TO A SUMMER HAUNT.
———
BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.
———
When cradled on thy placid breast,In hushed content I loved to muse,Too full the heart, too sweet the restFor thought and speech to interfuse.But now, when thou art shrined afar,Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace,Remembrance, like the evening star,Begins a vigil ne’er to cease.Each mossy rock, each fairy isle,Inlets with thickets overhung,The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile,And Echo’s wildly-frolic tongue;The light and shade that o’er thee play,The ripple of thy moonlit wave,The long, calm, dreamy summer day,The very stones thy waters lave;The converse frank, the harmless jest,The reverie without a sigh,The hammock’s undulating rest,With fond companions seated by;Yet linger, as if near thee still,I heard, upon the fitful breeze,The locust and the whippoorwill,Or rustle of the swaying trees.Hills rise in graceful curves around,Here dark with tangled forest shade,There yellow with the harvest-ground,Or emerald with the open glade;Primeval chestnuts line the strand,And hemlocks every mountain side,While, by each passing zephyr fanned,Azalin flowers kiss the tide.We nestle in the gliding barge,And turn from yon o’erarching sky,To watch, along the bosky marge,Its image in thy waters nigh.Or, gently darting to and fro,The insects on their face explore,With speckled minnows poised below,And tortoise on the pebbly floor.Or turn the prow to some lone bayWhere thick the floating leaves are spread;How bright and queen-like the arrayOf lilies in their crystal bed!Like chalices for beauty’s lipTheir snowy cones half open lie,The dew-drops of the morn to sip,But close to day’s intrusive eye.And in their pure and stately grace,Their shrinking from the noontide glare,The charm they yield their dwelling-place,How like the noblest of the fair!To thy serene and balmy air,Above life’s vain and common things,Should gentle spirits oft repair,And fondly plume their drooping wings.O let me thence, in fancy, bearThe dreams of youth by thee renewed;And hallow the domain of careWith visions born in solitude!
When cradled on thy placid breast,In hushed content I loved to muse,Too full the heart, too sweet the restFor thought and speech to interfuse.But now, when thou art shrined afar,Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace,Remembrance, like the evening star,Begins a vigil ne’er to cease.Each mossy rock, each fairy isle,Inlets with thickets overhung,The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile,And Echo’s wildly-frolic tongue;The light and shade that o’er thee play,The ripple of thy moonlit wave,The long, calm, dreamy summer day,The very stones thy waters lave;The converse frank, the harmless jest,The reverie without a sigh,The hammock’s undulating rest,With fond companions seated by;Yet linger, as if near thee still,I heard, upon the fitful breeze,The locust and the whippoorwill,Or rustle of the swaying trees.Hills rise in graceful curves around,Here dark with tangled forest shade,There yellow with the harvest-ground,Or emerald with the open glade;Primeval chestnuts line the strand,And hemlocks every mountain side,While, by each passing zephyr fanned,Azalin flowers kiss the tide.We nestle in the gliding barge,And turn from yon o’erarching sky,To watch, along the bosky marge,Its image in thy waters nigh.Or, gently darting to and fro,The insects on their face explore,With speckled minnows poised below,And tortoise on the pebbly floor.Or turn the prow to some lone bayWhere thick the floating leaves are spread;How bright and queen-like the arrayOf lilies in their crystal bed!Like chalices for beauty’s lipTheir snowy cones half open lie,The dew-drops of the morn to sip,But close to day’s intrusive eye.And in their pure and stately grace,Their shrinking from the noontide glare,The charm they yield their dwelling-place,How like the noblest of the fair!To thy serene and balmy air,Above life’s vain and common things,Should gentle spirits oft repair,And fondly plume their drooping wings.O let me thence, in fancy, bearThe dreams of youth by thee renewed;And hallow the domain of careWith visions born in solitude!
When cradled on thy placid breast,
In hushed content I loved to muse,
Too full the heart, too sweet the rest
For thought and speech to interfuse.
But now, when thou art shrined afar,
Like Nature’s chosen urn of peace,
Remembrance, like the evening star,
Begins a vigil ne’er to cease.
Each mossy rock, each fairy isle,
Inlets with thickets overhung,
The cloud’s rose-tint or fleecy pile,
And Echo’s wildly-frolic tongue;
The light and shade that o’er thee play,
The ripple of thy moonlit wave,
The long, calm, dreamy summer day,
The very stones thy waters lave;
The converse frank, the harmless jest,
The reverie without a sigh,
The hammock’s undulating rest,
With fond companions seated by;
Yet linger, as if near thee still,
I heard, upon the fitful breeze,
The locust and the whippoorwill,
Or rustle of the swaying trees.
Hills rise in graceful curves around,
Here dark with tangled forest shade,
There yellow with the harvest-ground,
Or emerald with the open glade;
Primeval chestnuts line the strand,
And hemlocks every mountain side,
While, by each passing zephyr fanned,
Azalin flowers kiss the tide.
We nestle in the gliding barge,
And turn from yon o’erarching sky,
To watch, along the bosky marge,
Its image in thy waters nigh.
Or, gently darting to and fro,
The insects on their face explore,
With speckled minnows poised below,
And tortoise on the pebbly floor.
Or turn the prow to some lone bay
Where thick the floating leaves are spread;
How bright and queen-like the array
Of lilies in their crystal bed!
Like chalices for beauty’s lip
Their snowy cones half open lie,
The dew-drops of the morn to sip,
But close to day’s intrusive eye.
And in their pure and stately grace,
Their shrinking from the noontide glare,
The charm they yield their dwelling-place,
How like the noblest of the fair!
To thy serene and balmy air,
Above life’s vain and common things,
Should gentle spirits oft repair,
And fondly plume their drooping wings.
O let me thence, in fancy, bear
The dreams of youth by thee renewed;
And hallow the domain of care
With visions born in solitude!
Drawn by G. HarveyEngraved by J. SmillieCatskill Mountain HouseFrom an original picture painted for Graham.
Drawn by G. HarveyEngraved by J. SmillieCatskill Mountain HouseFrom an original picture painted for Graham.
THISTLE-DOWN.
OR ROSALIE SHERWOOD’S DEBUT.
———
BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO’.
———
As, one by one, thy hopes departBe resolute and calm.· · · · · ·Oh fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know ere long—Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong.Longfellow.
As, one by one, thy hopes departBe resolute and calm.· · · · · ·Oh fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know ere long—Know how sublime a thing it isTo suffer and be strong.Longfellow.
As, one by one, thy hopes depart
Be resolute and calm.
· · · · · ·
Oh fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long—
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
Longfellow.
CHAPTER I.
Poor young creature, how perfectly wretched she looks as she sits in the bow-window, watching the fairy-like thistle-seed as it goes floating away up in the still air.
There is nothing like these clear September nights after sunset, for a reverie. If it is a calm evening, and an intense light fills the sky and glorifies it, and you sit where you can see the new moon, with the magnificent evening star beneath it, you must be a stupid affair indeed, if you cannot then dream the mostheavenlydreams!
But Rosalie Sherwood is in no dreaming mood this lovely Sabbath night. Her heart is crushed in such an utter hopelessness of grief as leaves no room in it for hopes, her brain is too acutely sensitive just now for visions. The thistle-down in beautiful procession moves gently on and up before her eyes, and as she watches, the frail things assume a new interest to her; she feels a human sympathy with them—like the viewless winds they come, from whence she knows not—and go, whither none can tell. They are homeless and alone, and she is like them, but she is not, as they, purposeless!
If you could look into her mind now, you would see how she has nerved it up to a great determination—how, that mastering visions and hopes once cherished, she has gone forward now to a bleak and barren path, and stands there very resolute, yet, in the first moment of the resolve, miserable; no—she has not yet grown strong in the suffering—she cannotthisnight stand up beneath the burden, to bear it with a smile of triumph.
Rosalie Sherwood was an only child: the infant of an humble friend Mrs. Melville had known from her own girlhood. She, poor creature, had neitherlivednordieda sinner,
“But, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman’s heart gave way!——And—the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven,By man is cursed alway!”
“But, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman’s heart gave way!——And—the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven,By man is cursed alway!”
“But, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman’s heart gave way!——And—the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven,By man is cursed alway!”
“But, as love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman’s heart gave way!——
And—the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven,
By man is cursed alway!”
On her death-bed Cecily Sherwood gave her unrecognized, nameless child, to the care of one who promised, in the sincerity of her compassion, to be a mother to the unfortunate infant. And during the eighteen years of that girl’s life, from the hour of her mother’s death, to the day when she was left without hope in the world, Rosaliehadfound a parent in the rigid but always just and kind, Mary Melville.
This widow lady had one son; he was four years old when her husband died, which was the very year that the little Rosalie was brought to Melville House. The boy’s father had been considered a man of large wealth, but when his affairs were settled after his decease, it was found that the debts of the estate being paid, little more than a competency remained for the widow. But the lady was fitted, by a life of self-discipline, even in her luxurious home, to calmly meet this emergency. With the remnant of a great fortune she retired to an humble residence, where in quiet retirement she gave her time to managing the household affairs, and to superintending the home-education of her children.
Her son Duncan, and the young Rosalie had grown up together—until the girl’s twelfth birth-day constant playmates and pupils in the same academy. No one, not even the busiest busy-body had ever been able to detect the slightest partiality in Mrs. Melville’s treatment of her children. And indeed it had been quite impossible that she should ever regard a child so winningly beautiful as Rosalie, with other than the tenderest affection. Under a light or careless rein, the child had been a difficult one to manage, for there was a light like fire oft-times in her eyes that told of strong will, and deep passions; and besides, her striking appearance had won sufficient admiration to have completely spoiled her, if a guardian the most vigilant, as well as most discerning, had not been ever at hand to speak the right word and do the right thing with her.
Mrs. Melville was a thoroughly religious woman, and deeply conscious of the responsibility she incurred in adopting the infant. She could not quiet her conscience with the reflection that she had done a wonderfully good thing in giving Rosalie a home and education—the deep pity she felt for the unfortunate child led her to exercise an uncommon care, that all tendency to evil should be eradicated in the heart of the brilliant girl while she was yet young—that a deep sense of right should be impressed on her tender mind. And her labor of love met with a return which might well have made the mother proud.
There had been no officious voice to whisper toRosalie Sherwood the story of that doubtful position which she occupied in the world. She was an orphan, the adopted child of the lady whom she so devoutly loved, with all a daughter’s tenderness, this she knew, and it was all she knew—and Mrs. Melville was resolved that she should never know more.
The son of the widow had been educated for the ministry. He was now twenty-two years old, and was soon to be admitted to the priesthood. This was following out his own wish, and the dearest hope of his mother’s heart—and it seemed to all who knew the young man as though the Head of the Church had set His seal upon Duncan from his boyhood. He was so mild and so forbearing—so discreet and generous, and never deaf toanycall of charity. Meek and holy of heart, was the thought of whosoever looked on his placid, youthful face. Yet he had besides his gentleness, that, without which his spirit might have subsided into puerile weakness, a firmness of purpose and a strict sense of right, like that which marked his mother among women. Duncan Melville’s abilities were of a high order, perhaps not of the highest—though, if his ambition would only equal his powers, they would surely seem so. His voice was of a sweet, persuasive tone, that was fitted towinsouls to Christ, yet it could ring like a clarion when the grandeur of the themes he touched fired his own soul. He had moreover an earnest, impressive manner, even in private conversation, which characterized all his words and deeds. With the warmest hopes and deepest interest they who knew the difficulties and trials of the profession he had chosen looked on this young man.
Duncan and his adopted sister had long known the nature of the tie which bound them members of one family, and they never called themselves brother and sister after the youth came home, a graduate from college. For, from the time when absence empowered him to look, as a stranger would on Rosalie, from that time he saw her elegant, and accomplished, and bewitching as she was, and other than fraternal affection was in his heart for her.
And Rosalie, too, loved him—just as Duncan, had he spoken his passion and his hope, would have prayed her to love him. She had long ago made him the standard of all manly excellence, and when he came back after three years of absence, she was not inclined to revoke her early decision—therefore was she prepared to read the language of Duncan’s eyes, and she consecrated her heart to him.
During the years which followed his return from college, till he was prepared for ordination as a priest, he did not oncespeakto her of his love, which was growing all the while stronger and deeper, as the river-course, that, flowing to the ocean, receives every day fresh impetus and force from the many tiny springs that commingle with it. Duncan Melville never thought of wedding with another than Rosalie Sherwood.
It was, as I said, near the time appointed for his ordination, when he felt for the first time, as though he hada rightto speak openly with her of all his hopes. He asked her then, what in soul-language he had long before asked, a question which she had as emphatically, in like language, answered—to be the partner of his life for weal or for wo.
He had tried to calmly consider Rosalie’s character, as a Christian minister should consider the character of her whom he would make the sharer of his peculiar lot, and setting every preference aside, Duncan felt that she was fitted to assist and to bear, with him. She was truthful as the day, strong-minded and generous, humane and charitable, and though no professor of religion, a woman full of reverence and veneration. He knew that it was only a fear that she should notadornthe Christian name that kept her back from the altar of the church, and he loved her for that spirit of humility, knowing that she was “on the Lord’s side,” and that grace ere long would be given her to proclaim it in the doingallHis commandments.
It was certainly with a joyful and confident heart, after he hadspokenwith Rosalie, that Duncan sought his mother yesterday, to speak with her of thewholeof that bright future which opened now before him.
How then was he overcome with surprise and grief, when Mrs. Melville told him that it was a union to which she couldneverconsent! Then, for the first time in his life, the astonished young man heard of that stain which was on the name poor Rosalie bore. He heard the story to an end, and then with a decision and energy that would have settled the matter with almost any other person, he declared:
“Yet, mother—I will not give her up.”
“It could not be expected that you would fulfill the engagement; Rosalie herself would not allow it, if she knew the truth of the matter.”
“But she need not know it—there is no existing necessity. Is it not enough that she is good and preciousto me? She is a noble woman, whose life has been, thanks to your guidance, beautiful and lofty.”
“God knows I have striven to do my duty by her—but I know not what I should have done, if I had thought you would ever wish to change your relations with her, Duncan.”
“The world has not her equal! It is cruel, it is wrong, mother, in you to oppose.”
“Sheisa lovely woman—she has well availed herself of the advantages given her—but, my son, there are myriads like her.”
“No, not one! Tell me, you will never breathe a word of this to her?”
“Never!”
“Oh, thank you! thank you! Mother, you could not wish another daughter?”
“But for that I have told you, Duncan, I could not wish another.”
“Then I say you must not work this great injustice on her and me. Rosalie loves me, she has promised to be mine. You will break my heart.”
“You are deluded and strangely excited, my son, or you never would speak so to me,” said the mother, persisting in that firmness with which the physicianresorts to a desperate remedy for a desperate disease. Then she spoke to him of all the relations in life he might yet be called upon to assume, of the misery which very possibly might follow, though now unforeseen, in after days—hours passed on, and the conference was not ended until with a crushed heart and trembling voice Duncan arose abruptly, while his mother yet spoke, and he said,
“If the conclusion to which you have urged me is right in God’s sight, He will give me, He will give Rosalie, too, strength to abide by it. But I can never speak to her of this, and I must find another home than yours and hers. You must speakforme, mother—and oh let me charge you, do it gently. Do not tell herall. Let her think what she will—believe, as she must, that I am a wretch past pardon, but do not blight her peace by tellingall.”
“I promise you, Duncan,” was the answer, spoken through many tears, and the young man did not wait to hear more.
An hour after he was on the way from the village, that he might spend the coming Sabbath in another town.
And after he was gone the mother sought her younger, her dearly-loved child. Rosalie heard that familiar step on the stairway—she had seen Duncan hurrying away from the house, and she knew the conference was over: but she had no fear for its result. So she hushed the glad, tumultuous beating of her heart, and tried to veil the brightness of her eyes, as she heard the gentle tapping at her door that announced the mother coming.
As for Mrs. Melville—herheart quite failed her when she went into the pleasant room and sat down close by Rosalie. Despite all the strengthening thoughts of duty she had taken with her as a support in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it was a bitter grief to her kind heart that she must even for a day make those young creatures unhappy. How then could she endure to take away their life’s best joy, their richest hope? It was a hard thing—and many moments passed before she could nerve that strong spirit to utter the first word; and Rosalie, anxious, and impatient too, but unsuspecting, at last exclaimed—
“What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?”
Then Mary Melville spoke, but in a voice so soft and sad, and so faint with emotion, that it seemed not at allhervoice—she said,
“I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, has given me more pain even to think of, than I have ever felt before. Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him. And it has been my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh believe me! to tell him that such a tie can never unite you. He can never be your husband, you can never be his wife.”
She paused, exhausted by her emotion—she could not utter another syllable. Rosalie who had watched her with a fixed astonishment as she listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and she tried to say calmly,
“Of course you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that I should know it.”
“It cannotbeknown. If I had ever in my life deceived you, Rosalie, you might doubt me now when I assure you, that an impediment which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have I not been a mother to you always?” she asked appealingly, imploringly, “I love you as I love Duncan—and it cuts me to the heart to grieve you.”
“Has Duncan given you an answer?”
“Yes, Rosalie.”
“And it?”
“He has trusted to his mother,” she said, almost proudly.
“Rather than me,” quickly interrupted Rosalie.
“Rather than do that which is wrong; which might prove the misery of you both hereafter, my child.”
“Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If the thing is really true,hislips should have spoken it and not another’s.”
“He could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Oh, Rosalie, do not look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that I shall always deplore having notforeseen the result of your companionship. Say only that you do believe I have striven to do the best for you always, so far as I knew how.”
“Heaven knows that I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come home again?”
“Monday, not before.”
When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie’s room this letter was found.
“I cannot leave you forever, Duncan, I cannot go from your protecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart. I have no strength to look on you, my brother, again—mother, the union I had thought betweenuslife-lasting, is broken. I cannot any longer be your daughter. I would have done so, I would have remained in any capacity, as a slave even, in your service, for I was bound by gratitude for all you have done for me, to be with you always, at least, so long as you should wish. If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand before you, recognizing myself asyouknew me, I would have stayed—I would have been to you, Duncan, as in childhood, a proud, yet humble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs—and a sharer in your sorrows. I would have put fetters on my heart, and calmed my voice, and veiled my eyes, the spirit dwelling in me should have been henceforth a stranger to you. I would have borne to see another made your wife—but in a mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power. Too much has been required—and, I am found—wanting! If even the most miserable fate that can befall an innocent woman, if the curse of illegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, and acknowledgethejustice and wisdom that did not consider me fit to associate with those, whose birth is recognized by a parent’s pride and fondness. But—I must be cognizant of the relation, whatever it is, that I bear you. I cannot, Iwill not consent to appear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me as such.
“Mother—in my dead mother’s name I thank you for the generous love you have ever shown me—for the generous care with which you have attended to the development of the talents God gave me. For I am fitted thus to labor for myself. I thank you for that watchful providence that has made me what I am, a woman self-reliant, and strong in spirit. I thank you for it all, from a heart that has learned only to love and honor you in the past eighteen years. And I call down the blessing of the Infinite God upon you, as I depart. Hereafter, always it will be the endeavor of my life to live worthily of you—to be all that you have in your charity capacitated me to be. Duncan, you will not forget me—I do not ask it. But, pray for me, and live up to the fullness of your heart and your intellect. There is a happy future for you. I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance of encouragement to leave you—you will not need such fromme. God bless and strengthen you in every good word and work—it shall be the constant hope of the sister wholovesyou. Mother, fare you well.”
This letter was written on that Sabbath-eve, on which our story opens—written in a perfect passion, yes, of grief, and of despair. The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to the wildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart was really strung to bear the resolution out.
After her sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother and son sought long, and I cannot tell, you must imagine how anxiously, for the young girl. But their search was in vain, and at last, as time passed on, she became to the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widow was Rosalie forgotten. And oh! there was in the world one heart at least that sorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope for her.
He had lost her—and Duncan sought for no other love among women. When all his searching for Rosalie was proved to be unavailing, the minister applied himself with constant industry to his profession—he forgot ease and comfort, and personal enjoyment, in the works of his calling. And verily, he met here with his reward, for as he was a blessing to the people of his parish, in turn they almost adored him. He was a spiritual physician, whom God empowered to heal many a wounded, stricken heart; but there was a cross of suffering, that he bore himself, which could notberemoved: It was his glory, that he bore it with martyr-like patience; that he never uttered a reproachful word to her, through whom he bore it. As years passed away, the gifted preacher’s impassioned eloquence and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul, with another love than that which he wished to inspire, but he still sought not among any companionship, or close friendship; they said at last, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance of duty, that “he was too high church to marry;” that he did not believe such union consonant with the duties of a minister of the cross!—But, the mother knew better than this;sheknew a name that was never spoken now, in Rosalie’s old home, that was dearer than life to the heart of her son—and desolate and lonely as she was, she neverdaredask him to give to her a daughter—to take unto himself a wife!
——
In a splendid old cathedral, a solemn ceremonial was going forward on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated.
A mighty crowd assembled in this edifice to witness the ceremony, and the mother of Duncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that great company, for it was her son on whom the high honor was to be laid!
How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fill that great office, for which he was about to be set apart! He was a man “acquainted with grief;” you had known it by that resigned, submissive expression of his face: you had known that the passions of mortals had been all subdued in him, by the holy light of his tranquil eyes. Duncanhadtoiled—hehadborne a burden.
A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front, where religion undefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left for themselves unmistakable witnesses: and more than all, one being felt it, that had not looked upon that man for years. Not since the lines of care and grief had marked the face and form of Duncan Melville. There was a reason for the passionate sobs of one heart, crushed anew in this solemn hour—there was a pathos, such as no other voice could give, to the prayers that went up to God that day, from one woman’s heart in the great congregation, forhim. Poor, loving, still-beloved Rosalie! she was there—there, her proud, magnificent figure, bent humbly from the very commencement till the close of the ceremonial—there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, and grief, and despair, and pride—there, crushed as the humblest flower—that glorious beauty.
And the good man at the altar for whom the prayers and the praise ascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour, he remembered how one would have looked on him that day, could she have come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the people loved and honored him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at the altar, even then he prayed for her. But, not as numbers thought upon the name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also, was soon to appear before a throng, and there were a myriad hearts that throbbed with expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour to come when they should look upon her!
Bishop Melville sat in his study at noonday, for a few moments, alone. He was glancing over the sermon that he was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud, happy mother came into the room quietly, laid a sealed note upon the table, andinstantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied.
When he had finished his reading, the bishop opened the note and read—could it have been with careless eyes?
“Duncan,—I have knelt to-day in the house of the Lord, and witnessed your triumph. Ten years ago when I went desolate and wretched from your house, I might haveprophesied your destiny.“Come to-night and beholdmytriumph—at—the Opera House!“Your sister,“Rosalie.”
“Duncan,—I have knelt to-day in the house of the Lord, and witnessed your triumph. Ten years ago when I went desolate and wretched from your house, I might haveprophesied your destiny.
“Come to-night and beholdmytriumph—at—the Opera House!
“Your sister,
“Rosalie.”
Do you think that as he read that summons he hesitated as to whether he should obey it? If his bishopric had been sacrificed therefor, he would have gone—if disgrace and danger had attended his footsteps, he would have sought her at the bidding!—The love which had been strengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, was not now to stop, to question, or to fear.
“Accompany me dear mother, this evening—I have made an engagement for you,” he said as he went, she hanging on his arm, to the cathedral for afternoon service.
“Willingly my son,” was the instant answer: and Duncan kept her to her word.
But it was with wondering, with surprise, that she did not attempt to conceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definite reply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in an obscure corner of the Opera-House, that night. Soon all her expressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause than the mysterious inattention of her son—a queenly woman appeared upon the stage, she lifted her voice and sobbed the mournful wail, which opens the first scene in —— ——. For years, there had not been such a sensation created among the frequenters of that place as now, by the appearance of this stranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty, made an impression, that was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, every tone of her rich, melodious voice.—She seemed, for the time, the very embodiment of the sorrow, to which she gave expression, and the effect was a complete triumph.
Mary Melville and her son gazed upon the debutant, they had no look no word for each other; for they recognized in her voice, the tones of a grief, of which long ago they heard the prelude, and every note found its echo in the bishop’s inmost heart.
“Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us, foryou; it is disgrace to be here,” was the passionate plea of the mother, when at last, Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in her place.
“We will stay and save her,” was the answer spoken with tears and trembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers in that hour ascended. “She is minenow, and no earthly consideration or power shall divide us!”
And looking steadfastly for a moment in her son’s face, the lady turned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yield then, and she had fears for the future.
A half hour passed, and the star of the night re-appeared—resplendent in beauty, and triumphing in hope—again her marvelous voice was raised, not with the wail of sorrow—not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, but glad, and gay, angelic in its joy.
Again the mother’s eyes were turned on him beside her—and a light was on that pale forehead, a smile on that calm face, a gladness in those eyes, which she had not seen there for long years,—and though she could not wonder as she looked with a mother’s love upon the one, who stood the admiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfection in her art; she could not with Duncan, hope. For, alas! her woman heart knew too well, the ordeal through which the daughter of her care and love must have passed, before she came intothatpresence, where she stood now—who could tell if still the mistress of herself, and of her destiny, pure and undefiled?
That night and the following day, there were many who sought admittance to the parlors of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay the homage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought in vain—and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not what the noble woman sought, and because, ere she had risen in the morning, a letter written in the solitude of night, was handed her, which barred and bolted her door against the curious world.
“Rosalie! Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone, I am answering your letter of long ago, with words—I have a thousand times answered them in my heart, till the thoughts which have been crowded there filled it almost to breaking. We have met, met at last, you and I. But, did you call that a triumph, when you stood in God’s house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me? Heaven forgive me, I was thinking ofyouthen—and thinking too, that if this honor was in any way to be thought a reward, the needful part of it was wanting—you were not there! Yet, youwerethere, you have written me—ah, but notRosalie my wife, the woman I loved better thanallon earth, theacknowledgedwoman, whose memory I had borne about with me till it was a needful part of my existence. You were by when the people came to see me consecrated:—and I obeyedyourcall, I saw you, when the people anointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise. If you read my heart at all that day, you knew how I had suffered, that I had grown old in the sorrow; was I mistaken to-night, in the thought that you too were not unmindful of the past—that you were notsatisfiedwith the popular applause? that you also, have been lonely, and wept and sorrowed?
“There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interpose between us, Rosalie—your own will. If I was ever anything to you, I beseech youthink calmly before you answer, and do not let your ‘triumph’ to-night, blind you to the fact, which you once recognized—which can make us happyyet.—I trust you as in our younger days; nothing, nothing but your own words, could convince me that you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladies of this land:—give me only your heart—and let the remembrance that I have been faithful to you through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should rise up to condemn me. Let me come and pleadwithyou, for I know not what I write.”
The answer returned to this letter was as follows:
“I learned long ago the bar that prevented our union—it is in existence still, Duncan. Your mother only, shall decide, if it be insurmountable. I have never, for a moment, doubted your faithfulness, and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort, in the days when I was alone, and toiling for a support, to know that none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations, and struggles, and hardships I have known, it has kept me above and beyond the world—and if the last night’s triumph proves to be but the opening to a new life for me on earth, the recollection of what you are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defense, and a strong-hold of hope, always. Severed from, or united with you, I am yours forever.”
Seven days after, there was a marriage in the little church of that remote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood, passed their childhood. Side by sidethey stood now, once again, where the baptismal service had long since been read for them, and the mother of the bishop gave the bride away!—“Honi soit qui mal y pense!”
THE DEATH OF WORDSWORTH.
———
BY WILLIAM SYDNEY THAYER.
———
When the beloved guide, with whom we oftHave wandered over meadow, hill and dale,Have had sweet converse, and who bore aloftOur minds attentive to some pleasing tale,Whose words of wisdom often could availTo cheer us on our weariest pilgrimage,Bending with years, passes beyond the paleOf earthly life, what crowding thoughts engageOur hearts, which seek in vain the staff-supported sage!Wordsworth is dead! and yet not wholly sadThe feelings which our sorrowing bosoms thrill;Death was his gain, for here his spirit hadNot space enough to wander at its will,Filling its fruitful treasury untilMen might be blest with its rich overflow;As when the sinking sun behind the hill,Growing more broad as it doth westward go,Scatters its golden dust upon the world below.To him Creation all her stores unrolled,To him unveiled the glories of her face;To him ’twas given her mysteries to behold,Her countless forms of grandeur and of grace—The blue-eyed violet in its hiding-place,The drowsy locust, singing at high noon,From the elm-bough, her shrill, unvarying lays,Till listening Nature seems almost to swoon—The humblest sights and sounds chimed with his spirit’s tune.Throughout the universe he ever sawA mighty, interfusing Presence shine,Controlling all things by its sovereign law;He saw the secret bands, so strong and fine,That link the insect to a source divine.And gazing up, like one of those rapt seers,Whose souls have visioned out God’s vast design,Entranced in adorations, hopes and fears,Yielded himself to thoughts that “lie too deep for tears.”And o’er the human soul with quiet eyeHe deeply brooded, and its wonders knew;The subtle powers that underneath it lie,From their unfathomed haunts his magic drew—Displayed its tranquil beauty to our view,Unstirred by passions blowing strong and wild,And, in his thought, our marvelous being grew,To a strange harmony, serene and mild,Which blent in union sweet the old man and the child.Blest be the Priest, whose consecrating handsWreathed a new glory round the true and right,Baptized by whom, the humblest duty stands,Appareled in a clear, celestial light;Blest be the Prophet, who has turned our sight,From the drear Present’s sinful turbulence,To his ideal world, that island brightIn Time’s dim ocean, where men pitch their tents,And walk before the Lord in fearless innocence.I see the Poet in his peaceful home,The home of mountain, forest, and of lake,While closing round him Death’s cool shadows come,And the calm hopes of Heaven within him wake,Glowing with sunset, Grasmere’s waters takeTo their still bosom, sky, and rock, and wood;Nature stands trembling, grieved that she must breakUnion with him, who shared her quietude,The dearest worshiper that near her altar stood.But thou diest not, O Wordsworth! who hast found,And called from sleep our holier sympathies,Strewing with deathless flowers Life’s barren ground,And lighting up our pathway to the skies—Translator of great Nature’s mysteries!Linked with herself, thou livest evermore,And we, united by thy teachings wise,Shall tread a lovelier earth than heretofore,Shall sail on smoother seas, along a sunnier shore.
When the beloved guide, with whom we oftHave wandered over meadow, hill and dale,Have had sweet converse, and who bore aloftOur minds attentive to some pleasing tale,Whose words of wisdom often could availTo cheer us on our weariest pilgrimage,Bending with years, passes beyond the paleOf earthly life, what crowding thoughts engageOur hearts, which seek in vain the staff-supported sage!Wordsworth is dead! and yet not wholly sadThe feelings which our sorrowing bosoms thrill;Death was his gain, for here his spirit hadNot space enough to wander at its will,Filling its fruitful treasury untilMen might be blest with its rich overflow;As when the sinking sun behind the hill,Growing more broad as it doth westward go,Scatters its golden dust upon the world below.To him Creation all her stores unrolled,To him unveiled the glories of her face;To him ’twas given her mysteries to behold,Her countless forms of grandeur and of grace—The blue-eyed violet in its hiding-place,The drowsy locust, singing at high noon,From the elm-bough, her shrill, unvarying lays,Till listening Nature seems almost to swoon—The humblest sights and sounds chimed with his spirit’s tune.Throughout the universe he ever sawA mighty, interfusing Presence shine,Controlling all things by its sovereign law;He saw the secret bands, so strong and fine,That link the insect to a source divine.And gazing up, like one of those rapt seers,Whose souls have visioned out God’s vast design,Entranced in adorations, hopes and fears,Yielded himself to thoughts that “lie too deep for tears.”And o’er the human soul with quiet eyeHe deeply brooded, and its wonders knew;The subtle powers that underneath it lie,From their unfathomed haunts his magic drew—Displayed its tranquil beauty to our view,Unstirred by passions blowing strong and wild,And, in his thought, our marvelous being grew,To a strange harmony, serene and mild,Which blent in union sweet the old man and the child.Blest be the Priest, whose consecrating handsWreathed a new glory round the true and right,Baptized by whom, the humblest duty stands,Appareled in a clear, celestial light;Blest be the Prophet, who has turned our sight,From the drear Present’s sinful turbulence,To his ideal world, that island brightIn Time’s dim ocean, where men pitch their tents,And walk before the Lord in fearless innocence.I see the Poet in his peaceful home,The home of mountain, forest, and of lake,While closing round him Death’s cool shadows come,And the calm hopes of Heaven within him wake,Glowing with sunset, Grasmere’s waters takeTo their still bosom, sky, and rock, and wood;Nature stands trembling, grieved that she must breakUnion with him, who shared her quietude,The dearest worshiper that near her altar stood.But thou diest not, O Wordsworth! who hast found,And called from sleep our holier sympathies,Strewing with deathless flowers Life’s barren ground,And lighting up our pathway to the skies—Translator of great Nature’s mysteries!Linked with herself, thou livest evermore,And we, united by thy teachings wise,Shall tread a lovelier earth than heretofore,Shall sail on smoother seas, along a sunnier shore.
When the beloved guide, with whom we oft
Have wandered over meadow, hill and dale,
Have had sweet converse, and who bore aloft
Our minds attentive to some pleasing tale,
Whose words of wisdom often could avail
To cheer us on our weariest pilgrimage,
Bending with years, passes beyond the pale
Of earthly life, what crowding thoughts engage
Our hearts, which seek in vain the staff-supported sage!
Wordsworth is dead! and yet not wholly sad
The feelings which our sorrowing bosoms thrill;
Death was his gain, for here his spirit had
Not space enough to wander at its will,
Filling its fruitful treasury until
Men might be blest with its rich overflow;
As when the sinking sun behind the hill,
Growing more broad as it doth westward go,
Scatters its golden dust upon the world below.
To him Creation all her stores unrolled,
To him unveiled the glories of her face;
To him ’twas given her mysteries to behold,
Her countless forms of grandeur and of grace—
The blue-eyed violet in its hiding-place,
The drowsy locust, singing at high noon,
From the elm-bough, her shrill, unvarying lays,
Till listening Nature seems almost to swoon—
The humblest sights and sounds chimed with his spirit’s tune.
Throughout the universe he ever saw
A mighty, interfusing Presence shine,
Controlling all things by its sovereign law;
He saw the secret bands, so strong and fine,
That link the insect to a source divine.
And gazing up, like one of those rapt seers,
Whose souls have visioned out God’s vast design,
Entranced in adorations, hopes and fears,
Yielded himself to thoughts that “lie too deep for tears.”
And o’er the human soul with quiet eye
He deeply brooded, and its wonders knew;
The subtle powers that underneath it lie,
From their unfathomed haunts his magic drew—
Displayed its tranquil beauty to our view,
Unstirred by passions blowing strong and wild,
And, in his thought, our marvelous being grew,
To a strange harmony, serene and mild,
Which blent in union sweet the old man and the child.
Blest be the Priest, whose consecrating hands
Wreathed a new glory round the true and right,
Baptized by whom, the humblest duty stands,
Appareled in a clear, celestial light;
Blest be the Prophet, who has turned our sight,
From the drear Present’s sinful turbulence,
To his ideal world, that island bright
In Time’s dim ocean, where men pitch their tents,
And walk before the Lord in fearless innocence.
I see the Poet in his peaceful home,
The home of mountain, forest, and of lake,
While closing round him Death’s cool shadows come,
And the calm hopes of Heaven within him wake,
Glowing with sunset, Grasmere’s waters take
To their still bosom, sky, and rock, and wood;
Nature stands trembling, grieved that she must break
Union with him, who shared her quietude,
The dearest worshiper that near her altar stood.
But thou diest not, O Wordsworth! who hast found,
And called from sleep our holier sympathies,
Strewing with deathless flowers Life’s barren ground,
And lighting up our pathway to the skies—
Translator of great Nature’s mysteries!
Linked with herself, thou livest evermore,
And we, united by thy teachings wise,
Shall tread a lovelier earth than heretofore,
Shall sail on smoother seas, along a sunnier shore.
THE COMUS OF MILTON.
———
BY REV. J. N. DANFORTH.
———
Genius, in whatever age of the world it has appeared, has commanded the respect and homage of mankind.Mind, in every stage of development, and in every altitude of attainment, must be an object of profound interest to mind. When, therefore, a mind of so high an order as that ofJohn Milton, appears before men, the fact constitutes an era in the history of intellect and imagination, and all the productions of such a mind are scanned and studied with a diligence proportioned to the dignity and fame of the author. The principal monument or statue in honor of the departed, of course attracts the most profound contemplation, but around it the genius of the artist may have wrought some beautiful adjunct figures, worthy of their share of admiration. Thus, while the Paradise Lost stands in superior beauty and grandeur, a fitting monument of the transcendent mind of the author, there are minor productions of the same imagination, which are finely conceived, and exquisitely wrought. Among these may be mentionedComus, a “Mask,” or Dialogue composed in dramatic form with no particular attention to rules or probabilities, and therefore affording the imagination of the poet considerable freedom in the exercise of its pencil. This was one of the earliest productions of the muse of Milton, one in the progress of which he tried the strength of those pinions, which were destined to bear him beyond this ‘visible diurnal sphere,’ into those spiritual and sublime regions, till then unknown to the adventurous flight of the poet. Johnson, in his Lives of the Poets, declares this to be “the greatest of his juvenile performances, in which may very plainly be discovered the dawn or twilight of Paradise Lost.” The characters are six only in number, the Attendant Spirit, Comus and his crew, a Virgin Lady, her two brothers, and Sabrina, a nymph.—The scene is a wild-wood, and the poem opens with a long soliloquy from the attendant spirit, followed by the entrance of the wizard Comus, and the strange, unearthly beings of monstrous forms, now encountered by the lady, who has lost her way in the woods, and who is subjected to the severe trial of their foul incantations. The two brothers set forth in pursuit of their lost sister, and succeed in finding her, happy that she has survived unharmed, all the arts of the wicked and the seductive.
Sabrina, the “goddess of the silver lake,” is invoked, and rises out of the “cool, translucent wave,” chiefly to confer a crowning grace upon the scene and afford further opportunity for the exercise of the imaginative powers of the poet. There can be said to be little plan, or intention of plan or plot about the piece. But whatever may be wanting in beauty or ingenuity of design, is amply compensated by the sterling value of the thoughts, the exquisite character of the imagery, the richness of the coloring, and the purity of the tone of sentiment. Many a “household word” is here recognized. Many a stem, from which we plucked flowers for our herbarium, grew here. Beautiful gems, that have been set here and there in the bosom of congenial prose, or, like current coin, from hand to hand, that have circulated from mouth to mouth, in elegant society, were formed in this mine. Those “thousand liveried angels” that lackey a pure and gentle spirit, the “airy tongues, that syllable men’s names,” that “charming, divine philosophy,” which is “musical as Apollo’s lute,” the vision of those serene and celestial regions, that glow “above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, which men call earth,” the view of a sable cloud, turning its “silver lining on the night,” these, and many kindred images and sentiments of beauty, have their original expression in the Comus, as others do in other works of the immortal poet, who sought not merely to weave splendid visions of the imagination, but to embalm sublime truths for the nourishment of humanity in all ages, and to vindicate the ways of God to man.
Here, too, we find some of those sententious generics of history or geography, of fable or fancy; those classic touches; those suggestive single words, which instantly bring up before the mind, a train of ideas, or a treasure of knowledge connected with the past.
These habits of thought and composition are fully developed in Paradise Lost. “The poetry of Milton,” says an eminent critic, “differs from that of Dante, as the hieroglyphics of Egypt, differ from the picture-writing of Mexico. The images which Dante employs speak for themselves; they stand simply for what they are. Those of Milton have a signification which is often discernible only, to the initiated. Their value depends less on what they directly represent, than on what they remotely suggest.” Numerous instances of this might be adduced. It has been called electrifying the mind through a conductor. The mind of the reader must in some good measure co-operate with that of the author. We must be ready to fill up the outline which he sketches; to respond with our melody to the key-note, which he strikes. There must be some music in the soul that is to appreciate the genius of Milton. Addison never earned a purer glory, than when he set forth his merits as by a charmed pen. Those words of enchantment—those forms of beauty created by the imagination of the poet, deeply impressed a congenial mind.
The Comus is constructed on the plan of the Italianmasque, and belongs to that class of poems,which do not depend for their interest on any complication of plot or conflicts of intense passion, on dramatic unities or strange developments; startling scenes and horrible catastrophes. The poem rather claims and commands our admiration for the Doric simplicity of its structure, than for any gay and glittering forms of poetic architecture. Though dramatic in its plan, the Mask—while it has the simplest form of the drama—is essentially lyric, especially in the carol of the Water Nymph and the song of the attendant spirit, which constitutes a kind of delicious epilogue to the piece, and concludes with a beautiful moral lesson: