“To Prescott belongs the rare distinction of uniting solid merit with extensive popularity. He has been exalted to the first class of historians, both by the popular voice and the suffrages of the learned. By avoiding all tricks of flippancy or profundity to court any class of readers, he has pleased all.”—E. P. Whipple.“Mr. Prescott’s leading excellence is that healthy objectiveness of mind which enables him to represent persons and events in their just relation. The scenery, characters and incidents with which his history deals, are all conceived with singular intensity, and appear on his page instinct with their peculiar life. The mind of the author yields itself with a beautiful readiness to the inspiration of his subject, and he leads the reader along with him through every scene of beauty and grandeur in which the stirring adventures he narrates are placed.”—Review.
“To Prescott belongs the rare distinction of uniting solid merit with extensive popularity. He has been exalted to the first class of historians, both by the popular voice and the suffrages of the learned. By avoiding all tricks of flippancy or profundity to court any class of readers, he has pleased all.”—E. P. Whipple.
“Mr. Prescott’s leading excellence is that healthy objectiveness of mind which enables him to represent persons and events in their just relation. The scenery, characters and incidents with which his history deals, are all conceived with singular intensity, and appear on his page instinct with their peculiar life. The mind of the author yields itself with a beautiful readiness to the inspiration of his subject, and he leads the reader along with him through every scene of beauty and grandeur in which the stirring adventures he narrates are placed.”—Review.
It is in the amiable qualities of her sex that Isabella’s superiority becomes most apparent over her illustrious namesake, Elizabeth of England, whose history presents some features parallel to her own. Both were disciplined in early life by the teachings of that stern nurse of wisdom, adversity. Both were made to experience the deepest humiliation at the hands of their nearest relative, who should have cherished and protected them. Both succeeded in establishing themselves on the throne after the most precarious vicissitudes. Each conducted her kingdom through a long and triumphant reign, to a height of glory which it had never before reached. Both lived to see the vanity of all earthly grandeur, and to fall the victims of an inconsolable melancholy; and both left behind an illustrious name, unrivaled in the subsequent annals of the country.
But with these few circumstances of their history, the resemblance ceases. Their characters afford scarcely a point of contact. Elizabeth, inheriting a large share of the bold and bluff King Harry’s temperament, was haughty, arrogant, coarse, irascible; while with these fiercer qualities she mingled deep dissimulation and strange irresolution. Isabella, on the other hand, tempered the dignity of royal station with the most bland and courteous manners. Once resolved, she was constant in her purposes; and her conduct in public and private life was characterized by candor and integrity. Both may be said to have shown that magnanimity which is implied by the accomplishment of great objects in the face of great obstacles. But Elizabeth was desperately selfish; she was incapable of forgiving, not merely a real injury, but the slightest affront to her vanity; and she was merciless in exacting retribution. Isabella, on the other hand, lived only for others—was ready at all times to sacrifice self to considerations of public duty; and far from personal resentments, showed the greatest condescension and kindness to those who had most sensibly injured her; while her benevolent heart sought every means to mitigate the authorized severities of the law, even toward the guilty.
Both possessed rare fortitude. Isabella, indeed, was placed in situations which demanded more frequent and higher displays of it than her rival; but no one will doubt a full measure of this quality in the daughter of Henry the Eighth. Elizabeth was better educated, and every way more accomplished than Isabella. But the latter knew enough to maintain her station with dignity; and she encouraged learning by a munificent patronage. The masculine powers and passions of Elizabeth seemed to divorce her in a great measure from the peculiar attributes of her sex; at least from those which constitute its peculiar charm; for she had abundance of its foibles—a coquetry and love of admiration which age could not chill; a levity most careless, if not criminal; and a fondness for dress and tawdry magnificence of ornament which was ridiculous, or disgusting, according to the different periods of life in which it was indulged. Isabella, on the other hand, distinguished through life for decorum of manners and purity beyond the breath of calumny, was content with the legitimate affection which she could inspire within the range of her domestic circle. Far from a frivolous affectation of ornament or dress, she was most simple in her own attire, and seemed to set no value on her jewels, but as they could serve the necessities of the state; when they could be no longer useful in this way, she gave them away to her friends. Both were uncommonly sagacious in the selection of their ministers, though Elizabeth was drawn into some errors in this particular by her levity, as was Isabella by religious feeling. It was this, combined with her excessive humility, which led to the only grave errors in the administration of the latter. Her rival fell into no such errors, and she was a stranger to the amiable qualities which led to them.
The circumstances of their deaths, which were somewhat similar, displayed the great dissimilarity of their characters. Both pined amidst their royal state, a prey to incurable despondency rather than any marked bodily distemper. In Elizabeth it sprung from wounded vanity, a sullen conviction that she had outlived the admiration on which she had so long fed—and even the solace of friendship and the attachment of her subjects. Nor did she seek consolation, where alone it was to be found in that sad hour. Isabella, on the other hand, sunk under a too acute sensibility to the sufferings of others. But amidst the gloom which gathered around her, she looked with the eye of faith to the brighter prospects which unfolded of the future; and when she resigned her last breath, it was amidst the tears and universal lamentations of her people.
His character is marked with the most opposite traits, embracing qualities apparently the most incompatible. He was avaricious, yet liberal; bold to desperation, yet cautious and calculating in his plans; magnanimous, yet very cunning; courteous and affable in his deportment, yet inexorably stern; lax in his notions of morality, yet (not uncommon) a sad bigot. The great feature in his character was constancy of purpose; aconstancy not to be daunted by danger, nor baffled by disappointment, nor wearied out by impediments and delays.
He was a knight-errant, in the literal sense of the word. Of all the band of adventurous cavaliers whom Spain, in the sixteenth century, sent forth on the career of discovery and conquest, there was none more deeply filled with the spirit of romantic enterprise than Hernando Cortés. Dangers and difficulties, instead of deterring, seemed to have a charm in his eyes. They were necessary to rouse him to a full consciousness of his powers. He grappled with them at the outset, and, if I may so express myself, seemed to prefer to take his enterprises by the most difficult side. He conceived, at the first moment of his landing in Mexico, the design of its conquest. When he saw the strength of its civilization, he was not turned from his purpose. When he was assailed by the superior force of Narvaez, he still persisted in it; and, when he was driven in ruin from the capital, he still cherished his original idea. After the few years of repose which succeeded the conquest, his adventurous spirit impelled him to that dreary march across the marshes of Chiapa; and, after another interval, to seek his fortunes on the stormy Californian Gulf. When he found that no other continent remained for him to conquer, he made serious proposals to the emperor to equip a fleet at his own expense, with which he would sail to the Moluccas, and subdue the Spice Islands for the Crown of Castile!
This spirit of knight-errantry might lead us to undervalue his talents as a general, and to regard him merely in the light of a lucky adventurer. But this would be doing him injustice, for Cortés was certainly a great general, if that man be one, who performs great achievements with the resources which his own genius has created. There is probably no instance in history where so vast an enterprise has been achieved by means apparently so inadequate.
In 1496 John Cabot, a merchant of Venice, but of English birth, under the patronage of Henry VII., made a voyage of discovery, accompanied by his son Sebastian, who became eminent as a bold, skilful navigator. They sailed into Hudson’s Bay, exploring the shore line for some hundreds of miles, and returned. This was really the first discovery of America, and some months before Columbus reached the main land. No important results followed immediately.
Two years later Sebastian Cabot sailed for the new continent in command of a squadron of well manned vessels. The northwest passage to India was doubtless the objective point of the voyage; but, failing in that, he gained much valuable knowledge of the country.
The whole coast of New England, and of the Middle States, was now, for the first time since the days of the Erricksons, traced by Europeans. In 1498 a fruitless attempt was made to colonize the country he had discovered. Some three hundred men were left on the coast of Labrador for this purpose, many of whom perished, and all who survived were a year after carried back to England.
For reasons that do not fully appear Cabot was during most of his active life in the service of Spain, having been appointed chief pilot, and honored beyond all others who then sailed the seas. When seventy years old he again visited his native country; was received with much favor, and remained some years the active patron of English enterprise.
Though for almost a century there was no actual possession of the lands thus made known, Cabot’s work proved of inestimable importance to the British crown. He traced the eastern coast of North America through more than twenty degrees of latitude, and established the claim of England to the best portion of the New World.
Others of like adventurous spirit followed in the work of discovery. Frobisher, Drake, Gilbert and Grenville, all men of influence, successively came to America, but failed to establish permanent settlements. In a few months the colonists either returned in disappointment or perished. The last voyage made by the English before their permanent occupancy of the country was in 1605. George Waymouth, under the patronage of the Earl of Southampton, came to anchor off the coast of Maine. He explored the harbor, sailed some distance up the river, and opened a profitable trade with the Indians, some of whom learned to speak English, and accompanied Waymouth on his homeward voyage. Efforts that continued at intervals through a century, though for the most part barren of the immediate results that were sought, were not altogether in vain, and they served to keep secure the partial knowledge that had been gained, and to sustain the hopes that were often dashed with disappointment.
In April, 1606, King James I. issued two patents, one to an association of noble gentlemen and merchants, called the “London Company,” the other to an association organized in the southwest part of England, called the “Plymouth Company.” The grants were alike liberal, but only the London Company succeeded under its charter, in planting an American colony. The other company lost their first ship that was sent out, captured by a Spanish man-of-war. The year following they sent out a company of one hundred colonists, and began a settlement on the Kennebec river under what seemed favorable circumstances. But the winter of 1607-’8 proved very severe. Some were starved, some frozen, their storehouse burned, and when summer came the survivors, as in other unfortunate attempts, escaped to England.
The London Company’s fleet of three vessels, under command of Christopher Newport, carried one hundred and five colonists, reached the American coast in April, intending to land in the neighborhood of Roanoke Island, but a storm carried them into the Chesapeake. Coasting along the southern shore of the magnificent bay, they entered the mouth of a broad, beautiful river that they called James, in honor of the King. Proceeding up the river about fifty miles they founded Jamestown, the first English settlement in America. This was more than a hundred years after the discovery of the continent by Cabot, so long a time did it take for the English to get any permanent possession of the country discovered. For all these long years they seemed to reap nothing but loss and misfortune from their enterprise. Not a single spot on the vast continent, now mostly peopled by their children, was as yet the settled habitation of an Englishman; while Spain and France had wonderful successes in the first century of their career of conquest and colonization. But their prosperity was not enduring. The invaders who treated the native inhabitants with murderous cruelty, were in turn oppressed by the home government, and, struggling for relief, plunged into the most deplorable anarchy. By injustice, mismanagement and tyranny, Spain alienated her once numerous dependencies. France too, whose subjects planted many flourishing colonies, lost them, not because of her oppression, but from want of ability to afford them sufficient protection.
England, the last to commence settling the western hemisphere, but finally bringing to the task a spirit of progress and strength unknown to her predecessors, has founded an empire mightier and more enduring than any of its compeers; now lost indeed to her private aggrandizement, but not to the honor of her name, or the best interest of mankind; an empire already prosperous beyond all example in history, and destined, it is probable, to yet unite under its genial protection every league of the vast continent, stretching from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and from the tropical forests of Darien to the eternal snows of the Arctic circle.[C]
Among the gentlemen in the colony on James river there were those of better culture and higher position, but none equaled, in intrepid courage, force of character and practical wisdom, Captain John Smith. There were none who contributed so much to the success of the enterprise. He had been, from his early life, an adventurer, inured to hardships, and fearless in danger. He returned to England from the war with the Turks, in which he became distinguished for prowess and valor, in time to join the colonists, and was appointed by King James a member of the council. As the appointments were, very unwisely, under seal, and made known only after they reached their destination, there was no legitimate authority during the voyage, and a state of almost anarchy prevailed. Though no one of the number possessed a truer manhood, Smith was accused of plotting the massacre of the council, and for a time deprived of his liberty, but when tried, fully acquitted.
Many of the colonists being gentlemen unused to labor or hardships of any kind, were sadly unfit for the difficult enterprise. Exposure and want brought on malignant diseases. The fort, built for defense, was filled with the sick, and in a few months half their number perished. Bad management and dishonesty added to the calamities that were suffered. The first two Governors were found guilty of embezzlement and of attempting to desert in the company’s ship. The third had neither talents nor courage, and gave up the office, for which he was incompetent. In their distress Smith was chosen Governor, and did much to avert the calamities which all, at length, saw impending. Unable, at first, to induce the colonists to labor, or to seek the needed supplies by cultivating the soil, he obtained corn and other provisions from the Indians by trading, making some quite extensive trips for the purpose, and, by his courage and address, acquired great influence over the savages. In one of his excursions up the Chickahominy three of his company were killed, and he, after a terrible struggle, taken captive, and came near losing his life. When condemned to die, bound and placed in position to be slain by the war-club of a stalwart, painted savage, ready for the bloody tragedy, the stern chief yielded to the entreaties of his favorite daughter, Pocahontas, released his captive, and made a covenant of peace with him. This was not only a most touching event, but of great historical importance. The loss of their Governor at that critical juncture would have taken away all hope of continuing the settlement at Jamestown. His influence with the colonists was great, and greater with the natives of the country. He seemed to them without fear, while the natural dignity, kindness and manliness of his bearing awed and conciliated the most hostile tribes. Soon after his departure from the colony a most trying crisis came, and they were saved only by the timely arrival of men and supplies from the mother country. Other Governors succeeded, some of whom did wisely. The lands first held in common were divided, and the owners required to cultivate them.
In 1619 a Dutch trader brought some negroes from Africa, which were sold to the richer planters. Thus slavery began, and its blighting influence was long felt both there and in the other colonies. It was at first found profitable, and the population increased so rapidly that in less than forty years from the date of the first charter the little band in Virginia had grown to over twenty thousand.
In the meantime some settlements were made in Carolina by Virginians, and also by Puritans from New England, without chartered rights, and with alternations of success and disaster.
In 1663 liberal grants were issued by Charles II., and colonization advanced more rapidly. But the colonial government, adopted not by the people but by the proprietors, was a kind of landed aristocracy, that was distasteful, and the arrogant demands of the ruling class were met with rebellion.
An attempt was made at self-government, which succeeded so far as to show that aristocratic institutions and customs were not suited to the wilderness; and the famous constitution, framed with much labor by Lord Shaftsbury and the justly celebrated Dr. Locke, was abandoned, as its provisions were found oppressive and impracticable. The Indians, once numerous in the Carolinas, for a time gave much trouble, but through pestilence, wars and drunkenness their power was broken, and they rapidly faded away.
In 1607 the Plymouth Company made an unsuccessful attempt on the Kennebec; but, though baffled and hindered, the purpose of colonization was not abandoned. In 1609 Captain Smith, injured by an accident, and disheartened by the unhappy state of the colony at Jamestown, returned to London to interest others in the settlement of America. Time was needed to make the preparation; and in 1614 he came in command of two ships to the coast of lower Maine, explored the country, and drew maps of the whole coast line from the Penobscot to Cape Cod, and called the region New England.
No colony was then planted. Months and years were consumed fruitlessly in making and unmaking plans that proved impracticable, or at best failed in the execution; till in 1617 the Plymouth Company was superseded by the Council of Plymouth, consisting of forty of the most wealthy and influential men of the kingdom. They planned magnificently, and made many fair promises; but the spirit of the enterprise was intensely secular if not selfish, and the hopes cherished were again disappointed. The actual settlement of New England was begun by men of more earnest spirit and loftier aim, to whom conscience and the love of liberty were a higher law.
The Pilgrims, a class of deeply conscientious non-conformists, who, because of the persecutions endured, had in the land of their birth no certain abiding place, and many of whom for ten years found an asylum in Holland, had now, by some mysterious influence, turned their thoughts and hopes to the New World. They had known the bitterness of leaving home and country for conscience sake, had in their voluntary exile cultivated habits of industry, gained strength of character by the things they suffered, and were now ready to encounter any difficulty to find a home, though in the far-off American wilderness.
With no charter or grant of land from the king they could only obtain consent of the Company to occupy some uninhabited part of that vast and rather indefinite tract then known as Virginia, and between 34° and 45° north latitude. After much difficulty they obtained two vessels, the “Speedwell” and “May-Flower.” The former, being found unseaworthy, returned to Plymouth, and the “May-Flower” proceeded with one hundred and one colonists. Encountering fierce storms it was a long, perilous passage of sixty-three days; and being compelled to land outside the limits of the Virginia Company’s jurisdiction, and so without any government, they proceeded at once to form one. All the men of the company, forty-one in number, signed the constitution before leaving the ship. It was brief but comprehensive, and, with an honest avowal of allegiance to the crown, democratic in the most explicit sense. On Monday, the 11th of December, 1620, the Pilgrims landed on the Rock of Plymouth, on the western shore of Cape Cod. It was late in the season, and though all possible efforts were made to provide themselves shelter, and some means of defense in case of attack, there was much sickness, suffering and death during the winter. An early spring brought relief to those who survived; and, from year to year, their decimated ranks were recruited by new arrivals. Treaties of peace were made with the Indians; the fields and forests furnished food, and in a short time the colony numbered thousands. Other settlements were made, and in ten years spread over the country from Cape Ann to Plymouth. Before the end of the next decade some fifty towns and villages dotted the country, and the signs of thrift were most encouraging. W. Stevens, a shipbuilder, had already launched an American vessel of four hundred tons burden; and two hundred and ninety-three immigrant ships had anchored in Massachusetts Bay, and more than 20,000 Europeans had found homes as the outcome of the humble beginning at Plymouth. But the good men who had suffered much for conscience’ sake, and that they might enjoy liberty, were not themselves free from the bigotry they spurned and became cruelly intolerant of those who dared differ from them.
But that narrowness was soon overcome, and measures unworthy of them overruled for good. The banishment of the eloquent Roger Williams and others who pleaded for complete religious toleration, and declared that the consciences of men are in no way bound by the authority of the magistrate, so far from quenching the spirit of freedom that burned in his manly words, gave it wider scope and richer fruitage. The exile, finding favor with the Indians, whose rights he had so nobly defended, soon became, by purchase, the owner of Rhode Island. He founded the city of Providence and established a little republic, in whose constitution freedom of conscience was guaranteed, and persecution for opinion’s sake forbidden. Moreover, his influence in Massachusetts was scarcely less than it would have been had he remained.
The seed was sown, and the fruit very soon appeared. The aristocracy that was growing up in spite of all disclaimers was overthrown, a representative government established, and the good Puritans, without compromising their orthodoxy, became more tolerant toward such as “followed not with them.”
The colonies of Rhode Island, Maryland and Pennsylvania were the first civil communities in which free toleration in religion was granted, but the leaven was working. A nation was fast growing up in the wilderness, whose resources were rapidly developing. But the scattered communities were much exposed, and, for mutual defense, the colonies of Plymouth, Massachusetts Bay, Connecticut and New Haven united in 1643, forming the “United Colonies of New England.” The union lasted forty years, and foreshadowed the union of the United States. In union they found strength, and increased still more rapidly in all the resources of a prosperous community. They had council chambers, churches, school houses, and printing presses, with probably as large a proportion of educated and highly cultured people as are found in any new settlement. That many were strangely superstitious, bigoted and intolerant; that lives, otherwise noble and praiseworthy, were stained with acts of injustice and cruelty, is confessed with sorrow; but it only proves them men with the weaknesses and faults that belong to our common humanity. Their virtues alone are worthy of imitation.
While rapid progress was made in the east, and popular government was becoming securely established, the work of colonization was pushed vigorously in other sections, and, in less than fifty years, there had been planted fifteen colonies, most of which prospered greatly. In 1636 Providence united with Rhode Island, in 1677 Maine with Massachusetts, and in 1682 New Haven with Connecticut. Of those eventually forming the “Empire” and “Keystone” states mention will be made hereafter.
[C]Abridged from “People’s History.”
[C]Abridged from “People’s History.”
[C]Abridged from “People’s History.”
[End of Required Reading for March.]
A correspondent asks: “What is the meaning of ‘Creole?’ To whom is it applied, and why?” The word is French—the Spanish being nearly the same. It means primarily to create, but also to nourish, educate, bring up. It was first applied to children of French and Spanish parentage born in the West Indies or in Louisiana, because they were brought up in the country to which their parents came as colonists. The name is honorable. The influence of climate and other circumstances made these children of European parentage differ somewhat in appearance from their ancestors. They were less hardy and robust, but more beautiful. The term “Creoles” is sometimes applied to all born in tropical climates, as they have some common characteristics.
By CHARLES BLATHERWICK.
Helen’s tower, here I stand,Dominant over sea and land.Son’s love built me, and I holdMother’s love engraved in gold.Love is in and out of time,I am mortal stone and lime.Would my granite girth were strongAs either love, to last as long,I should wear my crown entireTo and thro’ the Doomsday fire,And be found of angel eyesIn earth’s recurring Paradise.—A. Tennyson.
Helen’s tower, here I stand,Dominant over sea and land.Son’s love built me, and I holdMother’s love engraved in gold.Love is in and out of time,I am mortal stone and lime.Would my granite girth were strongAs either love, to last as long,I should wear my crown entireTo and thro’ the Doomsday fire,And be found of angel eyesIn earth’s recurring Paradise.—A. Tennyson.
Helen’s tower, here I stand,Dominant over sea and land.Son’s love built me, and I holdMother’s love engraved in gold.Love is in and out of time,I am mortal stone and lime.Would my granite girth were strongAs either love, to last as long,I should wear my crown entireTo and thro’ the Doomsday fire,And be found of angel eyesIn earth’s recurring Paradise.—A. Tennyson.
Helen’s tower, here I stand,
Dominant over sea and land.
Son’s love built me, and I hold
Mother’s love engraved in gold.
Love is in and out of time,
I am mortal stone and lime.
Would my granite girth were strong
As either love, to last as long,
I should wear my crown entire
To and thro’ the Doomsday fire,
And be found of angel eyes
In earth’s recurring Paradise.—A. Tennyson.
Halfway up Belfast Lough, on the high ground to the left you may see a remarkable landmark. This is Helen’s Tower, built by the present Earl of Dufferin as a tribute of filial affection to his mother, the late Countess of Gifford, and formally named after her on attaining his majority.
Looking across from the grey old walls of Carrickfergus, it may be seen crowning the highest hill on the Claudeboye estate. Clear cut against the sky, there it stands, lashed by the winds or touched by the sun, ever firm and enduring—a fitting memorial of one of the best and noblest of women.
Lady Gifford was a Sheridan, one to whom wit and beauty came as natural gifts, yet one who dipped deeply into the font of human knowledge, and by pure sympathy with all that was good and beautiful in life, exerted a lasting influence on all those whose privilege it was to know her.
A short drive from Bangor, or, still better, a pleasant two-mile stretch across the turf from Claudeboye House, will bring you to the foot of the hill. Here, glimmering amid ferns, sedges, birches, and firs, very calm and peaceful on a golden autumn day, with Helen’s Tower reflected on its face, is a quiet lake. Then a smart climb through a fir wood, and the tower—a veritable Scotch tower, with “corbie stairs” and jutting turrets all complete—is before you.
At the basement lives the old keeper with his wife; and here, after inscribing your name in the visitors’ book, you follow him up the stone steps.
The sleeping chamber first. A cosy little room, remarkable for the fine specimen of French embroidery which decorates the bedstead, with the quaint inscription on the tester—
“I . nightly . pitch . my . moving . tentA . day’s . march . nearer . home.”
“I . nightly . pitch . my . moving . tentA . day’s . march . nearer . home.”
“I . nightly . pitch . my . moving . tentA . day’s . march . nearer . home.”
“I . nightly . pitch . my . moving . tent
A . day’s . march . nearer . home.”
From here you are taken to the top.
Looking east on a clear day the view is superb. From Claudeboye woods and lakes, Belfast Lough and the Antrim hills on the left, the eye sweeps round to Cantire and the Scotch coast, till distance is lost in the dim range of Cumberland hills.
Descending again, we enter the principal chamber—octagonal, oak-paneled, with groined pointed ceiling and stained-glass windows. On these are numerous quaint designs, intermixed with the signs of the zodiac, showing the pursuits of mankind during the progress of the seasons—from the sturdy sower of spring to the shrivelled old man warming his toes by the winter fire. Over the fire-place is a niche for a silver lamp, and flanking the west window are two poetical inscriptions—that on the left, printed in gold and having reference to the lamp, is by Lord Dufferin’s mother; and that on the right, printed in bold black type, is by the poet-laureate.
On reading Lady Gifford’s graceful verses, we are pathetically reminded that she was not spared to see her son’s brilliant career. I give them here, and the laureate’s sonorous lines stand at the head of this paper.
[With a Silver Lamp.—“Fiat Lux.”]
How shall I bless thee? Human LoveIs all too poor in passionate words!The heart aches with a sense aboveAll language that the lip affords!Therefore, a symbol shall expressMy love;—a thing nor rare nor strange,But yet—eternal—measureless—Knowing no shadow and no change!Light! which of all the lovely showsTo our poor world of shadows given,The fervent Prophet-voices choseAlone—as attribute of Heaven!At a most solemn pause we stand!From this day forth, for evermore,The weak, but loving, human handMust cease to guide thee as of yore!Then as through life thy footsteps strayAnd earthly beacons dimly shine,“Let there be Light” upon thy way,And holier guidance far than mine.“Let there be Light” in thy clear soul,When Passion tempts, or Doubts assail,When Grief’s dark tempests o’er thee roll“Let there be Light” that shall not fail!So—angel guarded—may’st thou treadThe narrow path, which few may find;And at the end look back, nor dreadTo count the vanished years behind!And pray, that she whose hand doth traceThis heart-warm prayer, when life is past,May see and know thy blessed faceIn God’s own glorious Light at last!—Good Words.
How shall I bless thee? Human LoveIs all too poor in passionate words!The heart aches with a sense aboveAll language that the lip affords!Therefore, a symbol shall expressMy love;—a thing nor rare nor strange,But yet—eternal—measureless—Knowing no shadow and no change!Light! which of all the lovely showsTo our poor world of shadows given,The fervent Prophet-voices choseAlone—as attribute of Heaven!At a most solemn pause we stand!From this day forth, for evermore,The weak, but loving, human handMust cease to guide thee as of yore!Then as through life thy footsteps strayAnd earthly beacons dimly shine,“Let there be Light” upon thy way,And holier guidance far than mine.“Let there be Light” in thy clear soul,When Passion tempts, or Doubts assail,When Grief’s dark tempests o’er thee roll“Let there be Light” that shall not fail!So—angel guarded—may’st thou treadThe narrow path, which few may find;And at the end look back, nor dreadTo count the vanished years behind!And pray, that she whose hand doth traceThis heart-warm prayer, when life is past,May see and know thy blessed faceIn God’s own glorious Light at last!—Good Words.
How shall I bless thee? Human LoveIs all too poor in passionate words!The heart aches with a sense aboveAll language that the lip affords!Therefore, a symbol shall expressMy love;—a thing nor rare nor strange,But yet—eternal—measureless—Knowing no shadow and no change!Light! which of all the lovely showsTo our poor world of shadows given,The fervent Prophet-voices choseAlone—as attribute of Heaven!
How shall I bless thee? Human Love
Is all too poor in passionate words!
The heart aches with a sense above
All language that the lip affords!
Therefore, a symbol shall express
My love;—a thing nor rare nor strange,
But yet—eternal—measureless—
Knowing no shadow and no change!
Light! which of all the lovely shows
To our poor world of shadows given,
The fervent Prophet-voices chose
Alone—as attribute of Heaven!
At a most solemn pause we stand!From this day forth, for evermore,The weak, but loving, human handMust cease to guide thee as of yore!Then as through life thy footsteps strayAnd earthly beacons dimly shine,“Let there be Light” upon thy way,And holier guidance far than mine.“Let there be Light” in thy clear soul,When Passion tempts, or Doubts assail,When Grief’s dark tempests o’er thee roll“Let there be Light” that shall not fail!
At a most solemn pause we stand!
From this day forth, for evermore,
The weak, but loving, human hand
Must cease to guide thee as of yore!
Then as through life thy footsteps stray
And earthly beacons dimly shine,
“Let there be Light” upon thy way,
And holier guidance far than mine.
“Let there be Light” in thy clear soul,
When Passion tempts, or Doubts assail,
When Grief’s dark tempests o’er thee roll
“Let there be Light” that shall not fail!
So—angel guarded—may’st thou treadThe narrow path, which few may find;And at the end look back, nor dreadTo count the vanished years behind!And pray, that she whose hand doth traceThis heart-warm prayer, when life is past,May see and know thy blessed faceIn God’s own glorious Light at last!—Good Words.
So—angel guarded—may’st thou tread
The narrow path, which few may find;
And at the end look back, nor dread
To count the vanished years behind!
And pray, that she whose hand doth trace
This heart-warm prayer, when life is past,
May see and know thy blessed face
In God’s own glorious Light at last!—Good Words.
Mr. Robert Browning has also written lines upon this “Tower,” and has consented to their publication in a late issue of thePall Mall Gazette. In an introduction to the poem, theGazetteremarks: “The difference in treatment of the same subject by the two poets will, we are sure, interest our readers. Mr. Browning’s tribute to the love-inducing qualities of the late Lady Gifford was no mere compliment, as all who knew her will bear witness.”
Who hears of Helen’s Tower, may dream, perchance,How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan GateGazed on old friends unanimous in hate,Death-doom’d because of her fair countenance.Hearts would leap otherwise at thy advance,Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate!Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate,Yet, unlike hers, was blessed by every glance.The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange;A transitory shame of long ago,It dies into the sand from which it sprang;But thine, Love’s rock-built Tower, shall fear no change;God’s self laid stable earth’s foundation so,When all the morning stars together sang.—Robert Browning.
Who hears of Helen’s Tower, may dream, perchance,How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan GateGazed on old friends unanimous in hate,Death-doom’d because of her fair countenance.Hearts would leap otherwise at thy advance,Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate!Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate,Yet, unlike hers, was blessed by every glance.The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange;A transitory shame of long ago,It dies into the sand from which it sprang;But thine, Love’s rock-built Tower, shall fear no change;God’s self laid stable earth’s foundation so,When all the morning stars together sang.—Robert Browning.
Who hears of Helen’s Tower, may dream, perchance,How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan GateGazed on old friends unanimous in hate,Death-doom’d because of her fair countenance.
Who hears of Helen’s Tower, may dream, perchance,
How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan Gate
Gazed on old friends unanimous in hate,
Death-doom’d because of her fair countenance.
Hearts would leap otherwise at thy advance,Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate!Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate,Yet, unlike hers, was blessed by every glance.
Hearts would leap otherwise at thy advance,
Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate!
Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate,
Yet, unlike hers, was blessed by every glance.
The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange;A transitory shame of long ago,It dies into the sand from which it sprang;But thine, Love’s rock-built Tower, shall fear no change;God’s self laid stable earth’s foundation so,When all the morning stars together sang.
The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange;
A transitory shame of long ago,
It dies into the sand from which it sprang;
But thine, Love’s rock-built Tower, shall fear no change;
God’s self laid stable earth’s foundation so,
When all the morning stars together sang.
—Robert Browning.
—Robert Browning.
The traces of human deeds fade swiftly away from the sun-lighted earth, as the transient shade of thought from the brow, but nothing is lost and dissipated, which the rolling hours, replete with secrets, have received into their dark creative bosom. Time is a blooming field; nature is ever teeming with life, and all is seed, and all is fruit.—Schiller.
By the Author of “German-American Housekeeping,” etc.
I wish this article could be accompanied by a pen and ink sketch made on the spot of Mendelssohn’s grave and that of his sister Fanny. The simplicity of it would surprise you, as it astonished me, on one Sunday afternoon when, in company with a friend, I wandered in search of the resting place of him whose songs need no words. We had both imagined some lofty monument would mark the spot, and that in order to find it, it would only be necessary to inquire of some one in the vicinity. Pursuing this plan, to our utter amazement we only received an ignorant stare from plebeian and patrician. Finally being told by an old gentleman, “if we would go beyond the Canal-strasse in the direction of the Belle-alliance Platz down the Schöneberger Ufer through a narrow street,” we would come to a gate opening into a cemetery, which we must pass through, before reaching a smaller cemetery, in which Mendelssohn was buried. After many efforts we roused the old porter who kept the key to the latter gate. We walked rapidly in, expecting to see something in monumental art worthy of the name, but the artless old porter pointed to a grave in the corner and there, overshadowed by some trees, stood the plain slabs with the names of Felix, Fanny and August Mendelssohn.
A curious sense of the incongruous came over us while standing by the simple stones and recalling the solemn and appropriate demonstration at the time of Felix Mendelssohn’s death, made in every city and town where his genius had been known. Was it true that here in this small, unknown grave-yard they had left him? Was it to yonder small gate the four horses in black accoutrements drew the carriage containing the coffin covered with palm-branches, laurel-wreaths and flowers? And did the great choirs and orchestras of the city pass through with the grand choral, “Jesus my trust,” preceded by all Germany’s musicians, the clergy, civil officers, professors, officers of the army, and the immense throng of admirers? Perplexed by such thought we followed the old porter, who had started with a watering pot to the grave beyond, and asked if a monument was to be erected to Mendelssohn’s memory. “Ach, nein, er war einer Jude, und deshalb ist er vernachlässigt.” A Jew, therefore is his grave neglected.
When Paul and Barnabas turned to the Gentiles it was because the Jews “had judged themselves unworthy of everlasting life.” But we are never told that a penitent Jew was treated differently from any one else in the days of the Apostles. Although a Jew by birth, Felix Mendelssohn’s character wanted no principle of the genuine Christian. Never was feeling more sacred and profound, expressed in harmonious strain than he expressed in his great oratorio of “St. Paul” and “Elijah,” nor can the praise of God be more grandly heard on earth than in the double chorus of his XLII. Psalm, when well rendered, or again, when with his pious heart he wished to show the triumph at the creation of light over darkness, which ends with a beautiful duet, “Therefore I sing thy everlasting praise, thou faithful God.”
We are told that Mendelssohn spent his last days laboring over a new oratorio—“Christ.” It was commenced during his stay in Italy, and while rambling among the mountains of Switzerland he is said to have been inspired with the theme for his work, which he hoped to make his best. Never was wealth used more wisely and religiously than his. Not only did he clothe the naked and feed the hungry, but every one who came near him with aspirations for an ennobling life he advanced. He undertook a tremendous amount of labor in giving concerts in Leipzig, the proceeds of which were devoted to the statue of Bach. At first he undertook to erect such a monumentout of his own means, saying “that it was only right that John Sebastian Bach, who had labored so usefully and with such distinguished honor as cantor at the Thomas school at Leipzig, should have a monument in the streets of the city in which he had lived, as an immortal spirit of harmony.” At these concerts he allowed only Bach’s music to be produced, intending in this way, he said, to make the rising generations of musicians more familiar with the works of one to whom he felt under the greatest weight of obligation, and whom he is said to have resembled in the severity of his studies as well as the loftiness of his aims. But this is the expression of Mendelssohn’s best friends; adverse criticism has much to say, and while his motives were pure and his compositions genuine and vivacious, yet in sublime combinations and serious themes Bach and Beethoven can alone be compared.
Every winter in Berlin the oratorios of “Elijah” and “St. Paul” are given in the Sing-Academy. This old music hall is a place of memorial scenes, the directorship of which Mendelssohn once applied for, at the earnest solicitation of his friends, and was refused. The enthusiastic audiences which now assemble there to hear his music seem to be as forgetful of this as they are ignorant of the little secluded grave-yard in the outskirts of the city where his immense throng of friends and admirers left him twenty years ago.
In beautiful imitation of his noble efforts for Bach’s monument could an appropriation of the money secured by the rendering of his great oratorio be made—an idea which occurs to the mind of strangers in Berlin, but unfortunately not to the citizens, who are less disposed in this case than the Greeks to honor their dead, and who more readily ridicule in Mendelssohn’s death than praise such sentiment as the following:
“By the sea’s margin, by the sea’s strand,Thy monument, Themistocles shall stand;By it directed to thy native shore,The merchant shall convey his freighted store,And when her fleets are summoned to the fight,Athens shall conquer with thy grave in sight.”
“By the sea’s margin, by the sea’s strand,Thy monument, Themistocles shall stand;By it directed to thy native shore,The merchant shall convey his freighted store,And when her fleets are summoned to the fight,Athens shall conquer with thy grave in sight.”
“By the sea’s margin, by the sea’s strand,Thy monument, Themistocles shall stand;By it directed to thy native shore,The merchant shall convey his freighted store,And when her fleets are summoned to the fight,Athens shall conquer with thy grave in sight.”
“By the sea’s margin, by the sea’s strand,
Thy monument, Themistocles shall stand;
By it directed to thy native shore,
The merchant shall convey his freighted store,
And when her fleets are summoned to the fight,
Athens shall conquer with thy grave in sight.”
It had never occurred to the Berliners to raise a monument to Goethe until two years ago, and Alexander and Wilhelm von Humboldt have just been recognized in this way. “Tegel,” the grand old home of Alexander, is seldom seen by visitors, that is to say, it is not frequented by the traveler as Potsdam and Charlottenburg. An interesting place, and an interesting master it had, “who had trod many lands, known many deeds, probed many hearts, beginning with his own, and was far in readiness for God.” His grave is just beyond the house, at the end of an avenue. His home has been inherited by a niece, and is kept up in all the elegance of former years. The grounds are very handsome, so densely covered in places with magnificent old trees along avenues stretching beyond the house and grave. These forest trees are very rare in this low sandy region. After driving for miles through barren land with only occasional forests of stiff pines, to come suddenly upon trees which somewhat resemble our American oak, bestows a happy home-like feeling to the American who has wandered from her primeval forests.
The house at “Tegel” is built in the most rigid style, relieved on the outside by niches filled with good pieces of statuary. Within every room is painfully neat—the formality with which the furniture is placed shows evidence that the owner had no wife and no children. It is an attempt at an Italian villa, but seems too cold and formal for such a climate as Berlin. There is certainly taste displayed and cultivation evinced in the selection of many things. The library is filled with books, principally works of Humboldt and Voltaire. On the tables are large portfolios containing maps and cartoons. The desk with the pen and inkstand remain just as he left them. Indeed, there is only a suggestion here and there, that the niece is living and owning the place—it seems as if she were a ghost and her life a myth—so still and so orderly are the rooms, and so undisturbed hang the red apples by the house. Indeed, the house seems as silent as the stately avenue of oaks that leads to the grave. Humboldt left a handsome fortune to this niece, for he lived and died a bachelor.
He owned many valuable pieces of statuary. The original of Thorwaldsen’s Venus was purchased by Humboldt with much pride, it is said, and placed in his collection with other rare pieces found at various places in his travels. Among other curious possessions a mutilated old fountain from Pompeii stands in the hall. The floors are tiles, as one generally finds in Germany, and the saloon which contains the finest statuary suggests Goethe’s lines in “Mignon:”
“Und Marmor Bilder stehen und sehen mich an.”
“Und Marmor Bilder stehen und sehen mich an.”
“Und Marmor Bilder stehen und sehen mich an.”
“Und Marmor Bilder stehen und sehen mich an.”
What is there in the make up of literary men which prompts them almost invariably to isolate themselves in some far removed country place? The explanation which is generally given by themselves is, that their time being so precious they can not be interrupted; their ideas will not grow and flourish in the midst of the talkative world. Emerson tells of the literary man who declared “the solitary river was not solitary enough; the sun and moon put him out. When he bought a house the first thing he did was to plant trees. He could not enough conceal himself.” ’Tis worse, and tragic Emerson goes on to remark that no man is fit for society who has fine traits. “At a distance he is admired, but bring him hand to hand, he is a cripple.” He affects to be a good companion; but is he entitled to marry? But happily for our love of Emerson, in the same essay he observes, “A man must be clothed with society or we shall feel a certain bareness and poverty.” “For behavior, men learn it as they take diseases, one of another.” “But people are to be taken in small doses.” “Solitude is impracticable and society fatal.” Whoever talked more to the point than this wise philosopher? Carlyle talked more wisely, because his spiritual sky was less nebulous, perhaps—but who shall judge of this? All men who have written have subjected themselves to criticism, and criticism is desirable, provided it originates with good and honest intentions. Madame d’Staël wanted to hear it, not to read it! and if more authors and literary people would live as Goethe, as Macaulay, as Madame d’Staël, as the recent German novelist, Berthold Auerbach, in the midst of their friends or foes as they may chance to be, hearing the arguments for and against them, would they not have fewer words and paragraphs to regret at the end of their career? Goethe wanted to hear all that could be said of him, that he might the more cleverly understand what he was, what he was writing for, and where his lessons were to be honored.
Berthold Auerbach was in hearty sympathy with all about him—always living in the heart of the city, seeing his friends once a week through special invitation, as well as whenever they called, and observing his birthdays with a childish interest. One day, finding him sitting on a sofa, back of a table covered with flowers and fruits and presents of various kinds, we at once knew it was his birthday, and expressed a regret that we had not come in with an offering. “Oh, that does not matter, so you bring yourselves; the presents are only from those who did not come; they can not take the place of the absent ones, but they signify love! and love is what we live for!” How much more admirable than the rigid solitary scholar who sits far removed from the voice of the people! Franz Liszt is another German who, although so old, and one would think so exhausted with the voice of praise and adoration from the world, retains an intense longing for his friends and society, and they for him. When he reaches Weimar in the summer, after his winter in Pesth, every one knows or feels his presence. The Berliners even rejoice that he is the nearer to them. We are glad that Longfellow and Buchanan Read and Healy, and a host of Americans have felt his magic friendship, andwatched his Saturn fingers so full of knots. His Sixth Rhapsodie, “Les Cloches de Geneve”—“etûdes d’exécution transcendante”—tell how great is his heart, and have most lasting influence upon the mind and feelings. Wagner, Liszt, Auerbach, Knaus and many other artists, musicians and writers of Germany, show that it is possible to live for one’s friends, while living also for fame. But, alas! in America reputation and success are coupled with such secluded habits and such insatiable work that the personal influence of our literary and scientific men can not be known or estimated. Either overwork or small means keeps most of them tied down to a most prosaic life. The wife of one of our distinguished poets, in speaking of the state of society in New York City, said there had not been for years what one could call a literary coterie; that Bryant during his lifetime could have had such a salon, but he was personally too cold and indifferent to devote his leisure hours to the light and easy-going talk of the salon; but she went on to say that had one lamented one lived, he with his warm and generous nature, his wide and untiring interest in others, could have been the center, the heart and soul of such a circle. Alas! in the last few years how are the great about us fallen—Longfellow, Emerson, Bayard, Taylor, Bryant, Ticknor, Motley. Bancroft, who came in with the beginning of the century, may be spared us until its end.