Les Beautes de la Franceis the title of a splendid new work now publishing at Paris. It consists of a collection of engravings on steel, representing the principal cities, cathedrals, public monuments, chateaux, and picturesque landscapes of France. Each engraving is accompanied by four pages of text, giving the complete history of the edifice or locality represented. What is curious about it is that the engravings are made in London, for what reason we are not informed.
The first exhibitionof paintings, such as is now given annually by our academies, was at Paris in the year 1699. In September of that year, at the suggestion of Mansart, the first was held in the Louvre. It consisted of two hundred and fifty-three paintings, twenty-four pieces of sculpture, and twenty-nine engravings. The second and last during the reign of Louis XIV. was opened in 1704. That was composed of five hundred and twenty specimens. During the reign of Louis XV., from 1737, there were held twenty-four expositions. That of 1767 was remarkable for the presence of several of the marine pieces of Claude Joseph Vernet. During the reign of Louis XVI., from 1775 to 1791 there were nine expositions. TheHoratii, one of the master pieces of David, figured in that of 1785. His first pieces had appeared in that of 1782. The former Republic, too, upon stated occasions "exposed the works of the artists forming the general commune of the arts." It was in these that David acquired his celebrity as a painter which alone saved his head from the revolutionary axe. The Paris exhibition will this year commence on the fifteenth of December.
The largest specimen of Enamel Paintingprobably in the world, has recently been completed by Klöber and Martens at Berlin. It is four and a half feet high, and eight feet broad, and it is intended for the castle church at Wittenberg. The subject is Christ on the Cross, and at his feet, on the right, stands Luther holding an open bible and looking up to the Savior; and, on the left, Melancthon, the faithful cooperator of the great reformer. The tombs of both are in this church, and it is known that to those who, after the capture of the town, desired to destroy these tombs, the emperor, Charles V., answered, "I war against the living, not against the dead!" It was to the portal of this church that Luther affixed the famous protest against indulgences which occasioned the first movement of the Reformation. The king has caused two doors to be cast in bronze, with this protest inscribed on them, so that it will now be seen there in imperishable characters.
Theoriginal portrait ofSir Francis Drakewearing the jewel around his neck which Queen Elizabeth gave him, is now in London for the purpose of being copied for the United Service Club. Sir T.T.F.E. Drake, to whom it belongs, carried to London at the same time, for the inspection of the curious in such matters, the original jewel, which, beyond the interest of its associations with Elizabeth and Drake, is valuable as a work of art. On the outer case is a carving by Valerio Belli, called Valerio Vincentino, of a black man kneeling to a white. This is not mentioned by Walpole in his account of Vincentino. Within is a capital and well-preserved miniature of Queen Elizabeth, by Isaac Oliver, set round with diamonds and pearls.
The Family of Vernet—the "astonishing family of Vernet"—is thus referred to by a Paris correspondent of theCourier and Enquirer:
"History, probably, does not show another instance of so remarkable a descent from father to son, through four generations, of the possession, in an eminent degree, of a special and rare talent. Claude Joseph was born in 1714, and was the son of a distinguished painter of his day, Antoine Vernet. He excelled all his contemporaries in sea pieces. His son, Antoine Charles Horace Vernet, was, after David, one of the first painters of the empire, excelling especially in battle scenes. His Rivoli, Marengo, Austerlitz, Wagram, and his twenty-eight plates illustrative of the campaign of Bonaparte in Italy, have secured a very high reputation for A.C.H. Vernet. The greatest living French painter—perhaps it may be truly said, the greatest painter of the day—is Horace Vernet, son of the last named. He was born in 1789in the Louvre. He, like his father, excels in battle scenes and is remarkable for the vivacity and boldness of his conceptions. He is now covering the walls of the historic gallery at Versailles with canvas, which will cause him to descend to posterity as the greatest of his family. None of your readers who have visited Versailles, but have stood before and admired till the picture seemed almost reality, his living representations of recent military events in Africa. His last admirable picture of Louis Napoleon onhorsebackwill, it is stated, be one of the greatest attractions of the approaching exposition."
"History, probably, does not show another instance of so remarkable a descent from father to son, through four generations, of the possession, in an eminent degree, of a special and rare talent. Claude Joseph was born in 1714, and was the son of a distinguished painter of his day, Antoine Vernet. He excelled all his contemporaries in sea pieces. His son, Antoine Charles Horace Vernet, was, after David, one of the first painters of the empire, excelling especially in battle scenes. His Rivoli, Marengo, Austerlitz, Wagram, and his twenty-eight plates illustrative of the campaign of Bonaparte in Italy, have secured a very high reputation for A.C.H. Vernet. The greatest living French painter—perhaps it may be truly said, the greatest painter of the day—is Horace Vernet, son of the last named. He was born in 1789in the Louvre. He, like his father, excels in battle scenes and is remarkable for the vivacity and boldness of his conceptions. He is now covering the walls of the historic gallery at Versailles with canvas, which will cause him to descend to posterity as the greatest of his family. None of your readers who have visited Versailles, but have stood before and admired till the picture seemed almost reality, his living representations of recent military events in Africa. His last admirable picture of Louis Napoleon onhorsebackwill, it is stated, be one of the greatest attractions of the approaching exposition."
M. Leutzeis expected home from Germany in the spring. He left Philadelphia, the last time, nearly ten years ago. He will accompany his great picture of "Washington crossing the Delaware." Powers's statue ofCalhoun, with the left arm broken off by the incompetent persons who at various times were engaged in attempting to recover it, upon being removed from the sea under which it had lain nearly three months was found as fresh in tone as when it came from the chisel of the sculptor. It has been placed in the temple prepared for it in Charleston.Mr. Ranneyhas completed a large picture representing Marion and his Men crossing the Pedee.
Kaulbach, according to a letter from Berlin in the NovemberArt Journal, was to leave that city about the middle of October, in order to resume for the winter his duties as Director of the Academy of Munich. The sum which he will receive for his six great frescoes and the ornamental frieze, will be 80,000 thalers (12,000l.sterling) and this is secured to him, as the contract was made before the existence of a constitutional budget.
Homer's Odysseyfurnishes the subjects for a series of frescoes now being executed in one of the royal palaces at Munich. Six halls are devoted to the work; four of them are already finished, sixteen cantos of the poem being illustrated on their walls. The designs are by Schwanthaler, and executed by Hiltensperger. Between the different frescoes are small landscapes representing natural scenes from the same poem.
Ifwe credit all the accounts of pictures by the old masters, we must believe that they produced as many works as with ordinary energy they could have printed had they lived till 1850. TheJournal de Lot et Garonnestates that in the church of the Mas-d'Agenais, Count Eugène de Lonley has discovered, in the sacristy, concealed beneath dust and spiders' webs, the 'Dying Christ,' painted by Rubens in 1631. The head of Christ is said to be remarkable for the large style in which it is painted, for drawing, color, and vigorous expression.
A picturepainted on wood, and purchased in 1848 at a public sale in London, where it was sold as the portrait of an Abbess by Le Brozino, has been examined by the Academy of St. Luke at Rome, to whose judgment it was submitted by the purchaser, and unanimously recognized as the work of Michael Angelo, and as representing the illustrious Marchesa de Pescara, Victoria Colonna.
The National Academy of Designhas resolved, that the entire body of artists in this city should be invited to assemble for social intercourse, in the saloons of the Academy, on the first Wednesday evening of every month, commencing in December, and continuing until the season of the annual exhibition.
The French Presidenthas presented to the Museum of the Louvre David's celebrated painting of Napoleon Bonaparte crossing the Alps. This work was for many years at Bordentown, New Jersey, in possession of Joseph Bonaparte.
TheArt Journalfor November contains an engraving on steel of the marble bust by Mr. Dunham of Jenny Lind. This bust, we believe, was recently sold in New York, by Mr. Putnam, for four hundred dollars.
Herman'sseries of pictures called Illustrations of German History, which gained great praise in Southern Germany some two years since, are now being engraved on steel at Munich, and will soon be published.
WE have watched with interest the attempts which have been made for several years to establish permanently the Italian opera in New York. Although we disapprove of some of the means which have been used to accomplish this object, yet, upon the whole, those who have been efficient in the matter, both amateurs and artists, are entitled to the hearty commendation of our musical world. To the enterprising Maretzek belongs the palm, for his energy, liberality, and discrimination, in bringing forward, in succession, so many great works, and so many artists of superior excellence. No man could have accomplished what has been accomplished by Maretzek, without a combination of very rare endowments. Let the public then see to it that one who has done so much for the cultivation and gratification of a taste for the most refining and delightful of the arts, does not remain unappreciated and unrewarded. Of the last star which has been brought forward by M. Maretzek, the musical critic ofThe International(who has been many years familiar with the performances of the most celebrated artists in London, Paris, St. Petersburgh and Vienna, and who, it is pertinent to mention, never saw M. Maretzek or Mlle. Parodi except in the orchestra or upon the stage) gives these opinions.
As an artist, Parodi ranks among the very best of Europe. Notwithstanding so few years have elapsed since her first appearance upon the stage, she has attained a reputation second only to that of Grisi and Persiani. We have often had the pleasure of listening to both of these last-named celebrities, in their principal rôles, and have dwelt with rapture upon their soul-stirring representations. We have also listened to the Norma and the Lucrezia Borgia of Parodi, and have been equally delighted and astonished. Her excellences may be briefly summed up as follows: With an organ of very great compass and of perfect register, she combines immense power and endurance, and a variety and perfection of intonation unsurpassed by any living artist. When she portrays the softer emotions—affection, love, or benevolence—nothing can be more sweet, pure, and melodious, than her tones; when rage, despair, hate, or jealousy, seize upon her, still is she true to nature, and her notes thrill us to the very soul, by their perfect truthfulness, power, and intensity of expression. If gayety is the theme, no bird carols more blithely than the Italian warbler. What singer can sustain a high or a low tone, or execute a prolonged and varied shake, with more power and accuracy than Parodi? What prima donna can run through the chromatic scale, or dally with difficult cadenzas, full of unique intervals, with more ease and precision than our charming Italian? Who can execute a musical tour de force with more effect than she has so recently done in Norma and Lucrezia?
Persiani has acquired her great reputation by husbanding her powers for the purpose of making frequent points, and on this account she is not uniform, but by turn electrifies and tires her audience. She passes through the minor passages, undistinguished from those around her, but in the concerted pieces, and wherever she can introduce a cadenza or atour de force, she carries all before her. Parodi is goodeverywhere—in the dull recitative, and in the secondary and unimportant passages. Her magnificent acting, combined with her superb vocalization, enchain through the entire opera.
Grisi, like Parodi, is always uniform andaccurate in her representations, and upon the whole should be regarded as the queen of song; but with these exceptions we know of no person who deserves a higher rank as a true artist than Parodi. As yet she is not sufficiently understood. She electrifies her hearers, and secures their entire sympathies, but they have still to learn that silvery and melodious tones, and cool mechanical execution, do not alone constitute a genuine artist or a faultless prima donna. When the public understand how perfectly Parodi identifies herself with the emotions and passions she has to portray,—when they appreciate the immense variety of intonations with which she illustrates her characters, and the earnestness and intensity with which she throws her whole nature into all she does—then she will be hailed as the greatest artist ever on this continent, and one of the greatest in the world.
Mrs. E. Oakes Smith'snew tragedy called "The Roman Tribute," has been produced in Philadelphia for several nights in succession, with very decided success. The leading character in this play, a noble old Roman, is quite an original creation. He is represented as a mixture of antique patriotism, heroic valor, sublime fidelity, and stern resolution, tinged with a beautiful coloring of romance which softens and relieves his more commanding virtues. Several feminine characters of singular loveliness are introduced. The play abounds in scenes of deep passion and thrilling pathos, while its chaste elegance of language equally adapts it for the closet or the stage. It was brought out with great splendor of costume, scenery, proscenium, and the other usual accessories of stage effect, and presented one of the most gorgeous spectacles of the season. We are gratified to learn that the dramatic talent of this richly-gifted lady, concerning which we have before expressed ourselves in terms of high encomium, has received such a brilliant illustration from the test of stage experiment. Mrs. Oakes Smith's admirable play of "Jacob Leisler" will probably be acted in New York during the season.
IHAIL every fresh publication of James, though I half know what he is going to do with his lady, and his gentleman, and his landscape, and his mystery, and his orthodoxy, and his criminal trial. But I am charmed with the new amusement which he brings out of old materials. I look on him as I look on a musician famous for "variations." I am grateful for his vein of cheerfulness, for his singularly varied and vivid landscapes, for his power of painting women at once lady-like and loving (a rare talent,) for making lovers to match, at once beautiful and well-bred, and for the solace which all this has afforded me, sometimes over and over again, in illness and in convalescence, when I required interest without violence, and entertainment at once animated and mild.
WE have heretofore given in theInternationalsome account of Madame Blaze de Bury, and have made some extracts from her piquant and otherwise remarkable book, "Germania."[2]Looking it over we find considerable information respecting Herr Hecker, who, since his unfortunate attempt to revolutionize Germany, has lived in the United States, being now, we believe, a farmer somewhere in the West. According to the adventurous Baroness, Hecker was the first man in Germany to declare for revolution. He was born, near Mannheim, in 1811; he took a doctor's degree in the University of Heidelberg, followed the profession of the law, and was elected a member of the Lower House in his 31st year. Thenceforth he was active in opposition. He possessed all the chief attributes of a popular leader, and his person was graceful and commanding, his temperament ardent, his eloquence impassioned. Although the Grand Duke Leopold was the "gentlest and most paternal of sovereigns," according to Madame de Bury, still there were many radical defects in the constitution of Baden. Against these defects Hecker waged war, and with some success, which instigated him to further efforts against the government. At length he was beaten on a motion to stop the supplies, and he retired into France disgusted with his countrymen. After some time he returned impregnated with the reddest republicanism. He found sympathy in Baden, and when the revolution broke out in Paris, he resolved to raise the standard of Republicism in Germany. In April, 1848, he set out for Constance, with four drummers and eight hundred Badeners. He and they, extravagantly dressed and armed, proceeded unopposed, singing "Hecker-songs," and comparing their progress to the march of the French over the Simplon! They arrived at Constance, and called the people to arms, but the people would not come. The slouched hats and huge sabers of the patriots did not produce the desired impression, and thenit rained. In short, the movement failed. Finally, having beaten up all the most disaffected parts of the country for recruits, Hecker arrived at Kandern with twelve hundred men. Here Gagern met him with a few hundred regular troops. Hecker attempted to gain them over with the cry of "German brotherhood," but Gagern kept them steady until he fell, mortally wounded, on the bridge. Then there was a slight skirmish; both parties retreated, and act the first of the drama closed. Meanwhile theVor Parlamenthad been summoned, and the National Assembly of Frankfort had met in the Paulskircke, to the number of four hundred deputies; their self-constituted task was simply to reform all Germany. Frankfort was stirring and joyous upon this occasion, as it had used to be in former days, when within its wallswas elected the Head of the Holy Roman Empire. Bells were rung, cannon fired, triumphal arches raised, green boughs and rainbow-colored banners waved, flowers strewn in the streets, tapestries hung from windows and balconies, hands stretched forth in greeting, voices strained to call down blessings; all that popular enthusiasm could invent was there, and one immense cry of rejoicing saluted what was fondly termed the "Regeneration of Germany." The tumults, the misery, the bloodshed, and the disappointment that followed, until the Rump of this "magniloquent Parliament" sought shelter at Stuttgardt, are fresh in our memory.
[2]Germania: its Courts, Camps, and People. By the Baroness Blaze de Bury. London: Colburn.
[2]Germania: its Courts, Camps, and People. By the Baroness Blaze de Bury. London: Colburn.
Hecker, having done his utmost to "agitate" his country, and having failed "to inspire a dastard populace with the spirit of the ancient Roman people," as Madame expresses it, he fled to America. But his name was still a tower of strength to his Red brethren and theFreicorpsof the Schwartzwald and the Rhine. In Western Germany a year ago last summer his return was enthusiastically expected by the revolutionary army. "When Hecker comes," said they, "we shall be invincible." He came: his followers crowded round him and implored him at once to lead them on to victory! "Victory be d—d," was the reply of the returned exile; "go home to your plows and your vines and your wives and children, and leave me to attend to mine." Hecker had only come to Europe for his family, and he returned almost immediately to America. Meanwhile the war blazed up for a little while and then expired, leaving behind it theDeutsche Verwirrung[3]as it now presents itself in Germania.[4]
[3]Literally, theGerman entanglement.
[3]Literally, theGerman entanglement.
[4]Hecker seems to have been a sincere enthusiast; and it is always observed by his friends that he renounced ease and comfort for the cause that he espoused. We append a single verse from one of the "Hecker songs" that were in 1849 in the mouth of every Badish republican:—"Look at Hecker wealth-renouncing,O'er his head the red plume waves,Th' awakening people's will announcing,For the tyrant's blood he craves!Mud boots thick and solid wears he,All round Hecker's banner come,And march at sound of Hecker's drum."
[4]Hecker seems to have been a sincere enthusiast; and it is always observed by his friends that he renounced ease and comfort for the cause that he espoused. We append a single verse from one of the "Hecker songs" that were in 1849 in the mouth of every Badish republican:—
"Look at Hecker wealth-renouncing,O'er his head the red plume waves,Th' awakening people's will announcing,For the tyrant's blood he craves!Mud boots thick and solid wears he,All round Hecker's banner come,And march at sound of Hecker's drum."
"Look at Hecker wealth-renouncing,O'er his head the red plume waves,Th' awakening people's will announcing,For the tyrant's blood he craves!Mud boots thick and solid wears he,All round Hecker's banner come,And march at sound of Hecker's drum."
ROUND my cottage porch are wreathingCreeping vines, their perfume breathingTo the balmy breeze of Spring.Near it is a streamlet flowing,Where old shady trees are growing;But ofone aloneI sing.
O'er the water sadly bending,With the wave its leaflets blending,Stands a lonely willow tree.And the shadow seems e'erlasting,That its boughs are always castingO'er the tiny wavelets' glee.Oft I've wondered what the sorrow,That ne'er know a gladsome morrow,In the mourner's heart was sealed;But no bitter wail of sadness,Nor low tone of chastened gladness,Had the willow tree revealed.When the breeze its leaves was lifting;When the snows were round it drifting,Seemed it still to grieve the same.Round its trunk a vine is twining,But its tendrils too seem piningFor a hand to tend and claim.Type of love that bears life's testing,They earth's rudest storms are breasting;Harmed not—so together borne;And like girl to lover clinging,Passing time is only bringingStrength for every coming morn.Of one summer eve I ponder,When I musing chanced to wanderBy the streamlet's margin bright.Moonbeams thro' the leaves were streaming,And each leaping wave was gleamingWith a paly, astral light.O'er me hung the weeping willow;Mossy bank was balmy pillow,And in slumber sweet I dreamed:Dreamed of music round me gushing,That as winds o'er harp-strings rushing,E'er like angel's whisper seemed.Oh, those low-breathed tones of sorrow;Would that mortal tongue could borrowPower to sing their sweetness o'er;Here and there a sentence gleaming,Soon my spirit caught the meaningThat the mournful numbers bore.Sleeper, who beneath my shade,Hath thy couch of dreaming made;Listen as I breathe to theeAll my mournful history.Childhood, youth, and womanhood,Have beneath my branches stood;And of each as pass thy slumbers,Speak my melancholy numbers.Of a fair-haired child I tell,Who, one evening shadows fell,Many a bright and gladsome hourPassed mid haunt of bird and flower;O'er the grassy meadow straying,By the streamlet's margin playing,Free from thoughts of care and sadness,Full of life, and joy, and gladness.Where my branches lowly hungOft her fairy form hath swung,And methinks her laugh I hear,Gaily ringing sweet and clear,As with fading light of day,Tripped her dancing feet away,With many smiles and fewer tears,Thus flew childhood's sunny years.Soon she in my shadow stood,On the verge of womanhood:O'er her pale and thoughtful browSunny tress was braided now;Softer tones her lips were breathing,Calmer smiles around them wreathing,Than in childhood's gayer day,Sported from those lips away.Often with her came another;But more tender than a brotherSeemed he in the care of herWho was his perfect worshiper.His the hand that trained the vineRound my mossy trunk to twine;'Twas the parting gift of one,Whom no more I looked upon.Memories of bygone hoursSeemed to her its fragile flowers.And each bursting, fragrant blossomWore she on her gentle bosom,'Till like them in sad decay,Passed her maiden life away.Once, and only once again,To the trysting place she came:Sad and tearful was her eye,And I heard a mournful sigh,Breathed from out the parted lips,Whose smile seemed quenched by grief's eclipse.Leaf and flower were fading fast,'Neath the autumn's chilling blast.And all nature seemed to beKindred with her misery.Winter passed—but spring's warm sunBrought not back the long-missed one.And though vainly, still I yearnFor that stricken one's return.
O'er the water sadly bending,With the wave its leaflets blending,Stands a lonely willow tree.And the shadow seems e'erlasting,That its boughs are always castingO'er the tiny wavelets' glee.
Oft I've wondered what the sorrow,That ne'er know a gladsome morrow,In the mourner's heart was sealed;But no bitter wail of sadness,Nor low tone of chastened gladness,Had the willow tree revealed.
When the breeze its leaves was lifting;When the snows were round it drifting,Seemed it still to grieve the same.Round its trunk a vine is twining,But its tendrils too seem piningFor a hand to tend and claim.
Type of love that bears life's testing,They earth's rudest storms are breasting;Harmed not—so together borne;And like girl to lover clinging,Passing time is only bringingStrength for every coming morn.
Of one summer eve I ponder,When I musing chanced to wanderBy the streamlet's margin bright.Moonbeams thro' the leaves were streaming,And each leaping wave was gleamingWith a paly, astral light.
O'er me hung the weeping willow;Mossy bank was balmy pillow,And in slumber sweet I dreamed:Dreamed of music round me gushing,That as winds o'er harp-strings rushing,E'er like angel's whisper seemed.
Oh, those low-breathed tones of sorrow;Would that mortal tongue could borrowPower to sing their sweetness o'er;Here and there a sentence gleaming,Soon my spirit caught the meaningThat the mournful numbers bore.
Sleeper, who beneath my shade,Hath thy couch of dreaming made;Listen as I breathe to theeAll my mournful history.Childhood, youth, and womanhood,Have beneath my branches stood;And of each as pass thy slumbers,Speak my melancholy numbers.
Of a fair-haired child I tell,Who, one evening shadows fell,Many a bright and gladsome hourPassed mid haunt of bird and flower;O'er the grassy meadow straying,By the streamlet's margin playing,Free from thoughts of care and sadness,Full of life, and joy, and gladness.Where my branches lowly hungOft her fairy form hath swung,And methinks her laugh I hear,Gaily ringing sweet and clear,As with fading light of day,Tripped her dancing feet away,With many smiles and fewer tears,Thus flew childhood's sunny years.Soon she in my shadow stood,On the verge of womanhood:O'er her pale and thoughtful browSunny tress was braided now;Softer tones her lips were breathing,Calmer smiles around them wreathing,Than in childhood's gayer day,Sported from those lips away.Often with her came another;But more tender than a brotherSeemed he in the care of herWho was his perfect worshiper.His the hand that trained the vineRound my mossy trunk to twine;'Twas the parting gift of one,Whom no more I looked upon.Memories of bygone hoursSeemed to her its fragile flowers.And each bursting, fragrant blossomWore she on her gentle bosom,'Till like them in sad decay,Passed her maiden life away.Once, and only once again,To the trysting place she came:Sad and tearful was her eye,And I heard a mournful sigh,Breathed from out the parted lips,Whose smile seemed quenched by grief's eclipse.Leaf and flower were fading fast,'Neath the autumn's chilling blast.And all nature seemed to beKindred with her misery.Winter passed—but spring's warm sunBrought not back the long-missed one.And though vainly, still I yearnFor that stricken one's return.
HERMANN
Riverside, Nov. 10, 1850.
A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[5]
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE BY
G.P.R. JAMES, ESQ.
[5]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G.P.R. James, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.
[5]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G.P.R. James, in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.
CHAPTER I.
LET me take you into an old-fashioned country house, built by architects of the early reign of James the First. It had all the peculiarities—I might almost say the oddities—of that particular epoch in the building art. Chimneys innumerable had it. Heaven only knows what rooms they ventilated; but their name must have been legion. The windows were not fewer in number, and much more irregular: for the chimneys were gathered together in some sort of symmetrical arrangement, while the windows were scattered all over the various faces of the building, with no apparent arrangement at all. Heaven knows, also, what rooms they lighted, or were intended to light, for they very little served the purpose, being narrow, and obstructed by the stone mullions of the Elizabethan age. Each too had its label of stone superincumbent, and projecting from the brick-work, which might leave the period of construction somewhat doubtful—but the gables decided the fact.
They, too, were manifold; for although the house had been built all at once, it seemed, nevertheless, to have been erected in detached masses, and joined together as best the builder could; so that there were no less than six gables, turning north, south, east, and west, with four right angles, and flat walls between them. These gables were surmounted—topped, as it were, by a triangular wall, somewhat higher than the acute roof, and this wall was constructed with a row of steps, coped with freestone, on either side of the ascent, as if the architect had fancied that some man or statue would, one day or another, have to climb up to the top of the pyramid, and take his place upon the crowning stone.
It was a gloomy old edifice: the bricks had become discolored; the livery of age, yellow and gray lichen, was upon it; daws hovered round the chimney tops; rooks passed cawing over it, on the way to their conventicle hard by; no swallow built under the eaves; and the trees, as if repelled by its stern, cold aspect, retreated from it on three sides, leaving it alone on its own flat ground, like a moody man amidst a gay society.
On the fourth side, indeed, an avenue—that is to say, two rows of old elms—crept cautiously up to it in a winding and sinuous course, as if afraid of approaching too rapidly; and at the distance of some five or six hundred yards, clumps of old trees, beeches and evergreen oaks, and things of somber foliage, dotted the park, only enlivened by here and there a herd of deer.
Now and then, a milk-maid, a country woman going to church or market, a peasant, or a game-keeper, might be seen traversing the dry brown expanse of grass, and but rarely deviating from a beaten path, which led from one stile over the path wall to another. It was all somber and monotonous: the very spirit of dullness seemed to hang over it; and the clouds themselves—the rapid sportive clouds, free denizens of the sky, and playmates of the wind and sunbeam—appeared to grow dull and tardy, as they passed across the wide space open to the view, and to proceed with awe and gravity, like timid youth in the presence of stern old age.
Enough of the outside of the house. Let me take you into the interior, reader, and into one particular room—not the largest and the finest; but one of the highest. It was a little oblong chamber, with one window, which was ornamented—the only ornament the chamber had—with a decent curtain of red and white checked linen. On the side next the door, and between it and the western wall, was a small bed. A walnut-tree table and two or three chairs were near the window. In one corner stood a washing-stand, not very tidily arranged, in another a chest of drawers; and opposite the fire-place, hung from nails driven into the wall, two or three shelves of the same material as the table, each supporting a row of books, which by the dark black covers, brown edges, and thumbed corners, seemed to have a right to boast of some antiquity and much use.
At the table, as you perceive, there is seated a boy of some fifteen years of age, with pen and ink and paper, and an open book. If you look over his shoulder, you will perceive that the words are Latin. Yet he reads it with ease and facility, and seeks no aid from the dictionary. It is the "Cato Major" of Cicero. Heaven! what a book for a child like that to read! Boyhood studying old age!
But let us turn from the book, and examine the lad himself more closely. See that pale face, with a manlike unnatural gravity upon it. Look at that high broad brow, towering as a monument above the eyes. Remark those eyes themselves, with their deep eager thought; and then the gleam in them—something more than earnestness, and less than wildness—a thirsty sort of expression, as if they drank in that they rested on, and yet were unsated.
The brow rests upon the pale fair hand, as if requiring something to support the heavy weight of thought with which the brain is burdened. He marks nothing but the lines of that old book. His whole soul is in the eloquent words. He hears not the door open; he sees not that tall, venerable, but somewhat stiff and gaunt figure, enter and approach him. He reads on, till the old man's Geneva cloak brushes his arm, and his hand is upon his shoulder. Then he starts up—looks around—but says nothing. A faint smile, pleasant yet grave, crosses his finely cut lip; but that is the only welcome, as he raises his eyes to the face that bends over him. Can that boy in years be already aged in heart?
It is clear that the old man—the old clergyman, for so he evidently is—has no verytender nature. Every line of his face forbids the supposition. The expression itself is grave, not to say stern. There is powerful thought about it, but small gentleness. He seems one of those who have been tried and hardened in some one of the many fiery furnaces which the world provides for the test of men of strong minds and strong hearts. There has been much persecution in the land; there have been changes, from the rigid and severe to the light and frivolous—from the light and frivolous to the bitter and cruel. There have been tyrants of all shapes and all characters within the last forty years, and fools, and knaves, and madmen, to cry them on in every course of evil. In all these chances and changes, what fixed and rigid mind could escape the fangs of persecution and wrong? He had known both; but they had changed him little. His was originally an unbending spirit: it grew more tough and stubborn by the habit of resistance; but its original bent was still the same.
Fortune—heaven's will—or his own inclination, had denied him wife or child; and near relation he had none. A friend he had: that boy's father, who had sheltered him in evil times, protected him as far as possible against the rage of enemies, and bestowed upon him the small living which afforded him support. He did his duty therein conscientiously, but with a firm unyielding spirit, adhering to the Calvinistic tenets which he had early received, in spite of the universal falling off of companions and neighbors. He would not have yielded an iota to have saved his head.
With all his hardness, he had one object of affection, to which all that was gentle in his nature was bent. That object was the boy by whom he now stood, and for whom he had a great—an almost parental regard. Perhaps it was that he thought the lad not very well treated; and, as such had been his own case, there was sympathy in the matter. But besides, he had been intrusted with his education from a very early period, had taken a pleasure in the task, had found his scholar apt, willing, and affectionate, with a sufficient touch of his own character in the boy to make the sympathy strong, and yet sufficient diversity to interest and to excite.
The old man was tenderer toward him than toward any other being upon earth; and he sometimes feared that his early injunctions to study and perseverance were somewhat too strictly followed—even to the detriment of health. He often looked with some anxiety at the increasing paleness of the cheek, at the too vivid gleam of the eye, at the eager nervous quivering of the lip, and said within himself, "This is overdone."
He did not like to check, after he had encouraged—to draw the rein where he had been using the spur. There is something of vanity in us all, and the sternest is not without that share which makes man shrink from the imputation of error, even when made by his own heart. He did not choose to think that the lad had needed no urging forward; and yet he would fain have had him relax a little more, and strove at times to make him do so. But the impulse had been given: it had carried the youth over the difficulties and obstacles in the way to knowledge, and now he went on to acquire it, with an eagerness, a thirst, that had something fearful in it. A bent, too, had been given to his mind—nay, to his character, partly by the stern uncompromising character of him to whom his education had been solely intrusted, partly by his own peculiar situation, and partly by the subjects on which his reading had chiefly turned.
The stern old Roman of the early republic; the deeds of heroic virtue—as virtue was understood by the Romans; the sacrifice of all tender affections, all the sensibilities of our nature to the rigid thought of what is right; the remorseless disregard of feelings implanted by God, when opposed to the notion of duties of man's creation, excited his wonder and his admiration, and would have hardened and perverted his heart, had not that heart been naturally full of kindlier affections. As it was, there often existed a struggle—a sort of hypothetical struggle—in his bosom, between the mind and the heart. He asked himself sometimes, if he could sacrifice any of those he knew and loved—his father, his mother, his brother, to the good of his country, to some grave duty; and he felt pained and roused to resistance of his own affections when he perceived what a pang it would cost him.
Yet his home was not a very happy one; the kindlier things of domestic life had not gathered green around him. His father was varying and uneven in temper, especially toward his second son; sometimes stern and gloomy, sometimes irascible almost to a degree of insanity. Generous, brave, and upright, he was; but every one said, that a wound he had received on the head in the wars, had marvelously increased the infirmities of his temper.
The mother, indeed, was full of tenderness and gentleness; and doubtless it was through her veins that the milk of human kindness had found its way into that strange boy's heart. But yet she loved her eldest son best, and unfortunately showed it.
The brother was a wild, rash, reckless young man, some three years older; fond of the other, yet often pleased to irritate—or at least to try, for he seldom succeeded. He was the favorite, however, somewhat spoiled, much indulged; and whatever was done, was done for him. He was the person most considered in the house; his were the parties of pleasure; his the advantages. Even now the family was absent, in order to let him see the capital of his native land, to open his mind to the general world, to show him life on a more extended scale than could be done in the country; and his younger brother was left at home, to pursue his studies in dull solitude.
Yet he did not complain; there was noteven a murmur at his heart. He thought it all quite right. His destiny was before him. He was to form his fortune for himself, by his own abilities, his own learning, his own exertions. It was needful he should study, and his greatest ambition for the time was to enter with distinction at the University; his brightest thoughts of pleasure, the comparative freedom and independence of a collegiate life.
Not that he did not find it dull; that gloomy old house, inhabited by none but himself and a few servants. Sometimes it seemed to oppress him with a sense of terrible loneliness; sometimes it drove him to think of the strange difference of human destinies, and why it should be that—because it had pleased Heaven one man should be born a little sooner or a little later than another, or in some other place—such a wide interval should be placed between the different degrees of happiness and fortune.
He felt, however, that such speculations were not good; they led him beyond his depth; he involved himself in subtilties more common in those days than in ours; he lost his way; and with passionate eagerness flew to his books, to drive the mists and shadows from his mind. Such had been the case even now; and there he sat, unconscious that a complete and total change was coming over his destiny.
Oh, the dark workshop of Fate! what strange things go on therein, affecting human misery and joy, repairing or breaking shackles for the mind, the means of carrying us forward in a glorious cause, the relentless weights which hurry us down to destruction! While you sit there and read—while I sit here and write, who can say what strange alterations, what combinations in the most discrepant things may be going on around—without our will, without our knowledge—to alter the whole course of our future existence? Doubtless, could man make his own fate, he would mar it; and the impossibility of doing so is good. The freedom of his own actions is sufficient, nay, somewhat too much; and it is well for the world, aye, and for himself—that there is an overruling Providence which so shapes circumstances around him, that he cannot go beyond his limit, flutter as he will.
There is something in that old man's face more than is common with him—a deeper gravity even than ordinary, yet mingled with a tenderness that is rare. There is something like hesitation, too—ay, hesitation even in him who during a stormy life has seldom known what it is to doubt or to deliberate: a man of strict and ready preparation, whose fixed, clear, definite mind was always prompt and competent to act.
"Come, Philip, my son," he said, laying his hand, as I have stated, on the lad's shoulder, "enough of study for to-day. You read too hard. You run before my precepts. The body must have thought as well as the mind; and if you let the whole summer day pass without exercise, you will soon find that under the weight of corporeal sickness the intellect will flag and the spirit droop. I am going for a walk. Come with me; and we will converse of high things by the way."
"Study is my task and my duty, sir," replied the boy; "my father tells me so, you have told me so often, and as for health I fear not. I seem refreshed when I get up from reading, especially such books as this. It is only when I have been out long, riding or walking, that I feel tired."
"A proof that you should ride and walk the more," replied the old man. "Come, put on your hat and cloak. You shall read no more to-day. There are other thoughts before you; you know, Philip," he continued, "that by reading we get but materials, which we must use to build up an edifice in our own minds. If all our thoughts are derived from others gone before us, we are but robbers of the dead, and live upon labors not our own."
"Elder sons," replied the boy, with a laugh, "who take an inheritance for which they toiled not."
"Something worse than that," replied the clergyman, "for we gather what we do not employ rightly—what we have every right to possess, but upon the sole condition of using well. Each man possessed of intellect is bound to make his own mind, not to have it made for him; to adapt it to the times and circumstances in which he lives, squaring it by just rules, and employing the best materials he can find."
"Well, sir, I am ready," replied the youth, after a moment of deep thought; and he and his old preceptor issued forth together down the long staircase, with the slant sunshine pouring through the windows upon the unequal steps, and illuminating the motes in the thick atmosphere we breathe, like fancy brightening the idle floating things which surround us in this world of vanity.
They walked across the park toward the stile. The youth was silent, for the old man's last words seemed to have awakened a train of thought altogether new.
His companion was silent also; for there was something working within him which embarrassed and distressed him. He had something to tell that young man, and he knew not how to tell it. For the first time in his life he perceived, from the difficulty he experienced in deciding upon his course, how little he really knew of his pupil's character. He had dealt much with his mind, and that he comprehended well—its depth, its clearness, its powers; but his heart and disposition he had not scanned so accurately. He had a surmise, indeed, that there were feelings strong and intense within; but he thought that the mind ruled them with habitual sway that nothing could shake. Yet he paused and pondered; and once he stopped, as if about to speak, but went on again and said nothing.
At length, as they approached the park wall, he laid his finger on his temple, muttering to himself, "Yes, the quicker the better. 'Tis well to mingle two passions. Surprise will share with grief—if much grief there be."Then turning to the young man, he said, "Philip, I think you loved your brother Arthur?"
He spoke loudly, and in plain distinct tones; but the lad did not seem to remark the past tense he used. "Certainly, sir," he said, "I love him dearly. What of that?"
"Then you will be very happy to hear," replied the old man, "that he has been singularly fortunate—I mean that he has been removed from earth and all its allurements—the vanities, the sins, the follies of the world in which he seemed destined to move, before he could be corrupted by its evils, or his spirit receive a taint from its vices."
The young man turned and gazed on him with inquiring eyes, as if still he did not comprehend what he meant.
"He was drowned," said the clergyman, "on Saturday last, while sailing with a party of pleasure on the Thames;" and Philip fell at his feet as senseless as if he had shot him.