MY BIRD HAS FLOWN.
———
BY MRS. E. W. CASWELL.
———
[Written on reading “My Bird,” by Fanny Forester.]
My bird has flown, my gentle bird!Four autumn suns gone by,She left, to cheer our loneliness,Her own dear native sky.With love, the precious treasure came;I drew her to my breast,Gazed in her heaven-lit eye of blue,And felt—how richly blest!She grew in beauty day by day,More dear each passing hour,Until we came to feel our birdWould never leave our bower.The rich, wild sweetness of her song,Rung on the morning air,And mildly, on the evening breeze,It told the hour of prayer.We thought when darkness frowned above,And wint’ry winds went by—’Twould still be summerin our home,And sunshineon our sky.With our own sweet minstrel ever nearNo sorrow could invade;Her song of love would cheer us still,And bless our woodland shade.Now, many a weary day hath passedSince from my tearful eyeHer untaught pinion cleft the air,And vanished in the sky.Why has she gone? Seeks she afarSome green isle’s shadier bowers?Some happier nest—serener airs—And purer love than ours?Oh not on earth! not here—not here!Clouds veil our brightest skies,And summer’s mildest breezes,Chill our bird of Paradise.The treasure which we deemed our ownWas briefly lent, not given.Our Father knew his spotless bird,And called her home to Heaven.
My bird has flown, my gentle bird!Four autumn suns gone by,She left, to cheer our loneliness,Her own dear native sky.With love, the precious treasure came;I drew her to my breast,Gazed in her heaven-lit eye of blue,And felt—how richly blest!She grew in beauty day by day,More dear each passing hour,Until we came to feel our birdWould never leave our bower.The rich, wild sweetness of her song,Rung on the morning air,And mildly, on the evening breeze,It told the hour of prayer.We thought when darkness frowned above,And wint’ry winds went by—’Twould still be summerin our home,And sunshineon our sky.With our own sweet minstrel ever nearNo sorrow could invade;Her song of love would cheer us still,And bless our woodland shade.Now, many a weary day hath passedSince from my tearful eyeHer untaught pinion cleft the air,And vanished in the sky.Why has she gone? Seeks she afarSome green isle’s shadier bowers?Some happier nest—serener airs—And purer love than ours?Oh not on earth! not here—not here!Clouds veil our brightest skies,And summer’s mildest breezes,Chill our bird of Paradise.The treasure which we deemed our ownWas briefly lent, not given.Our Father knew his spotless bird,And called her home to Heaven.
My bird has flown, my gentle bird!
Four autumn suns gone by,
She left, to cheer our loneliness,
Her own dear native sky.
With love, the precious treasure came;
I drew her to my breast,
Gazed in her heaven-lit eye of blue,
And felt—how richly blest!
She grew in beauty day by day,
More dear each passing hour,
Until we came to feel our bird
Would never leave our bower.
The rich, wild sweetness of her song,
Rung on the morning air,
And mildly, on the evening breeze,
It told the hour of prayer.
We thought when darkness frowned above,
And wint’ry winds went by—
’Twould still be summerin our home,
And sunshineon our sky.
With our own sweet minstrel ever near
No sorrow could invade;
Her song of love would cheer us still,
And bless our woodland shade.
Now, many a weary day hath passed
Since from my tearful eye
Her untaught pinion cleft the air,
And vanished in the sky.
Why has she gone? Seeks she afar
Some green isle’s shadier bowers?
Some happier nest—serener airs—
And purer love than ours?
Oh not on earth! not here—not here!
Clouds veil our brightest skies,
And summer’s mildest breezes,
Chill our bird of Paradise.
The treasure which we deemed our own
Was briefly lent, not given.
Our Father knew his spotless bird,
And called her home to Heaven.
LESSONS IN GERMAN.
———
BY MISS M. J. B. BROWNE.
———
“Tut-tut-tut! don’t tell me ‘it means nothing,’ Sara,” said my uncle Waldron, as he assumed quite an air of resentment, and seized in his hand a cluster of cousin Sara’s beautiful ringlets, school-master fashion, as if about to “pull her hair” for some just discovered mischief.
“Why uncle!” expostulated Sara, looking up in his face, with a smile that would have melted an iceberg, so warm and sunny was it—much more did it melt the feigned frown on the brow of my bachelor uncle—“do let me assure you”—
“I don’twantany assurances niece—what need has a man of assurances when he sees with his own eyes, especially if he has as much reason for confidence in his visual organs as I have inmine,” smilingly retorted uncle Theodore. “Don’t I catch him here most provokingly often? and is there not such a commerce in books between you, as would justify the suspicion that I have not a library of five thousand volumes, of all sorts of books, in all sorts of languages, both living and dead, besides shares in I know not how many circulating libraries”—
“But uncle,” I interposed, “you must remember that Mr. Greydon is theminister, and he comes to make cousin Sarapastoral calls, and to impart spiritual counsel—” I left my apology unfinished, for I was obliged to stop and laugh at its mis-placed sanctimony.
“Yes, yes, yes, miss!” replied uncle The., fairly driven into one of his merriest laughs—“and by all means his ‘spiritual’ what-did-you-call-it, must be communicated inGerman—no medium butGermannow—a little while ago nothing butFrench—by and by it will be hocus-pocus, or some other such gibberish!”
“Dear uncle,” interrupted poor blushing Sara, “I’mstudyingGerman, and Mr. Greydon is so kind as to give me two lessons a week, out of his very valuable time.”
“Fol-de-rol, every word of it—if you wanted a German teacher, why didn’t I ever hear of it, so I could have procured a genuine imported one. But suppose he does cometwicea week to give you a lesson, he comes theothertwice to—what, Sara? Help get it?” And Sara, finding herself circumvented on that track, blushed redder, and uncle Waldron laughed merrier than ever.
My other apology for the frequency of Mr. Greydon’s visits, was so nearly a failure, I concluded this time,silencewas the “better part of valor,” so I left cousin Sara, to her own extrications from the cross-examinations of a wily old lawyer. As soon as she could make herself heard above uncle’s successive peals of merriment, she said, rather imploringly—
“Why, uncle Waldron, don’t make so much sport of me. You know I am so much alone—I am sure I think Mr. Greydon is very kind.”
“Yes, yes, niece—very kind, indeed—I see. ‘Aloneso much,’ did you say? How comes that, pray? Isn’t here Maria, and isn’t she company enough? You pay my guest but a wretched compliment, putting her society down as nothing.”
“O no, no, uncle,” said Sara, “I don’t meanthat—indeed you are too wicked to-night. Maria knows how truly I value her society. But she is here only very little—didn’t I stay all winter alone, when you kept promising me a cousin or friend to stay with me?”
“Well, well, uncle,” said I, “there is one thing for your assurance—cousin Sara has repeatedly declared she would not marry a clergyman!”
“That’s what she has—Sara,” said uncle Theodore, looking rather equivocally in her face, as if he were prepared to overturn whatever she might depose, “do you hold of that mind still?”
“Certainly, sir,” responded Sara, with some ill-concealed hesitation, and not a little confusion, “I am not wont to vacillate much in my opinions.”
“And you make a life-long bargain with me to retain your post as my house-keeper, in presence of cousin Maria as witness, do you?”
“Yes, sir, unless you release me some time, at your pleasure.”
“You are a noble girl, Sara, darling—I’ll buy you that Arabian to-morrow, and you shall have a groom on purpose to attend him;” and my uncle laid his hand tenderly on cousin Sara’s beautiful head, in token of his satisfaction.
By this time it was his stated hour for retiring—he took the “big ha’ Bible” from its place, reverently read a holy psalm, and then commending his household to the care of an Almighty Protector, in a low and fervent prayer, he bade us good night, and left the drawing room.
——
My uncle Waldron, or Judge Waldron, for he had been promoted to “the bench,” was a bachelor—a hopelessly confirmed bachelor. Not that he under-valued woman—no—he regarded her with the noblest, loftiest, and most rational admiration of any man I ever knew. But his notions were peculiar, and perhaps not a little fastidious in the matter of what awifeshould be, so he never proposed himself as a husband to any lady of his widely extended and really valuable circle of acquaintances, to the infinite astonishment of some of them. In the course oflong yearshe became thoroughly tired of being aboarder—of never realizing any of the quiet pleasures and sympathies that cluster round the hearth and theheart of home. So he erected a beautiful villa, just a delightful drive from the city, adorned it within and without with all the decorations and elegancies which could be suggested by the highest refinement of taste, and a liberal expenditure of the amplest means, and then we surely thought, as who would not, that having built his nest, my uncle was about to choose his mate, and pass the winter of his life in the calm sunshine of domestic bliss. But we “reckoned without our host,” in that calculation. Uncle Waldron had other intentions.
Now cousin Sara was the eldest niece in the family circle, and from her very birth she had been uncle Theodore’s acknowledged favorite—even in her extreme babyhood he had condescended to take her in his arms, and rock her for half-an-hour—an instance of partiality, by which none of us could boast of being distinguished. We all wished that we could have been the eldest niece, so we could have been the favorite—how much more we wished we could bejust likecousin Sara.
Well, when his house was all complete, uncle Waldron proposed to Sara to assume the responsibilities of its mistress, and threatened, in a way she quite understood, to “cut her off with a shilling,” in case she declined, so she followed her own inclination, and very readily assented.
Cousin Sara was a star of the first magnitude in one of the most elegant and policed literary constellations in her native city. Faultlessly lovely in person, in manners, and in mind, her heart over-flowing with the freshest and most cheerful piety, woman’s brightest ornament, it was a mystery to us all, how she happened to live till she was twenty-seven years old, without taking those responsibilities which most of our sex, without atitheof her attractions or her abilities, assume, long enough before they have the maturity and richness of twenty-seven invaluable years in their favor—especially strange we thought it, when so many most enviable inducements had been urged upon her acceptance. But nobody seemed to please our fastidious cousin Sara.
When she had been some months at uncle Waldron’s, it became very evident tous, quizzical spies ofcousins, who took great pleasure in spending a few weeks with her now and then, that she was more interested in the society and person of the Rev. Robert Greydon,than she was really willing we should discover. She hushed our impertinence in a moment, if we undertook to rally her on the subject, by a peculiarly imploring expression of countenance, which only made us think so all the more. Mr. Greydon, as has been already intimated, was the clergyman of the church where uncle Waldron worshiped. Cousin Sara had often declared that she would not marry aclergymanor awidower. Mr. Greydon, though still a young man, united in his personboththose disqualifications, so we managed, in the face of all indications to the contrary, to conclude that we had nothing to fear. If he hadnotbeen a widower and clergyman, we should have chosen him, out of all the world, for Sara’s husband—for he possessed all those rare and invaluable excellencies of character, which Sara deserved, if ever a lovely woman did, in the man of her choice.
Mr. Greydon was a very prudent man in his pastoral and social intercourse. He did not wish to give the “silly women” of his parish, who, as in duty bound, would keep a very faithful look-out after him, any occasion to tattle—but the arrangement of the German lessons was just the thing—it afforded him the most unimpeachable excuse for enjoying Sara’s society without sounding an alarum in any body’s ears.
——
“I would not light the lamp yet, Miss Hastings—this moonlight is so magical,” said Mr. Greydon, as he sat in the bay window of uncle’s drawing-room, one glorious evening in early summer. Indeed it was as lovely an evening, and as fair a scene, as pencil of artist ever aspired to sketch. I was sitting on the broad piazza, trying what my tyro pencil could do with a landscape so wonderfully beautiful.
“You are sad, to-night, Mr. Greydon,” said Sara, desisting from her purpose, and taking a chair by the table that had been drawn near the window.
“No—notsadexactly, Miss Hastings—only of adoubtfulmind,” replied Mr. Greydon.
“Indeed!” gayly responded Sara—“but that must not be—it is expresslyforbiddenin Scripture and—”
“I know it Miss Hastings,” interrupted Mr. Greydon, with forced playfulness in his tone, as if he were determined to rally himself—“but it does not respect any matters ofdoctrine—rather ofpractice, I might say.Youare always so cheerful and light-hearted, Miss Hastings, it is almost a sin to be moody in your presence.”
“If I had the burden of a pastoral charge”—Sara checked herself—“indeed, I fear it is the advantage of circumstances rather than of temperament, Mr. Greydon,” she concluded.
There was a pause—the German lesson was finished long ago—Sara had been singing, and Mr. Greydon accompanying her piano with the mellow tones of his flute. There was a hush on the air, and a hush upon our spirits. Perhaps it was the moonlight—perhaps it was the music—I don’t know—but it became oppressive, and I began to feel that it was somebody’s duty to relieve somebody’s embarrassment, by introducing a new theme for conversation, and I was about to draw their attention to some glorious shadows falling on the water in the distance, when Mr. Greydon spoke.
“Miss Hastings, I have heard—but I hope it is not true—that you have declared your intention never to marry a clergyman.”
“Indeed! Mr. Greydon—” stammered Sara, “I—who can have so mis—people report so many—” Sara stopped; I never knew her self-possession so completely recreant. Her heart assured her that if such had been her resolution at any time, certain recent circumstances had essentially shaken her purposes—so she could not assent; and to deny it just at this point would make her more uncomfortablestill. She was about to conclude the remark as a very impertinent one, when Mr. Greydon continued,
“I hope that determination is not invincible, Miss Hastings; my future happiness depends—”
My sense of honor forbade my remaining in that neighborhood any longer. I had innocently heard already more than was intended for the ears of a third party; so I gathered up my drawing materials with what haste I could, and without the sound of a foot-fall, made good my retreat to the library.
I did not see cousin Sara again till we sat at the breakfast-table the next morning, and then she looked as if she had attained the acme of a pure and rational happiness. I never saw her half so lovely—half so cheerful—half so spiritual; the dream of her whole life seemed about to unfold into a blessed reality. As we sat in her dressing-room, after breakfast, with a simplicity and confidence that made me love and admire her more than ever, she told me of her engagement with the Rev. Robert Greydon.
I opened my eyes and threw down my sewing in the most mischievous surprise.
“Why, Sara Hastings! you have said a thousand times you would not marry a minister! How can I believe you?”
“O, don’t, Maria—pray show me a little mercy; do you think,unclewas so wicked as to tell Mr. Greydon so! The truth is, young ladies had better not make such resolutions, and if they do, it is better not to express them. People cannot tell with much certainty what theywilldo, and what theywill not, till the inducement is before them.”
I assented to Sara’s philosophy, declared I never would say any such thing, and with a kiss on her glowing cheek, I heartily congratulated her, and told how sincerely I rejoiced at her choice, and her prospect of earthly happiness.
——
There is to be a wedding at Uncle Waldron’s early in September, and I am to be the first bridemaid! Truly an enviable appointment. Sweet Sara Hastings will be the bride—Mr. Greydon the proud and happy bridegroom. My dear old uncle will give away his “treasure,” and with her his villa and all its elegant arrangements, as “a marriage dower.” The villa is to become the “manse,” and uncle has, of course, stipulated that he shall, through his whole natural life, be regarded as one of the indisputable fixtures of the establishment.
THE PHANTASMAGORIA
A LEGEND OF ELD.
———
BY A. J. REQUIER.
———
PART I.The morn is looking on the lake,Beside the ruined abbey;And its fingers white on the waters shake,Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,For the pale old moon it must keep its wakeIn the dark clouds thick and shaggy!The night-wind hath a moaning tone,And it cometh moaning by;The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,That years have crumbled, one by one,Answereth—sometimes like a groan,And sometimes like a sigh.A little light through the forest-treesIs twinkling very bright,Like a distant star upon waveless seas,Or a glow-worm of the night;’Tis scarcely bigger than a pin,The little light of the village inn!It is a parlor dimly lit,And shadows on the arras flit;Shadows here and shadows there,Shadows shifting everywhere,Very thin and very tall,Moving, mingling on the wall—Till they make one shadow all!An old clock in the corner stands,Clicking! clicking! all the while;And its long and shadowy handsWould seem to say this hour is man’s,But Life hath swiftly running sands,And may wither in a smile.A fire is blazing upon the hearth,And it crackles aloud as if in mirth;By its flickering flames you may chance to seeThere are six men sitting in groups of three;They laugh and talk—they drink and drainTheir goblets, till to drink is pain,And the eyes are brighter than the brain.Three gamble at the pictured vice,And three upheave the rattling dice,The cards go round—The boxes sound—A king!—an ace!!—a deuce!—a doublet!!For luck a laugh—for loss a goblet;An aching smile and a muttered curse,A beating heart ’gainst a broken purse,Ha! ha! ha! ha! how wild the dinOf hearts that lose and hearts that win!PART II.Near the corner, and near the clock,Sits a man in a dingy frock;A slouchèd hat on his head wears he,So sunken his eyes you cannot see;His clothes are turned of a rusty hue,All worn with age and damp with dew,A traveler! I’ll be sworn he be,This stranger man so strange to see,Weary with driving adown the lea;He hath ridden hard—he hath ridden long,And would like a meal more than a song!The rattling dice come rattling down!The pictured tablets glide;But a deeper shade on the light hath grownOf the parlor dim and wide,And the embers utter a fitful blazeOn the forms that sit beside:For three look white in its ghastly rays—White as the corpse of ended days—While three are dark, and yet darker gazeOn the cards and dice with which each one playsIn the parlor dim and wide!And near the corner—near the clock—In silence sitteth still,The stranger motionless as a rock—The stranger man with a dingy frock—Who entered the room without nod or knock,As quietly as a rill.Clicking!—clicking!—all the while,The old clock soundeth on,As if it never had seen a smile,But was kin to that in the abbey-aisle—Chiming for mortals gone!Click—click! and hearts are beatingHigh with the fate of game;Click—click! the clock is repeatingIts lesson still the same—But one has uttered a fearful word,And started up like a startled bird,To dash the dice-box down;And with the click of the ancient clockIs heard the click of a pistol’s cock—And then—the deep fall, in a sudden shock,Of a body lifeless grown.The stranger is standing beside the board—The stranger that entered without a word—And to five who with cowardice quail and quake,As white as the moon looking on the lake,It was thus that the noiseless stranger spake:—“The blood which has ceased in the veins to runOf this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,This blood—a score of years ago—Belonged to a noble hidalgo,With a great estate and a greater name,And a palace proud, and a beauteous dame,And a little child—his only heir—Soft as the dew in the morning air,And as opening roses fresh and fair.“And it was this noble hidalgoWho sat in this chamber dim and low,But now a score of years ago,With a youth who bore beside his name,Which had never known the weight of blame,A treasure placed in his trusty handBy the sovereign lord of this mighty land.“And it was in this chamber dim and low,As the pendulum wide swung to and fro,That this youth and the high-born hidalgoRattled a cursèd horn;That they played for the treasures of the king,Played till the cocks began to sing.And the youth had become a worthless thing—A mark for shame and scorn.“The youth knelt down at the noble’s feet,And, weeping, prayed that he should not meetThe eyes of his master, the injured king,Who had trusted him well—a worthless thing!Yet he turned, the wretch! to stalk away,When a cry arrested his cruel way,And he heard a voice in agony say—A voice departing from its clay—‘It shall follow thy house—it shall blast thy pride—It shall be as a thorn in thine aching side—Yea, learn, unpitying child of sin,Not always lucky are those who win;For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!’The blood which has ceased in the veins to runOf this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,This blood—a score of years ago—Belonged to a noble hidalgo,AndI am—”Here the ancient clock,With a rusty, rumbling sound,Shook as it struck—and the matin cockAnswered the solemn chime of the clock,Till it echoed round and round!The embers that on the hearth-stone layDown into ashes dropped away,While from the lattice worn and white,In the moonshine waning with the night,A steed was seen like the drifted snowAs it galloped across the plain below,Swift as an arrow from its bow;With the slouchèd hat and the dingy frockOf the figure that sat near the corner and clock,And which came and went without nod or knock.And they that remained on each other bentGlances so dim and drear,That neither could tell what the other meant,Save that in all there was fear blentWith a something which told them Heaven-sentWas the doom of the dead man there.One was a laborer tough and tanned,With the toil of tilling his meager land;The next, a veteran who did wieldThe sword on many a bloody field;The third, a friar grave or gay,As chase or chancel led the way,With shaven crown and cassock gray;The fourth, a publican, sorry elf!Who cared for no one but himself;And the last, a chield, as we often ken,Unknowing their ways in the walks of men.And these departed homeward all,Far holier than they came;For the sights which their visions did appall—The signs and sights in the haunted hall—Like to the writing on the wall,Spoke with atongue of flame.PART III.Torches are gleaming to and fro,In the abbey’s ancient vault;While a mute procession slowly goInto its mouldering depths below,And, in solemn order, halt!A monk hath chanted the midnight massFor a soul that tempted its final pass;And the little, gloomy sacristanStriveth to soothe an aged man,As they lift from the blazoned bierThe stately drooping pall;And the old man sees him lying thereHis son—his heir—his all!Thou canst not soothe him, sacristan,Go to thy cord and corse—It is a fiend which gnaws that man;The worst of fiends—Remorse!It is a fiend which whispereth still,Or noon or night, or well or ill,From the dark caverns of the past,Through all their chambers dim and vast,“For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!”The lights have vanished—and the gateOf the abbey closed up desolate,And all is silent as beforeThe key was turned in that rusty door,To add a slumbering mortal moreTo its never, never failing store;All is silent save the owlThat moans like a monk from beneath his cowl,As the moon is looking on the lake,Beside the ruined abbey;And its fingers white on the waters shake,Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,For the pale old moon it must keep its wakeIn the dark clouds thick and shaggy!The night-wind hath a moaning tone,And it cometh moaning by;The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,That years have crumbled, one by one,Answereth—sometimes like a groan,And sometimes like a sigh.
PART I.The morn is looking on the lake,Beside the ruined abbey;And its fingers white on the waters shake,Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,For the pale old moon it must keep its wakeIn the dark clouds thick and shaggy!The night-wind hath a moaning tone,And it cometh moaning by;The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,That years have crumbled, one by one,Answereth—sometimes like a groan,And sometimes like a sigh.A little light through the forest-treesIs twinkling very bright,Like a distant star upon waveless seas,Or a glow-worm of the night;’Tis scarcely bigger than a pin,The little light of the village inn!It is a parlor dimly lit,And shadows on the arras flit;Shadows here and shadows there,Shadows shifting everywhere,Very thin and very tall,Moving, mingling on the wall—Till they make one shadow all!An old clock in the corner stands,Clicking! clicking! all the while;And its long and shadowy handsWould seem to say this hour is man’s,But Life hath swiftly running sands,And may wither in a smile.A fire is blazing upon the hearth,And it crackles aloud as if in mirth;By its flickering flames you may chance to seeThere are six men sitting in groups of three;They laugh and talk—they drink and drainTheir goblets, till to drink is pain,And the eyes are brighter than the brain.Three gamble at the pictured vice,And three upheave the rattling dice,The cards go round—The boxes sound—A king!—an ace!!—a deuce!—a doublet!!For luck a laugh—for loss a goblet;An aching smile and a muttered curse,A beating heart ’gainst a broken purse,Ha! ha! ha! ha! how wild the dinOf hearts that lose and hearts that win!PART II.Near the corner, and near the clock,Sits a man in a dingy frock;A slouchèd hat on his head wears he,So sunken his eyes you cannot see;His clothes are turned of a rusty hue,All worn with age and damp with dew,A traveler! I’ll be sworn he be,This stranger man so strange to see,Weary with driving adown the lea;He hath ridden hard—he hath ridden long,And would like a meal more than a song!The rattling dice come rattling down!The pictured tablets glide;But a deeper shade on the light hath grownOf the parlor dim and wide,And the embers utter a fitful blazeOn the forms that sit beside:For three look white in its ghastly rays—White as the corpse of ended days—While three are dark, and yet darker gazeOn the cards and dice with which each one playsIn the parlor dim and wide!And near the corner—near the clock—In silence sitteth still,The stranger motionless as a rock—The stranger man with a dingy frock—Who entered the room without nod or knock,As quietly as a rill.Clicking!—clicking!—all the while,The old clock soundeth on,As if it never had seen a smile,But was kin to that in the abbey-aisle—Chiming for mortals gone!Click—click! and hearts are beatingHigh with the fate of game;Click—click! the clock is repeatingIts lesson still the same—But one has uttered a fearful word,And started up like a startled bird,To dash the dice-box down;And with the click of the ancient clockIs heard the click of a pistol’s cock—And then—the deep fall, in a sudden shock,Of a body lifeless grown.The stranger is standing beside the board—The stranger that entered without a word—And to five who with cowardice quail and quake,As white as the moon looking on the lake,It was thus that the noiseless stranger spake:—“The blood which has ceased in the veins to runOf this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,This blood—a score of years ago—Belonged to a noble hidalgo,With a great estate and a greater name,And a palace proud, and a beauteous dame,And a little child—his only heir—Soft as the dew in the morning air,And as opening roses fresh and fair.“And it was this noble hidalgoWho sat in this chamber dim and low,But now a score of years ago,With a youth who bore beside his name,Which had never known the weight of blame,A treasure placed in his trusty handBy the sovereign lord of this mighty land.“And it was in this chamber dim and low,As the pendulum wide swung to and fro,That this youth and the high-born hidalgoRattled a cursèd horn;That they played for the treasures of the king,Played till the cocks began to sing.And the youth had become a worthless thing—A mark for shame and scorn.“The youth knelt down at the noble’s feet,And, weeping, prayed that he should not meetThe eyes of his master, the injured king,Who had trusted him well—a worthless thing!Yet he turned, the wretch! to stalk away,When a cry arrested his cruel way,And he heard a voice in agony say—A voice departing from its clay—‘It shall follow thy house—it shall blast thy pride—It shall be as a thorn in thine aching side—Yea, learn, unpitying child of sin,Not always lucky are those who win;For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!’The blood which has ceased in the veins to runOf this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,This blood—a score of years ago—Belonged to a noble hidalgo,AndI am—”Here the ancient clock,With a rusty, rumbling sound,Shook as it struck—and the matin cockAnswered the solemn chime of the clock,Till it echoed round and round!The embers that on the hearth-stone layDown into ashes dropped away,While from the lattice worn and white,In the moonshine waning with the night,A steed was seen like the drifted snowAs it galloped across the plain below,Swift as an arrow from its bow;With the slouchèd hat and the dingy frockOf the figure that sat near the corner and clock,And which came and went without nod or knock.And they that remained on each other bentGlances so dim and drear,That neither could tell what the other meant,Save that in all there was fear blentWith a something which told them Heaven-sentWas the doom of the dead man there.One was a laborer tough and tanned,With the toil of tilling his meager land;The next, a veteran who did wieldThe sword on many a bloody field;The third, a friar grave or gay,As chase or chancel led the way,With shaven crown and cassock gray;The fourth, a publican, sorry elf!Who cared for no one but himself;And the last, a chield, as we often ken,Unknowing their ways in the walks of men.And these departed homeward all,Far holier than they came;For the sights which their visions did appall—The signs and sights in the haunted hall—Like to the writing on the wall,Spoke with atongue of flame.PART III.Torches are gleaming to and fro,In the abbey’s ancient vault;While a mute procession slowly goInto its mouldering depths below,And, in solemn order, halt!A monk hath chanted the midnight massFor a soul that tempted its final pass;And the little, gloomy sacristanStriveth to soothe an aged man,As they lift from the blazoned bierThe stately drooping pall;And the old man sees him lying thereHis son—his heir—his all!Thou canst not soothe him, sacristan,Go to thy cord and corse—It is a fiend which gnaws that man;The worst of fiends—Remorse!It is a fiend which whispereth still,Or noon or night, or well or ill,From the dark caverns of the past,Through all their chambers dim and vast,“For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!”The lights have vanished—and the gateOf the abbey closed up desolate,And all is silent as beforeThe key was turned in that rusty door,To add a slumbering mortal moreTo its never, never failing store;All is silent save the owlThat moans like a monk from beneath his cowl,As the moon is looking on the lake,Beside the ruined abbey;And its fingers white on the waters shake,Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,For the pale old moon it must keep its wakeIn the dark clouds thick and shaggy!The night-wind hath a moaning tone,And it cometh moaning by;The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,That years have crumbled, one by one,Answereth—sometimes like a groan,And sometimes like a sigh.
PART I.
The morn is looking on the lake,
Beside the ruined abbey;
And its fingers white on the waters shake,
Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,
For the pale old moon it must keep its wake
In the dark clouds thick and shaggy!
The night-wind hath a moaning tone,
And it cometh moaning by;
The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,
That years have crumbled, one by one,
Answereth—sometimes like a groan,
And sometimes like a sigh.
A little light through the forest-trees
Is twinkling very bright,
Like a distant star upon waveless seas,
Or a glow-worm of the night;
’Tis scarcely bigger than a pin,
The little light of the village inn!
It is a parlor dimly lit,
And shadows on the arras flit;
Shadows here and shadows there,
Shadows shifting everywhere,
Very thin and very tall,
Moving, mingling on the wall—
Till they make one shadow all!
An old clock in the corner stands,
Clicking! clicking! all the while;
And its long and shadowy hands
Would seem to say this hour is man’s,
But Life hath swiftly running sands,
And may wither in a smile.
A fire is blazing upon the hearth,
And it crackles aloud as if in mirth;
By its flickering flames you may chance to see
There are six men sitting in groups of three;
They laugh and talk—they drink and drain
Their goblets, till to drink is pain,
And the eyes are brighter than the brain.
Three gamble at the pictured vice,
And three upheave the rattling dice,
The cards go round—
The boxes sound—
A king!—an ace!!—a deuce!—a doublet!!
For luck a laugh—for loss a goblet;
An aching smile and a muttered curse,
A beating heart ’gainst a broken purse,
Ha! ha! ha! ha! how wild the din
Of hearts that lose and hearts that win!
PART II.
Near the corner, and near the clock,
Sits a man in a dingy frock;
A slouchèd hat on his head wears he,
So sunken his eyes you cannot see;
His clothes are turned of a rusty hue,
All worn with age and damp with dew,
A traveler! I’ll be sworn he be,
This stranger man so strange to see,
Weary with driving adown the lea;
He hath ridden hard—he hath ridden long,
And would like a meal more than a song!
The rattling dice come rattling down!
The pictured tablets glide;
But a deeper shade on the light hath grown
Of the parlor dim and wide,
And the embers utter a fitful blaze
On the forms that sit beside:
For three look white in its ghastly rays—
White as the corpse of ended days—
While three are dark, and yet darker gaze
On the cards and dice with which each one plays
In the parlor dim and wide!
And near the corner—near the clock—
In silence sitteth still,
The stranger motionless as a rock—
The stranger man with a dingy frock—
Who entered the room without nod or knock,
As quietly as a rill.
Clicking!—clicking!—all the while,
The old clock soundeth on,
As if it never had seen a smile,
But was kin to that in the abbey-aisle—
Chiming for mortals gone!
Click—click! and hearts are beating
High with the fate of game;
Click—click! the clock is repeating
Its lesson still the same—
But one has uttered a fearful word,
And started up like a startled bird,
To dash the dice-box down;
And with the click of the ancient clock
Is heard the click of a pistol’s cock—
And then—the deep fall, in a sudden shock,
Of a body lifeless grown.
The stranger is standing beside the board—
The stranger that entered without a word—
And to five who with cowardice quail and quake,
As white as the moon looking on the lake,
It was thus that the noiseless stranger spake:—
“The blood which has ceased in the veins to run
Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,
This blood—a score of years ago—
Belonged to a noble hidalgo,
With a great estate and a greater name,
And a palace proud, and a beauteous dame,
And a little child—his only heir—
Soft as the dew in the morning air,
And as opening roses fresh and fair.
“And it was this noble hidalgo
Who sat in this chamber dim and low,
But now a score of years ago,
With a youth who bore beside his name,
Which had never known the weight of blame,
A treasure placed in his trusty hand
By the sovereign lord of this mighty land.
“And it was in this chamber dim and low,
As the pendulum wide swung to and fro,
That this youth and the high-born hidalgo
Rattled a cursèd horn;
That they played for the treasures of the king,
Played till the cocks began to sing.
And the youth had become a worthless thing—
A mark for shame and scorn.
“The youth knelt down at the noble’s feet,
And, weeping, prayed that he should not meet
The eyes of his master, the injured king,
Who had trusted him well—a worthless thing!
Yet he turned, the wretch! to stalk away,
When a cry arrested his cruel way,
And he heard a voice in agony say—
A voice departing from its clay—
‘It shall follow thy house—it shall blast thy pride—
It shall be as a thorn in thine aching side—
Yea, learn, unpitying child of sin,
Not always lucky are those who win;
For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,
Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,
Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!’
The blood which has ceased in the veins to run
Of this form that shall nevermore feel the sun,
This blood—a score of years ago—
Belonged to a noble hidalgo,
AndI am—”
Here the ancient clock,
With a rusty, rumbling sound,
Shook as it struck—and the matin cock
Answered the solemn chime of the clock,
Till it echoed round and round!
The embers that on the hearth-stone lay
Down into ashes dropped away,
While from the lattice worn and white,
In the moonshine waning with the night,
A steed was seen like the drifted snow
As it galloped across the plain below,
Swift as an arrow from its bow;
With the slouchèd hat and the dingy frock
Of the figure that sat near the corner and clock,
And which came and went without nod or knock.
And they that remained on each other bent
Glances so dim and drear,
That neither could tell what the other meant,
Save that in all there was fear blent
With a something which told them Heaven-sent
Was the doom of the dead man there.
One was a laborer tough and tanned,
With the toil of tilling his meager land;
The next, a veteran who did wield
The sword on many a bloody field;
The third, a friar grave or gay,
As chase or chancel led the way,
With shaven crown and cassock gray;
The fourth, a publican, sorry elf!
Who cared for no one but himself;
And the last, a chield, as we often ken,
Unknowing their ways in the walks of men.
And these departed homeward all,
Far holier than they came;
For the sights which their visions did appall—
The signs and sights in the haunted hall—
Like to the writing on the wall,
Spoke with atongue of flame.
PART III.
Torches are gleaming to and fro,
In the abbey’s ancient vault;
While a mute procession slowly go
Into its mouldering depths below,
And, in solemn order, halt!
A monk hath chanted the midnight mass
For a soul that tempted its final pass;
And the little, gloomy sacristan
Striveth to soothe an aged man,
As they lift from the blazoned bier
The stately drooping pall;
And the old man sees him lying there
His son—his heir—his all!
Thou canst not soothe him, sacristan,
Go to thy cord and corse—
It is a fiend which gnaws that man;
The worst of fiends—Remorse!
It is a fiend which whispereth still,
Or noon or night, or well or ill,
From the dark caverns of the past,
Through all their chambers dim and vast,
“For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,
Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,
Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!”
The lights have vanished—and the gate
Of the abbey closed up desolate,
And all is silent as before
The key was turned in that rusty door,
To add a slumbering mortal more
To its never, never failing store;
All is silent save the owl
That moans like a monk from beneath his cowl,
As the moon is looking on the lake,
Beside the ruined abbey;
And its fingers white on the waters shake,
Like the quivering curls of a silver snake,
For the pale old moon it must keep its wake
In the dark clouds thick and shaggy!
The night-wind hath a moaning tone,
And it cometh moaning by;
The Hart’s-tongue on the ancient stone,
That years have crumbled, one by one,
Answereth—sometimes like a groan,
And sometimes like a sigh.
THE BEATING OF THE HEART.
———
BY RICHARD HAYWARDE.
———
Heart that beateth, trembleth, yearneth,Now with grief and pain assailed,Now with joy triumphant burneth,Now in sorrow veiled;Moveless us the wave-worn rockIn the battle’s deadly shock,When the charging lines advance,Doom on every lance;Yet melting at some mimic show,Or plaintive tale of wo!Faint with love—of conquest proud—Seared with hate—with fury riven,Like the fire-armed thunder-cloudBy the tempest driven:Hark! the chords with rapture swell,Flood on flood melodious flowing,Sudden! strikes the passing bell,Swinging with reverbing knell,While the soul is going!Though at times, “Oh, Death!” I cry,“Ope the door, thy son entreateth!”Though from life I strive to fly,Still the heart-clock beateth—No, not yet I wish for thee,Gaunt and pale remorseless king!Soon, too soon, thou’lt come for me,O’er life triumphing.Glow and dance in every vein,Crimson current, ruby river,To thy source return again,As the teeming summer-rainSeeks again the parent main,The all-bounteous giver;Beat, dear heart, against my breast,Tell me thou art there again—Life and thee together restIn that hold of joy and pain—Stronghold yet of life thou art,Restless, ever-working heart!Night comes draped in shadows sombre,Morning robed in light appears,Minutes, hours, withouten number,Days and months and yearsPass like dreams; yet still thou artEver busy, restless heart!When his doom the captive heareth,How thy summons, stroke on stroke,Tells the fatal moment neareth,Sounding like the heavy strokeDistant heard as falls the oak!How the maiden fair would hideThee within her bosom white,Still against her tender sideThrobs the soft delight;Every pulse reveals the flame,Every fibre softly thrills,But how innocent the shameThat her bosom fills.In the hero, firm as steel,In the virgin, soft as snow,In the coward, citadelWhere the recreant blood doth goHiding from the sight of foe.In the mother’s anxious breastWho can picture thy unrest?When her babe lies low—With the fitful fever burning,No relief—still restless turningEver to and fro!In the bride what mixed commotionWhen the words, “Be man and wife”Thrill her with that soft emotionKnown but once in life.Priceless jewel! hidden treasure!All the world to thee is naught;Working loom of ceaseless pleasure,Weaving without stint or measureWoof and web of thought:Hive of Life! where drone and beeStruggle for the mastery,In the never-ceasing motion,Like a great star in the ocean,Shines the soul! thy heavenly part,Throbbing, life-assuring heart!
Heart that beateth, trembleth, yearneth,Now with grief and pain assailed,Now with joy triumphant burneth,Now in sorrow veiled;Moveless us the wave-worn rockIn the battle’s deadly shock,When the charging lines advance,Doom on every lance;Yet melting at some mimic show,Or plaintive tale of wo!Faint with love—of conquest proud—Seared with hate—with fury riven,Like the fire-armed thunder-cloudBy the tempest driven:Hark! the chords with rapture swell,Flood on flood melodious flowing,Sudden! strikes the passing bell,Swinging with reverbing knell,While the soul is going!Though at times, “Oh, Death!” I cry,“Ope the door, thy son entreateth!”Though from life I strive to fly,Still the heart-clock beateth—No, not yet I wish for thee,Gaunt and pale remorseless king!Soon, too soon, thou’lt come for me,O’er life triumphing.Glow and dance in every vein,Crimson current, ruby river,To thy source return again,As the teeming summer-rainSeeks again the parent main,The all-bounteous giver;Beat, dear heart, against my breast,Tell me thou art there again—Life and thee together restIn that hold of joy and pain—Stronghold yet of life thou art,Restless, ever-working heart!Night comes draped in shadows sombre,Morning robed in light appears,Minutes, hours, withouten number,Days and months and yearsPass like dreams; yet still thou artEver busy, restless heart!When his doom the captive heareth,How thy summons, stroke on stroke,Tells the fatal moment neareth,Sounding like the heavy strokeDistant heard as falls the oak!How the maiden fair would hideThee within her bosom white,Still against her tender sideThrobs the soft delight;Every pulse reveals the flame,Every fibre softly thrills,But how innocent the shameThat her bosom fills.In the hero, firm as steel,In the virgin, soft as snow,In the coward, citadelWhere the recreant blood doth goHiding from the sight of foe.In the mother’s anxious breastWho can picture thy unrest?When her babe lies low—With the fitful fever burning,No relief—still restless turningEver to and fro!In the bride what mixed commotionWhen the words, “Be man and wife”Thrill her with that soft emotionKnown but once in life.Priceless jewel! hidden treasure!All the world to thee is naught;Working loom of ceaseless pleasure,Weaving without stint or measureWoof and web of thought:Hive of Life! where drone and beeStruggle for the mastery,In the never-ceasing motion,Like a great star in the ocean,Shines the soul! thy heavenly part,Throbbing, life-assuring heart!
Heart that beateth, trembleth, yearneth,
Now with grief and pain assailed,
Now with joy triumphant burneth,
Now in sorrow veiled;
Moveless us the wave-worn rock
In the battle’s deadly shock,
When the charging lines advance,
Doom on every lance;
Yet melting at some mimic show,
Or plaintive tale of wo!
Faint with love—of conquest proud—
Seared with hate—with fury riven,
Like the fire-armed thunder-cloud
By the tempest driven:
Hark! the chords with rapture swell,
Flood on flood melodious flowing,
Sudden! strikes the passing bell,
Swinging with reverbing knell,
While the soul is going!
Though at times, “Oh, Death!” I cry,
“Ope the door, thy son entreateth!”
Though from life I strive to fly,
Still the heart-clock beateth—
No, not yet I wish for thee,
Gaunt and pale remorseless king!
Soon, too soon, thou’lt come for me,
O’er life triumphing.
Glow and dance in every vein,
Crimson current, ruby river,
To thy source return again,
As the teeming summer-rain
Seeks again the parent main,
The all-bounteous giver;
Beat, dear heart, against my breast,
Tell me thou art there again—
Life and thee together rest
In that hold of joy and pain—
Stronghold yet of life thou art,
Restless, ever-working heart!
Night comes draped in shadows sombre,
Morning robed in light appears,
Minutes, hours, withouten number,
Days and months and years
Pass like dreams; yet still thou art
Ever busy, restless heart!
When his doom the captive heareth,
How thy summons, stroke on stroke,
Tells the fatal moment neareth,
Sounding like the heavy stroke
Distant heard as falls the oak!
How the maiden fair would hide
Thee within her bosom white,
Still against her tender side
Throbs the soft delight;
Every pulse reveals the flame,
Every fibre softly thrills,
But how innocent the shame
That her bosom fills.
In the hero, firm as steel,
In the virgin, soft as snow,
In the coward, citadel
Where the recreant blood doth go
Hiding from the sight of foe.
In the mother’s anxious breast
Who can picture thy unrest?
When her babe lies low—
With the fitful fever burning,
No relief—still restless turning
Ever to and fro!
In the bride what mixed commotion
When the words, “Be man and wife”
Thrill her with that soft emotion
Known but once in life.
Priceless jewel! hidden treasure!
All the world to thee is naught;
Working loom of ceaseless pleasure,
Weaving without stint or measure
Woof and web of thought:
Hive of Life! where drone and bee
Struggle for the mastery,
In the never-ceasing motion,
Like a great star in the ocean,
Shines the soul! thy heavenly part,
Throbbing, life-assuring heart!
DOCTOR SIAN SENG
OR THE CHINAMAN IN PARIS
———
(FROM THE FRENCH OF MERY.)
———
I, the Doctor Sian Seng to Tching-bit-ha-ki.
On receipt of this letter forthwith go to Houang-xa, to the yellow temple of Fo, and burn upon the altar a stick of camphor for me, for I have arrived safely at Paris. I have sailed five thousand three hundred and twenty leagues since my embarkation at Hoang-Ho, with peril of life beneath my feet the whole voyage—and Providence has protected me.
May my ancestors deign to watch over me more than ever at this moment! Paris is a field of battle, where bullets are represented by wheels and horses; those who have neither carriage nor horses, perish miserably in the flower of their age. There are seventeen hospitals for the wounded; I saw one yesterday with this inscription, in large letters, “Hospital for Incurables.” The wounded who are carried there, know when they enter that they will never come out alive—they know their fate! It is very charitable on the part of the doctors. You can now see that the Barbarians understand civilization!
Notwithstanding the sage precepts of Li-ki, and the law of Menu, I have purchased a carriage on four wheels, drawn by horses, and have wept in anticipation of the unhappy fate of those I am about to send to the “Hospital for Incurables;” but there are but two modes of living in Paris—you must crush others, or be crushed yourself. I think it most prudent to do the first.
I went down to the river to make my ablutions, and was about to commence this holy act, when a policeman threatened me with hisbaton. In looking at the water, I was consoled for the deprivation, as it had not the pure and limpid flow of our own Yu-ho, which runs by Pekin under the marble bridge of Pekiao. The Seine is a dirty yellow stream, which descends to the ocean for a bath. I shall wait until it comes back!
I was told that Christians take a bath at home, which costs two francs. I called for one, and was furnished with an iron box, very much resembling the coffins in the cemetery of Ming-tang-y; one gets into them and lies upon the back, with the hands crossed upon the breast, like a true believer who has died in the faith of Fo.
In Paris, each house is governed by a tyrant, who is called a porter. There are twenty thousand porters here, who make a million of inhabitants unhappy and desolate. They sometimes make a Revolution to overturn a poor devil, called a king; but they have never overturned the twenty thousand porters. Mine receives my orders with loud explosions of laughter, and when I threaten him, he says to me, “You are a Chinaman!” Since he thinks to insult me by calling me by the name of my country, I make the matter equal by crying, “And you are a Frenchman!”
“Render insult for insult,” says the sage Menu. These things have most astonished me in Paris.
My first duty (in quality of my rank in the Mingtang, the greatest society ofsavansin the universe) has been to visit the Royal Library, renowned here as “a vast depot of all human knowledge.” This asylum of meditation, of reflection and study, is situated in the most noisy street in the city; the millions of books it contains shake continually with the passage of carriages and other vehicles. It is very much as if you and I should go for instruction between the bridge Tchoung-yu-Ho-Khias, where all the cats in Pekin are sold, and the street Toung-Kiang-mi-Kiang, where salutes are fired night and day!
One of the librarians received me with great politeness, and offered me a chair.
“Sir,” said I, in tolerable French, “I would be much obliged if you could lend me, for a few moments, the ‘History of the Dynasties of the Five Brothers Loung, and of the sixty-four Ché-ti’? You know that these glorious reigns commenced immediately after the third race of the first emperors—those of the Jin-Hoang, or the Emperors of Men, to distinguish them from the second race, called Ti-Hoang, or Emperors of the Earth.”
Thesavantdid not appear as if he knew it. He put into his nose some of the forbidden opium, and after reflecting awhile, said,
“Lao-yé, we have not that.”
He appeared pleased to show me that he understood that “Lao-yé” was equivalent to “sir,” and repeated it a thousand times during our conversation.
“You know, sir,” said I, continuing, “that after the glorious reigns of Koung-san-che, of Tchen Min, of Y-ti-ché, and of Houx-toun-che, came the reigns, still more glorious, of the seventy-one families, and that so much glory was only effaced by the birth of the immortal Emperor Ki, the greatest musician the world ever saw, and the inventor of Chinese politeness. I would like to consult, in this ‘vast depôt of all human knowledge,’ the history of the immortal Ki.”
The nose of thephilosophereceived a second time a pinch of the forbidden opium. He then opened an enormous handkerchief of Madras, and suddenly jerking the head, neck, and hand, made a great noise resembling that of a prolonged stroke upon a gong. When this tempest of the brain had passed by, he folded up his Madras, drew it five times across his face, and said,
“We have not the history of the immortal Ki, your emperor.”
“You have nothing, then,” said I, with that calmness which arises from wisdom, and which is humiliating to those Barbarians whom the genius ofMenuhas never enlightened.
The learned man crossed his hands and inclined his head, shutting his eyes, which means “Nothing,” in the language of the universe.
Nevertheless, I continued my requests.
“Since you have no books in this ‘vast depôt of all human knowledge,’ have you any maps?”
“Oh, maps!” said he, with the smile of a resuscitatedsavant, “we have all kinds of maps, from the map of the Roman Emperor Theodosius to that of ‘dame de cœur.’”
This answer, I have since been told, is abon mot, apparently made by this man of study to relieve his mind ofennui.
“Will you then show me,” said I, “the map of the Celestial Empire, called Tai-thsing-i-thoung icki?”
The Madras again covered the visage of thesavant; the box of opium was exhibited, and a shake of the head, covered with a white powder, announced to me that the map I sought did not exist at this vast depôt.
“Wait,” said he to me, with a joyous expression, “I can, nevertheless, show you a few Chinese books which will please you. Follow me, lao-yé.”
I followed him.
We descended into some subterranean galleries, like to those of the Indian temples of the “Elephant.” The air was infected with camphor and whale oil. Right and left one could see by the twilight a great quantity of busts, in plaster, of the great men of France, all dead—because, I am told, there are never any living great ones there.
“See!” said my conductor, “this is the shelf of Chinese books.”
They were Persian.
I thanked thephilosophewith that simple politeness which was invented by our immortal Ki, and left the library.
As I passed to my lodgings, I saw a crowd collected near some scaffolding; and on inquiring of my coachman what was the cause of it, was told that they were erecting a monument to a great man, dead two hundred years ago, whose name was Molière. He composedchefs-d’œuvre, which were hissed at their performance; he was persecuted by the court, martyrized by his wife and his creditors, and died miserably at the theatre between two suet candles. They refused the honors of burial to his remains; and now, two hundred years after his death, his countrymen, to show their gratitude, erect a monument to his memory, to recompense his sufferings.
In most things the French are lively and mercurial; but in the matter of gratitude, they take two centuries for reflection.
There is no great stone in the valley which has not “the ambition to emulate Mount Tergyton,” says a verse of Li-Ki; so at Paris they have taken it into their heads to imitate our large and endless Street of Tranquillity, “Tchang-ngan-Kiai,” which runs the whole length of the imperial palace at Pekin, and terminates at the most beautiful of the seventeen gates of the city, “Thsiam Men,” the gate of “Military Glory.”
I felt pride while traversing their Rue Rivoli, in thinking what a miserable imitation it was of our incomparable “tchang-ngan-Kiai;” my national vanity was appeased.
It was in following this street that I came to another palace, inhabited by the four hundred and seventy emperors who govern Paris, France, and Africa, and whom they call “Deputies.” One must have a little dirty piece of paper to gain admittancethere. You give this little paper to a man with a red face and a saucy-looking nose, who permits you to enter. The four hundred and seventy emperors, each sit at the bottom of a dark well, which seems lighted by the moon in her last quarter. An old emperor, with a pleasing and paternal countenance, named Mr. Sosé, governs the four hundred and seventy others, by playing tunes upon a little silver bell. This spectacle is very amusing. The emperors are all badly dressed andcoiffé. They talk a great deal—walk about—play tricks—sleep, or write letters to their wives, while an emperor, perched up on a high seat, sings in a low voice something mysterious, to a monotonous air, which resembles our “Hymn to our Ancestors,” without the accompaniment of our national music. Each emperor has the right to mount this seat, and sing to himself his favorite song, turning his back upon Mr. Sosé. I asked a person sitting by me, “What they called this play?” The “Representative Government,” he replied.
Salutes are not fired at Paris, except on the birth-day of the king, which renders a sojourn here almost insupportable. I suppose this wonderful spectacle does not amuse the inhabitants, since they only give it once a year; and if it does not, why do they have it even on the king’s birth-day? I asked this question of a man whom one calls a friend here, one Mr. Lefort, my neighbor at my unfurnished lodgings, who answered, “I do not understand you.”
This answer is made to me every day. One would imagine I spoke to them in Chinese.
Being deprived of these “feux de joie,” which delight us at Pekin, each evening I go to spend a few hours at the Opera, which is a theatre where they pay public screamers salaries of fifty thousand francs per annum. When a young man frightens his family by his cries, they shut him up in a place they call “the Conservatory,” where a professor of screaming gives him lessons for twenty-four moons. The pupil then enters the Opera, and acts a part before fifty copper instruments, which make a thousand times more noise than he does himself. You can well comprehend that a good Chinaman, habituated from infancy to the soft melody of the “Hymn to Aurora,” does not feel inclined to have his ears bored twice by these public screamers at the Opera; so I was about to make my adieu to the theatre the first evening, but having learned that, with a contradiction peculiarly French, they performed other pieces, in which not a word was said, I continued my visits. I was delighted with this spectacle, which they call the “ballet.” Nothing is so admirable at Paris as this performance; so that when seeing it one does not even regret Pekin. Figure to yourself fifty women, with Chinese feet, dancing “à ravir” without uttering a word. I have taken a box for all the “ballets.”
There is adanseuseamong them called Alexandrine, and surnamedFiguranté. I suppose on account of her fine figure. She has splendid black hair, which flows down in torrents to her feet; and those feet so small that, in her perpetual whirlpool ofpirouettesandentrechats, they disappear from the sight. For ten nights, would you believe it, I have watched this “danseuse” with particular attention, forgetting the high mission with which I was entrusted, and the forty revolutions of twelve moons which rest upon my head.
One evening the door of my box opened and a man entered, bowing profoundly, and with much respect, said, “Light of the Celestial Empire, Star of Tien, I have a favor to ask.”
I made him the universal sign which means, “Speak.” He did speak.
“I am a decorator of the Opera,” said he, “and am at this moment putting the finishing touches to a Chinese Kiosque for the newballetof “China Opened, or the Loves of Mademoiselle Flambeau, of Pekin;” may I request you to come, during the interval of the acts, and give a glance at my work, and suggest any improvement that may strike you?”
“Sir,” replied I, “your request is not disagreeable. Show me the way—I will follow you.”
We walked for some time along subterranean damp galleries until we arrived in the “coulisses” of the Opera. The decorator showed me his work, and I had nothing but praise to offer him; it was in the most exquisite Chinese taste.
There was a soft whispering near us of sweet and girlish voices, which caused me to turn suddenly. It was a group of youngdanseuses, who profited by the interval to gossip a little to relieve themselves, like mutes delivered from arégime forcé. A blaze of light made me close my eyes—Mademoiselle Alexandrine was there.
I looked for my friend the decorator to keep me in countenance, but he had disappeared.
I invoked the spirits of my glorious ancestors, and asked of them courage and calmness of mind, those two virtues so necessary in love and war.
Mademoiselle Alexandrine had the carriage of a queen; her well-rounded and graceful person was sustained solely by her left foot, upon which she stood proudly, while the right one undulated from right to left, the heel and toe only touching the floor. My eyes followed that wonderful foot and never left it.
Imagine my astonishment when I heard the mellifluous voice of Mademoiselle addressing me with a boldness worthy of a captain in our Imperial Tiger Guard.
“Will you do us the honor, sir, to assist at the first representation of theBallet Chinois?”
I quitted the foot to look up at the face of thedanseuse, and answered with a well imitated Parisian accent, “I should be delighted to be there, Mademoiselle, to put my eyes at your feet.”
Mademoiselle Alexandrine took me caressingly by the arm, and made me promenade with her behind the scene.
“So it seems, sir, that China really exists, and that the Yellow river is not a fable? Tell me, are not all Chinamen made of porcelain? Do they really walk and talk like you and me? I did not know thatthere were any other Chinamen than our Auriol de Franconi—do you know Auriol?”
All these questions were asked so rapidly as to defy answer. At her last word, thedanseuse, called upon the stage by a signal, quitted suddenly my arm, and bounded away with the grace and springiness of a gazelle, humming the air to which she was to dance. I awaited her return to answer her questions; but when she again took my arm, she had apparently forgotten them; her gayety had disappeared—care contracted her brow.
“Have you noticed how cold the audience is this evening?” said she at length. “Is there an Opera in your country?”
“No, Mademoiselle.”
“What a miserable country! Without an Opera! What do you do, then?”
“One is miserables’ennuie, Mademoiselle, because you are not there!”
“That is very gallant. By the bye, you have beautiful fans in your country; the nephew of a peer of France gave me a Chinese fan as a New Year’s gift—un bijou adorable; the sticks were of ivory, with incrustations of silver filigree work, and the picture of two yellow cats playing with their tails as they ran in a circle; but I lost it at ‘Muzard’s.’”
“It is very easy to replace it, Mademoiselle; I brought thirty-three with me, made at the celebrated manufactory of Zhe-hol.”
“Is it possible! And what will you do with such a collection?”
“They are intended as presents for the wives of ministers and ambassadors.”
“Bah! the wives of ministers will laugh at your fans; and they are only old withered faces! If I had your thirty-three fans, I would make all the firstdanseusesin Paris die of chagrin.”
“Mademoiselle, they shall be at your door to-morrow morning.”
“No one can be more French than you, sir; but who would have expected it of a Chinaman. I will give you my address—“Mademoiselle Alexandrine, de Saint Phar, Rue de Provence, on the first floor.” My porter receives my presents any time after seven o’clock in the morning, and places them scrupulously in the hand of my chambermaid after mid-day.”
She made apirouette, and disappeared.
Returning to my hotel after the Opera, I wished to meditate upon my position, but my ideas wandered. You know my harem of Khé-Emil—it is the most modest of harems—scarcely can one count in it fifteen women of Zhe-hol of Tartar blood, and as many of Thong-Chou-fo, of pure Chinese race, not to speak of some twenty or moreodalisques, maintained merely as decorations to the seraglio. Well, if Mademoiselle entered that harem, she would eclipse my favorites among its women, as the light of the full moon puts out the morning star. Yes, I have, unhappily, discovered that her face charms me more than my whole thirty, shut up in my modest harem. It is an unhappy fate! Happy are the three mandarins of the seventh class, who have accompanied me to Paris. They dine at theRocher de Cancale; they eat beef in spite of the beard of Menu; they attend the minister’ssoirées, and know nothing of the exquisite foot of Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar.
The next morning at eight o’clock, I sent to her porter the thirty-three fans, with a box of the delicious tea of “Satouran.”
In the afternoon I dressed myself in court costume, my mandarin’s cap of canary-yellow, ornamented with a plume of Leu-tze, and long robe of the colorclair de la lune, with gloves of citron-colored crape. My glass told me I resembled the young Tcheon, the Prince of Light, and Son of the Morning. Flattered by my mirror, I went to visit Mademoiselle Alexandrine, and was introduced with the most surprising facility.
Her dress costume only rendered her more beautiful; her foot alone was always the same. It seemed to live in a perpetual motion; one might well say that it contained the soul of thedanseuse, and that she thought with her dear little toes.
“Sir,” said she, taking me familiarly by the hands, “I am the happiest girl in the world! your present is truly royal. Sit down upon this chair, and let us converse a little. I wish to present to you my little sister, a perfect angel, as you’ll see.”
A young girl about twelve years old, as graceful as a fawn, leaped into my arms, and seized my mandarin’s cap from my head.
“What do you think of her,” said thedanseuse.
“She is your sister,” said I, with an expressive glance.
“Still gallant, dear doctor!”
“What is her name, Mademoiselle?”
“She has none yet, doctor; she waits for a godfather—it is the custom at the Opera. Will you be hers?”
“Very willingly, Mademoiselle.”
“Give her, then, a pretty name—some name of your country.”
“Very well; then I name her ‘Dileri,’ which is a Mogul name.”
“What does it mean?”
“Light of the eyes.Does it please you, Mademoiselle?”
“Dileri is charming! Do the Moguls have such soft names, doctor?—and they are still Moguls. It is wonderful! Mademoiselle Dileri, thank your godfather.”
With that marvellous refinement with which the spirit of the great Fo has imbued his faithful followers, and which renders them superior to all of human kind, I asked Mademoiselle Alexandrine, negligently, “if she had any taste for marriage?”
“Ah!” said she, crossing her beautiful feet upon a footstool of crimson velvet, “it is not marriage that I fear, it is the husband. You do not know French husbands, dear doctor. Such egotists! They marry a pretty woman to have a slave, in spite of the law which forbids trading in human flesh; and when they have her fast enchained, they show her as a curiosity to their friends to excite their envy. Well,since China is now opened, we will go to China to seek husbands. Dear doctor, you will not find in all Paris a husband who would give his wife thirty-three fans without any pretension, as if he merely said, ‘good-day!’ Are the Chinamen good husbands, doctor?”
“Mademoiselle, ’twas a Chinaman who invented the honeymoon!”
“I do not doubt it. What a pity the Chinawomen have such queer eyes.”
“For that reason we come to seek wives at Paris.”
“Truly, doctor, you areadorable! and I am confused by your kindness. I do not know how to express my sense of your compliments, and gratitude for your splendid presents. May I not offer you a box in the fourth tier for your suite? Giselle is performed to-morrow. My cousin has written a play for the Theatre d’Ambigu; I will ask him for a box for you this evening. Perhaps you will accept a free ticket for a month on the railroad to Rouen.”
“Thanks, Mademoiselle! I am as grateful for your kind offers as if I had accepted them. But I have a favor to ask.”
“It is already granted—speak.”
“I have brought with me some Indian ink, and I beg you will permit me to make a picture of your right foot.”
“What a Chinese idea!” cried thedanseuse, with a rich burst of merry laughter. “Do you call that a favor? Take your crayon, dear doctor, I give you up my foot; will you copy itau naturel, or in an odalisque’s sandal?”
“I will paint it as it is at this moment.”
“As you like; meantime I will amuse myself and little sister by admiring your thirty fans.”
At the third fan I had a striking resemblance of the wonderful foot. Thedanseuseglanced at it and uttered a cry of admiration, saying,
“Dear doctor, you have taken it with a dash of the pencil.”
“Mademoiselle,” answered I, “it is said of me that I could copy the wind, if I could see it pass. I have copied your foot which is more agile than the wind.”
“If you continue these compliments, doctor, I am afraid I shall fall in love with you; I, who the other day shut my door in the face of a Greek prince and two bankers.”
The candor of innocence was imprinted on the features of thedanseuse; and I bowed my head in reverence before this ingenuous woman, who unveiled her heart to me without reserve. In taking leave of her I was allowed to touch with my lips the ends of fingers which rivaled her feet in beauty.
The Secretary for Foreign Affairs awaited me at five o’clock, to inquire concerning the ceremonies used at Zhe-hol and at Pekin, at the reception of European ambassadors, and to sound me in regard to certain political secrets relating to the Chinese empire and Queen Victoria.
During the audience I experienced many distractions and made many mistakes. May Ti-en grant that my errors may not one day cause trouble to the Celestial Empire. Whilst the great minister of the Christians was speaking to me, I was thinking of the foot of Mademoiselle Alexandrine St. Phar! You see that that foot will overturn Pekin yet!
After dinner, a perfumed billet, the paper of which resembled a butterfly’s wing, was brought to me, and I read as follows:
“Dear Doctor,—I hear that you have brought to this country numberless Chinese curiosities. Dileri, your charming god-daughter, is so much delighted in looking at your fans, that she longs to know all the wealth of her godfather; a childish folly! But I have promised her to visit you to-morrow at 12 o’clock.
“Your god-daughter kisses you between the eyes, and I place you at my feet.
“Alexandrine St. Phar.”
You know, my dear Tching-bit-ha-ki, that I have not brought with me many of our toys. I only provided a few as presents to attachés’ wives, and perhaps ministers. Happily, when I received the billet of Mademoiselle Alexandrine, I had not yet distributed any of them; nevertheless, I felt that my collection was too contemptible to be honored with a glance from the divinedanseuse, and I resolved to add to it before showing it to her. I obtained all the information I could, and then went to Darbo’s, Rue Richelieu, and to Gamba’s, Rue Neuve de Capucines—twomerchants of celebrity inChinoiseries. I purchased at these shops two screens, a pagoda of rice, two boxes of cloves, four tulip vases, two complete services of porcelain, with a chamber tea service, a table of sandal wood, inlaid with cypress, four figures of mandarins in clay from Pei-ho, twelve pairs of embroidered slippers, a shop in miniature, a chamberlain with his wand of office, two leaves of tam-tam, a parasol, two lionsfrisés, and a copy of the royal carriage of the brother of the sun and moon, the Emperor Tsieng-Long.
Most of theseChinoiserieswere made in Paris, and I doubted particularly the royal carriage; but the imitation was so good, that a mandarin only of the first class could distinguish the true from the counterfeit. I did not cheapen these things, and paid the bill, an enormous sum—thirty-seven hundred francs.
Night arrived; I went to bed to enjoy dreams of happiness to come, and slept with my copy of the divine foot in my hand. My first thought in the early morning was to put my Chinese riches in order, to exhibit them to the best advantage. What a happiness, said I to myself, if she will deign to point her foot to some one of thesebagatelles, and say, in her flute-like tones,
“Dear doctor, give me that for my boudoir.”
At length 12 o’clock struck, and my door opened.
Oh! the City of Houris will be one day destroyed for having forgotten to produce Mademoiselle Alexandrine de St. Phar! I was thunderstruck at her morning beauty. The divinedanseuseled her little sister by the hand. She threw her hat and shawl upon the first chair, pressed my hands, ran about the room,pirouettingbefore eachChinoiseriewith cries of pleasure and joy which went to my veryheart. When she had exhausted every exclamation of delight, she said to me,
“Dear doctor, I am sorry to have brought your god-daughter with me—she asks for every thing she sees. Oh, these children! one should never show them any thing. It is true I am somewhat of a child in that way, too. If I had to choose some one of these things, I should be in great embarrassment, and would not dare to do it, lest I should to-morrow regret that I had not taken something else.”
In saying these words with delicious volubility, she pushed out her right foot from the protection of the shortest of robes. She might have seduced the most virtuous Lama of Lin-Ching.
“Mademoiselle,” said I, “permit me to point out a plan to avoid that difficulty.”
“Ah, will you! Dear doctor, tell me this plan!”
“Will you swear to act according to it?”
“I swear it!”
“You will keep your oath?”
“I will.”
“Well, Mademoiselle, take them all.”
The divinedanseuseraised her arms gracefully, threw back her queenly head, and her bosom of ivory palpitated with sudden gladness, like the throat of a bird that sings with very happiness.
“You are a rare fellow,” cried she; “after your death, your body should be embalmed, and your tomb be a ‘Mecca’ for all true gallants from thenceforth forever. But, dear doctor, remember that I am a woman. You do not know to what you expose yourself. Suppose I were to take you at your word?”
“I should say you were a woman of your word, and knew how to keep an oath.”
“No, no, dear doctor, no joking! you wish to try me!”
“Not in the least; I speak seriously. All these curiosities belong to me no longer—they are yours.”
“Then you must be the brother of the sun and moon and cousin to the seven stars in disguise. Long live the Emperor!”
[Conclusion in our next.