THE BELLE OF THE SEASON.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by A. S. Walter.
THE BELLE OF THE SEASON.
THE BELLE OF NEWPORT.
———
BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.
———
It was the height of the season at Newport, and the long piazza of the Ocean-House was crowded with loungers. Suddenly a young man, with something of a foreign air, exclaimed —
“Heavens, Harry! what a divinity!”
He pointed, as he spoke, with his light cane to a young lady, who, having approached on the other side of the street, was now picking her way daintily across the dusty road. Her figure was one of unusual grace, and her step light and elastic. When she reached the pavé she glanced up at the piazza, but seeing a score of idle eyes fixed upon her, she dropped her veil, and advanced to the ladies’ entrance with a slightly hurried pace.
But the momentary exposure of her countenance showed that its beauty justified the general look of admiration. The eyes were lustrous and dark, a rich bloom mantled healthily on her cheek, and the fresh air blew freely to and fro her redundant curls of glossy raven hair; added to this the mouth was one of indescribable loveliness, around the dimpled corners of which Love himself seemed to lurk.
“By Jove!” said the gentleman who had spoken before, “I have seen no woman so beautiful in all my travels abroad. What eyes! they seem to look into one’s very soul. And such a step, free and graceful as a fawn’s, or rather like that of Diana, the maiden huntress, herself.”
“That, Derwent,” replied his companion, “is Miss Stanhope, the belle of Newport we call her; beautiful enough, to be sure, but only the companion to some rich Southern heiress.”
“And half the house, I suppose, is in love with her?”
“No, and yes,” replied Harry. “She has plenty of admirers, but no suitors; her friend, the rich Miss Arnott, though as ugly as a giraffe, carries the palm off from her.”
“I find my countrymen as mercenary as foreigners, though without half the excuse,” said Derwent. “However, they can’t be blamed. Take my own case, for instance. Here am I with just income enough to support myself, and no prospect of being able to marry unless I select a rich wife, or what is even worse, go to work in earnest at my nominal profession! In such a case, one must either remain single or look out for an heiress. It is well enough to talk of ‘love in a cottage,’ but what can two people accustomed to the luxuries of life do in a house no bigger than a dog-kennel, and with but one servant, a maid-of-all-work. However, you must introduce me to this Miss Stanhope, I may as well flirt with her like the rest.” Thus spoke Derwent, one of whose affectations was to seem worse than he was.
That evening accordingly saw Derwent numbered among the acquaintance of the belle of the season. She received him graciously, for in addition to a remarkably fine person, he had an air of high-breeding; while his countenance carried assurance of the owner being something more in both intellect and heart, than the ephemeral men of fashion around him. Indeed, Derwent possessed unusual ability, improved by book-study and travel. He talked to Miss Stanhope of England, and its lordly demesnes; of Paris, and its boulevards; of Germany, and the Rhine; of Italy, and her priceless works of art; of Greece, and her temples, even in decay the wonder of the spectator; and of Egypt, the parent of all, with her venerable Nile, her Luxor, her Philæ, and her pyramids, which though they have braved three thousand years, seem as if they will yet, in the minds of the awe-struck Arabs, conquer Time itself. Nor did he confine himself merely to these monuments of the past. He spoke of the manners, the religious and the social condition of the nations he had traveled among, from the starving operative of England to the free Bedouin of the desert. This style of conversation, so different from the empty small talk and insensate flattery with which her ears were usually greeted, arrested the attention of Miss Stanhope; for being of a cultivated mind herself, she not only appreciated what he said, but felt it as a compliment to be talked to thus. In a word, Derwent managed to monopolize her evening, and when the hour of retiring came neither imagined it was half so late.
“And so you were engrossed by the beauty the whole of last evening,” said Harry, as the friends sauntered to the billiard-room the following morning. “You had other listeners, however, than Miss Stanhope; and, let me whisper to you confidentially, have made quite a conquest in a certain quarter. Miss Arnott herself, it seems, heard you describe your presentation at St. James’, and was so charmed with your account of the queen, that she has asked to be introduced to you; a favor never bestowed on any gentleman before.”
“I forgot all about Miss Arnott, last night,” replied Derwent. “How does she look? Is she a woman of sense?”
“As for how she looks,” replied Harry, “here she comes with Miss Stanhope: you see her now, a tall, lean figure, with a face that might be pretty if it had a bit of expression. There, that slouchy, awkward figure, is worth just twenty thousand a year; while the one beside it, all grace, beauty, and vivacity, has not a cent. Whether Miss Arnott has common sense you must decide for yourself, for I intend to introduce you on the moment.”
Before Derwent had time to reply, the introduction had taken place, and Derwent been left dexterously toMiss Arnott, while his friend had contrived to monopolize her companion.
It was a lovely morning for walking. A shower the preceding evening had laid the dust, the sun shone without a cloud, and a cool breeze, laden with saline freshness from the sea, blew pleasantly past. The ladies were executing a long cherished determination to visit the cliffs on foot; and the two young men solicited leave to accompany them. In a few minutes Derwent had grown heartily tired of his companion. She was, he thought, the most insipid creature he had ever met. Yet, to do Miss Arnott justice, she was quite as interesting as most fashionably educated young ladies; but then Derwent could not help contrasting her with Miss Stanhope, whose playful wit, strong sense, and rich stores of reading rendered the penniless companion as fascinating as the heiress was dull. He was glad when, the cliffs being reached, histête-à-têtewas broken up. He had secretly resolved to be revenged on Harry, and accordingly luring Miss Stanhope off to look at the sea from a new point, he set out on his return, without going back for Harry and Miss Arnott, contenting himself with waving his hat for them to follow.
If Miss Stanhope detected his little stratagem, she was not displeased with it; and the walk back to the hotel comprised an hour of the sweetest enjoyment to Derwent. Though the beauty of Miss Stanhope had first attracted his attention, it was the qualities of her mind that now fascinated him; yet we will not deny that what she said received additional interest by falling from such lovely lips. In short, from that morning Derwent became the constant cavalier of Miss Stanhope; and this, notwithstanding the marked efforts which Miss Arnott made to attract him to herself. At last, the partiality of the heiress became so strong that she frowned openly on her companion whenever she saw Derwent and Miss Stanhope together—finally, the latter from some cause avoided his attentions, and left the field open to her more fortunate rival.
Whether, however, this was the result of Miss Arnott’s direct interference, or whether Miss Stanhope herself began to think Derwent only trifling with her, our hero had no means of discovering. For three or four days he bore the avoidance of his mistress with comparative patience, but when he found that she persisted in it, and was apparently not governed by any whim, he became almost mad with jealousy and despair. For the first time in his life he was really in love. He no longer thought of the comparative moderation in which he would have to live, if he married a woman without fortune; on his part he was now willing to make any sacrifice. After a sleepless night, he arose resolving to seek Miss Stanhope to offer his hand, when, on opening a letter that had been sent up to his room, marked “in haste,” he read the astounding intelligence that the bank in which most of his fortune was invested, had stopped payment, and that he was now comparatively a beggar.
Those who have never experienced the sudden loss of wealth, and who have never found themselves reduced, as it were in an hour, from a competence to poverty, know nothing of what Derwent suffered. For awhile he even forgot his love. He read and re-read his letter, but there was no mistake in the fact; he rang for the public papers, the announcement of the bank’s failure was there too. He paced his chamber, how long he knew not, until at last the door was thrown violently open, and Harry entered.
“What, in heaven’s name, is the matter?” cried his friend. “Have you forgotten your engagement to ride with me this morning? I waited till past the hour, and then came up and knocked at your door; you gave me no answer, though I heard you walking about like a mad lion in his cage; so I made bold to entervi et armis, as a plea of trespass says. Now, don’t look as if you would eat me—but tell me what’s the row.”
Derwent had indeed glared at Harry like an enraged wild beast when the latter entered. He did not wish to be interrupted, much less by his mercurial companion; but, while Harry was speaking, he reflected how ridiculous anger would be, and hence, when the latter ceased, he advanced to the table by which Harry stood, and pushed the open letter, which contained the news of his ruin, to the intruder.
“Good God!” cried Harry, when he had perused it, “how unfortunate. I saw the failure of the bank in the papers, but did not know you owned any of the rascally stock. How came it, my dear fellow? I always invest in mortgages or ground-rents.”
“It was left there by my guardians, and since I came of age I have been abroad. I intended to change the investment, but left the business, with other things, till fall, intending to be here all summer. And what is worse, it is my entire fortune, except about five thousand dollars.”
“You shock me,” said Harry. “I did not think it was half so bad as that.” He paused, mused, and then said, looking up brightly—“However, Derwent, you are a lucky fellow yet. I have seen, for some days, that you have had half a mind to make love seriously to Miss Stanhope; now this blow will rescue you from that folly, for to marry on three hundred a year would be lunacy itself. Miss Arnott will have you, if you speak quick, so cheer up, it is always darkest just before the day.”
Derwent looked at his friend sternly, and was about to characterize the proceeding Harry advised asvillainy; but he said nothing, only mournfully shaking his head.
“Pshaw!” said Harry, “what foolish notions have come over you? Be a man, Derwent. I wish to heaven Miss Arnott would only have me; I like to talk to her companion well enough; and it’s pleasant, too, to dance with such a beautiful creature; but, egad, my two thousand a year would not go far toward supporting a wife.”
“I will be a man,” replied Derwent, with sudden energy, “I will not yield to this blow. There, Harry, good-bye for the present—I will join you in an hour.”
When the door had closed on his friend, Derwent said —
“Yes! Iwillbe a man. All thoughts of Miss Stanhope must now be dismissed; the most delightful dream of my life is over. I must hereafter toil formy very bread. Well, let the storm rage—I can breast it!”
In this half defiant, half despairing mood, he concluded his toilette and went down stairs. His first visit was to the office, where he announced his intention of leaving early the next morning—“For since,” he said, “I must pull the oar, the sooner I begin the better.”
He hesitated whether to seek Miss Stanhope and tell her all, or to leave her without explanation. “I will say nothing,” at last he said. “She will hear of the cause of my departure soon enough; and even if she had thought of me, will then bless her good fortune which preserved her from marrying a beggar.”
He had scarcely arrived at this conclusion, however, when he met Miss Stanhope herself face to face. He had been sauntering up the street, his hands folded behind him, his whole air listless and dejected. He was taken by surprise, bowed to her with embarrassment, and then, after she had passed, remembering that she looked amazed at his manner, he turned about and joined her mechanically. He scarcely knew why he went back; and when he had done it, he was more embarrassed than ever. Miss Stanhope was the first to speak.
“Are you ill, Mr. Derwent?” she said, in a voice of sympathy, “you look so.”
The tone of kindness in which these words were spoken opened the flood-gates of his heart, and he could not resist the impulse to tell her how much he had loved her, and how he should cherish her memory, though fate had placed an insurmountable barrier between them. His words flowed in a torrent of burning eloquence. Unconsciously he and Miss Stanhope walked on, though they had long passed the hotel; and when he had concluded they were at the end of the street, on the wild, bleak common.
Not until he had told his tale, and a minute or two of silence had followed, did Derwent venture even to look at his companion. But, on doing so, he found she was scarcely less agitated than himself. She trembled visibly, and when, as soon happened, she turned to answer him, traces of tears were on her cheeks.
“Mr. Derwent,” she said, “I will be frank with you, for, in these matters, perfect frankness is a suitor’s right. I will not say that this declaration of passion surprises me, for, in spite of my having heard that you were insincere, I thought I saw in you a real esteem for me. It would be affectation for me to deny this. That I am shocked at your loss of fortune, I need not say; I feel too great an interest in you to do otherwise, and this interest I am not unwilling, you see, openly to acknowledge.”
She looked at him with such noble frankness, that Derwent, enraptured by so unexpected an avowal, could scarcely refrain from snatching her hand and carrying it to his lips. But he thought of the public common; and then he thought also of his poverty, and how idle all this was—so he remained motionless and silent.
“You tell me,” she continued, “that you are now almost a beggar; and that, therefore, you resign my hand. But, excuse me—for surely it is not unmaidenly for me to say this—are you doing right in acting thus? Is wealth necessary to happiness? Will not a sufficiency insure felicity if there is real love in the union? You have talents, and I hope, energy; if I thought otherwise I could not love you. You have also a profession, which you avow your intention of following. Pray do not misunderstand me—I do not wish to make myself a burden to you—but neither must you suppose that I am base enough to you, or sufficiently ignorant of what will constitute my own happiness, to refuse you because you are a poor, instead of a rich man. In a worldly view even a penniless lawyer,” she said, smiling, “is a very good match for the companion of a rich heiress.”
Amazement at this noble conduct had kept Derwent silent until now, but he could no longer remain quiet.
“And you are generous enough,” he cried, “to unite your fate with mine, if ever I grow rich enough to offer you a home?”
“I am not very exacting in my tastes, Mr. Derwent,” replied the fair girl, “and, therefore, shall be contented with what you would think a very humble home. The moment, therefore, that you can give me one, in which you will be willing to live yourself, that moment I will become your wife. But remember,” she added archly, “I am flesh and blood after all, and cannot live merely on love. I am willing, with that confidence which my affection inspires, to wait for you, and believe you will never seek me until you can support me; but that will not be long hence, if I judge your talents aright. And now never, never,” she added earnestly, “doubt again a woman’s single-heartedness in love.”
Derwent was equally bewildered and transported. In his wildest dreams he had never imagined Miss Stanhope as noble and generous as he now found her. He told her as much.
“You flatter me more than I deserve,” she replied. “Life, in all circumstances, is a season of trial; wealth cannot secure immunity from trouble; and perhaps the happiest, after all, are those who labor for their daily bread, because their toil sweetens the meal. Nay, I am sure I shall love you more, because I shall think you more manly.”
Derwent parted from Miss Stanhope a different man from what he had been before the interview. It was not the knowledge of her love merely which had worked the change in him, but it was the discovery that he had thought the human heart more selfish than it is, that he had doubted the existence of a generous affection.
They parted that evening. Miss Stanhope, though she pledged herself to Derwent, stipulated that he should not accompany her to the South, but that he should at once begin the practice of his profession.
“You may write to me,” she said, playfully, “and I will answer, and we shall then see, from the punctuality of the answers, which loves the most. Next year I shall probably come North again with my cousin, and be assured I will let you know of my arrival the instant we are established at the hotel in New York.”
Derwent had now an object for which to struggle,and nobly did he labor for the great end he had in view. The fall and winter he devoted to assiduous study, taking no relaxation except what was necessary for health, visiting nowhere; his sole solace being a weekly letter to Miss Stanhope. Her replies still breathed unabated affection. High as was the estimate he had placed on her abilities, they fell short of the reality as he discovered by this correspondence, and proud was he that such a woman was some day to be his wife.
Nor did that day appear far distant. His knowledge of European languages brought him several foreign clients, whom other lawyers were unable to converse with; and one of these clients placed a case in his hands which he won, and which from the large claim at risk, as well as from the abstruse points of law involved, brought him much reputation. His business increased so fast that he wrote to Miss Stanhope:
“Congratulate me, I have gained the first move in the game, and am now considered a hard-working lawyer; I am already able to offer you a home, but let us wait another year that we may be certain.”
And she replied—“I have placed my fate in your hands, and rejoice to find you all I hoped. Dear Derwent, you are more precious to me now than if worth millions, since you have shown that you are something more than an idler.”
About a month after Derwent received this letter, a note was brought to him, the superscription of which was in the handwriting of his mistress. He opened it with emotion, for he knew from it that she had arrived in New York. The delicate little missive contained but three lines:
“Come to me: I am in New York; my present home isNo. — , Union Square.”
“Who does she, or rather Miss Arnott, know in Union Square?” he said. “I expected to be summoned to the Astor or the Irving.” He thus soliloquized as he drew on his gloves.
It does not take an expectant lover long to walk two miles; so Derwent found himself, in half an hour, at the door of a magnificent mansion, on which he saw, with bewilderment, the name of “Stanhope.” Just as he had rung the bell an elegant private carriage drove up, and Miss Stanhope herself stepped out. He looked for Miss Arnott to follow, but she did not. His mistress was quite alone. The servant obsequiously bowed, and showed the way into the drawing-room, whither, first giving her hand to Derwent, Miss Stanhope led our hero, his amazement increasing as a strange, wild suspicion, which the name on the door had first suggested, grew stronger within him.
His affianced bride laughed musically at his perplexity; and leading him to atête-à-têtesaid, as she laid her hand fondly on his shoulder:
“Are you astonished? Will you believe me when I tell you that all this is mine? You have thought me a pattern of frankness, dear Derwent, yet I have been deceiving you for a whole year; making you work, when I had enough for us both. But I wished to test you; and now that I have found you even more than I hoped, and that I love you better than ever, you will not,” she continued, looking up archly into his face,—and, truth must be told, positively kissing him—“disown me, even though I am co-heiress with my cousin, in my own right, to twenty thousand a year.”
How would you have acted reader? We will tell you how Derwent did; he took the beautiful creature in his arms, and blessed her over and over again. Blessed her, not for her fortune, but for her having taught him to rely on himself, and not to live the idle life of a mere man of fortune.
“And you will still follow your profession, and win an even greater name?” said his lovely mistress, her fine eyes kindling with enthusiasm. “I want a husband I can be proud of, and I know I have found such a one in you.”
Derwent made the promise, and she continued —
“As a girl, I wished to be loved for myself rather than my fortune; and my scheme of going to Newport, as my cousin’s poor companion, was the result of that desire. There I found one whom I felt had but one fault, and that was idleness. There I found you preferring the penniless girl to the rich cousin. But I saw you wasting your fine powers away in a life of mere fashion, and was hesitating whether I ought not to strive against my increasing affection, when your ruin”—she hesitated, and then added quickly, blushing roseate over face, neck, and bosom—“but you know the rest.”
Derwent has now no superior as an orator, and has declined a nomination to Congress, because even higher honors are open to him. His wife loves him more devotedly than ever, and is still as beautiful as when known asthe Belle of Newport.
I’M DREAMING NOW.
Speak gently, tread lightly—I’m dreaming now,And the soft light of Hope gilds my upturned brow,While brightly love-phantoms before me shine,And joy’s festal garlands around me entwine.Light carols the Future—I echo its lay,And am happy and glad as a young child at play.Speak softly and low:—Though I’m dreaming now,A shade from thepastpresses cold on my brow:I list for loved voices—they greet not mine ear;And I watch—all in vain—for the forms once so dear.Naught, naught is forgot—and a quivering thrill,As I dwell on lang-syne, in my breast responds still.Speak gently no more; I’m awak’ning now,AndCare’sdarksome shadow steals over my brow;My spirit has lost its fair rainbow hue,And wrong, and deceit, cloud its roseate view:With a mournful cry, through the wild rustling air,Comes a voice which breathes ever a strain of despair.Speak boldly and free—I’m not dreaming now;Reality’ssignet is stamped on my brow:Gone,goneare Hope’s beacons, and faded is joy;The shroud mantled Future all bliss doth destroy!With a heart stricken sore—a soul that’s bowed low,I am pinioned to Earth by the fetters ofwo.CHROMIA.
Speak gently, tread lightly—I’m dreaming now,And the soft light of Hope gilds my upturned brow,While brightly love-phantoms before me shine,And joy’s festal garlands around me entwine.Light carols the Future—I echo its lay,And am happy and glad as a young child at play.Speak softly and low:—Though I’m dreaming now,A shade from thepastpresses cold on my brow:I list for loved voices—they greet not mine ear;And I watch—all in vain—for the forms once so dear.Naught, naught is forgot—and a quivering thrill,As I dwell on lang-syne, in my breast responds still.Speak gently no more; I’m awak’ning now,AndCare’sdarksome shadow steals over my brow;My spirit has lost its fair rainbow hue,And wrong, and deceit, cloud its roseate view:With a mournful cry, through the wild rustling air,Comes a voice which breathes ever a strain of despair.Speak boldly and free—I’m not dreaming now;Reality’ssignet is stamped on my brow:Gone,goneare Hope’s beacons, and faded is joy;The shroud mantled Future all bliss doth destroy!With a heart stricken sore—a soul that’s bowed low,I am pinioned to Earth by the fetters ofwo.CHROMIA.
Speak gently, tread lightly—I’m dreaming now,And the soft light of Hope gilds my upturned brow,While brightly love-phantoms before me shine,And joy’s festal garlands around me entwine.Light carols the Future—I echo its lay,And am happy and glad as a young child at play.
Speak gently, tread lightly—I’m dreaming now,
And the soft light of Hope gilds my upturned brow,
While brightly love-phantoms before me shine,
And joy’s festal garlands around me entwine.
Light carols the Future—I echo its lay,
And am happy and glad as a young child at play.
Speak softly and low:—Though I’m dreaming now,A shade from thepastpresses cold on my brow:I list for loved voices—they greet not mine ear;And I watch—all in vain—for the forms once so dear.Naught, naught is forgot—and a quivering thrill,As I dwell on lang-syne, in my breast responds still.
Speak softly and low:—Though I’m dreaming now,
A shade from thepastpresses cold on my brow:
I list for loved voices—they greet not mine ear;
And I watch—all in vain—for the forms once so dear.
Naught, naught is forgot—and a quivering thrill,
As I dwell on lang-syne, in my breast responds still.
Speak gently no more; I’m awak’ning now,AndCare’sdarksome shadow steals over my brow;My spirit has lost its fair rainbow hue,And wrong, and deceit, cloud its roseate view:With a mournful cry, through the wild rustling air,Comes a voice which breathes ever a strain of despair.
Speak gently no more; I’m awak’ning now,
AndCare’sdarksome shadow steals over my brow;
My spirit has lost its fair rainbow hue,
And wrong, and deceit, cloud its roseate view:
With a mournful cry, through the wild rustling air,
Comes a voice which breathes ever a strain of despair.
Speak boldly and free—I’m not dreaming now;Reality’ssignet is stamped on my brow:Gone,goneare Hope’s beacons, and faded is joy;The shroud mantled Future all bliss doth destroy!With a heart stricken sore—a soul that’s bowed low,I am pinioned to Earth by the fetters ofwo.CHROMIA.
Speak boldly and free—I’m not dreaming now;Reality’ssignet is stamped on my brow:Gone,goneare Hope’s beacons, and faded is joy;The shroud mantled Future all bliss doth destroy!With a heart stricken sore—a soul that’s bowed low,I am pinioned to Earth by the fetters ofwo.CHROMIA.
Speak boldly and free—I’m not dreaming now;
Reality’ssignet is stamped on my brow:
Gone,goneare Hope’s beacons, and faded is joy;
The shroud mantled Future all bliss doth destroy!
With a heart stricken sore—a soul that’s bowed low,
I am pinioned to Earth by the fetters ofwo.
CHROMIA.
THE ADVOCATE OF LOVE.
———
BY CAROLINE C——.
———
“These things write we unto you that your joy may be full.”
Let us by earnest thought, make this fleeting hour of a fleeting existence sacred to the memory of the Evangelist. For to the striving actors of the “living present,” the past can offer few better gifts than the scripture “record” of this “good man’s life.”
He was one other of that band of obscure fishermen, who, adorned with none of the pride and pomp of official station—destitute of all the attractions of wealth—distinguished by none of the refinements and graces of cultivated life, appeared before the astonished people and rulers of Judea and all the East, suddenly gifted with such miraculous powers as enabled them to proclaim, and enforce, the most important truths on the minds of a nation, which counted itself, in every respect, far beyond all necessity of instruction.
Rightly to study and to estimate the record of St. John, cannot prove to us a profitless task; a deeper feeling than admiration, and an exalted appreciation that will not subside into mere respect for him, is sure to be aroused. The conviction willforceitself upon a searcher after truth, of the exceeding beauty and excellence of the character of this Apostle, and disciple—the brother of James—the son of Zebedee and Salome—the fisherman of the Sea of Galilee—the man to whom was revealed the volume of deep mysteries—the meek, attentive, self-forgetful follower, whom Jesus loved.
He lived through all those convulsions, wondrous and terrible, that marked the first century of the Christian era; and when was he found wanting in that indomitable courage that suffered and enduredallthings for the love of the blessed Jesus? True, it is recorded that when alone in the place of banishment, the Angel of the Lord appeared before the exiled man, uttering the divine proclamation, “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending—which is, which was, and which is to come, the Almighty,” he fell as one dead at the angel’s feet. What then? Dwells there a mortal on the earth, whose spirit and whose form would not perforce bow before the messenger of Jehovah, crushed by the thought of utter impotency and nothingness? Indeed one might well be called fool-hardy, and idiotically bold, rather than really brave, who could look unabashed and undismayed upon the “terrors of the Lord,” and on “the glory of His power.”
John had not perhaps the ever-glowing ardor of the great Peter—his career may not have been marked by the constantly self-possessed bravery with which that Apostle every where, and at all times, stormed the citadels of Satan, casting in all directions his weapons of spiritual defiance, and carrying on unceasingly what was most emphatically a warfare; but we are not told that he ever denied his Master; we have no proof, we receive no intimation that he was ever a weakly or blindly zealous preacher, or one unreasonably secure in his powers. Never was he a withholder of the truth when once it was revealed to him—and not an inefficient leader in the valiant army of the saints—no weak defender of the moral rights of man, and the sacred truths of eternal life.
And to whose written or spoken words shall we turn, to find a better exemplification of the milder truths, and the more endearing graces, of that faith, of which our Saviour is the chief corner-stone, than to the record of John the Evangelist.
The language he almost invariably adopted to address lost sinners, was not that of denunciatory wrath or of stern condemnation—but rather was it mild, persuasive, gentle and loving, such as tended to soften and win the rebellious heart, rather than terrify it and repel. The great truths of religion as uttered by his lips, were the love and infinite compassion of God—the constant care with which He watches over and provides for all things created; the readiness and joy with which He ever listens to the cries of those who in a right spirit draw nigh to Him.
Never, or very rarely, did he seek to frighten and compel sinners to repentance, by proclaiming to weak and helpless beings the wrath of a God who would surely destroy if they did not instantly yield their allegiance. He did not, to add force to an argument which in itself he conceived all-powerful, strive to make predominant in the minds of terrified hearers the thought of the avenging arm uplifted—the bright sword suspended over the heads of all offenders, threatening to cut them instantaneously from the land of the living. Nor was it the lake of eternally burning fire, nor the deep, dark, dreadful pit, nor the everlasting torments, nor the never appeased wrath of God—nor the undying worm, that he made the themes of his eloquent appeals. Ah, no! but ever was his voice heard urging the beloved in Christ’s name to be reconciled to God; the mild eyes fixed on the people, whocould notlisten unmoved to his pleading words, and the gentle voice, was sounding in their ears who had been deaf to sterner commands, like sweet and never to be forgotten melody. And tears were shed, and groans were heard, when he stood like an angel of light and of mercy amid the unrepentant and unforgiven.
Childlike, pure-minded, and kind, and charitable in his dealings with the most grievous sinner, as he delivered the doctrine of redemption it became peculiarly the doctrine of reconciliation. And yet, the gentleness and affectionateness of John’s nature, evinced in hisevery word and deed, may not be taken as a proof, or as a support, of the idea that either personally or spiritually he was a coward!
It was surely no evidence of a weak or trifling character, the readiness with which in his early manhood he listened to and obeyed the Saviour’s “follow me.” Could we even for a moment suppose that his mind was cast in a mould so weak as would render him unable to resist any command made, with a show of superior power? Speedily that thought would die away in the reflection, that no power or authority on earth could in such case have held him steadfast to his vows, till the shadows of a century clustered around him! To the cause which he espoused that morning when the people’s Heavenly Teacher promised that He would make them “fishers of men,” he cleaved steadfast, through persecutions and fiery trials innumerable, until worn out by many toils, and many years, he died. The love of God, revealed by his son, Jesus, extended to miserable, erring man, was the great truth that first touched and won his heart; and it was because he fervently believed that the marvellous mercy of God could not be otherwise than powerfully efficacious in turning sinners from the ways of death, that he so constantly presented that blessed thought to the mind of his hearers. In the recesses of his once darkened mind had penetrated the glorious mystery “God is Love.” To a generous, lofty spirit, that truth having made his own peace, it was the instant and abiding impulse, that he should always, and most earnestly,bythat argument, urge the Christian duties on his fellows.
The recorded deeds of this missionary do not occupy so important or prominent a place in the sacred pages as do those of Peter, and of Paul, but by no means are we to consider him as gifted with less natural, or less miraculous power; neither was he subordinate to them in any particular.
When we think of these remarkable men, it is true, we are struck with their boldness, and perseverance, and unconquerable energy—we regard with admiring thought the action of their strong will, directed to the attainment of the most holy, heavenly objects; but even such contemplation does not take away the interest with which we consider him, on whose manly nature was laid the crown of loving gentleness; which, when we consider what his mission was, and what he taught, seems peculiarly and beautifully appropriate, and renders his character irresistibly attractive to whosoever studies it.
God and Love were the words graven on his spirit. Indeed, they were terms almost synonymous to his apprehension. God was love—and love an emanation from God, and these two, (if we may call themseparatethoughts) induced as great a result, and as strongly marked John’s character, making so prominent the angelic features of his soul, as did self-love and covetousness stamp that of Judas—as did defiance of evil, and confidence in God’s justice, mark that of Paul; or, as did persevering faith, and determination for victory, distinguish the career of Peter.
His amiable and conciliatory nature did not exempt him from suffering, any more than did the straight-forward boldness of the bravest disciple of Christ. Distress and danger werehishand-maids, as they were of all who in that dark age advocated Christianity, and never could the humility, kindness, and forbearance of John, by his most bitter enemies, be construed into meanness, or to the promptings of a paltry spirit that weakly cringed to the rich men and the powerful.
In that solemn hour when Judas went forth from the presence of the Lord, convicted of his foul treachery, when the Saviour addressed to his disciples the saddest words of prophecy, speaking to them in that tender manner which won their deep attention, and lasting affection. He called them “little children”—saying—“A little while and I am with you, ye shall seek me, and as I said to the Jews, whither I go ye cannot come; so now I say unto you. A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another, as I have loved you. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples,if ye have love one to another.”
Not one of the eleven listened to those words in vain, but a deeper impression seem they to have made upon the youngest of that honored group, the holy John; for the sentiment of that most impressive address was the burden of his thought and of his voice, to the last hour of his life.
Among the weeping women who gathered around the sacred Cross, the youngest disciple stood, notwithstanding his recent desertion, still the object of his Master’s kind regard and favor. How lovingly did the Saviour’s eyes rest upon the apostle—with what earnest emotion he directed John’s attention to the Virgin Mother, saying to her, “Woman, behold thy son!” and to John, “behold thy mother!” remembering even in that hour of bitterest sorrow, to provide for her who had been the guardian of his infancy, the fond, unfailing lover of his manhood.
To think on that obscure home of poverty, where the blessed Mother Mary dwelt, with the beloved disciple!
Blessed indeed was she, most worthy to be held by all the world in an ever affectionate remembrance; and yet, as a mortal woman, subject to like infirmities, passions and sins, with all born of the flesh, altogether unworthy adoration or worship!
What a communion of thought, and of hope, must there have been between those two human beings, in the years when, as mother and son, they dwelt together! With what inconceivable interest must the narratives of Mary respecting the Redeemer’s early life, have fallen upon the ear of John, when, after his fatiguing labors were for a brief time suspended, he would return to his home, and to her! How must his heart have thrilled, as he listened to the mournful words, and witnessed the regretful tears with which she called to mind His days of helplessness—when he lay beautiful in his weakness in her arms, and she knew that he was the Son of God! Fraught with intense interest, as she related it, must have been the story of that visit of the wise men from the East, of whose fame she had often times heard, but whom she had always regarded as a superior race of beings!How eagerly must he have listened to that tale which had so many times been repeated in his hearing, of the shepherds who came in the night time to worship Jesus. Of how, while they looked with so much wonder and awe on the infant, so like in all respects to their own children, their faith grew strong to recognize in Him, even while He lay helpless in the manger, a mighty ruler—a lord over them all—a king greater than any that had ever reigned on the throne of Israel.
And how must John have rejoiced as he beheld anew the proof of the all-protecting power of God, when many spoke of that most opportune gift of the wise men, which enabled the distressed parents to escape with their child to the land of Egypt, where in safety they might dwell, far removed from the cruelty of Herod.
As she told the faith that upheld both Joseph and herself when they set out on that long, tedious journey toward the strange land, which had proved a land of such dread bondage to their fathers, how greatly must his courage have revived, how strengthened must have become his confidence in God! And then, how must the desire, and the ability which almost invariably accompanies strong desire to labor, have increased, when John heard from Mary’s lips the story of the perseverance, humility and diligence, with which her child had applied himself to learn his father’s craft, how he had so faithfully labored to better the temporal condition of his poor parents, giving thus to the whole world an example of patient and uncomplaining perseverance, beneath the strong test, poverty—and proving that when he adopted the nature of humanity, he did not exempt himself from that dread curse pronounced on Adam, “by the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat thy bread.”
With no common emotion could that disciple have listened, when Mary told of Jesus as he was in the years of his boyhood, while he was increasing in stature, and in favor with God and man. With no unsympathizing ear could he have heard her tell of those days, when she, with Joseph, sought for the child with tears, finding him at last in the temple questioning and arguing with the learned doctors and teachers!
And then, what sorrowful tears must they have wept together, as they recalled the scene of His last bitter agony!
She, the mother, with a sorrow which at times would not be comforted, lamented the child who was ever so affectionate, obedient and truthful—the son of her heart, her pride, and her deep love—who, born under the most adverse circumstances, had lived a life of great exertion, of poverty, persecution, and deep sorrow, and oh, horrible and most strange consummation of such a life! She had seen him, the blameless and the perfect, ignominiously sacrificed upon the Cross, with malefactors!
And John, the companion of that Saviour’s manhood, while with regretful thought he pondered on all these things which had come to pass, still buoyed up by a hope that never faded, would seek to comfort her, repeating the kind words of encouragementtheir Lordhad spoken when He was alone with the disciples. The mother mourned a son, such as never was given to another parent—and the apostle wept over the memory of a friend, whose like neither before or since His coming, has the world ever seen!
Ah, never was theresucha mingling of thought, and of prayer, as in that humble household!—never were such regret, and hope, and love rising with the memory of one departed, as with His, whose image was so devoutly shrined in their hearts!
When Mary, (unable always to merge her affection as a mortal mother, in the thought that the risen Lord was no moreher son, that as the ascended God, he was to her only as to all the world, a Redeemer, a Saviour, and a Judge) wept, as she remembered the “wonder child,” her first born, whose infancy Joseph and herself had watched with the fondest care, and with such an ever-present feeling of responsibility, with what consoling words, taught him by that spirit which Jesus had sent to all his apostles, must John have comforted her! And there was efficacy in his words to calm the troubled waters of her soul, and the “peace! be still!” he spoke, was singularly powerful to reconcile her, to cheer, and to inspire with new hope.
For fifteen years, as is supposed by some, John dwelt in Jerusalem with that woman, who to this day is honored of all who have received the truth, and adored, and glorified, and worshiped by that church built on the unfailing foundation, “the infallible Peter”—as its members declare. Yes! and there are myriads who never heard that the great Cæsar reigned once in power and magnificence—to whom the rulers and the high-priests of that day are as though they never had been. There are multitudes of these, who, even at this distant day, bow down to the very dust to supplicate a blessing of Mary, the Mother of God!
Tenderly, as over an aged mother, did St. John watch her declining years, providing for her comfort, soothing and cheering her heart, and smoothing the pathway to her feet, as they tottered toward the grave. But during all this time the apostle had not forgotten the duties of his more important and more dangerous vocation.
In the great, the holy city, he had performed the duties devolving on his ministerial office, with great encouragement. Though, with Peter, he had suffered cruel imprisonment, and wicked men had not failed to afflict, and torment him, by bringing evils in innumerable shapes upon him—for in such ways did they seek to dissuade the apostles from preaching, and the people from lending a listening ear.
Many times St. John had journeyed to the various churches scattered round about, unfolding in every place where he sojourned the heavenly message that was given him to reveal, but invariably he had returned to Jerusalem, and to Mary, making his home with her.
As has been stated, it is supposed by many that at the expiration of these fifteen years, the mother of Jesus died; and, that John then removed from Jerusalem to Asia Minor, where he founded seven churches, while he resided chiefly at Ephesus.
In this new scene of labor, St. John did not escape persecution—surrounded, as he was, by a superstitiousand idolatrous people, danger and sorrow constantly attended and awaited him.
Neither was it given him to labor in a portion of the Master’s vineyard, untroubled by the distress and misfortune that attended his distant brethren. The tidings which from time to time came to him of the progress of the holy work, and the welfare of those, who, from the peculiar ties that bound them to him, he held most dear, were such as caused his heart to ache, and his tears to fall, oftener than they aroused his soul to gratitude, or his voice to thanksgiving.
And all this time the missionary was not continuing in the “vigor of his youth;” old age was rapidly taking from him his strength, and his power of exertion—but wondrous scenes were yet to be revealed to John before his final departure. Jerusalem, the vast, proud city, whose destruction the Jews held to be a thing impossible, when Jesus foretold its ruin, deeming it the wildest and most absurd idea, that a misfortune so overwhelming should overtakethem. Jerusalem, the glory of monarchs, and of whole generations of men; Jerusalem, the stronghold of pride and intolerance, was destroyed!—completely despoiled, and ruined!
Many authorities agree that this signal punishment of sin occurred seventy years after the death of Christ. Assuredly itwasa complete, an awful visitation to those proud, rebellious, persecuting Jews, who raised the cry—“His blood be upon us and on our children!” Never since that time have they become a united, separate people—never yet have they regained their country, or a shadow of their former power!
John had outlived all his apostolic brethren. And it was in that trying time when the care of all the churches devolved upon him, that the sentence of banishment was pronounced against him. It was like taking the deputed shepherd, the watchful and careful guardian, away from a helpless and wandering flock; for not well could be spared, at that time, his vigilant eye, his loving heart. Especially needed then, was his voice, to warn, to teach, to cheer, and to encourage. They who were weak in the faith required to have much before their eyes that living witness of the power of faith—the old man, who through so many years, even from his youth, had fought a most excellent fight.
During the loneliness of his exile, the marvelous Revelation was delivered to the veteran apostle. In a dreary island, uncheered by the sound of human voices, those aged eyes beheld the glory of the Lord revealed—saw the heavenly angel, heard the wondrous voice. It was there those mysterious shadowings of things to come, were given him to spread before all men. The voices of the prophets all were hushed—now came one forth from the very presence of God, to prophecy great and wondrous things indeed—to foretell the before unuttered secrets of time and eternity; to “win souls to repentance,” by revealing one glimpse of the blessed land, which needeth not sun, nor moon, nor candle—which the smile of the Lord God illumines forevermore; to point out to the hardened and presumptuous hearts of sinners the horrors of the second death—to tell of the worm that dieth not, and the fire that is unquenchable!
How strange to think of that white-haired man, severed from all he held most dear on earth, distressed with constant tears for the firmness of his repentant people, bearing in mind many beloved ones whom he yet hoped to see bowing down to the mild sceptre of Jesus, and whom daily he presented before the throne of God in prayer, and fearing ever for the steadfastness of the churches he had established in the midst of the idolatrous and unbelieving, and separated from all who through years of friendly companionship had grown very dear to him.
Well nigh seventy years had passed since John, in the vigor of his youth, had stood a horrified witness of the death of torture to which the Almighty Master had submitted; and there he was, having passed bravely through the raging sea of persecution, bearing up bravely under all the infirmities of age, heightened by a life of exposure and hardship, banished to an island where, we are not aware, was one congenial companion to cheer his lonely hours; compelled, after so many years of unceasing exertion, to what would at first, perhaps, seem a most wretched kind of rest.
A wretched rest? dreary loneliness? Ah, no! such peace, such joy as the most prosperous worldling never knew, made sweet and bright the days of that man’s exile!
God the Father watched over him, assuring him, in the hour when his mortal courage and strength utterly failed him, whispering “it is I! be not afraid!” God the Son, the exalted, glorified Friend, was, though invisible, ever nigh at hand! and John knew it, and as in a dream, he heard the echo of the words the Saviour had once spoken on earth, “Whatsoever ye ask the Father inmyname, He will give it you.” And God the Holy Ghost, the Comforter, was ever near, sustaining and cheering with a power nothing less than Almighty.
Was he alone, then? Alone! God was with him, a Friend, a Companion, a Guide, a Consoler. Alone! Methinks in that banishment St. John could scarcely have learned the meaning of the word!
Considering the subject of the Revelation delivered to him, we are struck with the peculiar fitness attending all the circumstances of its delivery.
To whom were the mystical words given? Not to a youth brave-hearted, and fiery, whose feet were newly shod with the “preparation of the Gospel of Peace.” Not to a man who had served the Lord Jesus for a few troublous years, but to one who, from youth to extreme old age, had wrought in the fields of his Master, bearing with all patience and meekness, the burden and the heat of the day, and who now stood upon the very verge of the grave! Observe, too, thetimethat was chosen for the Revelation to be made. It was not while St. John was borne down by anxiety, and exposed every hour to danger, insult, and all that could distract his mind, but when far-removed from the scene of his labors, it was impossible for him to longer turn up the furrows of the field, or gather in the fruit ripe for the harvest. And the place! far removed from his home, surrounded by a quiet “deeper than silence is,” safe from persecution—away from the jarring sights and sounds of a busy world.
Beholding under such circumstances a vision so wonderful, so miraculous, listening for the first time to a voice whose sound was like the rushing of many waters, it is neither a very strange thing, nor the slightest evidence of a want of entire confidence and faith in God, that John fell as one dead at the feet of the Son of Man, whose countenance was like the sun shining in his strength.
Into that mystery of mysteries, the revelation of the Divine, it is not my purpose now to look.
Its deep things which remain yet unsolved, I cannot flood with light, and as regards much of the Revelation, far-reaching, keen, and subtle minds, have endeavored (with how much of success it were best each reader should determine for himself) to sweep back the clouds which hang around that declaration of things thathavebeen.
Of those pages St. John has said, “Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein, for the time is at hand.” And surely we are not to consider those words as applicable only to the Seven Churches to which they were first addressed. And if, in all those pages so gorgeously illumined with prophecy, there is advanced no truth the mind can comprehend, save the record of the New Jerusalem’s glory, if that, and the promise of the everlasting “rest of the saints,” only inspires the reader to strive without ceasing for the blessings that await the redeemed, it will surely not have proved a sealed volume to him.
There are none whoby searchingmay find out God, further than he in his good pleasure chooses to reveal himself; but there can be no one who is possessed of a “seeing eye,” or a “hearing ear,” who is incapable of perusing this allegorical or highly figurative series of prophecies with an uninterested or uninstructed mind and heart.
Who that has once read, can forget “the pure river of the water of life, pure as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb?” or who that toils on, wearing in weariness the burden of life, does not rejoice to think of that “tree of life, the leaves of which are for the healing of the nations;” and of that blessed land, whereof it is told “there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, nor light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light, and they shall reign forever and ever?”
Or who that would make a jest and a mock of sacred things, can read without a thrill of terror of the “great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and heaven fled away, and there was found no place for them;” and of the dead, small and great, whom he saw stand before God, when the books were opened, and “the sea gave up the dead which were in it, and death and hell delivered up the dead which were in them—and they were judged every man according to his works, and death and hell were cast into the lake of fire?”
Was it strange that he to whom this marvel was revealed fell even as one dead?
Overpowered by the glory of the “mighty angel,” the aged saint would have knelt to worship him. So great was John’s reverence for his Maker, that he felt constrained to render homage to his ambassador also. But the angel said, “See thou do it not, for I am thy fellow-servant, and of thy brethren the prophets, and of them which keep the sayings of this book—worship God!”
History says that “After Dominitian had reigned fifteen years, and Nerva succeeded to the government, the Roman Senate decreed that the orders of Dominitian should be revoked, and that those who had been unjustly expelled should return to their homes, and have their goods restored.” And among those banished men then recalled was St. John, who, with great joy, returned again to Ephesus, bearing with him a scroll, that was to him more precious than was in the eyes of Nerva the crown and the throne which had fallen to him.
It is estimated that the Revelator was at this time ninety-seven years old; but even then—and it is a fact on which the laggard may well ponder—even then, though infirm, and struggling with the weariness of years, gladly and zealously (as though he had but just received his commission to labor,) did he set out on the homeward journey.
He was returning to his churches and his people; should he find them faithful still, or would they all be gone astray? Would they receive him as a friend who had taught them truths most blessed and welcome, or would they meet him with cold words and scornful looks, and despitefully treat him, as though they were ashamed to have been once beguiled by what they now believed to be a foolish, senseless humbug?
Once more among that people, the doubts and misgivings which probably so troubled the aged preacher on his homeward journey, were happily all put to flight. The good work had gone forward, the prayers of repentance were not hushed; the songs of praise which burst from the redeemed on earth, so far from dying utterly away into a mournful silence, had gathered strength and caught the tone of triumph! the voices of the “ministers of grace” were still adjuring sinners by the love of God to put away the thoughts and deeds of unbelief; the tears of men subdued by the striving spirit were falling yet.
It was after his return to the field of his labor at Ephesus, as is supposed, that John wrote his gospel, or a great portion of it, together with the Epistles addressed to his brethren.
Even when the day of his death drew near, and the weakness of the time-worn body prevented his moving among them, even then his spirit labored, and they who so loved and reverenced him, feeling that when he was among them their prayers would prove more “articulate in the ear of heaven,” would bear him in their arms to the place of worship, that his so dear, but feeble and faltering voice, might be yet once more heard teaching them with words of inspiration.
Well might they love him who had spent himself in their service; well might they venerate the aged preacher, and treasure up his mild and peaceful words in their hearts; well might they give heed to the dying entreaties of the saint, “Little children, keep yourselves from idols,” and “love one another.”
In his one hundredth year the faithful missionary died, breathing his last amongst the grateful people forwhom he had so successfully labored, and making them, and all the world, heirs of a treasure of blessed example, by which whosoever shall be led, will notneedto go through life,