A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN.

The hand of Baïla descended from the shoulder of Djezzar and played inquisitively among the arms which formed an arsenal at his belt.

“Thou tremblest—thou art unwilling to do it? Thou lovest him then!” he exclaimed at last.

“Yes, I love him,” replied the Mingrelian, and bounding suddenly forward she sheathed the blade of the yataghan full in the breast of the pacha. Though mortally wounded he still made an effort to seize his other pistol, but, at a gesture from Baïla, the lion Haïder, excited anew by the sight of the flowing blood, springing on his master did his part.

Whilst Ferdinand, alarmed at what was passing, was closing his eyes, stretching out in terror his bound arms, the Mingrelian, endowed with wonderful presence of mind, gathered quickly into one corner of the saloon the light furniture and stuffs which were in it; she set them on fire, and seizing the young Frank, who was more dead than alive, by his bonds, led him toward a secret outlet, which conducted them to the sleeping chamber of the Abyssinian negress.

The palace of Kizil-Ermak, which was of Turkish construction—that is, built of wood—was almost entirely consumed.

On the next day the news mongers of Shivas endeavored to define the causes of this great event. Some said that the pacha had been strangled by his lion, and that, in the struggle between these two fierce beasts a torch was upset, which was the cause of the fire. Others, reasoning from the usage of theancient Ottoman regime, and claiming to be better informed, said that a man, wearing the dress of a Frank, after having sojourned in the city long enough to avert suspicion as to the object of his secret mission, had introduced himself into the presence of the pacha in the very interior of his harem; when the latter had ordered his slaves to behead him, the pretended Frank, who was no other than thecapidgé-bechiof the sultan, had shown hiskatcherif, and that the head of Djezzar had alone fallen. The fire had broken out in the midst of the disorder, and thecapidgé-bechi, taking advantage of the great crowd attracted thereby, had escaped, in a new disguise.

Twenty other versions were in circulation, almost all of which were repeated by the journals of Europe.

Whilst in Shivas, Rocata, and other cities of the pachalick, they were thus indulging in explanations more or less truthful, Baïla and Ferdinand, who had been enabled to escape in disguise from the palace, thanks to the confusion and the crowd, concealed themselves at first in the mountains to the south of Shivas, where some Kurdish brigands took them under their protection, exacting a very moderate ransom; they then found an asylum in a convent, then twenty others in the caverns or depths of the woods of Avanes, always, however, continuing their path steadily up the Red River. Having finally entered the dominions of the Shah of Persia, they returned to France in the train of the last embassy.

In these wanderings Ferdinand lost some of his ardor for proselytising. He had traveled across mountains and valleys by day and by night, carrying temptation with him; Baïla had really become to him the demon which he had fancied her.

With the beautiful Mingrelian, his liberator, and the companion of his flight, walking at the same pace, in the same pathway, sleeping under the same shelter, cared for and watched over by her, it had been difficult for him to prevent his heart from beating under other inspirations than those of divine love. Ferdinand was twenty-five years old, and gratitude has great sway over a generous soul.

Still in the first days of their common flight he had converted his schismatic companion, who, from her indifference to matters of religion, was easy to persuade; but it was said that in her turn she had soon converted him. What is positively known about it is, that the young man did not return to France alone, but that when his passport was exhibited at Marseilles, it provided for M. Ferdinand Laperre, consular cadet, travelingwith his sister.

My friend, the illustrious traveler, had already furnished me with all the details of the history I have recounted; but my curiosity was not yet fully satisfied. I wished to know the fate of the lovers after their arrival in France. I pressed him with questions on this point, and at first uselessly. We were breakfasting in the open air, on the lawn at the Butard, and my botanist, in an exultation difficult to describe, was fully occupied with a godsend he had found beneath the table we had used. It was a small plant with shaggy and lanceolate leaves, with flowers of pale yellow, marked with a violet spot at the base of their five petals.

“Cistus guttatus! Helianthemum guttatum!” he exclaimed, with cries and gestures impossible to describe to any one who has not the heart of a botanist. “I thought it only existed in the mountains of Anti-Taurus, from whence I brought away so carefully an unique specimen. It was my finest vegetable conquest, and lo I find it here at the Butard at Luciennes, a suburb of Paris, beneath the table of a tavern. How can this be? Taurus and the Butard rivals in their productions? I am nonplussed! Do you believe in Asia Minor?”

“But of Asia Minor?” said I, interrupting him with tenacity, with obstinacy; “you have related to me a story, the parties to which interest me strongly—I beseech you tell me more of them!”

“They are perfectly well, I thank you,” he replied.

“I do not inquire after their health, but their fate.”

“Ah! what has become of them? Yes, I comprehend;” then looking at me with an air of mockery, and laughing loudly, he continued, “as they have, like us, a habit of chatting much when eating, they breakfast near by.”

“How! What!” I exclaimed, “those people at the fountain of the priest?”

“Truly. You now discover that you are no diviner. The alledged confectioner, the lemonade seller, is no other than my friend, Ferdinand Laperre, our Christian martyr; and his companion, by you so lightly qualified as a chambermaid, or a countess without prejudices, is Baïla, the ex-favorite of Djezzar, the pacha of Shivas; Baïla, the Mingrelian, the rose of Incour, the dove in the talons of the hawk.”

After having inflicted this mockery upon me, which was doubtless well merited, my friend determined finally to finish the story.

“Having arrived in Paris, events of a more vulgar nature than those which had signalized their sojourn in Shivas, proved the young Frenchman and the Mingrelian. Their money gave out. The ornaments, presents from Djezzar, which the odalisk had carried off in her flight, were, most of them, false. Pachas even are no longer to be trusted. Ferdinand must, above every thing, seek for a lucrative employment. He entered the royal printing office as a proof-reader of Oriental works. This resource being insufficient for the wants of the household, Baïla sought also to be useful. Having never handled a needle, she could not become a seamstress or an embroideress, or a dressing-maid, or a female companion. She has a charming voice, and might, at a pinch, challenge all the Italian, French, and other singers, in warbling and trilling; but understanding none of the European languages, she could only sing Arabianmoualsor Turkishgazels. Fortunately she dances also; and dancing is a language spoken and understood in all countries. She now figures in the ballet corps of the opera, where she is remarkablefor her lightness, her mildness, and her modesty.”

As my illustrious friend finished his recital, we saw Ferdinand Laperre and his handsome companion walking arm-in-arm toward the Butard. Now, better informed, I admired the rare beauty of the Mingrelian, and the wonderful and graceful suppleness of her figure. My eyes were directed curiously toward the lower extremities of the ex-consular cadet, to examine the form and dimensions of his feet, so as to verify one of the details of this history. I found them much as usual. He had doubtless confided to Baïla the connection of friendship existing between him and my companion, for when we again met, she made him a slight wave of the hand, saying, “Bojour mocha.”

“Salem-Alai-k,” replied my illustrious traveler.

I saluted her profoundly.

A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN.

———

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

———

Ye, who follow to the measureWhere the trump of Fortune leads,And at inns a-glow with pleasureRein your golden-harnessed steeds,In your hours of lordly leisureHave ye heard a voice of woOn the starless wind of midnightCome and go?Pilgrim brothers, whose existenceRides the higher roads of Time,Hark, how from the troubled distance,Voices made by wo sublime,In their sorrow, claim assistance,Though it come from friend or foe—Shall they ask and find no answer?Rise and go.One there was, who in his sadnessLaid his staff and mantle down,Where the demons laughed to madnessWhat the night-winds could not drown—Never came a voice of gladnessThough the cups should foam and flow,And the pilgrim thus proclaimingRose to go.“All the night I hear the speakingOf low voices round my bed,And the dreary floor a-creakingUnder feet of stealthy tread:—Like a very demon shriekingSwings the black sign to and fro,Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,For I go.“On the hearth the brands are lyingIn a black, unseemly show;Through the roof the winds are sighingAnd they will not cease to blow;Through the house sad hearts replyingSend their answer deep and low—Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,For I go.“Tell me not of fires relightedAnd of chambers glowing warm,Or of travelers benighted,Overtaken by the storm.Urge me not; your hand is blightedAs your heart is—even so!Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper—For I go.“Tell me not of goblets teemingWith the antidote of pain,For its taste and pleasant seemingOnly hide the deadly bane;Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming,How they curse thee in their wo!Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,For I go.“I will leave your dreary tavernEre I drink its mandragore:Like a black and hated cavernThere are reptiles on the floor;They have overrun your tavern,They are at your wine below!Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,For I go.“There’s an hostler in your stableTends a steed no man may own,And against your windy gableHow the night-birds scream and moan!Even the bread upon your tableIs the ashy food of wo;Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,For I go.“Here I will not seek for slumber,And I will not taste your wine:All your house the fiends encumber,And they are no mates of mine;Nevermore I join your numberThough the tempests rain or snow—Here’s my staff and here’s my mantle,And I go.”Suffering brothers—doubly brothers—(Pain hath made us more akin)Trust not to the strength of others,Trust the arm of strength within;One good hour of courage smothersAll the ills an age can know;Take your staff and take your mantle,Rise and go.

Ye, who follow to the measure

Where the trump of Fortune leads,

And at inns a-glow with pleasure

Rein your golden-harnessed steeds,

In your hours of lordly leisure

Have ye heard a voice of wo

On the starless wind of midnight

Come and go?

Pilgrim brothers, whose existence

Rides the higher roads of Time,

Hark, how from the troubled distance,

Voices made by wo sublime,

In their sorrow, claim assistance,

Though it come from friend or foe—

Shall they ask and find no answer?

Rise and go.

One there was, who in his sadness

Laid his staff and mantle down,

Where the demons laughed to madness

What the night-winds could not drown—

Never came a voice of gladness

Though the cups should foam and flow,

And the pilgrim thus proclaiming

Rose to go.

“All the night I hear the speaking

Of low voices round my bed,

And the dreary floor a-creaking

Under feet of stealthy tread:—

Like a very demon shrieking

Swings the black sign to and fro,

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“On the hearth the brands are lying

In a black, unseemly show;

Through the roof the winds are sighing

And they will not cease to blow;

Through the house sad hearts replying

Send their answer deep and low—

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“Tell me not of fires relighted

And of chambers glowing warm,

Or of travelers benighted,

Overtaken by the storm.

Urge me not; your hand is blighted

As your heart is—even so!

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper—

For I go.

“Tell me not of goblets teeming

With the antidote of pain,

For its taste and pleasant seeming

Only hide the deadly bane;

Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming,

How they curse thee in their wo!

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“I will leave your dreary tavern

Ere I drink its mandragore:

Like a black and hated cavern

There are reptiles on the floor;

They have overrun your tavern,

They are at your wine below!

Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,

For I go.

“There’s an hostler in your stable

Tends a steed no man may own,

And against your windy gable

How the night-birds scream and moan!

Even the bread upon your table

Is the ashy food of wo;

Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,

For I go.

“Here I will not seek for slumber,

And I will not taste your wine:

All your house the fiends encumber,

And they are no mates of mine;

Nevermore I join your number

Though the tempests rain or snow—

Here’s my staff and here’s my mantle,

And I go.”

Suffering brothers—doubly brothers—

(Pain hath made us more akin)

Trust not to the strength of others,

Trust the arm of strength within;

One good hour of courage smothers

All the ills an age can know;

Take your staff and take your mantle,

Rise and go.

SONNETS:

SUGGESTED BY PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

———

BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE.

———

I.—The Era of Discovery.The darkest storm-cloud oft upon its breastWeareth the bow of promise. In the hourOf deepest anguish, words of healing powerAre whispered to the spirit—“Peace!” and “Rest!”Praise to our God! if e’en Death’s shadow lower,Hope lightens all the gloom, with radiant crest—Oh! Joy is, oft, in garb of sorrow drest,And direst grief brings rapture as its dower.Thus, on the night of ages, flashed a lightOf wondrous power and splendor, Learning cameForth from the cloisters. Welcome to the sight,A breath from Heaven relit religion’s flame.’Twas then, his sail the great Discover furled,’Twas then, was born, as ’twere, this western world.II.—The Early Life of Columbus.Amid a glorious city, woke to lightHe who threw back a double radiance pure;And that blue sea! ’Twas as an angel bright,Beck’ning the child to fame and fortune sure.How lovingly its waters kissed his feet!How graceful yielded, as to lure awayThe young enthusiast! Should he fail to meetThe ceaseless chime, forbidding him to stay.Theman, thehourwere found, and from that timeHis soul was girded for its task sublime:To struggle on, through error’s endless maze;To bear contempt, and poverty, and pain;To wait for royal favor’s fickle rays;—To find a world beyond the western main!III.—Columbus at the University of Pavia.Here was the manna for his hungry soul;And here the fount for which he’d thirsted long.Though yet his years were few, none might controlHis mighty yearnings, or his purpose strong.Ah! it is joy to watch the spark divine,To feel it struck, as thought encounters thought!What deep, exulting happiness was thine,When to thine aid long-hidden lore was brought,And thou, Columbus! didst believe the skiesStooped down to nerve thee for thy high emprise!’Twas well thou hadst the witness in thine heart,Or thou hadst fainted in thy weary way;Though hope “deferred,” though anguish were thy part,Faith shed a halo round thee day by day.IV.—Columbus arrives in Spain.What veiléd glory, and what strange disguise,We meet in by-ways of this wondrous earth!How oft the “angel” to our scaléd eyesSeems but a “stranger” guest of mortal birth!Met with cold words, or, haply, careless mirth,Known only when he’s passed into the skies.Columbus asks for bread![2]None see the tiesWhich link him to the future home and hearthOf unborn millions. Thus, the glorious dayOft dawns in clouds, while the cold, ceaseless rainFills up each pause in the wind’s moaning strain,And forms of evil seem to haunt our way.The sky seems brightest when the clouds depart!Earth-woes make heaven still dearer to the heart.

I.—The Era of Discovery.

The darkest storm-cloud oft upon its breast

Weareth the bow of promise. In the hour

Of deepest anguish, words of healing power

Are whispered to the spirit—“Peace!” and “Rest!”

Praise to our God! if e’en Death’s shadow lower,

Hope lightens all the gloom, with radiant crest—

Oh! Joy is, oft, in garb of sorrow drest,

And direst grief brings rapture as its dower.

Thus, on the night of ages, flashed a light

Of wondrous power and splendor, Learning came

Forth from the cloisters. Welcome to the sight,

A breath from Heaven relit religion’s flame.

’Twas then, his sail the great Discover furled,

’Twas then, was born, as ’twere, this western world.

II.—The Early Life of Columbus.

Amid a glorious city, woke to light

He who threw back a double radiance pure;

And that blue sea! ’Twas as an angel bright,

Beck’ning the child to fame and fortune sure.

How lovingly its waters kissed his feet!

How graceful yielded, as to lure away

The young enthusiast! Should he fail to meet

The ceaseless chime, forbidding him to stay.

Theman, thehourwere found, and from that time

His soul was girded for its task sublime:

To struggle on, through error’s endless maze;

To bear contempt, and poverty, and pain;

To wait for royal favor’s fickle rays;—

To find a world beyond the western main!

III.—Columbus at the University of Pavia.

Here was the manna for his hungry soul;

And here the fount for which he’d thirsted long.

Though yet his years were few, none might control

His mighty yearnings, or his purpose strong.

Ah! it is joy to watch the spark divine,

To feel it struck, as thought encounters thought!

What deep, exulting happiness was thine,

When to thine aid long-hidden lore was brought,

And thou, Columbus! didst believe the skies

Stooped down to nerve thee for thy high emprise!

’Twas well thou hadst the witness in thine heart,

Or thou hadst fainted in thy weary way;

Though hope “deferred,” though anguish were thy part,

Faith shed a halo round thee day by day.

IV.—Columbus arrives in Spain.

What veiléd glory, and what strange disguise,

We meet in by-ways of this wondrous earth!

How oft the “angel” to our scaléd eyes

Seems but a “stranger” guest of mortal birth!

Met with cold words, or, haply, careless mirth,

Known only when he’s passed into the skies.

Columbus asks for bread![2]None see the ties

Which link him to the future home and hearth

Of unborn millions. Thus, the glorious day

Oft dawns in clouds, while the cold, ceaseless rain

Fills up each pause in the wind’s moaning strain,

And forms of evil seem to haunt our way.

The sky seems brightest when the clouds depart!

Earth-woes make heaven still dearer to the heart.

[2]On his first arrival in Spain, Columbus asked for bread and water for his child, at the convent of La Rabida.

[2]

On his first arrival in Spain, Columbus asked for bread and water for his child, at the convent of La Rabida.

V.—Columbus before the Council.[3]A silver lining to on ebon cloud;[4]A diamond flashing in Cimmerian cave;A Lazarus, up-rising from the grave,Bursting the cerements of the straitened shroud;To all true men Columbus calls aloud.He scans the past, with all its priestly lore,But, Janus-like, beholds the future’s shore.What glorious scenes, what teeming wonders crowd!What though the church behold him with a frown!What though the crosier point toward the rack,When heresy is near, as to the trackOf precious gold the magic hazel leans?He heedeth not the mitre, cowl, or gown;A new creation on his spirit beams.

V.—Columbus before the Council.[3]

A silver lining to on ebon cloud;[4]

A diamond flashing in Cimmerian cave;

A Lazarus, up-rising from the grave,

Bursting the cerements of the straitened shroud;

To all true men Columbus calls aloud.

He scans the past, with all its priestly lore,

But, Janus-like, beholds the future’s shore.

What glorious scenes, what teeming wonders crowd!

What though the church behold him with a frown!

What though the crosier point toward the rack,

When heresy is near, as to the track

Of precious gold the magic hazel leans?

He heedeth not the mitre, cowl, or gown;

A new creation on his spirit beams.

[3]Irving speaks of the ignorance of this body on allscientificsubjects, causing the opinions of Columbus to be regarded as heretical.

[3]

Irving speaks of the ignorance of this body on allscientificsubjects, causing the opinions of Columbus to be regarded as heretical.

[4]Was I deceived, or did an ebon cloudTurn forth its silver lining on the night?Milton.

[4]

Was I deceived, or did an ebon cloudTurn forth its silver lining on the night?Milton.

Was I deceived, or did an ebon cloud

Turn forth its silver lining on the night?Milton.

VI.—Columbus at Court.The crescent wanes within Granada’s walls;The Moorish standard bows into the dust;The hour hath come when proud Boabdil mustYield to Castilian prowess. In the hallsOf the Alhambra hymns of praise and trustAscend to Heaven. On the glad ear there fallsA mighty shout of triumph. Each one calls“Rejoice! the Cross hath conquered—ever just!”Who cometh ’mid the throng? One who hath learnedTo hope, when hope hath died within the breast;Fainting, to hold right on, though scoffed and spurned—Amid that jubilation he is blest.Man’s eyes are holden, but proud Woman’s nameFrom that good hour shares the Discoverer’s fame.VII.—The Embarkation.Oh! sweet as is the voice of one most dear,And balmy as the welcome breath of heavenTo the sick soul, long “cabined, cribbed, confined,”Is the blesséd wind, that on his high careerNow wafts the man to whose high trust is givenA world unknown, save to his mighty mind.The last deep prayer is said—the mystic riteHath brought new strength unto his awe-struck heart,He who long struggled with the diver’s might,Who oft the waves of error did dispart,And gasped for breath amid those shades of night,Now with the aim unerring of a dartStrikes for the pearl, bright gleaming to his eyes—What mortal man e’er brought up such a prize!VIII.—The Discovery.The morning dawns, and to th’ enraptured eyeAppears a land, glorious beyond compare,Save that the dreamer saw in vision fair,When to the Holy City he drew nigh.The long-drawn veil e’en now is rent in twain!Well may he enter in, with grateful prayer,And bathe, as ’twere in a diviner air.Well may the tears flow down—a blesséd rain!And Spain’s broad banner proudly rise on high.What scenes unknown—what beings from the sky,May wait his coming, or his glory share,And sing his praise in a celestial strain?Methinks his soul might now depart in peace!Well had it been had he then found release!IX.—The Return to Spain.Joy! for the Victor cometh! He hath wonA prouder triumph than the great of eld;The tempest-tossed, within whose bosom swelledBright hopes, that changed to fears, now sees the sunShine on the fair and fertile land of Spain,Which hails his name with proud enraptured strain.All press to gaze on th’ anointed one,Whom the Most High within his hand has held—While peals again the long and loud refrain;And for “Castile and Leon’s” chosen son,A full-orbed glory shineth in the West.Oh! if Life’s sands e’en then had ceased to run,Bright visions of those “islands of the blest”Had soothed him to his last and dreamless rest.X.—Columbus in Chains.In chains! in chains! homeward once more he came!Life’s sky is veiled in midnight drear and dark;—And this is his reward! They leave no markThose shameless fetters on his own fair fame.The shaft may pierce his soul, but yet no shameBows that proud head; he is the victor still;He triumphs in a stern, unconquered will.His ’scutcheon fair was dimmed by breath of blame;The stain is washed away by woman’s tears;His patron-queen forbids his anxious fears—Her gracious sweetness brings him to the dust.The pledge of royal favor now he hears.—But, oh! too long it waited—to be just;While care and grief led on the lingering years.XI.—Columbus proposes a new Crusade.The evening sky is bright with blended hues;A soft, mild radiance, borrowed from on high,Seems, to our view, to bring e’en heaven nigh,And its pure essence in our souls infuse.Thus, to that noble heart, as from the sky,There came a presence, in life’s slow decline;He viewed it as a holy seal and sign—The Cross must crown the city of the Jews!Like the pure incense-flame he soars from earth;In fancy sees the prophet’s page unroll,And reads therein the presage of his birth,The mighty mission of his single soul!Life’s pathway bears for him a healing balm,Which cheers his heart and nerves his fainting arm.XII.—The Death of Columbus.He cometh to the shore of that vast sea,[5]Whereon he never yet hath spread his sail;His last, last voyage. Now every chart must fail,Save that, our Father! he received of Thee!With an unwavering trust he meets the wave,Which bears him onward to the dread unknown;From man’s injustice to that mighty Throne,Supreme in power, Omnipotent to save.Ah! ne’er from that far land shall he return!His dust shall mingle with his mother-earthIn that fair isle to which his skill gave birth.[6]That mighty soul! where doth it “breathe and burn?”What worlds hath it discerned beyond the tomb,Which to our eyes are all enwrapped in gloom?

VI.—Columbus at Court.

The crescent wanes within Granada’s walls;

The Moorish standard bows into the dust;

The hour hath come when proud Boabdil must

Yield to Castilian prowess. In the halls

Of the Alhambra hymns of praise and trust

Ascend to Heaven. On the glad ear there falls

A mighty shout of triumph. Each one calls

“Rejoice! the Cross hath conquered—ever just!”

Who cometh ’mid the throng? One who hath learned

To hope, when hope hath died within the breast;

Fainting, to hold right on, though scoffed and spurned—

Amid that jubilation he is blest.

Man’s eyes are holden, but proud Woman’s name

From that good hour shares the Discoverer’s fame.

VII.—The Embarkation.

Oh! sweet as is the voice of one most dear,

And balmy as the welcome breath of heaven

To the sick soul, long “cabined, cribbed, confined,”

Is the blesséd wind, that on his high career

Now wafts the man to whose high trust is given

A world unknown, save to his mighty mind.

The last deep prayer is said—the mystic rite

Hath brought new strength unto his awe-struck heart,

He who long struggled with the diver’s might,

Who oft the waves of error did dispart,

And gasped for breath amid those shades of night,

Now with the aim unerring of a dart

Strikes for the pearl, bright gleaming to his eyes—

What mortal man e’er brought up such a prize!

VIII.—The Discovery.

The morning dawns, and to th’ enraptured eye

Appears a land, glorious beyond compare,

Save that the dreamer saw in vision fair,

When to the Holy City he drew nigh.

The long-drawn veil e’en now is rent in twain!

Well may he enter in, with grateful prayer,

And bathe, as ’twere in a diviner air.

Well may the tears flow down—a blesséd rain!

And Spain’s broad banner proudly rise on high.

What scenes unknown—what beings from the sky,

May wait his coming, or his glory share,

And sing his praise in a celestial strain?

Methinks his soul might now depart in peace!

Well had it been had he then found release!

IX.—The Return to Spain.

Joy! for the Victor cometh! He hath won

A prouder triumph than the great of eld;

The tempest-tossed, within whose bosom swelled

Bright hopes, that changed to fears, now sees the sun

Shine on the fair and fertile land of Spain,

Which hails his name with proud enraptured strain.

All press to gaze on th’ anointed one,

Whom the Most High within his hand has held—

While peals again the long and loud refrain;

And for “Castile and Leon’s” chosen son,

A full-orbed glory shineth in the West.

Oh! if Life’s sands e’en then had ceased to run,

Bright visions of those “islands of the blest”

Had soothed him to his last and dreamless rest.

X.—Columbus in Chains.

In chains! in chains! homeward once more he came!

Life’s sky is veiled in midnight drear and dark;—

And this is his reward! They leave no mark

Those shameless fetters on his own fair fame.

The shaft may pierce his soul, but yet no shame

Bows that proud head; he is the victor still;

He triumphs in a stern, unconquered will.

His ’scutcheon fair was dimmed by breath of blame;

The stain is washed away by woman’s tears;

His patron-queen forbids his anxious fears—

Her gracious sweetness brings him to the dust.

The pledge of royal favor now he hears.—

But, oh! too long it waited—to be just;

While care and grief led on the lingering years.

XI.—Columbus proposes a new Crusade.

The evening sky is bright with blended hues;

A soft, mild radiance, borrowed from on high,

Seems, to our view, to bring e’en heaven nigh,

And its pure essence in our souls infuse.

Thus, to that noble heart, as from the sky,

There came a presence, in life’s slow decline;

He viewed it as a holy seal and sign—

The Cross must crown the city of the Jews!

Like the pure incense-flame he soars from earth;

In fancy sees the prophet’s page unroll,

And reads therein the presage of his birth,

The mighty mission of his single soul!

Life’s pathway bears for him a healing balm,

Which cheers his heart and nerves his fainting arm.

XII.—The Death of Columbus.

He cometh to the shore of that vast sea,[5]

Whereon he never yet hath spread his sail;

His last, last voyage. Now every chart must fail,

Save that, our Father! he received of Thee!

With an unwavering trust he meets the wave,

Which bears him onward to the dread unknown;

From man’s injustice to that mighty Throne,

Supreme in power, Omnipotent to save.

Ah! ne’er from that far land shall he return!

His dust shall mingle with his mother-earth

In that fair isle to which his skill gave birth.[6]

That mighty soul! where doth it “breathe and burn?”

What worlds hath it discerned beyond the tomb,

Which to our eyes are all enwrapped in gloom?

[5]“The shoreOf that vast ocean we must sail so soon.”

[5]

“The shoreOf that vast ocean we must sail so soon.”

“The shore

Of that vast ocean we must sail so soon.”

[6]The remains of Columbus were deposited in the convent of St. Francisco, but repeatedly removed, and, finally, on the 15th January, 1796, transferred, with almost regal pomp, to the island of Cuba.

[6]

The remains of Columbus were deposited in the convent of St. Francisco, but repeatedly removed, and, finally, on the 15th January, 1796, transferred, with almost regal pomp, to the island of Cuba.

TO A FRIEND—WITH A BUNCH OF ROSES.

———

BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

———

Go forth in beauty blushing to the one I love so well—Let this dewy fragrance gushing to his spirit softly tellHow a secret, sweet revealing from a gentle kindred heart,Far through his bosom stealing, comes to seek its nobler part.Oh! there’s not a spell so glowing in this lovely world of ours,As when Feeling’s tones are flowing through the voices of the flowers,When Affection’s thoughts are wreathing in a murmured melodyRound their dewy petals breathing forth a music-mystery.There are angel voices given in their delicate perfume,Which will lead us up to Heaven where the fadeless roses bloom,They have come unto us glowing with a beauty from the skies,They are gifts of God’s bestowing, from a blessed Paradise.Let a bright and lovely vision from our sunny Southern bowers,A dream of joy elysian be awakened by these flowers,For a wealth of bliss is filling all the loveliness they wear,And their tiny leaves are thrilling with the messages they bear.Where the velvet bud uncloses to the morning’s golden beamBe thy life like summer roses floating o’er a summer stream,And amid its sunny bowers may a gentle heart be thine,To bring thee back the flowers which thou hast thrown o’er mine.Yes—a gentle heart to bring them—leaves from out the distant past,O’er thy path in life to fling them—all unfading to the last,In itself the sweetest blossom which a “God of love” has given,To be worn within thy bosom—and to bloom for aye in Heaven.

Go forth in beauty blushing to the one I love so well—

Let this dewy fragrance gushing to his spirit softly tell

How a secret, sweet revealing from a gentle kindred heart,

Far through his bosom stealing, comes to seek its nobler part.

Oh! there’s not a spell so glowing in this lovely world of ours,

As when Feeling’s tones are flowing through the voices of the flowers,

When Affection’s thoughts are wreathing in a murmured melody

Round their dewy petals breathing forth a music-mystery.

There are angel voices given in their delicate perfume,

Which will lead us up to Heaven where the fadeless roses bloom,

They have come unto us glowing with a beauty from the skies,

They are gifts of God’s bestowing, from a blessed Paradise.

Let a bright and lovely vision from our sunny Southern bowers,

A dream of joy elysian be awakened by these flowers,

For a wealth of bliss is filling all the loveliness they wear,

And their tiny leaves are thrilling with the messages they bear.

Where the velvet bud uncloses to the morning’s golden beam

Be thy life like summer roses floating o’er a summer stream,

And amid its sunny bowers may a gentle heart be thine,

To bring thee back the flowers which thou hast thrown o’er mine.

Yes—a gentle heart to bring them—leaves from out the distant past,

O’er thy path in life to fling them—all unfading to the last,

In itself the sweetest blossom which a “God of love” has given,

To be worn within thy bosom—and to bloom for aye in Heaven.

MUSIC.

———

BY HENRY GILES.

———

The mere capacity in man of perceiving sound, renders the musical element a necessity in nature and in life. Discord, as a permanent state, is as inconceivable as a permanent state of chaos. The combinations of sounds, therefore, in the audible creation, if not all in detail musical, are pervaded by the musical element: No ear is insensible to the music of the air in the branches of a tree; to the groaning of it in the hollow cave—to its whistle in the grass, or to its spirit-voices in a stormy night around the dwelling. No ear is insensible to the trickling melody of the stream, to the deep song of the river—to the solemn anthem of the torrent, to the eternal harmonies of the ocean. Birds are peculiarly the musicians of the animal world. But how skillful and how rich their music is, we must learn, not from the printed page, but in the sunny grove. Though other creatures have not, as birds, the gift of song, yet are they not unmusical, and have their parts in the mighty orchestra of living nature. Musical sounds are grateful to the sense—and all beings that hear listen to them, enjoy them, and need them. In music man has a common medium of sympathy with his fellow animals. The charger prances to the sounds that swell the heart of his master—for he, too, has a heart which they can enter and dilate. A melody can soothe the lion’s rage. The elephant treads delighted to the measure of the band. The dog bays gladness to the shepherd’s flute. The cow stands in placid rapture while the milk-maid sings. Man is scarcely ever so rude as to be beyond the reach of music. It was a myth, containing as much truth as beauty, that feigned Apollo with his lyre as the early tamer of wild men. If music is the first influence which the race feels, it is also the first which the individual feels. The infant opens its intelligence and love to the mother’s song as much as to the mother’s face. The voice, even more than the look, is the primitive awakener of the intellect and heart. Every mother ought to sing. A song will outlive all sermons in the memory. Let memories that begin life have songs that last for life.

As a mere sensation, music has power. A little maid I have known, who would sit on her cricket by her father’s knee until he had read the whole of Christobel—of which she did not know the meaning of a line. It was melodious to her ear, and merely in its music there was fascination to her infant spirit. The songs which primitive people sing—in which they have their best social interchange, are frequently poor in diction and bald in sentiment. It is the music that gives the words a life; and this life can transfuse energetic inspiration into the meanest words. Early melodies are, of necessity, most simple. They are the instincts seeking to put themselves into measured sound—yet with little to fill the ear, and less to reach the mind. Nevertheless, they are good for the mind and pleasant to the ear. A rude musical sensation is of value; of how much more value is a refined musical sensation. But a musical sensation is of its very nature a refined one. It is among the purest of sensations. It may, indeed, be associated with coarse and base emotions. This, however, is not in itself. It is in the imagination or the word-music simply, as music presents nothing to the sense that is either coarse or base. The conception is from the mind to music, not from music to the mind. Speaking of music as a sensation, I speak relatively—for to man there is no music without soul. In music soul and sense both mingle—and becomeonein its inspired sound.

Yet the least part of music is the mere sensation. It is not on the ear but on the heart that its finest spirit dwells.Thereare the living chords which it puts in motion, and in whose vibration it has the echoes of its tones. The heart, after all, is the instrument with which the true musician has to deal. He must understand that from its lowest note to the top of its compass. The true test of music is the amount of feeling it contains. The true criterion of a love for music is the capacity to appreciate feeling in music. Music properly is the language of emotion. It is the language of the heart. Its grammar, its rhetoric, its eloquence, its oratory, is of the heart. The evidence of its power is in the calm or the quivering pulsation. Feeling in music is a memory, a sympathy, or an impulse. Nothing can recall with such vividness as music can a past emotion—a departed state of mind. Words are but the history of a by-gone thought—music is its presence. All our profoundest feelings are in their nature lyrical. Whatever most deeply affects us, we do, in some way, link to tune, or they are by tune awakened. The feelings sing of themselves, and make an orchestra of the brain. Persons utterly incapable of putting the simplest combination of sounds musically together, will make melody in their hearts of the reminiscences that strongly move them. And these will commonly be sad, as all is that is connected with the Past—sad, however, with various degrees of intensity—some, but calm regrets—others, dirges and requiems. Therefore it is that the most affecting melodies belong to the Past—to the past in the life of a man—to the past in the life of a nation. Such melodies come not from prosperity or power. They come from those who have missed a history, or whose history is over. Such melodies are voices of sadness—the yearnings over what might have been but was not—the regret for what has been but will never be again. And thus, too, it is with the most affecting eloquence. That which agitates thebreast with force resistless is the word which is fraught with the passions of its sorrow. Life in power is Action—Life in memory is elegy or eloquence. A nation, like a man, dreams its life again—and until life is gone or changed it soliloquizes or sings its dreams. The music of memory lives in every man’s experience; and the excellence of it is, that it binds itself only to our better feelings. It is the excellence of our nature, also, that only such feelings have spontaneous memories. The worst man does not willingly recall his bad feelings: and if he did, he could not wed them to a melody. Hatred, malice—vengeance, envy, have, to be sure, their proper expressions in the lyric drama, but of themselves they are not musical, and by themselves they could not be endured. It is not so with the kind emotions. They are in themselves a music—and memory delights in the sweetness of their intonations. Love, affection, friendship, patriotism, pity, grief, courage—whatever generously swells the heart or tenderly subdues it—or purely elevates it—are, of themselves, of their own attuning and accordant graciousness, of a musical inspiration. With what enchantment will a simple strain pierce the silence of the breast, and in every note break the slumber of a thousand thoughts. It is a positive enchantment. Faces long in the clay bloom as they did in youth. An inward ear is opened through the outward—and voices of other times are speaking—and words which you had heard before come to your soul, and they are pleasant in this illusive echo. Your spirit is lost in the flight of days, and insensible to the interval of distance; it is back in other hours, and dwells in other scenes. Such are the mysterious linkings by which music interlaces itself with our feelings—and so becomes an inseparable portion of our sympathy. But sympathy exists only when music answers to the spirit. Give not a merry carol to a heavy heart; although you may give a grave strain to a light one. Music, as rightly used, is, as some one calls it, “the medicine of an afflicted mind.” Joy is heightened by exultant strains, but grief is eased only by low ones. “A sweet, sad measure” is the balm of a wounded spirit. Music lightens toil. The sailor pulls more cheerily for his song: and even the slave feels in singing that he is a man. But, in other forms of labor, we miss in our country the lyric feeling. Most of our work is done in silence. We hear none of those songs at the milking hour, which renders that hour in Europe so rich in pastoral and poetical associations. We hear no ploughman’s whistle ringing over the field with a buoyant hilarity. We have no chorusses of reapers, and no merry harvest-feasts. But if such things can not be naturally, it is vain to wish for them—and it may be even useless to mention them. Better things, perhaps, are in their place—grave meditation and manly thought—and I merely allude to them as elements that accord pleasingly with certain modes of life in countries to whose habits and history they are native. Music in social intercourse is a fine awakener of sympathies, and a fine uniter of them. A violin or a piano is often not less needed to soothe the ruffled spirit of a company, than the harp of David was to calm down the fiend in the turbulent breast of Saul. Music, as we see in the customs of all nations, is used as an antidote to the sense of danger, as well as a stimulus to the passion of combat. And as embattled hosts move with measured tramp to the field of death, music is the magic that is trusted to charm away fear or to call up courage.

Largely are men indebted even to the music of ballads and of songs. Difficult it would be to measure the good which such music has done to mankind. To multitudes in days of yore songs were the only literature, and by the bards they had all their learning. Songs were their history; their romance; their tragedy; their comedy; their fire-side eloquence, giving utterance and perpetuity to sacred affections, and to noble thoughts—and keeping alive a spirit of humanity in both the vassal and the lord. Men have not yet ceased to need such influences, nor have such influences lost their power. They still add purer brightness to the joys of the young—and are a solace to the memory of age. They are still bonds of a generous communion. They banish strangeness from the rich man’s hall: they add refinement to the rich man’s banquet: they are joy in the poor man’s holyday, they express lovingness in the poor man’s feast. What so aids beneficent nature as such music does, to remove barbarism and to inspire kindness? How dear amidst all the toils of earth are the songs which were music to our infant ears—the songs of our hearth and of our home—the songs which were our childhood’s spells, a blessedness upon our mother’s lips, a rapture and delight! What solaces the exile, while it saddens him? What is it that from the ends of ocean turns him with wistful imagination to the star which overhangs his father-land? What is it that brings the tear to his eye, and the memory of other days, and the vision in the far-off west; that annihilates years and distance, and gives him back his country, and gives him back his youth? Song—inspired song—domestic song—national song—song that carries ideal enthusiasm into rudest places—with many a tale of marvel and magnanimity—of heroism in the soldier, and sanctity in the saint—of constancy in love, and of bravery in war.

Man is a social being. Unselfish society is the harmony of humanity: loving interchange is the music of life; the music which lifts the attuned soul above discordant passions and petty cares—and song is the voice in which that music breathes. These are the strains that have memories in them of all that true souls deem worthy of life or death—the purities of their homes, the sacredness of their altars, the hopes of their posterity—all for which martyrs suffer—all for which patriots bleed—all that give millions a single wish and a single will—all that make the cry of liberty as the trump of judgment, and the swords of freemen as the bolts of heaven. Glorious names, and glorious deeds, and honorable feelings, are always allied to the lyric spirit. The independence of a country may seem to be utterly lost: the ruin of a nation may appear decided: indeed,its external destiny may be accomplished; but the character of a people is never absolutely degraded until the lyric fire is dead upon the altar, and the lyric voice is heard no longer in the temple.

Music is not exhausted in expressing feeling, though some persons are so constituted as not beyond this to understand or to enjoy it. But music of more profound combination is not, on this account, without meaning and without value. The higher forms of music, like the higher forms of poetry, must, of course, if tested by mere instinct, seem remote and complicated. Music, too, is susceptible of more multiplied combinations than poetry; and, without the restraints of arbitrary signs and definite ideas, can expatiate in the region of pure imagination. In the true sense of the word, it is infinite. Not bound to form, not bound to color, not bound to speech, it is as unlimited as the capacity of the soul to exist in undefinable states of emotional being. And into these it can throw the soul with inconceivable rapidity of change. The great master of even a single instrument appears, indeed, a wizard. He seems, in truth, to be the only artist to whom the designation of wizard can with any correctness be applied. Men of other genius may be creators, but the musician is the wizard. His instrument is a talisman. It is full of conjurations—out from it he draws his witchery; he puts his spell upon all around him; he chains them in the slavery of delight; and he is the only despot that rules over willing captives. No other power on the imagination is so complete—so uncontrollable. The fiction or the poem you can lay aside; the picture or statue moves you but calmly; the actor is at the mercy of an accident; the orator may fail, by reason of your opposition to his sentiments or opposition to his person; but the musician draws you from every thing which can counteract his charm, and once within his circle you have no escape from his power. Emotional conceptions—solemn, gay, pathetic, impassioned—are as souls in all his sounds. But in the case of an executive musician, the art seems incarnate in the artist. We associate the personality of the artist with the effects of his art. We are not yet within the limitless domain of imaginative music. The great instrumentalist is, indeed, a wizard—a cunning necromancer; but he is before us while he works his spells, and though we cannot resist the enchanter webeholdhim. In a great composer there is a higher potency, and it is one that is not seen. The action of his spirit on our spirits, though exercised by means of intermediate agents, is yet that of an invisible incantation. The great composer is an imperial magician—the sovereign of genii and the master of wizards. He is a Prospero, andMusicis hisEnchanted Island. The creative musician, and the region in which he dwells, can have no analogy more correct than that presented to us in Shakspeare’s extraordinary play of “The Tempest.” There we have the loud-resounding sea; at one moment the sun bright in the clear sky, at another hidden by the mist or breaking through the blood-red cloud; now the heavens are full of stars, and in an instant they are thick with gloom; the elements gather into masses, they clash together, and the thunder and the waves fill up the chorus. Then the day dawns softly, and the morning breaks into summer songs. Caves are there and pleasant dells; solitudes are there, dark and lonely; spots beautiful as well as terrible; barren and blasted heaths, where goblins hold their revels; and labyrinthian walks, where sweet-hearts, not unwilling, lose themselves and linger. The earth, the atmosphere, shore, stream, grove, are filled with preternatural movements, with sweet voices and strange sounds. There are Ariel-melodies, there are Caliban groanings; there are the murmurings of manly passions, and the whisperings of maiden-love; there areBacchanalian jovialities, high and mysterious monologues, fanciful and fairy-ditties, the full swellings of excited hearts, and the choral transports of all nature, made living and made lyrical. But the Prospero who rules in this island, dwells in a lonely cell, and yet commands all the voices of the universe to do his bidding. Have I not, by this analogy, described a grand imaginative composer? Without intending it, I have described Beethoven. I speak, I admit, only as one of the appreciating vulgar—as one of the impressible ignorant; I am able only to express a sensation, not to pronounce a judgment. In listening to Beethoven’s music there is a delight, for which, no doubt, the learned artist can give a reason. I know nothing of art, and with me the listening is an untutored, a wild, an almost savage joy or sorrow, or a mixture of emotions that cannot be defined. The music of Beethoven, if I can judge from the little that I have heard of it, isunearthly; but the unearthliness of this music is of a compound nature. Like Spenser’s, Beethoven’s imagination is unearthly; and, like Spenser’s, it is unearthly in the supernaturally grand and beautiful. Like Milton’s imagination, also, Beethoven’s is unearthly; but here it is unearthly in the mysterious and the solemn. The union of these elements in the wholeness of Beethoven’s genius, have given to us that singular, that most original music, which seems to belong to the ideal region, which eastern fancy has peopled with genii andfairies. What a wonderful thing is a symphony of Beethoven’s! But who can describe it, in either its construction or its effects? You might as well attempt to describe, by set phrases, the raptures of St. Paul or the visions of the Apocalypse. It always seems the utterance of a mighty trance, of a mysterious dream, of a solemn ecstacy. The theme, even the most simple—so simple that a child, as it might appear, could have fashioned it, is one, however, that genius of a marvelous peculiarity only could have discovered—a genius that worked and lived amidst the most ideal analogies by which sounds are related to emotions. And this unearthly theme is thrown at once into an ocean of orchestral harmony, and this orchestral harmony is as unearthly as the theme. Thrown upon the orchestra it seems to break, to divide itself, to scatter itself upon the waves of an enchanted sea, in a multitude of melodies. It seems as a tune played by a spirit-minstrel, on a summer night, inthe glade of a lonely wood, to which all the genii of music answer, in chorusses of holy, sad, enchanting modulation.

And of Mozart! What shall we say of him—of Mozart, less only than Beethoven in those strains which linger amidst remote associations, but versatile beyond most composers in the romance and reality of the comic and the tragic in actual life. If ever a genius lived with which all its work was play, that genius was the genius of Mozart. Constantly he made the merest play of genius. At ten years old he could astonish the most critical of musical audiences in Paris, and before their rapture had approached within manydegrees of moderation, he would be romping in the crowd of his companions. Nor was it different in his maturity. He could compose a piece, in which he was himself to take a part. He would distribute the score, perfectly arranged for the several performers. As they played, he would turn page after page over along with them, always in the spirit of the music and its harmony; but the emperor, looking over his shoulder, could see that not a note had he written down. Mozart seemed to combine in his genius all the sweetness of Italy with all the depth of Germany. But on these themes I have no authority to speak. All I can say is, that what I have heard of his compositions, and most of what I have learned of his life, have led me to think of him with admiration as a musician, and with affection as a man.

Music, it is sometimes said, is not an intellectual art.What does this mean?Does it mean that music employs no intellect in the artist, and excites none in the hearer? The assertion in both cases is untrue. Music, as a study, must, I think, be profoundly intellectual. In the oldest universities it has always had a place among the abstract sciences. But, considered as an enjoyment—considered in relation to the hearer—we should first need to settle what we understand by an intellectual enjoyment. To work a problem in algebra, or to examine a question of theology, may be each an intellectual pleasure; but the pleasure, it is manifest, is, in each case very different. These both, it is true, agree in taxing thereasoningfaculty; but is nothing intellectual but that which formally taxes this faculty? Is nothing intellectual but that which involves syllogism—but that which implies demonstration or induction? Prayer is not intellectual, if we identify intellectuality with logic; and if we do this, it isnotintellectual to feel the merits of a picture, but peculiarly so to understand the proportions of its frame. According to such a theory, it is intellectual to analyze with Aristotle, but it is not so to burn and to soar with Plato. To speculate with Jeremy Bentham is intellectual, but it is not so to be enraptured by the divine song of Milton. Assertions which lead to such conclusions must be radically false. Whatever puts man’s spiritual powers into action, is intellectual. Thekindof action engaged will, of course, be ever according to the subject and the object. The intellectuality of a statesman is not that of a bard; the intellectuality which concocts an act of parliament, is not that which composes a “Song of the Bell.” Music is neither inductive nor raciotionative. It is an art; that is, it is an inward law realised in outward fact. Such is all art. In this music agrees with all arts, for all arts are but the outward realities of inward laws. But some of these are for utility, others for delight. Music is of those arts which spring from the desire for enjoyment and gratify it. It bears the soul away into the region of the infinite, and moves it with conceptions of exhaustless possibilities of beauty. If ideas, feelings, imaginations, are intellectual, then is music; if that which can excite, combine, modify, elevate—memories, feelings, imagination—is intellectual, then music is intellectual.

An art which, like music, is the offspring of passion and emotion, could not but take a dramatic form. The lyrical drama, secular and sacred, civilized humanity could not but produce. Nothing is more natural than that the gayety and grief of the heart should seek the intense and emphatic expression which music can afford. It would, indeed, be extraordinary if a creature like man—so covetous of excitement, so desirous of varying his sensations—did not press into his service, wherever it could be used, an art which has no other equal to it for excitement and variety. The opera, both comic and tragic, is a genuine production of this desire. The burlesque, the odd, the merry, the absurd, and, still more, pity, love, jealousy, vengeance, despair, have their music in the rudest states of society; it is only in the order of things that they should in cultivated states of society have a cultivated music. Such music, as a matter of course, would connect itself with a story, a plot, with incident, character, scenery, costume, and catastrophe. It would thus become dramatic. Thus it has become; and as such, it has a range as ample as that of human life, as deep as human passions, as versatile as the human fancy and the human will. Hence we have the opera. The opera is that form which the drama assumed among a people musically organized—among a people whose love of music was, therefore, intense, constitutional and expansive. But no art remains within the limits of its native space, and the opera is now as extensive as civilization; as extensive, certainly, as modern civilization. The ballad is the first comedy or tragedy. There are germs in the words of the ballet for the genius of Shakspeare—there are germs in the air of it for the genius of Rossini. Many object to the opera. First, they say, it is expensive. All our amusements are expensive—expensive as they ought not to be—expensive as they would not be with a higher and a purer social culture. Artistic amusements are expensive, especially, by the want of taste, which hinders the many from sharing in them—by the want of taste, which makesexpenseitself distinction. True taste coincides with true feeling; true feeling delights in beauty, as it delights in goodness, for its own sake; and true feeling being wide as nature and humanity, the more widely its delight is shared the greater its own enjoyment. Were there among the people a diffusive taste for elevatedmusic, we cannot but feel that music could be cheap as well as noble. But, secondly, many say that the opera is unnatural. It is absurd, they quizzically aver, that persons should sing their love-talk, their madness, their despair, etc., and grieve or laugh, and die or be married, in sharps or flats, in major or minor. And yet, this is exactly what nature does. Nature sings all its stronger emotions. The moment expression becomes excited it has rhythm—it has cadence; and the tune of Rossini is nearer to instinct than the blank verse of Shakspeare. Who will say that genuine passion is not in this wonderful blank verse? But who is it that could impromptu speak it? So in the tones and harmonies of music. In both nature is carried into the region of art, out from the region of the actual; and within the region of art the musical utterance of nature is no more strange than the poetical utterance of nature. The moral view of the opera I do not here pretend to deal with. My purpose is to speak on music as an element of social culture; and it is not beyond the range of possibility that beautiful truths can be united dramatically to beautiful tones. If they cannot, then society has an immense loss; and if a noble story cannot be told by music—cannot be told to a moral purpose, then music ceases to be an art, as it has always been considered as associated with the divinest impulses of our nature. The abuses of which the opera is susceptible, are the abuses of which every form of art is susceptible. The artist stands—he has ever stood—upon a point between the human and divine. He may carry his art into gross sensualities of the human, or into lofty spiritualities of the divine. With the purification of society we shall have the purification of art and of the artist; and, therefore, I can see no reason why the opera might not be made effective in the best culture of social humanity. The lyrical expression of humanity is not less human than it is religious.

The sacred lyrical drama, or oratorio, seems to be a remnant of the old mysteries. In those old mysteries a scriptural subject was exhibited to the people in a theatrical manner. The scriptural subject is all that remains of the old mystery in the modern oratorio. Stage, scenery, costume, have departed, and music takes their place. Music, therefore, in the oratorio, must, by its own power, indicate character, sentiment, passion; it must unite grandeur and diversity with unity of spirit; it must unite them with unity of expression. Yet even the oratorio has not escaped objection. But, if it has been wrongly attacked, it has been as unwisely defended. What, it is triumphantly asked, can inspire deeper devotion, more fervent piety, than the sacred composition of Handel? The mistake of the artiste on this side of the question, has its only measure in the mistake of the ascetic on the other. The strains, even of Handel, may be in unison with the highest and purest aspirations of the mind; but, in his divinest dramas, they are not of themselves—devotion. But, if high music confers a pleasure that harmonizes with the mind’s best faculties; if it prepares the mind’s best faculties for their best exercise; if by lifting the mind up into the sphere of great emotions from that of mean ones; if by withdrawing it from attention to selfish desires, it carries it into lofty thought, music exercises for the mind, even in the temple, a sacred power, though its power should yet only be artistic. No mind, for instance, can be in a low or degraded condition, while it is in sympathy with the pure and delectable genius of Haydn. No mind can have communed with him through his oratorio of the “Creation,” can have drunk in its liquid melodies—its gladdening hymns of praise—its soft and heart-soothing airs—its songs, which seem to sparkle with the light which they celebrate—with the dew that bathed first the flowers of Paradise—with its anthems of holy exultation, such as the sons of God might have shouted—with the whole breathing in every part as it does—with the young soul of goodness and beauty—no mind, I say, can be in such communion, and for the time be otherwise than transported beyond all that can belittle or defile. But Handel excites a profounder sentiment. He is not so cheerful as Haydn. He could not be; for this he is too massive and austere. He does not, like Haydn, lead the mind out to nature, he turns it in upon itself. Not loveliness, but mysteries make the spirit of his music. We find in Haydn the picturesqueness and the buoyancy of the Catholic worship; in Handel, the sombre, the inquiring, the meditative thoughtfulness of the Protestant faith. By Haydn’s “Creation” we are charmed and elated; by Handel’s “Messiah” we are moved with an overcoming sense of awe and power. Though nothing can surpass the sweetness of Handel’s melodies, yet interspersed amidst such masses of harmony, they seem like hymns amidst the billows of the ocean, or songs among the valleys of the Alps. Handel’s genius was made for a subject that placed him in the presence of eternity and the universe. His moods and movements are too vast for the moods and movements of common interests or the common heart. They require the spaces of the worlds. They require interests coincident with man’s destiny, and with man’s duration. Though Handel’s airs in the “Messiah” are of sweetest and gentlest melody, they have majesty in their sweetness and their gentleness. We can associate them with no event lower than that with which they are connected. In such tones we can conceive the Saviour’s birth celebrated in the song of angels; in such tones we can fancy the Redeemer welcomed in hosannas by those who ignorantly dragged him afterward to Calvary. And then the plaintiveness of Handel in the “Messiah,” has its true horizon only in that which girds the immortal. It is not simply plaintive, it is mysteriously awful. It is not a grief for earthly man, it is a grief for him who bore the griefs of all men—for Him who carried our sorrows—who was wounded for our transgressions—who was bruised for our iniquities, who was oppressed and afflicted, and who bore the chastisement of our peace. It is not a grief in which any common spirit dare complain. It is fit only for Him who had sorrows to which no man’s sorrows were like. It does not cause us to pity, but to tremble. It does not move us to weeping, becausethere lie beneath it, thoughts which are too deep for tears. And then, in unison with this dread and solemn pathos, is the subdued but mighty anguish of the general harmony. When the victory is proclaimed—the victory over the grave—the victory over death—the victory in which mortality is swallowed up of life—we are lost in the glory of a superhuman chorus; our imagination breaks all local bounds; we fancy all the elements of creation, all glorified and risen men, all the hosts of Heaven’s angels united in this exultant anthem. Handel truly is the Milton of music.

The grandest office of music, however, is that in which, no doubt, it originated—that in which, early, it had its first culture; in which, latest, it has its best—I mean its office in religion. In the sanctuary it was born, and in the service of God it arose with a sublimity with which it could never have been inspired in the service of pleasure. More assimilated than any other art to the spiritual nature of man, it affords a medium of expression the most congenial to that nature. Compared with tones that breathe out from a profound, a spiritually musical soul, how poor is any allegory which painting can present, or that symbol can indicate. The soul is invisible; its emotions admit no more than itself of shape or limitation. The religious emotions cannot always have even verbal utterance. They often seek an utterance yet nearer to the infinite; and such they find in music. You cannot delineate a feeling—at most you can but suggest it by delineation. But in music you can by intonation directly give the feeling. Thus related to the unseen soul, music is a voice for faith, which is itself the realization of things not seen. And waiting as the soul is amidst troubles and toils, looking upward from the earth, and onward out of time, for a better world or a purer life, in its believing and glad expectancy, music is the voice of its hope. In the depression and despondency of conviction; in the struggles of repentance; in the consolations and rejoicing of forgiveness; in the wordless calm of internal peace, music answers to the mood, and soothingly breaks the dumbness of the heart. For every charity that can sanctify and bless humanity, music has its sacred measures; and well does goodness merit the richest harmony of sound, that is itself the richest harmony of heaven. Sorrow, also, has its consecrated melody. The wounded spirit and the broken heart are attempered and assuaged by the murmurings of divine song. A plaintive hymn soothes the departing soul. It mingles with weeping in the house of death. It befits the solemn ritual of the grave. The last supper was closed with a hymn, and many a martyr for Him who went from that supper to his agony, made their torture jubilant in songs of praise.

An essay equal to the subject on the vicissitudes and varieties of sacred music, would be one of the most interesting passages in the history of art. In their long wanderings to the land of promise, sacred music was among the hosts of Israel; and in that great temple of nature, floored by the desert, and roofed by the sky, they chanted the song of Miriam and of Moses. It was in their Sabbath meetings—it resounded with the rejoicings of their feasts, and with the gladness of their jubilees. When Solomon built a house to the Lord, it was consecrated with cymbals, and psalteries, and harps, with the sounds of trumpets, and the swell of voices. As long as the temple stood, music hallowed its services; and that music must have been supremely grand which suited the divine poetry of the inspired and kingly lyrist. Israel was scattered—the temple was no more. Silence and desolation dwelt in the place of the sanctuary. Zion heard no longer the anthems of her Levites. A new word that was spoken first in Jerusalem had gone forth among the nations; and that too had its music. At first it was a whisper among thelowly in the dwellings of the poor. Stealthily it afterward was murmured in the palace of the Cæsars. In the dead night, in the depths of the catacombs, it trembled in subdued melodies filled with the love of Jesus. At length the grand cathedral arose, and the stately spire; courts and arches echoed, and pillars shook with the thunder of the majestic organ, and choirs, sweetly attuned, joined their voices in all the moods and measures of the religious heart, in its most exalted, most profound, most intense experience put into lyrical expression. I know that piety may reject, may repel this form of expression, still these sublime ritual harmonies cannot but give the spirit that sympathizes with them, the sense of a mightier being. But sacred music has power without a ritual. In the rugged hymn, which connects itself, not alone with immortality, but also with the memory of brave saints, there is power. There is power in the hymn in which our father’s joined. Grand were those rude psalms which once arose amidst the solitudes of the Alps. Grand were those religious songs, sung in brave devotion by the persecuted Scotch, in the depths of their moors and their glens. Thehundredth psalm, rising in the fullness of three thousand voices up into the clear sky, broken among rocks, prolonged and modulated through valleys, softened over the surface of mountain-guarded lakes, had a grandeur and a majesty, contrasted with which mere art is poverty and meanness. And while thus reflecting on sacred music, we think with wonder on the Christian Church—on its power and on its compass. Less than nineteen centuries ago, its first hymn was sung in an upper chamber of Jerusalem; and those who sung it were quickly scattered. And now the Christian hymn is one that never ceases—one that is heard in every tongue; and the whisper of that upper chamber is now a chorus that fills the world.

Music is an essential element in social life and social culture, and our times have few better movements than the increasing introduction of vocal music into popular education. The higher kinds of music might be included in all the higher kinds of education for men as well as for women. Milton so teaches in his great tractate; and so the Greeks practiced, in whose training no faculty was wasted or overlooked. The music which is now most wanted, however, is music for the common heart.If education will give us the taste for such music, and give us the music, it will confer upon us a benefit, a blessing. It is not desired that music in the home, or in the friendly circle, should never wander out of the sphere of the home or the friendly circle, only let not these spheres of feeling be without any strains peculiarly suitable to themselves. Let the theatre have its music; let the camp have its music; let the dance-room have its music; let the church have its music; but let the home and the friendly gathering also have their music.

We have for the cultivated, music of rare powers and in great abundance; but we need a music for the people—and no music can be music for the people, but that which answers to simple and direct emotion. It is a most important need. The music of the opera, granting it were ever so pure, and had no resistance to encounter, can be had only in cities, and can never reach the scattered masses of the population. The music of the oratorio must have a limitation even still more restricted. Popular music must be domestic, social music. We have it not; therefore we are a silent people, and our writings have no lyrical inspirations. The finer and deeper elements of popular life have no true medium of exposition. These subtle, delicate, wordless idealities of the soul, which the rudest have, are without music; that alone, which can take them from the confining bosom, and give them to the vital air. Our rural life is gladdened by no song—is the subject of no song; and our social life is almost as silent as the rural. National music we have none: and our political songs are, generally, a shame todoggerel, and a libel upon tune. Complaining on the want of social and domestic music, will not, I am aware, supply it; and yet it is no less a want. We want it on the summer’s evening, when our work is done, to rest the spirit as we rest the body; and while the eye is filled with visible beauty, to bring the soul into harmony with invisible goodness. We want it in the winter’s night, by the winter fire, to cheer us while the hours pass, and to humanize in amusing us. We want it in our friendly re-unions, not for delight alone, but also for charity and peace, to exclude the demon of idle or evil speaking, and to silence the turbulence of polemical or political discussion. We want it in our churches. Christianity is the home-feeling and the social-feeling made perfect. The music of it should be the home-feeling and the social-feeling consecrated. As it is, our Protestant churches at least have either a drawling psalmody with the monotony of a lullaby, or they have patches of selections that want unity, appropriateness, or meaning. A music is wanted in our Protestant churches such as Christianity ought to have; a music, simple yet grand—varied but not capricious—gladsome with holy joy, not with irreverent levity, not sentimental, yet tender, solemn but not depressing—not intolerant to the beauties of art, and yet not scornful of popular feeling. If a true and natural taste for music should spring up and be cultivated through the country, not in cities only, but in every village and district, it would be an auspicious phenomenon. It would be a most vital and a most humanizing element in social life. It would break the dullness of our homes; it would brighten the hour of our meetings; would enliven our hospitality, and it would sublime our worship. “Let who that will make the laws of a people,” some one said, “but let me make their songs;” to which a great and patriotic composer might add, Let who that will supply the words of a people’s songs, if I shall be allowed to give these words to music.

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