'And trailing clouds of glory did they come.'
'And trailing clouds of glory did they come.'
On the Palatine Hill were the houses of Cicero and the Gracchi: Horace, Virgil, and Ovid resided on the Aventine; and Mecænas and Pliny on the Æsquiline. If one little fragment of a wall remained, which could with any shadow of probability be pointed out as belonging to the residence of Cicero, Horace, or Virgil, how much dearer, how much more sanctified to memory would it be than all the magnificent ruins of the fabrics of the Cæsars! But no—all has passed away. I have heard the remains of Rome coarsely ridiculed, because after the researches of centuries, so little is comparatively known, because of the endless disputes of antiquarians, and the night and ignorance in which all is involved. But to the imagination there is something singularly striking in this mysterious veil which hangs like a cloud upon the objects around us. I trod to-day over shapeless masses of building, extending in every direction as far as the eye could reach. Who had inhabited the edifices I trampled under my feet? What hearts had burned—what heads had thought—what spirits had kindledthere, where nothing was seen but a wilderness and waste, and heaps of ruins, to which antiquaries—even Nibby himself, dare not give a name? All swept away—buried beneath an ocean of oblivion, above which rise a few great and glorious names, like rocks, over which the billows of time break in vain."
Her journey from Rome to Naples was short and delightful. The following is one among innumerable descriptive passages in her diary:
"In some of the scenes of to-day—at Terracina particularly, there was a beauty beyond what I ever beheld or imagined: the scenery of Switzerland is of a different character, and on a different scale; it is beyond comparison grander, more gigantic, more overpowering, but it is not so poetical. Switzerland is not Italy—is not the enchantingsouth. This soft balmy air, these myrtles, orange groves, palm trees; these cloudless skies, this bright blue sea, and sunny hills, all breathe of an enchanted land; 'a land of Faery.'"
At Naples our traveller was fortunate enough to witness a brilliant eruption of Mount Vesuvius—and overcoming the natural timidity of her sex, she resolved to ascend the mountain at midnight attended by chosen guides and companions. Her account of the terrible spectacle is too graphic to withhold from our readers.
"Before eleven o'clock we reached the Hermitage, situated between Vesuvius and the Somma, and the highest habitation on the mountain. A great number of men were assembled within, and guides, lazzaroni, servants, and soldiers were lounging round. I alighted, for I was benumbed and tired, but did not like to venture among those people, and it was proposed that we should wait for the rest of our party a little farther on. We accordingly left our donkeys and walked forward upon a kind of high ridge, which serves to fortify the Hermitage and its environs, against the lava. From this path as we slowly ascended, we had a glorious view of the eruption, and the whole scene around us, in its romantic interest and terrible magnificence, mocked all power of description. There were, at this time, five distinct torrents of lava rolling down like streams of molten lead; one of which extended above two miles below us, and was flowing towards Portici. The showers of red hot stones flew up like thousands of sky rockets; many of them being shot up perpendicularly, fell back into the crater, others falling on the outside, bounded down the side of the mountain, with a velocity which would have distanced a horse at full speed: these stones were of every size, from two to ten or twelve feet in diameter.
"My ears were by this time wearied and stunned by the unceasing roaring and hissing of the flames, while my eyes were dazzled by the glare of the red, fierce light: now and then I turned them for relief, to other features of the picture, to the black shadowy masses of the landscape stretched beneath us, and speckled with little shining lights, which showed how many were up and watching that night; and often to the calm vaulted sky above our heads, where thousands of stars (not twinkling, as through our hazy or frosty atmosphere, but shining out of 'heaven's profoundest azure,' with that soft steady brilliance, peculiar to a highly rarified medium) looked down upon this frightful turmoil, in all their bright and placid loveliness. Nor should I forget one other feature of a scene, on which I looked with a painter's eye. Great numbers of the Austrian forces, now occupying Naples, were on the mountain, assembled in groups, some standing, some sitting, some stretched on the ground and wrapped in their cloaks, in various attitudes of amazement and admiration; and as the shadowy glare fell on their tall martial figures and glittering accoutrements, I thought I had never beheld any thing so wildly picturesque."
After spending the day with a select party of friends amidst the ruins of Pompeii, she draws the following picture of the celebrated environs of Naples.
"Of all the heavenly days we have had since we came to Naples, this has been the most heavenly; and of all the lovely scenes I have beheld in Italy, what I saw to-day has most enchanted my senses and imagination. The view from the eminence on which the old temple stood, and which was anciently the public promenade, was splendidly beautiful: the whole landscape was at one time overflowed with light and sunshine; and appeared as if seen through an impalpable but dazzling veil. Towards evening, the outlines became more distinct: the little white towns perched upon the hills, the gentle sea, the fairy island of Rivegliano with its old tower, the smoking crater of Vesuvius, the bold forms of Mount Lactarius and Cape Minerva, stood out full and clear under the cloudless sky; and as we returned, I saw the sun sink behind Capri, which appeared by some optical illusion, like a glorious crimson transparency suspended above the horizon: the sky, the earth, the sea, were flushed with the richest rose color, which gradually softened and darkened into purple: the short twilight faded away, and the full moon, rising over Vesuvius, lighted up the scenery with a softer radiance."
We intended to have quoted other passages, in which our fair authoress sketches with striking eloquence, the exhibitions ofSestine, one of that extraordinary race calledImprovvisatori—a race which seems to be almost peculiar to Italy; and which, far from being extinct, are still to be found in almost every town from Florence to Naples. Her description too of a splendid illumination at St. Peter's, and her just observations upon the works of the great masters, particularly of theDivine Raffaelle, are worthy of particular designation; but it would be an almost endless task to select passages from a work, which from beginning to end, and through almost every page, is a volume of thrilling interest. We shall content ourselves with one or two beautiful extracts distinguished for their deep moral tone, and somewhat connected, as we suppose, with that all-engrossing and mysterious source of melancholy which seems to have imbittered the peace and hastened the dissolution of this interesting female.
"It is sorrow which makes our experience; it is sorrow which teaches us to feel properly for ourselves and for others. We must feel deeply before we can think rightly. It is not in the tempest and storm of passions, we can reflect—but afterwards, when thewaters have gone over our soul;and like the precious gems and the rich merchandise which the wild wave casts on the shore out of the wreck it has made—such are the thoughts left by retiring passions."
Again; what can be more affecting than her final adieu to Naples.
"When we turned into the Strada Chiaja, and I gave a last glance at the magnificent bay and the shores all resplendent with golden light; I could almost have exclaimed like Eve, 'must I then leave thee, Paradise!' and dropt a few natural tears—tears of weakness, rather than of grief: for what do I leave behind me worthy one emotion of regret? Even at Naples, even in this all-lovely land, 'fit haunt for gods,' has it not been with me as it has been elsewhere? as long as the excitement of change and novelty lasts, my heart can turn from itself 'to luxuriate with indifferent things:' but it cannot last long; and when it is over, I suffer, I am ill: the past returns with tenfold gloom; interposing like a dark shade between me and every object: an evil power seems to reside in every thing I see, to torment me with painful associations, to perplex my faculties, to irritate and mock me with the perception of what is lost to me: the very sunshine sickens me, and I am forced to confess myself weak and miserable as ever. O time! how slowly you move! how little you can do for me! and how bitter is that sorrow which has no relief to hope but from time alone!"
We shall quote only one of the many interesting specimens of poetry with which the volume is interspersed. It is an extempore translation of a beautiful sonnet of Zappi, an Italian poet.
Upon the whole we earnestly recommend this book to the attention of the public, and especially to our fair countrywomen, whose pride and curiosity will be gratified in so rich an example of the taste and intellectual power of their own sex.
THEMAGDALEN AND OTHERTALES. By Jas. Sheridan Knowles, author of Virginius, The Hunchback, The Wife, &c.Philadelphia: Carey, Lea & Blanchard, 1833.
SKETCHES, by Mrs. Sigourney.Philadelphia: Key & Biddle. 1834.
Both these volumes are by writers of distinction; the first a gentleman well known to the British public, and the last an American lady who devotes her delightful seclusion, near Hartford, Connecticut, to the cultivation of the muses and to the moral improvement of society. Though both are excellent in their way, each is adapted to a distinct class of readers. Mr. Knowles will be particularly acceptable to those who think that the happiness of reading consists inamusement. He depicts with a graphic pencil, and his pictures will be highly attractive to the young, the ardent and romantic. Mrs. Sigourney takes a loftier aim. Though highly gifted with the powers of imagination, and of course capable of exciting that faculty in others, her object seems to be rather to touch the springs of the heart and awaken the moral feelings of our nature. Her spirit is not only imbued with poetry but religion. In all her productions that we have seen, there is a direct tendency to improve as well as to delight. She is an example altogether worthy of imitation among the professors of literature, in enlisting all its allurements in the great cause of human virtue.
Mr. Knowles' book consists of various interesting tales, one of which, "Love and Authorship," we have selected for publication as a fair specimen of the rest. It is a genuine love story, and of course will have its admirers. From Mrs. Sigourney's volume, we have transferred to our own pages the story of the "Patriarch," in which the fair authoress personates, in the narrator of the tale, a minister of the gospel. The scene is laid in the state of North Carolina; and the few remarks in allusion to Bishop Ravenscroft will strike many of our readers as faithful notices of the eloquence and piety of that distinguished and lamented champion of the cross.
"Will you remember me, Rosalie?"
"Yes!"
"Will you keep your hand for me for a year?"
"Yes!"
"Will you answer me when I write to you?"
"Yes!"
"One request more—O Rosalie, reflect that my life depends upon your acquiescence—should I succeed, will you marry me in spite of your uncle?"
"Yes," answered Rosalie. There was no pause—reply followed question, as if it were a dialogue which they had got by heart—and by heartindeedthey had got it—but I leave you to guess the book they had conned it from.
'Twas in a green lane, on a summer's evening, about nine o'clock, when the west, like a gate of gold, had shut upon the retiring sun, that Rosalie and her lover, hand in hand, walked up and down. His arm was the girdle of her waist; hers formed a collar for his neck, which a knight of the garter—ay, the owner of the sword that dubbed him—might have been proud to wear. Their gait was slow, and face was turned to face; near were their lips while they spoke, and much of what they said never came to the ear, though their souls caught up every word of it.
Rosalie was upwards of five years the junior of her lover. She had known him since she was a little girl in her twelfth year. He was almost eighteen then, and when she thought far more about a doll than a husband, he would set her upon his knee, and call her his little wife. One, two, three years passed on, and still, whenever he came from college, and as usual went to pay his first visit at her father's, before he had been five minutes in the parlor, the door was flung open, and in bounded Rosalie, and claimed her accustomed seat. The fact was, till she was fifteen, she was a child of a very slow growth, and looked the girl when many a companion of hers of the same age had begun to appear the woman.
When another vacation however came round and Theodore paid his customary call, and was expecting his little wife as usual, the door opened slowly, and a tall young lady entered, and curtseying, colored, and walked to a seat next the lady of the house. The visitor stood up and bowed, and sat down again, without knowing that it was Rosalie.
"Don't you know Rosalie," exclaimed her father.
"Rosalie!" replied Theodore in an accent of surprise; and approached his little wife of old who rose and half gave him her hand, and curtseying, colored again; and sat down again without having interchanged a word with him. No wonder—she was four inches taller than when he had last seen her, and her bulk had expanded correspondingly; while her features, that half a year before gave one the idea of a sylph that would bound after a butterfly, had now mellowed in their expression, into the sentiment, the softness, and the reserve of the woman.
Theodore felt absolutely disappointed. Five minutes before, he was all volubility. No sooner was one question answered than he proposed another—and he had so many capital stories for Rosalie, when she came down—and yet, when Rosalie did come down, he sat as though he had not a word to say for himself. In short, every thing and every body in the house seemed to have changed along with its young mistress; he felt no longer at home in it, as he was wont; and in less than a quarter of an hour he made his bow and departed.
Now this was exceedingly strange; for Rosalie, from a pretty little girl, had turned into a lovely young woman. If a heart looked out of her eyes before, a soul looked out of them now; her arm, which formerly the sun had been allowed to salute when he liked, and which used to bear the trace of many a kiss that he had given it, now shone white through a sleeve of muslin, like snow behind a veil of haze; her bosom had enlarged its wavy curve, and leaving her waist little more than the span it used to be, sat proudly heaving above it; and the rest of her form which, only six months ago, looked trim and airy in her short and close-fitting frock now lengthening and throwing out its flowing line, stood stately in the folds of a long and ample drapery. Yet could not all this make up for the want of the little wife that used to come and take her seat upon Theodore's knee.
To be sure there was another way of accounting for the young man's chagrin. He might have been disappointed that Rosalie, when five feet four, should be a little more reserved than when she was only five feet nothing. Romantic young men, too, are apt to fancy odd things. Theodore was a very romantic young man; and having, perhaps traced for himself the woman in the child—as one will anticipate, in looking at a peach that is just knit, the hue, and form, and flavor of the consummate fruit—he might have set Rosalie down in his mind as his wife in earnest, when he appeared to call her so only in jest.
Such was the case. Theodore never calculated that Rosalie knew nothing about his dreams—that she had no such vision herself; he never anticipated that the frankness of girlhood would vanish, as soon as the diffidence of young womanhood began its blushing reign; the thought never occurred to him that the day would come when Rosalie would scruple to sit on his knee—ay, even though Rosalie should then begin to think upon him, as for many a year before he had thought upon her. He returned from college the fifth time; he found that the woman which he imagined in a year or two she would become, was surpassed by the woman that she already was; he remarked the withdrawal of confidence, the limitation of familiarity—the penalty which he must inevitably pay for her maturing—and he felt repelled and chilled, and utterly disheartened by it.
For a whole week he never returned to the house. Three days of a second week elapsed, and still he kept away. He had been invited, however to a ball which was to be given there the day following; and, much as he was inclined to absent himself, being a little more inclined to go—he went.
Full three hours was he in the room without once setting his eyes upon Rosalie. He saw her mother and her father, and talked with them; he saw 'squire this and doctor that, and attorney such-a-one, and had fifty things to say to each of them; he had eyes and tongue for every body, but Rosalie—not a look, or a word did he exchange with her; yet he was here and there and every where! In short he was all communicativeness and vivacity, so that every one remarked how bright he had become since his last visit to college!
At last, however, his fine spirits all at once seemed to forsake him, and he withdrew to the library, which was lighted up for the occasion as an anti-room, and taking a volume out of the book-case, threw himself into a chair and began to turn over the leaves.
"Have you forgotten your little wife," said a soft voice near him—'twas Rosalie's—"if youhave," she added as he started from his seat, "she has not forgotten you."
She wore a carnation in her hair—the hue of the flower was not deeper than that of her cheek as she stood and extended her hands to Theodore who, the moment he rose, had held forth both of his.
"Rosalie!"
"Theodore!"—He led her to a sofa, which stood in a recess on the opposite side of the room, and for five minutes not another word did they exchange.
At length she gently withdrew her hand from his—she had suffered him to hold it all that time—"We shall be observed," said she.
"Ah Rosalie," replied he, "nine months since you sat upon my knee, and they observed us, yet you did not mind it!"
"You know I am a woman now," rejoined Rosalie, hanging her head, "and—and—will you lead off the next dance with me?" cried she, suddenly changing the subject. "There now; I have asked you," added she, "which is more than you deserve!"—Of course Theodore was not at all happy to accept the challenge of the metamorphosed Rosalie.
One might suppose that the young lady's heart was interested, and that Theodore was a far happier man than he imagined himself to be. The fact was neither more nor less. Little Rosalie was proud of being called Theodore's wife, because she heard every body else speak in praise of him. Many a marriageable young lady had she heard declare—not minding to speak before a child—that Theodore was the finest young man in B——; that she hoped Theodore would be at such or such a house where she was going to dine, or spend the evening; nay, that she would like to have a sweetheart like Theodore. Then would Rosalie interpose, and with a saucy toss of her head exclaim, nobody should have Theodore but Rosalie, for Rosalie was his little wife, 'twas thus she learned to admire the face and person of Theodore, who more than once paid for her acquired estimation of them; for sometimes before a whole room full of company she would march up to him, and scanning him from head to foot, with folded arms, at length declare aloud, that hewasthe handsomest young man in B——. Then Theodore was so kind to her, and thought so much of any thing she did, and took such notice of her! Often, at a dance, he would make her his partner for the whole evening; and there was Miss Willoughby, perhaps, or Miss Miller, sitting down, either of whom would have given her eyes to stand up if only in a reel with Theodore.
But when the summer of her seventeenth year beheld her bursting into womanhood; when her expanding thoughts, from a bounding, fitful, rill-like current, began to run a deep, a broad, and steady stream; when she found that she was almost arrived at the threshold of the world, and reflected that the step which marks a female's first entrance into it is generally taken in the hand of a partner—the thought of who that partner might be, recalled Theodore to her mind—and her heart fluttered as she asked herself the question—should she ever be indeed his wife? when, this time, he paid his first visit, Rosalie was as much mortified as he was. Her vexation was increased when she saw that he absented himself; she resolved, if possible, to ascertain the cause; and persuaded her mother to give a ball, and specially invite the young gentleman. He came: she watched him, observed that he neither inquired after her nor sought for her; and marked the excellent terms that he was upon with twenty people, about whom she knew him to be perfectly indifferent. Women have a perception of the workings of the heart, far more quick and subtle than we have. She was convinced that all his fine spirits were forced—that he was acting a part. She suspected that while he appeared to be occupied with every body but Rosalie—Rosalie was the only body that was running in his thoughts. She saw him withdraw to the library; she followed him; found him sitting down with a book in his hand; perceived, from his manner of turning over the leaves, that he was intent on any thing but reading.—She was satisfied that he was thinking of nothing but Rosalie. The thought that Rosalie might one day become indeed his wife, now occurred to her for the thousandth time, and a thousand times stronger than ever; a spirit diffused itself through her heart which had never been breathed into it before; and filling it with hope and happiness, and unutterable contentment, irresistibly drewittowards him. She approached him, accosted him, and in a moment was seated with him, hand in hand, upon the sofa!
As soon as the dance was done,—"Rosalie," said Theodore, "'tis almost as warm in the air as in the room! will you be afraid to take a turn with me in the garden?"
"I will get my shawl in a minute," said Rosalie, "and meet you there;" and the maiden was there almost as soon as he.
They proceeded, arm-in-arm, to the farthest part of the garden; and there they walked up and down without either seeming inclined to speak, as though their hearts could discourse through their hands, which were locked in one another.
"Rosalie!" at last breathed Theodore. "Rosalie!" breathed he a second time, before the expecting girl could summon courage to say "Well!" "I cannot go home to-night," resumed he, "without speaking to you." Yet Theodore seemed to be in no hurry to speak; for there he stopped, and continued silent so long that Rosalie began to doubt whether he would open his lips again.
"Had we not better go in?" said Rosalie, "I think I hear them breaking up."
"Not yet," replied Theodore.
"They'll miss us," said Rosalie.
"What of that?" rejoined Theodore.
"Nay," resumed the maid, "we have remained long enough, and at least allow me to go in."
"Stop but another minute, dear Rosalie!" imploringly exclaimed the youth.
"For what!" was the maid's reply.
"Rosalie," without a pause resumed Theodore, "you used to sit upon my knee, and let me call you wife. Are those times passed forever? dear Rosalie!—will you never let me take you on my knee and call you wife again?"
"When we have done with our girlhood, we have done with our plays," said Rosalie.
"I do not mean inplay, dear Rosalie," cried Theodore. "It is not playing at man and wife to walk, as such, out of church. Will you marry me, Rosalie?"
Rosalie was silent.
"Will you marry me?" repeated he.
Not a word would Rosalie speak.
"Hear me?" cried Theodore. "The first day, Rosalie, I took you upon my knee, and called you my wife, jest as it seemed to be, my heart was never more in earnest. That day I wedded you in my soul; for though you were a child, I saw the future woman in you, rich in the richest attractions of your sex. Nay, do me justice; recal what you yourself have known of me; inquire of others. To whom did I play the suitor from that day? To none but you, although to you I did not seem to play it. Rosalie! was I not always with you? Recollect now! did a day pass, when I was at home, without my coming to your father's house! When there were parties there, whom did I sit beside, but you? Whom did I stand behind at the piano forte, but you? Nay for a whole night, whom have I danced with, but you? Whatever you might have thoughtthen, can you believenow, that it was merely a playful child that could so have engrossed me? No, Rosalie! it was the virtuous, generous, lovely, loving woman, that I saw in the playful child. Rosalie! for five years have I loved you, though I never declared it to you till now. Do you think I am worthy of you? Will you give yourself to me? Will you marry me? Will you sit upon my knee again, and let me call you wife?"
Three or four times Rosalie made an effort to speak; but desisted, as if she knew not what to say, or was unable to say what she wished; Theodore still holding her hand. At last, "Ask my father's consent!" she exclaimed, and tried to get away; but before she could effect it she was clasped to the bosom of Theodore, nor released until the interchange of the first pledge of love had been forced from her bashful lips!—She did not appear, that night, in the drawing-room again.
Theodore's addresses were sanctioned by the parents of Rosalie. The wedding day was fixed; it wanted but a fortnight to it, when a malignant fever made its appearance in the town; Rosalie's parents were the first victims. She was left an orphan at eighteen, and her uncle, by her mother's side, who had been nominated her guardian in a will, made several years, having followed his brother-in-law and sister's remains to the grave, took up his residence at B——.
Rosalie's sole consolation now was such as she received from the society of Theodore; but Theodore soon wanted consolation himself. His father was attacked by the fever and died, leaving his affairs, to the astonishment of every one, in a state of the most inextricable embarrassment; for he had been looked upon as one of the wealthiest inhabitants of B——. This was a double blow to Theodore, but he was not aware of the weight of it till, after the interment of his father, he repaired, for the first time to resume his visits to his Rosalie.
He was stepping up without ceremony to the drawing-room, when the servant begged his pardon for stopping him, telling him, at the same time, that he had received instructions from his master to shew Theodore into the parlor when he should call.
"Was Miss Wilford there?"
"No." Theodore was shewn into the parlor. Of all savage brutes, the human brute is the most pernicious and revolting, because he unites to the evil properties of the inferior animal the mental faculties of the superior one; and then he is at large. A vicious tempered dog you can muzzle and render innocuous; but there is no preventing the human dog that bites from fleshing his tooth; he is sure to have it in somebody. And then the infliction is so immeasurably more severe!—the quick of the mind is so much more extensive than that of the body! Besides, the savage that runs upon four legs is so inferior in performance to him that walks upon two? 'Tis he that knows how to gnaw! I have often thought it a pity and a sin that the man who plays the dog should be protected from dying the death of one. He should hang, and the other go free.
"Well, young gentleman!" was the salutation which Theodore received when he entered the parlor; "and pray what brings you here?"
Theodore was struck dumb; and no wonder.
"Your father, I understand, has died a beggar! Do you think to marry my niece?" If Theodore respired with difficulty before, his breath was utterly taken away at this. He was a young man of spirit, but who can keep up his heart, when his ship, all at once, is going down.
The human dog went on. "Young gentleman, I shall be plain with you, for I am a straightforward man; young women should mate with their matches—you are no match for my niece; so a good morning to you!" How more in place to have wished him a good halter! saying this, the straightforward savage walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open, that Theodore might have room for egress; and steadily walked up stairs.
It was several minutes before he could recover his self-recollection. When he did so he rang the bell.
"Tell your master I wish to speak to him," said Theodore to the servant who answered it. The servant went up stairs after his master, and returned.
"I am sorry, sir," said he, "to be the bearer of such an errand; but my master desires you instantly to quit the house; and has commanded me to tell you that he has given me orders not to admit you again."
"I must see Miss Wilford!" exclaimed Theodore.
"You cannot, sir!" respectfully remarked the servant, "for she is locked in her room; but you can send a message to her," added he in a whisper, "and I will be the bearer of it. There is not a servant in the house, Mr. Theodore, but is sorry for you to the soul."
This was so much in season, and was so evidently spoken from the heart, that Theodore could not help catching the honest fellow by the hand. Here the drawing-room bell was rung violently.
"I must go, sir," said the servant; "what message to my mistress?"
"Tell her to give me a meeting, and to apprize me of the time and place," said Theodore; and the next moment the hall door was shut upon him.
One may easily imagine the state of the young fellow's mind. To be driven with insult and barbarity from the house in which he had been received a thousand times with courtesy and kindness—which he looked upon as his own! Then, what was to be done? Rosalie's uncle, after all, had told him nothing but the truth. His father had died a beggar! Dear as Rosalie was to Theodore, his own pride recoiled at the idea of offering her a hand which was not the master of a shilling! Yet was not Theodore portionless. His education was finished; that term he had completed his collegiate studies. If his father had not left him a fortune, he had provided him with the means of making one himself—at all events, of commanding a competency. He had the credit of being a young man of decided genius, too. "I will not offer Rosalie a beggar's hand!" exclaimed Theodore; "I shall ask her to remain true to me for a year; and I'll go to London, and maintain myself by my pen. It may acquire me fame as well as fortune; and then I may marry Rosalie?"
This was a great deal of work to be done in a year; but if Theodore was not a man of genius, he possessed a mind of that sanguine temperament, which is usually an accompaniment of the richer gift. Before the hour of dinner all his plans were laid, and he was ready to start for London. He waited for nothing but a message from Rosalie, and as soon as the sweet girl could send it, it came to him. It appointed him to meet her in the green lane after sunset; the sun had scarcely set when he was there; and there, too, was Rosalie. He found that she was Rosalie still. Fate had stripped him of fortune; but she could not persuade Rosalie to refuse him her hand, or her lip; when, half-way down the lane, she heard a light quick step behind her, and, turning, beheld Theodore.
Theodore's wishes, as I stated before, were granted soon as communicated: and now nothing remained but to say good by—perhaps the hardest thing to two young lovers. Rosalie stood passive in the arms of Theodore, as he took the farewell kiss, which appeared as if it would join his lips to hers for ever, instead of tearing them away. She heard her name called from a short distance, and in half-suppressed voice; she started and turned towards the direction whence the pre-concerted warning came; she heard it again; she had stopped till the last moment! She had half withdrawn herself from Theodore's arms; she looked at him; flung her own around him, and burst into tears upon his neck!—In another minute there was nobody in the lane.
London is a glorious place for a man of talent to make his way in—provided he has extraordinary good luck. Nothing but merit can get on there; nothing is sterling that is not of its coinage. Our provincial towns won't believe that gold is gold unless it has been minted in London. There is no trickery there; no treating, no canvassing, no intrigue, no coalition! there, worth has only to show itself if it wishes to be killed with kindness! London tells the truth! You may swear to what it says—whatsoever may be proved to the contrary. The cause—the cause is every thing in London! Shew but your craft, and straight your brethren come crowding around you, and if they find you worthy, why you shall be brought into notice—even though they should tell a lie for it and damn you. Never trouble yourself about getting on by interest in London! Get on by yourself. Posts are filled there by merit: or if the man suits not the office, why the office is made to adapt itself to the man, and so there is unity after all! What a happy fellow was Theodore to find himself in such a place as London!
He was certainly happy in one thing: the coach in which he came set him down at a friend's whose circumstances were narrow, but whose heart was large—a curate of the Church of England. Strange that, with all the appurtenances of hospitality at its command, abundance should allow it to be said, that the kindest welcome which adversity usually meets with, is that which it receives from adversity! If Theodore found that the house was a cold one to what he had been accustomed, the warmth of the greeting made up for it. "They breakfasted at nine, dined at four, and, if he could sleep upon the sofa, why there was a bed for him!" In a day he was settled, and at his work.
And upon what did Theodore found his hopes of making a fortune, and rising to fame in London?—Upon writing a play. At an early period he had discovered, as his friends imagined, a talent for dramatic composition; and having rather sedulously cultivated that branch of literature, he thought he would now try his hand in one bold effort, the success of which should determine him as to his future course in life. The play was written, presented, and accepted; the performers were ready in their parts; the evening of representation came on, and Theodore, seated in the pit beside his friend, at last, with a throbbing heart, beheld the curtain rise. The first and second acts went off smoothly, and with applause.
Two gentlemen were placed immediately in front of Theodore. "What do you think of it?" said the one to the other.
"Rather tame," was the reply.
"Will it succeed?"
"Doubtful."
The third act, however, decided the fate of the play; the interest of the audience became so intense, that, at one particular stage of the action, numbers in the second and third rows of the side boxes stood up, and the clapping of hands was universal, intermingled with cries of "bravo!" from every part of the theatre. "'Twill do," was now the remark, and Theodore breathed a little more freely than he had done some ten minutes ago. Not to be tedious, the curtain fell amidst shouts of approbation, unmingled with the slightest demonstration of displeasure, and the author had not twenty friends in the house.
If Theodore did not sleep that night, it was not from inquietude of mind—contentment was his repose. His most sanguine hopes had been surpassed; the fiat of a London audience had stamped him a dramatist; the way to fortune was open and clear, and Rosalie would be his.
Next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Theodore and his friend repaired to the coffee-room. "We must see what the critics say," remarked the latter. Theodore, with prideful confidence,—the offspring of fair success,—took up the first morning print that came to his hand.Theatre Royalmet his eye. "Happy is the successful dramatist!" exclaimed Theodore to himself; "at night he is greeted by the applause of admiring thousands, and in the morning they are repeated, and echoed all over the kingdom through the medium of the press! What will Rosalie say when her eye falls upon this!"—And what, indeed, would Rosalie say when she read the utter damnation of her lover's drama, which the critic denounced from the beginning to the end, without presenting his readers with a single quotation to justify the severity of his strictures!
"'Tis very odd!" said Theodore.
"'Tis very odd, indeed!" rejoined his friend, repeating his words. "You told me this play was your own, and here I find that you have copied it from half a dozen others that have been founded upon the same story."
"Where?" inquired Theodore, reaching for the paper.
"There!" said his friend, pointing to the paragraph.
"And is this London," exclaimed Theodore. "I never read a play, nor the line of a play upon the same subject. Why does not the writer prove the plagiarism?"
"Because he does not know whether it is or is not a plagiarism," rejoined the other. "He is aware that several other authors have constructed dramas upon the same passage in history; and—to draw the most charitable inference, for you would not suspect him of telling a deliberate lie—he thinks you have seen them, and have availed yourself of them."
"Is it not the next thing to a falsehood," indignantly exclaimed Theodore, "to advance a charge, of the justness of which you have not assured yourself?"
"I know not that," rejoined his friend; "but it certainly indicates a rather superficial reverence for truth; and a disposition to censure, which excludes from all claim to ingenuousness the individual who indulges it."
"And this will go the round of the whole kingdom?"
"Yes."
"Should I not contradict it?"
"No."
"Why?"
"'Tis beneath you; besides, the stamp of malignancy is so strong upon it, that, except to the utterly ignorant, it is harmless; and even these, when they witness your play themselves, as sometime or another they will, will remember the libel, to the cost of its author and to your advantage. I see you have been almost as hardly treated by this gentleman," continued he, glancing over the paper which Theodore had taken up when he entered the room. "Are you acquainted with any of the gentlemen of the press?"
"No; and is it not therefore strange that I should have enemies among them!"
"Not at all."
"Why?"
"Because you have succeeded. Look over the rest of the journals," continued his friend; "you may find salve, perhaps, for these scratches."
Theodore did so; and in one or two instances salve, indeed, he found; but upon the whole he was in little danger of being spoiled through the praises of the press. "Why," exclaimed Theodore, "why do not letters enlarge the soul, while they expand the mind? Why do they not make men generous and honest? Why is not every literary man an illustration of Juvenal's axiom?"
"Teach a dog what you may," rejoined his friend, "can you alter his nature, so that the brute shall not predominate?"
"No," replied Theodore.
"You are answered," said his friend.
The play had what is called a run, but not a decided one. Night after night it was received with the same enthusiastic applauses; but the audiences did not increase. It was a victory without the acquisition of spoils or territory. "What can be the meaning of this?" exclaimed Theodore; "we seem to be moving, and yet do not advance an inch?"
"They should paragraph the play as they do a pantomime," remarked his friend. "But then a pantomime is an expensive thing; they will lay out a thousand pounds upon one, and they must get their money back. The same is the case with their melo-dramas; so, if you want to succeed to the height, as a play-wright, you know what to do."
"What?" inquired Theodore.
"Write melo-dramas and pantomimes!"
Six months had now elapsed, and Theodore's purse, with all his success, was rather lighter than when he first pulled it out in London. However, in a week two bills which he had taken from his publisher would fall due, and he would run down to B——, and perhaps obtain an interview with Rosalie. At the expiration of the week his bills were presented, and dishonored! He repaired to his publisher's for an explanation: the house had stopped! Poor Theodore! They were in the gazette that very day! Theodore turned into the first coffee room to look at a paper: there were, indeed, the names of the firm! "I defy fortune to serve me a scurvier trick!" exclaimed Theodore, the tears half starting into his eyes. He little knew the lady whose ingenuity he was braving.
He looked now at one side of the paper, and now at the other, thinking all the while of nothing but the bills and the bankrupt's list.Splendid Feteat B—— met his eye, and soon his thoughts were occupied with nothing but B——; for there he read that the young lord of the manor, having just come of age, had given a ball and supper, the former of which he opened with the lovely and accomplished Miss Rosalie ——. The grace of the fair couple was expatiated upon; and the editor took occasion to hint, that a pair so formed by nature for each other, might probably, before long, take hands in another, a longer, and more momentous dance. What did Theodore think of fortune now?
"O that it were but a stride to B——!" he exclaimed, as he laid down the paper, and his hand dropped nerveless at his side. He left the coffee-house, and dreamed his way back to his friend's. Gigs, carriages, carts rolled by him unheeded; the foot path was crowded, but he saw not a soul in the street. He was in the ball room at B——, and looking on while the young lord of the manor handed out Rosalie to lead her down the dance, through every figure of which Theodore followed them with his eyes with scrutinizing glance, scanning the countenance of his mistress. Then the set was over, and he saw them walking arm-in-arm up and down the room, and presently they were dancing again; and now the ball was over, and he followed them to the supper room, where he saw the young lord of the manor place Rosalie beside him. Then fancy changed the scene from the supper room to the church, at the altar of which stood Rosalie with his happy rival; and he heard the questions and responses which forge the mystic chain that binds for life; and he saw the ring put on, and heard the blessing which announces that the nuptial sacrament is complete! His hands were clenched; his cheek was in a flame; a wish was rising in his throat—"Good news for you," said some one clapping him on the back: "a letter from Rosalie lies for you at home. Why are you passing the house?" 'Twas his friend.
"A letter from Rosalie!" exclaimed Theodore.—Quickly he retraced his steps, and there on his table lay, indeed, the dear missive of his Rosalie.
"Welcome, sweet comforter!" ejaculated Theodore, as he kissed the cyphers which his Rosalie's hand had traced, and the wax which bore the impress of her seal. "Welcome, O Welcome! you come in time: you bring an ample solace for disappointment, mortification, poverty—whatever my evil destiny can inflict! You have come to assure me that they cannot deprive me of my Rosalie!"
Bright was his eye, and glistening while he spoke; but when he opened the fair folds that conveyed to him thoughts of his mistress, its radiancy was gone!
"THEODORE,
"I am aware of the utter frustration of your hopes; I am convinced that at the end of a year you will not be a step nearer to fortune than you are now; why then keep my hand for you? What I say briefly, you will interpret fully. You are now the guardian of my happiness; as such I address you. Thursday, so you consent, will be my wedding day.