folly and pride,
That, when this lithe form is decrepit and bent,
When my color is fading, my pulse waning fast—
I can look back with joy to the moments well spent,
And muse with delight on the past.
A SONG.
———
BY RICHARD WILKE.
———
Dark clouds are hovering round meWith all their train of care:A thousand woes surround me,Drear shadows of despair!But what are they?—a richer gemShines radiant from above:It throws its sunshine over them,And oh!—that light is Love!Then why should cares alarm me,Though adverse fortune reign?Why frowns of wo disarm me?Why sorrow give me pain?For what are all!—a richer gemShines radiant from above:It throws its sunshine over them,And oh!—that light is Love!
Dark clouds are hovering round meWith all their train of care:A thousand woes surround me,Drear shadows of despair!But what are they?—a richer gemShines radiant from above:It throws its sunshine over them,And oh!—that light is Love!Then why should cares alarm me,Though adverse fortune reign?Why frowns of wo disarm me?Why sorrow give me pain?For what are all!—a richer gemShines radiant from above:It throws its sunshine over them,And oh!—that light is Love!
Dark clouds are hovering round me
With all their train of care:
A thousand woes surround me,
Drear shadows of despair!
But what are they?—a richer gem
Shines radiant from above:
It throws its sunshine over them,
And oh!—that light is Love!
Then why should cares alarm me,
Though adverse fortune reign?
Why frowns of wo disarm me?
Why sorrow give me pain?
For what are all!—a richer gem
Shines radiant from above:
It throws its sunshine over them,
And oh!—that light is Love!
A RECOLLECTION OF MENDELSSOHN.
———
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
———
Scarcely a year has elapsed since the musical world has been painfully moved by the death of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. No loss, which the divine art has sustained since that of Von Weber, will be so difficult to replace, and probably no man of genius was ever more sincerely mourned,as a man. He not only possessed that universal sympathy with humanity, which is so noble a characteristic of the highest genius, but, unlike many great men, whose very isolation of intellect creates an atmosphere about them which the world is awed from seeking to penetrate, the familiar scope of his warm nature descended to an equality with all he met, and though all who named him as a composer, may not have understood or appreciated him, all who knew him as a man, could not choose but love him. The career of genius, unhappily, is not often surrounded at the onset with theworldly advantages, nor watched and cherished with the fostering care, which fell to his lot. His nature was never embittered by early struggles with an unrecognizing world, nor was his natural faith in man shaken by a keen encounter with selfishness and persecution. The development of his moral nature thus calmly ripened in harmony with his mind, each sustaining and ennobling the other. The contemplation of such a character is in itself exalting, and seems to give his memory a more than ordinary consecration.
At this time, when we are still constantly reminded of his loss—when those to whom his works have a voice and a power never mention his name but with the unconscious sadness of a reverent heart, all which may help to recall his living image possesses a universal interest. I trust, therefore, that the relation of an interview, the recollection of which is among those hours, for whose bestowal I am most grateful to the past, will need no apology. On the contrary, it is rather the discharge of that duty which we owe to art, as all her worshipers will acknowledge.
A winter’s residence in Frankfort, which of late years is somewhat distinguished for the excellence of its opera, and the high degree of culture attained by its various musical unions, sufficed to make me familiar with many of the great works of the German composers. Fortunately, it was not until after I had learned to feel the all-pervading soul of beauty which inspired Mozart, and paused in awe on the borders of Beethoven’s vast and solemn realm, that I heard the music of Mendelssohn. Thus prepared, in part, the simple and severe grandeur of his style impressed me with a consciousness of its power, though I could not always grasp the spirit of the sound, and follow it back to the sublime conception—as, when a schoolboy, I first opened the pages of Milton, and read with wonder and delight what it would have puzzled me exceedingly to explain.Mendelssohn’s music is of a more purely intellectual character than that of any modern composer, and his greatest works are those which but few thoroughly appreciate. While, in his “Songs without Words,” and the simple grandeur of his sacred melodies, he comes nearer to the general sympathy, his “Walpurgisnacht,” and “Fingal’s Cave,” creations of startling power and sublimity, which stand alone in the character of their expression, are rarely produced, except in those German cities where the taste for music has not been led away from the standard set up by the schools of Bach and Hayden, by the voluptuous melodies of the modern Italian opera. Frankfort is one of these cities, and I was fortunate enough to hear the Walpurgisnacht performed by the Cæcilien-Verein, or Society of St. Cecilia. The poetry of Goethe and the music of Mendelssohn!—it was a sublime marriage of genius. The works of the latter are as full of wild and stormy pictures as those of the former, and he has described in music the crags and breakers of the bleak Hebrides, with as much power as Goethe exhibits, in painting the savage scenery of the Brocken.
Mendelssohn was living in Frankfort during the winter I spent there, and I was naturally anxious to see the face of a great man, whom there was no probability of my ever being near again, in the course of my wanderings. One sunny day in March, when all the population of Frankfort seemed to have turned out upon the budding promenades which belt the city, and the broad quays along the Main, to enjoy the first premonition of spring, I went on my usual afternoon stroll with my friend and countryman, W——, whose glowing talk upon the musical art was quite as refreshing to me after the day’s study in the gloomy Marktplotz, as were the blue mountains of Epessart, which are visible from the bridge over the Main.
There had been a great inundation the week previous, and the cold, wintry storms which accompanied it, had just given place to sunshine and milder air. The boatmen upon the flat, clumsy barges which come down from Würzburg and the upper Main, were loosening their lashings and preparing to trust themselves upon the swollen waters. The music of Savoyards and bands of mountain singers was heard in every open space, and brave, ruddy-looking Tyrolese, wild-eyed Bohemians in their quaint, national costume, and the men of Suabia and the Black Forest, mingled with the crowd, till it seemed like a holyday assemblage made up from all the German provinces. We threaded the motley multitude, finding a pleasant pastime in reading their faces and costumes, turning rapidly, as it were, the leaves of a historical picture book.
My eye was finally caught by a man who came toward us on the quay, and whose face and air were in such striking contrast to those about him, that my whole attention was at once fixed upon him. He was simply and rather negligently dressed in dark cloth, with a cravat tied loosely about his neck. His beard had evidently not been touched for two or three days, and his black hair was long and frowzed by the wind. His eyes, which were large, dark and kindling, were directed forward and slightly lifted, in the abstraction of some absorbing thought, and as he passed, I heard him singing to himself in a voice deep but not loud, and yet with a far different tone from that of one who hums a careless air as he walks. But a few notes caught my ear, yet I remember their sound, elevated and with that scarcely perceptible vibration which betrays a feeling below the soul’s surface, as distinctly now as at the time. W—— grasped my arm quickly and said in a low voice, “Mendelssohn!” I turned hastily, and looked after him, as he went down the quay, apparently but half conscious of the stirring scenes around him. I could easily imagine how the balmy, indolent sensation in the air, so like a soothing and tranquilizing strain of music, should have led him into the serene and majestic realm of his own creations.
It was something to have seen a man of genius thus alone, and in communion with his inspired thoughts, and I could not repress a feeling of pleasure at the idea of having unconsciously acknowledged the influences around him, before I knew his name. After this passing glimpse, thisflashof him, however, came the natural desire to see his features in repose, and obtain some impression of his personal character. An opportunity soon occurred. The performance of his “Walpurgisnacht,” by the Cæcilien-Verein, a day or two thereafter, increased the enthusiasm I had before felt for his works, and full of the recollection of its sublime Druidchoruses, I wrote a few lines to him, expressive of the delight they had given me, and of my wish to possess his name in autograph, that I might take to America some token connected with their remembrance. The next day I received a very kind note in reply, enclosing a manuscript score of a chorus from the “Walpurgisnacht.”
Summoning up my courage the next morning, I decided on calling upon him in person, feeling certain, from the character of his note, that he would understand the motive which prompted me to take such a liberty. I had no difficulty in finding his residence in theBockenheimer Gasse, in the western part of the city. The servant ushered me into a handsomely furnished room, with a carpet, an unusual thing in German houses; a grand piano occupied one side of the apartment. These struck my eye on entering, but my observation was cut short by the appearance of Mendelssohn. A few words of introduction served to remove any embarrassment I might have felt on account of my unceremonious call, and I was soon set entirely at ease by his frank and friendly manner. As he sat opposite to me, beside a small table, covered with articles ofvertù, I was much struck with the high intellectual beauty of his countenance. His forehead was white, unwrinkled, and expanding above, in the region of the ideal faculties. His eyes were large, very dark and lambent with a light that seemed to come through them—like the phosphorescent gleam on the ocean at midnight. I have observed this peculiar character of the eye only in men of the highest genius—the sculptor Powers is another instance in which it has been frequently remarked. None of the engravings of Mendelssohn which have yet been made give any idea of the kindling effect which is thus given to his face. His nose was slightly prominent, and the traces of his Jewish blood were seen in this, as well as the thin but delicate curve of the upper lip, and the high cheek-bones. Yet it was the Jewish face softened and spiritualized, retaining none of its coarser characteristics. The faces of Jewish youth are of a rare and remarkable beauty, but this is scarcely ever retained beyond the first period of manhood. In Mendelssohn, the perpetual youth of spirit, which is the gift of genius alone, seemed to have kept his features moulded to its expression, while the approach of maturer years but heightened and strengthened its character.
He spoke of German music, and told me I should hear it best performed in Vienna and Berlin. Some remarks on America led him to speak of a grand Musical Festival, which was then in the course of preparation in New York. He had received a letter inviting him to assist in it, and said he would have gladly attended it, but his duty to his family would not permit of his leaving. He appeared to be much gratified by the invitation, not only for the personal appreciation which it implied, but as a cheering sign of progress in the musical art. My friend W——, who had met with Mendelssohn the summer previous, at the baths of Kronthal, said that he had expressed much curiosity respecting the native negro melodies—which, after all, form the only peculiarly national music we possess—and that he considered some of them exceedingly beautiful and original.
I did not feel at liberty to intrude long upon themorning hoursof a composer, and took my leave after a short interview. Mendelssohn, at parting, expressed his warm interest in our country’s progress, especially in the refined arts, and gave me a kind invitation to call upon him in whatever German city I should find him. I left Frankfort in two or three weeks after this, and although I was never afterward enabled to fulfill my promise and desire, I was often forcibly reminded of his person and his genius—and never more gratefully than when I stood beside the marble monument to Sebastian Bach, in the promenades of Leipzic—raised to the memory of that patriarch of harmony, by the generosity of Mendelssohn.
JASPER LEECH.
THE MAN WHO NEVER HAD ENOUGH.
The hero of my sketch, Jasper Leech, was, to use the stereotyped expression, born of poor but honest parents; his infancy exhibited no remarkable diagnostics, by which to illustrate or establish any peculiarity of character, saving, perhaps, the simple fact, that with him the process of weaning was protracted to a curious extent, any attempt to cut off or diminish the maternal supply being met with obstinate resistance, in spite of all the ingenious artifices usually resorted to on such occasions to induce a distaste, still he sucked and sucked, until the female visiters, one and all, noted it; shameful in a great fellow like that.
At school, young Jasper was famous for the steady snail-pace at which he crawled through the rudiments, and also for the extraordinarypenchanthe evinced for any thing in his proximity which was, or appeared to be, unattainable at the moment; say that one of his school-mates was in possession of a new toy, Jasper would first envy him, then covet it, cunningly waiting the moment when, the novelty being past, the boy was open to negotiation, then would he chaffer and diplomatize, almost invariably gaining his desired end. Thus he went on steadily accumulating, until what with a natural appetite for trading, and a calculating eye to the profitable side of a bargain, he managed to shut up the market altogether by exhaustion. The very springtime of life, which generally passes by in gleesome sport, was to him a period of anxiety and care; for while his mates were rioting in boisterous play, he would sit apart, his whole brain wrapped in the maze of speculation—aswopis in progression, and he must have the advantage.
Thus passed his boyhood; his schooling over, with his strong common sense undulled by too much book-lore, he was duly inducted into the mystery of shoe-craft. He served out his time with exemplary diligence, working leisurely of days that he might keep reserve of strength to spend the nights for his own profit, thereby saving a considerable sum from the employment of his over-hours.
Once his own master, he deliberated long what road he should travel in the pursuit of the blind goddess, invisible as well as blind—that intangible phantasma which men wear out life and energy in the seeking, only when found to confess with tears of bitterness how misspent was time in the attainment.
At last our ambitious friend ventured humbly into trade on his own account, declaring that should any thing approaching to success crown his efforts, and that at the end of five or six years he could command a thousand dollars, he would be the most contented, the happiest fellow on earth.
He was lucky, curiously lucky; it seemed as though, Midas-like, all he touched turned to gold; money swept in, so that before he had been three years in business, instead of the limited one thousand, he was master offive. “Now,” said he to himself, “if I could but make that fiveten, I might not only be enabled to enlarge my stock, and thereby increase my returns, but I think I might even venture to look about for a helpmate with an equal sum;” for Jasper would just as soon have thought of investing the best part of his capital in the establishment of a lunatic asylum, as of marrying a portionless woman.
The sun shone on—in less time than he could possibly have anticipated—ten thousand was at his command. Very good, thought he; this, with ten or fifteen thousand more, as a premium for encumbering myself with a comforter of the snarling sex—for the ungallant Jasper had a thoroughly mercantile business man’s opinion of the angelic species—will be sufficient. I must investigate.
So he set out on a tour of the watering-places, and such like wife-markets, where Cupid, the most wide-awake of auctioneers—it’s a libel to say he’s blind—knocks the little darlings down to the highest bidder. Of course, Jasper stopped at the first-class hotels, where he scrutinized thehabituésof the ladies ordinary with uncommon interest. There’s no use in disguising the fact, he sought not a wife, but a fortune; in extenuation, allow me to say, he was not at all singular, there are plenty of those individuals extant, young, tolerably good-looking fellows,bien gante, and redolent of whisker, who linger about the ladies’ drawing-room, in the faint hope of fascinating something available, (prudent maternity avoids this class with pious horror,) middle aged beaux, who dress sedulously, and toadychaperons, carry fans, are alwayssoattentive and so obliging, dine regularly, and affect a Burgundy decanter, which looks easy circumstanced, but which the poor waiter is tired of carrying backward and forward, ticketed some hundred and something.
These animals are generally great scandal-mongers, and always dangerous, sweet-voiced but adder-tongued, theirmodus operandiis to poison the ear of the person addressed, against any other individual, hoping thereby to elevate their own characters upon the slaughtered heap. Let no woman suffer such pestilent breath to be a second time breathed within her hearing.
Jasper, though indefatigable as you may well suppose, met with strange adventure during his wife-hunt. Pretty women, after short experience, he avoided utterly, for he found that they were usually too extravagant in their expectations with regard topersonnel, and as Jasper could not, by any stretch of his imagination, fancy that he ranked in the category of Fredericks and Augustuses, he endeavored to make up the deficiency by a liberal display of wealth-prefiguring ornament, a kind of strong-box index,which he shrewdly suspected might tempt some ambitious innocent to investigate the contents thereof.
Perhaps it would be as well, at this period, as our hero is gotten up at no small expense, to give a rough pen-and-ink outline of his appearance. In the first place, he was twenty-eight years old, by his own account; as he could scarcely be expected to know exactly himself, it’s not to be wondered at that he and the parish register differed a few years; but that was of little consequence, for he had an accommodating peasant-colored complexion, which, as it made him look at least forty, will no doubt return the compliment by making him look no more at sixty; his hair was about as indefinite, being a factitious auburn, a dry, wiry red, something like the end of a fox’s brush in hot weather, crisp and tangible, like fine copper-shavings; one could not help fancying that if he shook his head, each individual hair would jar audibly against the other. The whole arrangement gave one an idea of intense heat, and an involuntary hope that the poor fellow had but a sprinkle of hydrocephalus, he was of undecided height also, varying from five feet four-and-a-half to five feet four-and-three-quarters, at the option of his boot-maker; but the most remarkable features, if we may use the expression, in his conformation, were his hands, which were gaunt and bony, of a tanned-leathery consistence, and of a streaky, mottled, castile-soap color, covered with a straggling crop of light, sandy hair, and ornamented with severalwedding-rings—evidences of broken-hearts, which some men are fond of displaying as certificates of gallantry. Dressed in irreproachable black, and capped and jeweled in the most orthodox style, it may be imagined that Jasper was anobjectof no small solicitude to the “anxious mothers of slenderly-portioned daughters;” he certainly had an airbien riche, if notdistingué—and that’s the marketablematerielafter all.
Months were unprofitably spent, and Jasper was beginning to think the time irretrievably lost, when an occurrence of some little interest varied the cateraceous-drinkability of hotel monotony. The Blodgerses arrived,en routeto the fashionable ruralities.
Now the Blodgerses were extensive people in their way. They were originated somewhere in Pennsylvania, and affected the tone of the far south; traveled with huge trunks, two lap-dogs, a parrot, and a liveried African. The head of the family was a pursy, important, chairman-of-an-election-committee-looking man, with a superabundance of excessively white shirt-frill, and a great deal too much watch-chain; the latter appendage he invariably swung round as he conversed, its momentum indicating the state of his temper during an argument; let him speak upon uninteresting topics—literature, for instance, or any of the useless arts—you notice but a gentle apathetic oscillation, but let him get upon the tariff; let him hurl denunciations against his political enemies, or eulogize his particular presidential candidate, and round it goes with astonishing velocity.
Blodgers had been a grocer, or something of the kind, and having, during a life of assiduous saving and scraping, accumulated a very large sum, now flung himself with extraordinaryabandonupon the full stream of gentility—and, to say the truth, most uncomfortable he found it; for many a time would he acknowledge to his wife that “This flying about from steam-car to steamboat, was far more fatiguing, and not quite so profitable as quietly serving out lump sugar.” Then would Mrs. B. indignantly check such compromising thoughts, for she was a person of great pretension, had had a slight acquaintance with Mrs. Judge Pinning, and once visited by accident Mrs. General Jollikins, so felt herself bound to talk of “society.” “They don’t do this in our set;” or, “it’s not the etiquette insociety;” and such like sidewinded hints of her position, formed the staple of her conversations. As for the heiress to the wealthy grocer’s store, there was an indescribable something in her air and manner which plainly indicated, “I am worth looking after!” She talked loudly, stared mutely through a magnificent Parisian double-glass, and in fact broke through all the recognized rules of good breeding with that insolent familiarity which but poorly imitates thenonchalantease of the reallydistingué.
No description of deportment could have made so great an impression on Jasper. She looked ingots, she spoke specie, and herprestigewas altogether redolent ofroleaux. He was struck, but the stricken deer took the precaution to investigate realities before he advanced a step toward acquaintanceship. Now, thought he, if she but happen to have some ten or fifteen thousand, she’d be just the wife for me. The result was satisfactory. He discovered that a larger sum was settled to be her marriage-portion—and so laid vigorous siege instanter.
Now Araminta Blodgers, although decidedly unqualified to grace the pages of the book of beauty, had a strange predilection for “nice young men;” so that at first Jasper met with decided, and not over-delicately expressed, opposition. But he was not a man to retire from the first repulse; he persevered, and finally so deceived the sympathetic Araminta into the belief of his ardent affection, that, one fine summer evening, she sighed forth an avowal that she and her expectations were at his disposal.
Fresh from this successful attack upon the heiress’ susceptibilities, with a feathery heart, Jasper snapped his fingers at love, and danced down the corridor of the hotel, to the infinite wonderment of the waiters. Either from force of habit, or as a means of tempering the exuberance of his spirits, he plunged into the mysteries of the guest-book, where, alas! for Araminta Blodgers, and for true love! the first name he saw was that of Mrs. Skinnington, the rich widow from his own immediate neighborhood; she whom he had sedulously church-ogled from the opposite pew every Sunday, astonished at the vastness of his presumption; she, thebona fideand sole possessor of nearly half his native town. Here was the shadow of a shade of opportunity. She was alone. Jasper hesitated. Araminta’s fortune was ample, but when there was a chance of more, it wasn’tenough! Finally, he determined to wait the first interview with the widow, and be regulated by her manner.
They met at dinner, and she was singularly gracious. The fact is, those eye-assaults had told a little; and I’m sorry to say, for the character of the sex, that the widow, in case the siege should be renewed, had predetermined on capitulation.
The result may be anticipated. The endurable Araminta was thrown over for the intolerable widow and her superior wealth. They were married in a curiously short space of time; and when Jasper found himself master of the widow’s hoards, “Now,” thought he, with a glowing heart, “a few thousand dollars more, and I shall be content. One hundred thousand is the acme of my desire; let me but achieve that, and I shall then retire and spend the remainder of my days in quiet comfort.”
In process of time he did realize the coveted amount; but did he keep his word and retire. No! he had enough of that. Home was to him the worst of all miseries, a sort of domestic Tartarus; the presiding fury, his elderly wife, who, incapable of inspiring a sentiment of affection herself, yet assumed all the caprice of a girl. Jealous to very lunacy, she gave vent to the agonizing sensations of her soul by scribbling heart-rending sonnets for the Fiddle-Faddle Magazine. Thin, withered, romantic and exacting, you may suppose that to the unfortunately lucky Jasper, home was nodulce domum.
The consequence was, that he, dreading thetête-à-têtedomestic, confined his attention to his monetary affairs. Retirement with an unlovable and moreover intolerably suspicious companion as Mrs. L., or, as she signed herself, Sappho, was out of the question; so he determined to stick to the counting-house. And now a great idea filled his brain almost to monomania, which was, to make his one hundred thousandtwo. Once conceived, every thought and action was merged in that one absorbing idea. Heedless of the domestic tornadoes that ever and anon swept over his devoted head, he slaved, fretted, lied, I think I may venture to say, cheated, but honorably, and in the way of business, until after a few years of health-destroying worry, he beheld himself within sight of the desired haven. But five thousand more, and the sum would be accomplished; one stroke of luck—one piece of indifferent fortune, and he would then be really content.
Worn out by constant exertion, he fell dangerously sick. During his illness, news arrived which brought him within a few hundreds of his desired maximum. Notwithstanding his bad health, and in opposition to all remonstrance, he called for his books, and with weak hand, and weaker brain, attempted to calculate. After many hours labor, altogether unaware that he was thus unprofitably expending his last flickering of life, he gave a long sorrowful sigh, and gasping forth, “Not enough! not enough!” expired.
Not many days after, a few feet of earth were sufficient forTHE MAN WHO NEVER HAD ENOUGH.
B.