UC-NRLF 
 

 tl-e. 
 
GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
G-IFTS OF GENIUS 
 
 OP 
 
 PROSE AND POETRY, 
 
 BY 
 
 AMERICAN AUTHORS. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 PRINTED FOR C. A. DAVENPORT, 
 
ENTERED according to Act of Congress in the year 1859, by 
 
 G. A. DAVENPORT, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 
 District of New York. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 FACE 
 
 INTRODUCTORY, ix 
 
 OUT AT ELBOWS. THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE. BY JOHN 
 
 ESTEN COOKE, 18 
 
 MY SECRET. (From the French.) BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 42 
 A LEAF FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK. BY H. T. TUCKERMAN, . 44 
 ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE. BY GEORGE S. HILLARD, .... 57 
 
 ON RECEIVING A PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS FROM 
 
 A FRIEND. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ, 60 
 
 THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END. BY CAROLINE CHESEBBO, ... 62 
 SEA-WEED. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, ....... 89 / 
 
 TREFOIL. BY EVERT A. DUYCKINCK, 91 
 
 MISERERE DOMINE. BY WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH, 121 
 
 THE KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD. A SHORT ESSAY 
 
 ON THE 148th PSALM. BY C. A. BAHTOL, 124 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. BY THE REV. CHARLES T. BROOKS, .... 188 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAN. BY THE 
 
 REV. ROSWELL D. HITCHCOCK, D.D 188 
 
 POEMS. BY JULIA WARD HOWE, 160 
 
 EARTH'S WITNESS. BY ALICE B. HAVEN, 164 
 
 THE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING. BY THE REV. HENRY W. 
 
 BELLOWS, D.'D., 165 
 
 SONG OF THE ARCHANGELS. (From Goethe's Faust.) BY GEOBGB! 
 
 P. MARSH, 171 
 
 A NIGHT AND DAY AT VALPARAISO. Br ROBERT TOMBS, . . 178 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. BY THE REV. THEODORE PARKER, 181 
 
 PAID FOR BY THE PAGE. BY EDWARD 8. GOULD, . . . .186 
 WORDS FOR MUSIC. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS, 191 
 
 " THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS." (Passages from a Manuscript 
 Sermon.) BY THE REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D., , 193 
 
 THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN. BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY, 19T 
 THE ERL-KING. (From the German of Goethe.) BY MRS. E. F. ELLET, 199 
 THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. BY THE REV. SAMUEL OSGOOD, D.D., . 202 
 
 POEMS. BY MRS. GEORGE P. MARSH, 214 
 
 A STORY OF VENICE. BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS, . . . .217 
 THE TORTURE CHAMBER. BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER, . . .289 
 THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. BY FRANCIS WILLIAMS, . . 244 
 THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST. BY REV. E. A. WASHBURN, . . .250 
 
 JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE. BY CAROLINE M. 
 
 KIRKLAND, 253 
 
 J NO^SONGS IN WINTER. BY T. B. ALDRICH, 259 
 
 \/BENI-ISRAEL. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 260 
 
 BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, . 264 
 
TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 AT the desire of Miss DAVENPOKT, for whose benefit this 
 collection of original Miscellanies by American authors has 
 been made, I write this brief Preface, without having had 
 time to read the contributions which it is designed to intro- 
 duce. The names of the writers, however, many of which 
 are among the most distinguished in our literature, and are 
 honored wherever our language is spoken, will suffice to 
 recommend the volume to the attention of the reading world. 
 
 If this were not enough, an inducement of another kind 
 is to be found in the circumstances of the lady in whose 
 behalf the contents of this volume have been so freely contri- 
 buted. A few years since, she was a teacher in our schools, 
 active, useful, and esteemed for her skillful commnnication of 
 knowledge. At that time it was one of her favorite occupa- 
 tions to make sketches and drawings from nature, an art in 
 which she instructed her pupils. A severe illness interrupted 
 her duties, during which her sight became impaired, and 
 finally lost. A kind of twilight came over it, which gradu- 
 ally darkened into utter night, shutting out the face of nature 
 in. which she had so much delighted, and leaving her, without 
 
 vii 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 occupation, in ill health. In this condition she has already 
 remained for five years. 
 
 To this statement of her misfortunes, which I trust will 
 commend her to the sympathies of all who are made 
 acquainted with them, as one who was useful to society while 
 Providence permitted, I have only to add the expression 
 of her warmest thanks to those who have generously fur- 
 nished the contents of the volume she now lays before the 
 
 public. 
 
 W. 0. BKYANT. 
 
 NEW YORK, June, 1869. 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 THIS volume speaks so well for itself that it does not 
 need many words of preface to commend it to a wide circle 
 of readers. Its rich and varied contents, however, become 
 far more interesting when interpreted by the motive that 
 won them from their authors ; and when the kindly feel- 
 ing that offered them so freely is known, these gifts, like 
 the pearls of a rosary, will be prized not only severally but 
 collectively, because strung together by a sacred thread. 
 
 The story of this undertaking is a very short and simple 
 one. Miss Davenport, who had been for many years an 
 active and successful teacher in our schools and families, 
 especially in the beautiful arts of drawing and painting, 
 was prostrated by a severe illness, which impaired her sight 
 and finally terminated in blindness. 
 
 The late Benjamin P. Butler, in a letter dated Octo- 
 ber 13, 1858, which will have peculiar interest to the many 
 readers who knew and honored that excellent man, writes 
 thus : 
 
 "Miss Davenport has for. several years been personally 
 known to me. She is now blind and unable to follow the 
 
 lx 
 
X INTKODTJCTOKY. 
 
 calling by which, before this calamity befell her, she obtained 
 her living. Having lost her parents in early life, and hav- 
 ing few relatives, and none able to assist her, she is depen- 
 dent for her support on such efforts as she is still capable 
 of making. These, were she a person of common fortitude, 
 energy and hopefulness, would be very small, for to her great 
 privation is added very imperfect general health. Yet she 
 has struggled on in the hope of gaining such a competency 
 as should ultimately secure ' a home that she may call her 
 own/ I commend Miss Davenport to all who feel for the 
 afflicted and who wish to do good." 
 
 The Rev. Dr. S. Storrs writes : " Miss Davenport is a 
 Christian woman, of great excellence of character, and of 
 many accomplishments, whom God in his providence has 
 made totally blind within a few years past." 
 
 We need add but two remarks to these statements 
 one in reference to the volume itself and the other in refer- 
 ence to her for whose welfare it is contributed. 
 
 The volume is one of the many proofs which have been 
 gathering for years, of the alliance between literature and 
 humanity. Every good and true word that has been writ- 
 ten from the beginning has been a minister of mercy to 
 every human heart which it has reached, whilst the mercy 
 has been twice blessed when the word so benign in its 
 result has been charitable in its intention, and the author at 
 once yields his profits to a friend's need, and his produc- 
 tion to the public eye. Thackeray has written well upon 
 humor and charity, but should he undertake to carry out 
 
INTRODUCTORY. XI 
 
 his idea and treat of literature and humanity in their vital 
 relations, he would have his hands and heart full of work 
 for more than a lifetime. Princes who give their gold to 
 generous uses are worthy of honor ; but there is a coinage 
 of the brain that costs more and weighs more than gold. 
 The authors of these papers would of course be little dis- 
 posed to claim any high merit for their offerings, yet any 
 reader who runs his eye over the list of contributors will 
 see at once that they are generally writers whose composi- 
 tions are eagerly sought for by the public, and among them 
 are some names whose pens can com gold whenever they 
 choose to move. All these articles are original, and nothing 
 is inserted in this book that has been before published. 
 We are confident that it deserves, and will command wide 
 and choice circulation 
 
 A word as to the lady for whose benefit these gifts are 
 brought together. The preface of Mr. Bryant and the 
 letter of Mr. Butler, tell her story with sufficient distinct- 
 ness, and the readiness with which our men and women of 
 letters have so generally complied with her request, shows 
 what eloquence she bears in her presence and statement. 
 Some certificates from her pupils in drawing, who testify to 
 her love of nature and her delight in sketching directly 
 from nature, so greatly to their improvement in this beauti- 
 ful art, give peculiar pathos to her case. The organ that 
 was the source of her highest satisfaction is closed up by 
 this dark sorrow, and the gate called Beautiful, to this 
 earthly temple no longer is open to scenes and faces 
 
Xll INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 of loveliness. What a fearful loss is this loss of sight 
 on the whole the noblest of the senses, and certainly the 
 sense of all others most serviceable, alike to the working 
 hand and the creative imagination. The eye may not be 
 so near the fountains of sensibility as the ear, and no 
 impression reaches the sympathy so profoundly as the 
 pathos of living speech, but the eye has a far wider range 
 than the ear and fathoms the heavens and sweeps the earth 
 and sea, whilst the ear hears distinctly but within a very 
 narrow limit, hardly a stone's throw. When the eye, then, 
 loses its marvellous faculty and sees no longer the light of 
 day and the countenances of friends, let the ear do what it 
 can to make up for the loss by every cheering word of sym- 
 pathy and hope. In God's Providence there is a principle 
 of compensation that aims to balance every privation by 
 some new privilege, as for instance by giving new acuteness 
 to the senses which are called to do the work of the senses 
 lost. But genial humanity is the great principle of compen- 
 sation, and by this God's children glorify the Father in 
 Heaven. May this volume serve his merciful will, and may 
 the light shed from the stars of our literary firmament do 
 something to lessen the night upon every dark path. 
 
 s. o. 
 
GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 OUT AT ELBOWS. 
 
 THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE. 
 
 BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, OF VIRGINIA. 
 
 ^ How good a thing it is to live ! The morn is full 
 of music ; and Annie is singing in the hall ! 
 
 The sun falls with a tranquil glory on the fields 
 and forests, burning with the golden splendors of 
 the autumn the variegated leaves of the mighty 
 oaks are draped about the ancient gables, like a 
 trophy of banners. The landscape sleeps ; all the 
 world smiles shall not I? 
 
 I sat up late last night at my accounts ; to-day I 
 will take a holiday. The squire has bidden me 
 good morning in his courteous, good-humored way, 
 and gone in his carriage to attend a meeting of his 
 brother magistrates : I am away for the time 
 
 13 
 
14: GIFTS OF GENItfS. 
 
 from my noisy courts the domain is mine all 
 the world is still ! 
 
 No ; Annie is singing in the hall. 
 
 She sings to herself, I think, this autumn morn- 
 ing, and would not like to be interrupted. I will 
 therefore take a ramble and you shall accompany 
 me, O friend of my youth, far away in distant 
 lands, but beside me still ! Whither shall we go ? 
 It is hard to decide, for all the world is lovely. 
 Shall we go to my favorite woodland ? It skirts the 
 river, and I love the river; so we pass into the 
 forest. 
 
 How regal is the time of the fall of the leaves ! 
 A thousand brilliant colors charm the eyes the 
 eyes of their faithful lovers. How the mighty oaks 
 reach out their knotty, muscular arms to welcome 
 us ! how their ponderous shoulders bear aloft the 
 imperial trappings trappings of silk and velvet, 
 all orange, blue, and purple ! The haughty pines 
 stand up like warriors or call them spears of 
 nordland heroes, holding on their summits emerald 
 banners ! The tulip-trees are lovely queens with 
 flowers in their hair, who bend and welcome you 
 with gracious murmurs ; the slender elms sway to 
 and fro, like fairest maidens of the royal blood ; and 
 sigh, and smile, and whisper, full of the charming 
 grace of youth, and tenderness, and beauty. 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 15 
 
 I salute my noblemen, and queens, and prin- 
 cesses ; they bow in return to me, their king. Let 
 us wander on. 
 
 Ah ! that is well ; my nver view ! Of all 
 
 my broad domain, I think I like this part the best. 
 Is it not beautiful ? That clump of dogwood, how- 
 ever, obstructs the view somewhat ; I must cut it 
 down. Let us move a little to the right. Ah! 
 there it is ! See my lovely river ; surely you must 
 admire my swan-like ships, flying, with snowy can- 
 vass spread, before the fresh breeze. And see that 
 schooner breaking the little waves into foam. Is 
 that a telescope which the captain, of my vessel 
 points toward us? lie salutes me, does he not? 
 But I fear the distance is too great; he could 
 hardly recognize me. Still I shall bow let us not 
 neglect the laws of courtesy. 
 
 My ship is sailing onward. In earlier days I 
 had many barks which sailed from shore ; they 
 were freighted with the richest goods, and made 
 me very anxious. So my argosies went sailing, but 
 they never came again. One bore my poem, which 
 I thought would make me very celebrated, but the 
 ship was lost. Another was to bring me back a 
 cargo of such beautiful things things which make 
 life delightful to so many ! pearls, and silks, and 
 wines, and gold-laced suits garters, rosettes, and 
 
16 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 slips of ribbon to be worn at the button-hole. 
 This, too, was lost, and yet it did not grieve me 
 much. The third caused me more regret ; I do, not 
 think I have yet wholly recovered from its loss. 
 It bore a maiden with sunny hair, and the ten- 
 derest, sweetest eyes ! She said she loved me yes 
 a thousand times! and I I loved her long and 
 dearly. But the ship in which she sailed went 
 down the strong, good ship, as I regarded it. 
 She died thus, did she not ? or is it true that she 
 was married to a richer suitor far away from me in 
 
 foreign lands? These are foolish tears let 
 
 me not think of her with want of charity ; she was 
 only a woman, and we men are often very weak. 
 ONE over all, is alone great and good. So, beau- 
 tiful ship! I say that sailed across my path in 
 youth, sail on in peace and happiness ! A lonely 
 bark, lonely but not unhappy, sees you, on the dis- 
 tant, happy seas, and the pennon floats from the 
 peak in amicable greeting and salute. Hail and 
 farewell ! Heaven send the ship a happy voyage, 
 and a welcome home ! 
 
 This little soliloquy perhaps wearies you; it is 
 ended. Let us sail for an hour or so on the silver 
 wave; my new pleasure-boat is rocking here be- 
 ncatli in the shadow of the oak. She is built for 
 speed. See how gracefully she falls and rises, like 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 17 
 
 a variegated leaf upon the waves how the slender 
 prow curves upward how the gaily-colored sides 
 are mirrored in the limpid surface of the joyous 
 stream ! Come, let us step into the little craft, and 
 unfurl the snowy sail .... How provoking! I 
 have left my boat key at the hall ; another day we 
 will sail. Let us stroll back to the good old house 
 again. 
 
 Are not my fields pleasant to behold ? They are 
 bringing in my wheat, which stretches, you per- 
 ceive, throughout the low-grounds there, in neatly 
 arranged shocks. My crops this year are excellent 
 ~my servants enjoy this season, and its occupations. 
 They will soon sing their echoing " harvest home " 
 and over them at their joyous labor will shine the 
 " harvest-moon," lighting up field and forest, hill 
 and dale the whole " broad domain and the hall." 
 The affection of my servants is grateful to me. 
 "^ere comes Cato, with his team of patient oxen, 
 and there goes Caesar, leading my favorite race- 
 horse down to water. Cato, Caesar, and I, respec- 
 tively salute each other in the kindest way. I 
 think they are attached to me. Faithful fellows f 
 I shall never part with them. I think I will give 
 this coat to Caesar ; but, looking again, I perceive 
 that his own is better. Besides, I must not be 
 extravagant. The little money I make is required 
 
18 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 by another, and it would not be generous to buy a 
 new coat for myself. This one which I wear will 
 do well enough, will it not ? I ask you. with some 
 diffidence, for 'tis sadly out at elbows, and the idea 
 has occurred to me that the coolness and neglect 
 of certain visitors to the hall, has been caused by 
 
 my coat being shabby. Even Annie , but 
 
 I'll not speak of that this morning. 'Twas the 
 hasty word which we all utter at times 'tis for- 
 gotten. Still, I think, I will give you the incident 
 some day, when we ramble, as now, in the fields. 
 
 From the fields we approach the honest old man- 
 sion, across the emerald-carpeted lawn. The birds' 
 "are singing, around the sleepy-looking gables, and 
 the toothless old hound comes wagging his tail, in 
 sign of welcome. 
 
 'Tis plain that Milo has an honest heart. I think 
 he's smiling. 
 
 n. 
 
 My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable 
 taste. I am glad they built me that wing for my 
 books; my numerous children cannot disturb me 
 when I am composing, either my speech to be de- 
 livered in the Senate, or my work which is destined 
 to refute Sir "William Hamilton. 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 19 
 
 Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes 
 from the sitting-room, and I recognize the exquisite 
 air of " Katharine Ogie " which Annie is singing. 
 Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we 
 pass. 
 
 What a stately head my old grandfather had ! 
 He was president of the King's Council, a hundred 
 years ago a man of decided mark. He wears a 
 long peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders 
 a gold-laced waistcoat and snowy ruffles. His 
 white hand is nearly covered with lace, and rests 
 on a scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vandyke. 
 He must have been a resolute old gentleman. 
 How serene and calm is his look ! how firm are 
 the finely chiselled lips ! How proud and full of 
 collected intelligence the erect head, and the broad 
 white brow ! He was a famous < c macaroni," as 
 they called it, in his youth and cultivated an 
 enormous crop of wild oats. But this all disap- 
 peared, and he became one of the sturdiest patriots 
 of the Revolution, and fought clear through the 
 contest. Is it wrong to feel satisfaction at being 
 descended from a worthy race of men from a 
 family of brave, truthful gentlemen ? I think not. 
 I trust I'm no absurd aristocrat but I would 
 rather be the grandson of a faithful common soldier 
 than of General Benedict Arnold, the traitor. I 
 
GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 would rather trace my lineage to the Chevalier 
 Bayard, simple knight though he was, than to 
 France's great Constable de Bourbon, the rene- 
 gade. 
 
 So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave 
 and truthful gentleman that grandma yonder, smil- 
 ing opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not 
 remember her, but she must have been a beauty. 
 Her head is bent over one shoulder, and she has an 
 exquisitely coquettish air. Her .eyes are blue her 
 arms round, and as white as snow and what lips ! 
 They are like carnations, and pout with a pretty 
 smiling air, which must have made her dangerous. 
 She rejected many wealthy offers to marry grandpa, 
 ,who was then poor. As I gaze, it seems scarcely 
 courteous to remain thus covered in presence of a 
 lady so lovely. I take off my hat, and make my 
 best bow, saluting my little grandmamma of " sweet 
 seventeen," who smiles and seems graciously to bow 
 in return. 
 
 All around me I see my family. There is my 
 uncle, the captain in Colonel Washington's troop. 
 I do not now mean the Colonel Washington of the 
 French wars, who afterward became General 
 Washington of the American Hevolution though 
 my uncle, the captain, know him very well, I am 
 told, and often visited him at Mount Vernon, the 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 21 
 
 colonel's estate, where they hunted foxes together, 
 along the Potomac. I mean the brave Colonel 
 Washington who fought so nobly in North Caro- 
 lina. My uncle died there. His company was 
 much thinned at every step by the horrible hail- 
 storm of balls. He was riding in front with his 
 drawn sword, shouting as the column fell, man by 
 man, " Steady, boys, steady ! close up !" when 
 a ball struck him. His last words were " A good 
 death, boys ! a good death ! Close up !" So, you 
 see, he ended nobly. 
 
 Beside my uncle and the rest of his kith and 
 kin of the wars, you see, yonder, a row of beauties, 
 all smiling and gay, or pensive and tender inter- 
 spersed with bright-faced children, blooming like 
 so many flowers along the old w r alls of 'the hall. 
 How they please and interest me ! True, there are 
 other portraits in our little house at home not my 
 hall here which, perhaps, I should love with a 
 warmer regard ; but let me not cramp my sym- 
 pathies, or indulge any early preferences. I must 
 not be partial. So I admire these here before me 
 and bow to them, one and all. I fancy that they 
 bow in return that the stalwart warriors stretch 
 vigorous hands toward me that the delicate beau- 
 ties bend down their little heads, all covered with 
 powder, and return my homage with a smile. 
 
22 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Why not? Can my shabby coat make the 
 lovely or proud faces ashamed of me ? Do they turn 
 from me coldly because I'm the last of a ruined 
 line ? Do they sneer at my napless hat, and laugh 
 at my tattered elbows ? I do not think of them so 
 poorly and unkindly. My coat is very shabby, but 
 I think, at least I hope, that it covers an honest 
 heart. 
 
 So I bow to the noble and beautiful faces, and 
 again they smile in return. I seem to have wan- 
 dered away into the past and dreamed in a realm 
 of silence. And yet it is strange I did not hear 
 her Annie is still singing through the hall. 
 
 in. 
 
 I promised to tell you of the incident of the coat, 
 the unfortunate coat which I sometimes think 
 makes the rich folks visiting the hall look side wise 
 at me. It is strange ! Ami not myself, whether 
 clad in velvet or in fustian in homespun fabric, or 
 in cloth of gold ? People say I am simple wholly 
 ignorant of the world ; I must be so in truth. 
 
 But about the coat. I hinted that Annie even 
 saw, and alluded to it ; it was not long after my 
 arrival at the hall, and a young lady from the 
 neighborhood was paying a visit to Annie. 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 23 
 
 They were standing on the portico, and I was 
 leaning against the trunk of the old oak beneath, 
 admiring the sunset which was magnificent that 
 evening. All at once I heard whispers, and turn- 
 ing round toward the young ladies, saw them 
 laughing. Annie's finger was extended toward the 
 hole in my elbow, and I could not fail to under- 
 stand that she was laughing at my miserable coat. 
 
 I was not offended, though perhaps I may have 
 been slightly w r ounded ; but Annie was a young 
 girl and I could not get angry ; I was not at all 
 ashamed why should I have been ? 
 
 " I am sorry, but I cannot help the hole in my 
 elbow," I said, calmly and quietly, with a bow and 
 a smile ; " I tore it by accident, yesterday." 
 
 Annie blushed, and looked very proud and 
 offended, and it pained me to see that she suffered 
 for her harmless and careless speech. I begged 
 her not to think that my feelings were wounded, 
 and bowing again, went up to my room. I looked 
 at my coat, it was terribly shabby, and I revolved 
 the propriety of purchasing another, but I gave up 
 the idea with a sigh. She needs all my money, and 
 my mind is made up ; she shall have the black silk, 
 and very soon. 
 
 I very nearly forgot to relate what followed the 
 little scene on the portico. During all that even- 
 
24: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 ing, and the whole of the next day, Annie scarcely 
 looked at me, and retained her angry and offended 
 expression. I was pained, but could add nothing 
 more to my former assurance that I was not 
 offended. 
 
 Toward evening, I was sitting with a book upon 
 the portico, when Annie came out of the parlor. 
 She paused on the threshold, evidently hesitated, 
 but seemed to resolve all at once, what to do. She 
 came quickly to my side, and holding out her hand 
 said frankly and kindly, with a little tremor in her 
 voice, and a faint rose-tint in the delicate cheeks : 
 
 "I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. 
 Cleave, indeed I did not, sir ; my speech was the 
 thoughtless rudeness of a child. I am sorry, very 
 sorry that I was ever so ill-bred and unkind ; will 
 you pardon me, sir ?" 
 
 I rose from my seat, and bowed low above the 
 white little hand which lay in my own, slightly 
 agitated, 
 
 " I have nothing to pardon, Miss Annie," I said, 
 " if you will let me call you by your household 
 name. I think it very fortunate that my coat was 
 shabby ; had it been a new one, you would never 
 have observed it, and I should have lost these 
 sweet and friendly accents." 
 
 And that is the " incident of the coat." 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 25 
 
 IY. 
 
 The week that has just passed has been a 
 pleasant one. I have thought, a hundred times, 
 " how good a thing it is to live !" 
 
 I must have been a good deal cramped and 
 confined in the city ; but I enjoy the fair landscapes 
 here all the more. The family are very friendly 
 and kind except Mrs. Harrington, who does not 
 seem to like me. She scarcely treats me with any- 
 thing more than scrupulous courtesy. The squire 
 and Annie, however, make up for this coldness. 
 They are both extremely cordial. It was friendly 
 in the squire to give me this mass of executorial 
 accounts to arrange. So far it has been done to his 
 entire satisfaction ; and the payment for my ser- 
 vices is very liberal. How I long for money ! 
 
 There was a spendid party at the hall on Tues- 
 day. It reminded me of old times, when we, 
 
 too, but that is idle to remember. I do not 
 
 sigh for the past. I know all is for the best. Still, 
 I could not help thinking, as I looked on the bril- 
 liant spectacle, that the world was full of changes 
 and vicissitudes. Well, the party was a gay and 
 delightful one ; the dancing quite extravagant. 
 Annie was the "beauty of the assemblage the belle 
 2 
 
26 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 of the ball and she gave me a new proof of the 
 regret which she felt for the speech about my coat. 
 At the end of a cotillon she refused the arms of 
 half a dozen eager gallants to take mine, and 
 promenade out on the portico. 
 
 "Do you ever dance?" she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes," I replied; "that is, I did dance once; 
 but of late years I have been too much occupied. 
 We live quietly." 
 
 " You say ' we.' " 
 
 " I mean my mother and I ; I should have said 
 ' poorly,' perhaps, instead of ' quietly.' And I am 
 busy." 
 
 She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling : 
 
 u But you are not busy to-night ; and if you'll 
 not think me forward, I will reverse the etiquette, 
 and ask you to dance with me." 
 
 " Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure." 
 
 " Are you sure?" 
 
 " Could you doubt it ?" 
 
 " I was so very rude to you !" 
 
 And she hung her head. That, then, was the 
 secret of her choice of my arm. I could only 
 assure her that I did not think her rude, and I 
 hoped she would forget the whole incident. I was 
 pleased in spite of all for I like to think well of 
 women. The cynical writers say they are all 
 
OCT AT ELBOWS. 27 
 
 mean, and mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie ? 
 She had left many finely-dressed gentlemen, fault- 
 lessly appointed, to dance with a poor stranger, 
 quite out at elbows. 
 
 I saw many cold looks directed at myself; and 
 when Annie took my arm to go into supper, the 
 gloom in the faces of some gentlemen who had been 
 refused, made me smile. When the party was 
 over, Annie gave me her hand at the foot of the 
 staircase. I saw a triumphant light in her mis- 
 chievous eyes, as she glanced at the departing 
 gallants ; her rosy cheeks dimpled, and she flitted 
 up, humming a gay tune. 
 
 It is singular how beautiful she is when she 
 laughs as when she sighs. Am I falling in love 
 with her? I shall be guilty of no such folly. I 
 think that my pride and self-respect will keep me 
 rational. Pshaw ! why did I dream of such 
 nonsense ! 
 
 V. 
 
 So a month has passed. 
 
 My coat, it seems, is to be the constant topic of 
 attention. 
 
 A day or two since, I was sitting in my chamber, 
 
28 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 reflecting upon a variety of things. My thoughts, 
 at last, centred on the deficiencies of my ward- 
 robe, and I muttered, " I must certainly have my 
 coat mended soon ;" and I looked down, sighing, at 
 
 the .hole -in my elbow It 
 
 had disappeared ! There was no longer any rent. 
 The torn cloth had been mended in the neatest 
 manner; so neatly, indeed, that the orifice was 
 almost invisible. Who could have done it, and 
 
 how ? I have one coat only, and yes ! it must 
 
 have been ! I saw, in a moment, the whole secret : 
 that noise, and the voice of Sarah, the old chamber- 
 maid. 
 
 I rose and went out on the staircase ; I met the 
 good crone. 
 
 "How did you find my coat in the dark?" I said, 
 smiling ; " and now you must let me make you a 
 present for mending it, Sarah." 
 
 Sarah hesitated, plainly ; but honesty conquered. 
 She refused the money, which, nevertheless, I gave 
 her ; and, from her careless replies, I soon disco- 
 vered the real truth. 
 
 The coat had been mended by Annie ! 
 
 I descended to the drawing-room, and finding her 
 alone, thanked her with simplicity and sincerity. 
 She blushed and pouted. 
 
 "Who told you?" she asked. 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 29 
 
 " No one ; but I discovered it from Sarali ; she 
 was unguarded." 
 
 " Well, sir," said Annie, blushing still, but laugh- 
 ing, " there is no reason for your being so grateful. 
 I thought I would mend it, as I formerly laughed 
 at it and I hope it is neatly done." 
 
 " It is scarcely visible," I said, with a smile and 
 a bow ; " I shall keep this coat always to remind 
 me of your delicate kindness." 
 
 " Pshaw ! 'twas nothing." 
 
 And running to the piano, the young girl com- 
 menced a merry song, which rang through the old 
 hall like the carol of a bird. Her voice was so 
 inexpressibly sweet that it made my pulses throb and 
 and my heart ache. I did not know the expression 
 of my countenance, as I looked at her, until turning 
 toward me, I saw her suddenly color to the roots of 
 her hair. 
 
 I felt, all at once, that I had fixed upon her one of 
 those looks which say as plainly as words could 
 utter : " I love you with all the powers of my 
 nature, all the faculties of my being you are dearer 
 to me than the whole wide world beside !" 
 
 Upon my word of honor as a gentleman, I did 
 not know that I loved Annie I was not conscious 
 that I was gazing at her with that look of inexpres- 
 sible tenderness. Her sudden blush cleared up 
 
30 GIFTS OF GENID8. 
 
 everything like a flash of lightning I rose, set my 
 lips together, and bowed; I could scarcely speak 
 I muttered " pray excuse me," and left the apart- 
 ment. 
 
 On the next morning I begged the squire to 
 release me from the completion of my task I had a 
 friend who could perform the duties as well as 
 myself, arid who would come to the hall for that 
 purpose, inasmuch as the account books could not 
 be removed I must go. 
 
 The formal and ceremonious old gentleman did 
 not ask my reasons for this sudden act he simply 
 inclined his head and said that he would always 
 be glad to serve me. "With a momentary pressure 
 of Annie's cold hand, and a low bow to the frigid 
 Mrs. Barrington, I departed. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Five years have passed away. They have been 
 eventful ones to me not for the unhoped for suc- 
 cess which I have had in my profession, so much as 
 for the long suffering which drove me, violently as 
 it were, to seek relief in unceasing toil. 
 
 The thought of Annie has been ever with me 
 my pain, though such a term is slight, was caused 
 by my leaving her. I never knew how much I 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 31 
 
 loved her until all those weary miles were thrown 
 between us. My days have been most unhappy, 
 my nights drearier still ; for a long time now, I have 
 not thought or said " how good a thing it is to live !" 
 
 But I acted wisely, and honorably ; did I not ? I 
 did my duty, when the temptation to neglect it 
 was exceeding hard to resist. I went away from 
 the woman whom I loved, because I loved her, and 
 respected my own name and honor, too much to 
 remain. It was better to break my heart, I said, 
 than take advantage of my position at the hall, to 
 engage a young girl's heart, and drag her down, in 
 case she loved me, to the poor low sphere in which 
 I moved. If her father had said to me, "You have 
 abused the trust I placed in you, and acted with 
 duplicity," I think it would have ruined me, for- 
 ever, in my own esteem. And would he not have 
 had the right to say it ? 
 
 So I came away from the temptation while I 
 could, and plunged into my proper work on earth, 
 and found relief; but I loved her still. 
 
 Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued 
 between the squire and myself? 'Twas a somewhat 
 singular one, and revealed to me something which 
 I was before quite ignorant of. It is here beneath 
 my hand ; let us look at it. It passed soon after 
 my departure : 
 
32 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 " BARRIXGTON HALL, Nov. 20, 13 . 
 " MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND : 
 
 " Since your somewhat abrupt departure, I have considered 
 that event with some attention, and fear that it was occasioned 
 by a want of kindness in myself, or some member of my family. 
 I saw with regret that Mrs. Barrington did not seem to look upon 
 you with as much favor as I hoped. If any word or action of mine 
 has wounded you, I pray you to forget and pardon it. 
 
 " Your friend, 
 
 " C. BARRINGTON. 
 
 *' P. S. Pray present my best regards to your mother, who was 
 many long years ago, a very dear friend of mine." 
 
 My reply was in the following words : 
 
 " MY DEAR MR. BARRINGTON : 
 
 " Pray set your mind at rest upon the subject of my somewhat 
 hasty departure : 'twas caused by no want of courtesy in any member 
 of the household at the hall, but by unavoidable circumstances. You 
 will not think me wanting in candor or sincerity when I add that I 
 think these circumstances were better not alluded to at present. 
 " Truly and faithfully, 
 
 " ST. GEORGE CLEAVE." 
 
 Thus ended then our correspondence. Three 
 years afterward I received another letter, in a 
 handwriting somewhat tremulous and broken. It 
 contained simply the words : 
 
 " I am very ill ; if your convenience will permit, may I ask you 
 to come and see me, my young friend ? 
 
 " C. BARRINGTON." 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 33 
 
 I need not say that I went at once. As I 
 approached the old manor house a thousand memo- 
 ries knocked at the door of my heart. There were 
 the fields over which I had rambled; there was 
 the emerald lawn where so often I had wandered 
 in the long-gone days of earlier years. The great 
 oak against which I had leaned on that evening to 
 watch the sun in his setting, and where Annie had 
 whispered and pointed to my torn elbow, still 
 raised its head proudly, and embowered the old 
 gables in the bright-tinted foliage of autumn. 
 
 I entered. The old portraits I had loved seemed 
 to smile ; they saluted me sweetly, as in other 
 hours ; the old mansion appeared to welcome me 
 I saw no change, but Annie was not singing in the 
 hall. 
 
 All at once I heard a light tinkling footstep ; 
 my heart beat violently, and I felt a blush rise to 
 my cheeks. Was the queenly woman who came to 
 meet and greet me, indeed the Annie of old days ? 
 I held the small hand, and looked into the deep eyes 
 for some moments without uttering a word. She 
 was taller, more slender, but her carriage possessed 
 a grace and elegance a thousand times finer than 
 before. Her eyes were filled with the strangest 
 sweetness, and swam with tears as she gazed 
 at me. 
 
 2* 
 
34: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 "Papa lias been waiting impatiently for you, 
 Mr. Cleave," she said, in a low, sad voice ; " will 
 you come up and see him at once ? he is very ill." 
 
 And turning away her head, the fair girl burst 
 into uncontrollable sobs, every one of which went 
 to my heart. I begged her earnestly not to yield 
 to her distress, and she soon dried her eyes, and led 
 the way into the parlor, where I was received by 
 Mrs. Barrington, still cold and stiff, but much more 
 subdued and courteous. Annie went to announce 
 my arrival to har father, and soon I was alone with 
 the old man. 
 
 I was grieved and shocked at his appearance. 
 He seemed twenty years older. I scarcely recog- 
 nized in the pale, thin, invalid, the portly country 
 gentleman whom I had known. 
 
 The motive for his letter was soon explained. 
 The executorial accounts, whose terrible disarrange- 
 ment I had aided, five years before, in remedying, 
 still hung over the dying man's head, like a night- 
 mare. He could not die, he said, with the thought 
 in his mind, that any one might attribute this 
 disorder to intentional maladministration "to 
 fraud, it might be." 
 
 And at the word "fraud," his wan cheek became 
 crimson. 
 
 "My own affairs, Mr. Cleave," he continued, 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 35 
 
 " are, I find, in a most unhappy condition. I have 
 been far too negligent ; and now, on my death-bed, 
 for such it will prove, I discover, for the first time, 
 that I am well-nigh a ruined man !" 
 
 He spoke with wild energy as he went on. I, in 
 vain, attempted to impress upon him, the danger 
 of exciting himself. 
 
 " I must explain everything, and in my own 
 way," he said, with burning cheeks, " for I look to 
 you to extricate me. I have appointed you, Mr. 
 Cleave, my chief executor ; but, above all, I rely 
 upon you, I adjure you, to protect my good name 
 in those horrible accounts, which you once helped 
 to arrange, but which haunt me day and night like 
 the ghost of a murdered man !" 
 
 The insane agitation of the speaker increased, in 
 spite of all which I could say. It led him to make 
 me a singular revelation to speak upon a subject 
 which I had never even dreamed of. His pride 
 and caution seemed wholly to have deserted him ; 
 and he continued as follows : 
 
 " You are surprised, Sir, that I should thus call 
 upon you. You are young. But I know very well 
 what I am doing. Your rank in your profession is 
 sufficient guaranty that you are competent to 
 perform the trust my knowledge of your charac- 
 ter is correct enough to induce me not to hesitate. 
 
36 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 There is another tie between us. Do you suspect 
 its nature ? I loved and would have married your 
 mother. She was poor I was equally poor I 
 was dazzled by wealth, and was miserably happy 
 when, your mother's pride made her refuse my suit. 
 I married I have not been happy. But enough. 
 I should never have spoken of this never but I 
 am dying ! As you are faithful and true, St. George 
 Cleave, let my good name and Annie's be untar- 
 nished!" 
 
 There the interview ended. The doctor came in, 
 and I retired to reflect upon the singular communi- 
 cation which had been made to me. On the same 
 evening, 1 accepted all the trusts confided to me. 
 In a week the sick gentleman was sleeping with his 
 fathers. I held his hand when he died. 
 
 I shall not describe the grief and suffering of 
 every one. I shall not trust myself, especially, to 
 speak of Annie. Her agony was almost destruc- 
 tive to her health and every throb which shook 
 her frame, shook mine as well. The sight of her 
 face had revived, in an instant, all the love of the 
 past, if indeed it had ever slept. I loved her now, 
 passionately, profoundly. As I thought that I might 
 win her love in return, I thrilled with a vague 
 delight. 
 
 Well, let me not spin out my story. The result 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 37 
 
 of my examination of Mr. Barrington's aifairs, was 
 saddening in the extreme. He was quite ruined. 
 Neglect and extravagant living, with security debts, 
 had mortgaged his entire property. When it was 
 settled, and the hall was sold, his widow and 
 daughter had just enough to live upon comfort- 
 ably scarcely so much. They gladly embraced 
 my suggestion to remove to a small cottage near 
 our own, in town, and there they now live you 
 may see the low roof through the window. 
 
 I am glad to say that my reexamination of the 
 executorial accounts, which had so troubled the 
 poor dying gentleman, proved his fears quite un- 
 founded. There was mere disorder no grounds for 
 " exception." I told as much to Annie, who alone 
 knew all; and her smile, inexpressibly sweet and 
 filled with thanks, was my sole executorial " com- 
 
 vn. 
 
 I have just been discarded by Annie. 
 
 Let me endeavor to collect my thoughts and 
 recall what she said to me. My head is troubled 
 to-day it is strange what a want of self-control I 
 have ! I thought I was strong and I am weaker 
 than a child. 
 
 I told her that I loved her had loved her for 
 
38 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 years that she was dearer, far, to me than all on 
 earth beside my mother. And she answered me 
 agitated, but perfectly resolved : 
 
 " I cannot marry you, Mr. Cleave." 
 
 A long pause followed, in which she evidently 
 labored with great distress then she continued : 
 
 " I will frankly and faithfully say why I cannot. 
 I know all I know your feelings for me once. 
 You went away because you were poor, and you 
 thought I was rich. Shall I be less strong than 
 yourself? I am poor now; I do not regret it, 
 except pardon me, sir, I am confused I meant to 
 say, that you are now the richer. It humbles me 
 to speak of this why did you not " 
 
 There she stopped, blushing and trembling. 
 
 " Why did I not ? Oh ! do not stop there, I pray 
 you." 
 
 She replied to my words in a broken and agitated 
 voice : 
 
 " I cannot finish. I was thinking of of the 
 day when I mended your coat !" 
 
 And a smile broke through the tears in her eyes, 
 as she gazed timidly at me. I shall not prolong 
 the account of our interview. She soon left me, 
 resolute to the last; and I came away, perfectly 
 miserable. 
 
 What shall I do ? I cannot live without her. 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 39 
 
 My life would be a miserable mockery. To see her 
 there near me, at the window, in the street ; to see 
 her tresses in the sunlight, her little slipper as it 
 flits through the flower-enveloped gate ; to feel that 
 she is near me, but lost to me ! Never could I 
 endure it ! But what can I do ? Is there anything 
 that can move her ? 
 
 Ah ! that may ! Let me try it. Oh, for- 
 tunate accident. To-morrow, or very soon very 
 soon! 
 
 Yin. 
 
 A week after my rejection, I went up to my 
 chamber, and drew from the depths of my ward- 
 robe, the old coat which Annie had mended. I 
 had promised her to preserve it. I had kept my 
 promise. Yes, there it was, just as I had worn it 
 at the hall my shabby old coat of five years ago ! 
 I put it on, smiling, and surveyed myself in a 
 mirror. It was strangely old-fashioned ; but I 
 did not think of that. I seemed to have re- 
 turned, all at once, to the past; its atmosphere 
 embraced me ; all its flowers bloomed gaily before 
 my eyes. 
 
 I looked at the hole in the elbow. There were 
 
40 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Annie's stitches her fingers had clasped the worn, 
 decayed cloth the old garment had rested on her 
 arm ! 
 
 I think I must have gazed at the coat for an 
 houj, motionless in the sunlight, and thinking of 
 old days. Then I aroused myself, suddenly, put on 
 my hat, and, with a beating heart, went to ask if 
 Annie remembered. 
 
 I shall not relate the details of our interview. 
 She remembered ! Oh, word so sweet or so filled 
 with sadness ! with a world of sorrow or delight in 
 its sound ! She remembered and her heart could 
 resist no longer. She remembered the poor youth 
 who had loved her so dearly whom she, too, had 
 loved in the far away past. She remembered the 
 days when her father was well and happy 
 when his kind voice greeted me, and his smile 
 gave me friendly welcome. She remembered the 
 old days, with their flowers and sunshine the 
 old hall, and the lawn, and the singing birds. 
 Can you wonder that her soft, tender bosom 
 throbbed, that her heart was "melted in her 
 breast ?" 
 
 So she plighted me her troth the dream and 
 joy of my youth. We shall very soon be mar- 
 ried. The ship which I sent from the shore long 
 ago has come again to port, with a grander 
 
OUT AT ELBOWS. 41 
 
 treasure than the earth holds beside it is the 
 precious, young head which reclined upon my 
 heart ! 
 
 And again I can say, as I said long ago : 
 
 u how good a thing it is to live !" 
 
MY SECEET. 
 
 (FROM THE FRENCH.) 
 BY HENBY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 MY soul its secret lias, my life too has its mystery, 
 A love eternal in a moment's space conceived ; 
 Hopeless the evil is, I have not told its history, 
 And she who was the cause, nor knew it, nor 
 
 believed. 
 
 Alas ! I shall have passed close by her unperceived, 
 Forever at her side, and yet forever lonely, 
 1 shall unto the end have made life's journey, only 
 Daring to ask for naught, and having naught 
 
 received. 
 For her, though God has made her gentle and 
 
 endearing, 
 She will go on her way distraught and without 
 
 hearing 
 These murmurings of love that round her steps 
 
 ascend, 
 
 42 
 
MY SECRET. 43 
 
 Piously faithful still unto her austere duty, 
 
 Will say, when she shall read these lines full of her 
 
 beauty, 
 
 " Who can this woman be ?" and will not compre- 
 hend. 
 
A LEAF 
 
 FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK. 
 
 BY II. T. TUCKEKMAN. 
 
 FRESH from Italy, we enter the gallery of the 
 Louvre with a feeling that it is but a grand prolon- 
 gation of the glorious array of pictured and sculp- 
 tured trophies, scattered in such memorable luxu- 
 riance, through that chosen land of art ; but the 
 sensation is that of delightful surprise when we 
 have but recently explored the dim chambers of the 
 National Gallery, or obtained formal access to 
 a private British collection. To cross the now 
 magnificent hall of Apollo, with its grand propor- 
 tions flooded by a cloudless sun, expands the mind 
 and brightens the vision for their feast of beauty. 
 Here too, a magic improvement has been recently 
 wrought, and the architectural renovation lends new 
 effect to the ancient treasures, so admirably pre- 
 served and arranged. I stood long at one of the 
 windows and looked down upon the Seine ; it was 
 
A LEAF FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK. 45 
 
 thence that the people were fired upon at the mas- 
 sacre of St. Bartholomew ; there rose, dark and 
 fretted, the antique tower of Notre Dame, here was 
 the site of the Tour de Nesle, that legend of crime 
 wrought in stone ; gracefully looked the bridges as 
 they spanned the swollen current of the river ; cheer- 
 fully lay the sunshine on quay and parapet ; it was 
 a scene where the glow of nature and the shadows 
 of history unite to lend a charm to the panorama of 
 modern civilization. And turning the gaze within, 
 how calm and refreshing seemed the long and high 
 vistas of the gallery ; how happy the artists at their 
 easels ; girls with their frugal dinners in a basket 
 on the pavement, copying a Flemish scene ; youths 
 drawing intently some head of an old master ; vete- 
 rans of the palette reproducing the tints born 
 under Venetian skies ; and groups standing in silent 
 admiration before some exquisite gem or wonderful 
 conception. It is like an audience with the peers 
 of art to range the Louvre ; in radiant state and 
 majestic silence they receive their reverend guests ; 
 first smiles down upon him the celestial meekness 
 of Raphael's holy women, then the rustic truth of 
 Mnrillo's peasant mothers, and the most costly, 
 though, to our mind, not the most expressive, of all 
 his pictures the late acquisition for which kings 
 competed at Marshal Soult's sale ; now we are 
 
46 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 warmed by the rosy flush of Kubens like a mellow 
 sunset beaming from the walls ; and now startled at 
 the life-like individuality of Vandyke's portraits, as 
 they gaze down with such placid dignity and keen 
 intelligence ; at one point, we examine with mere 
 curiosity the stiff outlines of early religious limning ; 
 and, at another, smile at the homely nature of the 
 Dutch school; Philip de Champagne's portraits, 
 Wouverman's white horses, Cuyp's meadows and 
 kine, Steen's rural fetes, Claude's sunsets, Pannini's 
 architecture and Sneyder's animals ; David's melo- 
 dramatic pieces, Isabey's miniatures, Oudny's dogs, 
 Robert's " Harvest Home," all hint a chapter, not 
 only in the history of art, but in the philosophy of 
 life and the secrets of the beautiful enshrined there 
 for the world's enjoyment, with a liberal policy yet 
 more aptly illustrated by the vast and lofty colon- 
 nades, the courteous custodes, and the provisions for 
 students in the drawings of successive schools. 
 
 In order to exchange the fascinations of the 
 moment for the lessons of the past, one cloudy 
 morning we drove through the avenue of the 
 Champs Elysees, by the triumphal arch of Napo- 
 leon, to the palace of St. Cloud, and from the esplan- 
 ade gazed back upon the city, over the plain below, 
 to the dense mass of buildings surmounted by the 
 domes of the Invalids, and the Pantheon and the 
 
A LEAF FROM MY PARIS NOTE.BOOK. 4r*f 
 
 towers of Notre Dame. To the eye of contempla- 
 tion it is one of the most memorable of landscapes ; 
 a stand-point for historical reverie, which attunes 
 the mind for subsequent and less discursive retro- 
 spection. Enter the apartment where Bonaparte 
 dispersed the assembly of five hundred the inita- 
 tory act of his rule ; it is now a conservatory, whence 
 rising terrace walks, statues and fountains only are 
 visible ; in the fresh silence of morning, they offered 
 a striking contrast to that eventful scene. In an 
 adjacent room a picture representing Maria de 
 Medici's interview with Sully after the death of 
 Henry IY., carries us back to an earlier era. Here 
 Blucher had his headquarters, and here was set- 
 tled the convention by which Paris was yielded to 
 the allies. The saloon of Yernet, the well-trimmed 
 vine-trees of the garden, the vivid hues of the 
 tapestry, the newly waxed floors, the hangings and 
 couches of Lyons silk, the elegant Sevres vases, and 
 Florentine tables oipietra dura, the velvet cushions 
 of the chapel, and late publications on the library 
 desks all free of speck or stain proclaim this sum- 
 mer palace as great a favorite now as when resorted 
 to by the princes of Orleans. In this hall the two 
 Napoleons were proclaimed ; and the brilliant 
 memory of those summer festivals that lately made 
 St. Cloud dazzling with light and beauty, was 
 
48 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 reflected from mirror, cornice, and tinted fabric ; 
 from this gilt on the iron chain of usurped dominion, 
 a glance through the window revealed its origin : 
 a throng of people were on their way to mass and a 
 regiment was on parade the one illustrating the 
 blind exaction of bigoted authority, the other the 
 machinery of brute force the church and the army, 
 the mitre and the sword, superstition and violence ; 
 with these, in all ages, have the multitude been sub- 
 dued ; and between these two representations of 
 elemental despotism, clustered on a high wall, stood 
 a crowd to watch the meek procession of worshippers, 
 and the exactitude of the manual, or admire the 
 spirited, yet controlled, evolutions of the officer on 
 his noble charger. The whole scene typified France 
 as she is ; uneducated devotees, a military organiza- 
 tion at the beck of its chief, and a surplus of curi- 
 ous, intimidated or acquiescent spectators. 
 
 To pass from St. Cloud to Yersailles is like turn- 
 ing from the last to the first chapters of French 
 history. The vast court of the palace is lined with 
 colossal statues; and thus we enter the vestibule 
 through a file of pale and majestic sentinels, sum- 
 moned, as it were, from the tomb to guard the 
 trophies of nationality. Our pilgrimage through 
 such a world of effigies begins with Clovis and 
 Charlemagne, and ends with Louis Philippe : the 
 
A LEAF FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK. 4:9 
 
 place itself is the ancient home of royalty; the 
 gardens, visible from every window, have been trod 
 by generations of monarchs and courtiers; the 
 ceilings bear the arms of the noble families of the 
 kingdom ; while around are the faces and figures of 
 the men of valor and of genius that consecrate her 
 history. Through this panorama move peasants, 
 workmen, citizens, and foreigners, gazing unre- 
 stricted, as upon a procession evoked from the inex- 
 orable past, in which are all those of whom they 
 have heard or read as illustrious in France; they 
 see the battles, the leaders, the kings, the poets, the 
 human material of history. This grand conception, 
 which has of late years been mainly realized by the 
 last king, is certainly one of the most grand and 
 significant of modern times. Even in this, our one 
 day's observation, how many ideas are revived, how 
 many characters brought into view ; what events, 
 associations and people throng upon our conscious- 
 ness, as slowly gazing, we tread the interminable 
 halls and scan the countless memorials of Ver- 
 sailles ! 
 
 Taking up the thread of reminiscence when look- 
 ing at the old moldy mortar that belonged to the 
 knights of St. John when at Rhodes, the expiring 
 chivalry of Europe gleams fitfully upon us, once 
 more, to provoke a mortifying comparison with the 
 
 3 
 
50 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 not yet completed pictures of the capture of Abd-el- 
 Kader and the last siege of Home ; thence turn 
 to the " Jen de Paume," where the ardent figure of 
 Mirabeau. represents the genius of the Revolution, 
 and -from it to "Louis XYIH. and the Charter," 
 emblematic of the Restoration ; how shines on this 
 canvas the " helmet of Navarre " in the " Battle 
 of Ivry," as in Macaulay's spirited lyric, and 
 chastely beautiful in its stainless marble, stands the 
 heroic Maid of Orleans; while, appropriately in 
 the midst of these historic characters, we find the 
 bust of that ideal of picturesque narrators, Frois- 
 sart. The modern rule of France is abruptly and 
 almost grotesquely suggested amid such associa- 
 tions, by the figure of De Joinville on the deck of a 
 man-of-war, well described by Talfourd, as " the 
 type of dandified, melodramatic seamanship." 
 The cycles of kingly sway is abruptly broken by 
 the meteoric episode of Bonaparte : first he appears 
 dispersing the Assembly, and then in his early 
 victories, wounded at Ratisbon, at the tomb of 
 Frederick the Great, distributing the Legion of 
 Honor at the Invalides, quelling an insurrection at 
 Cairo, engaged in his unparalleled succession of 
 battles, and at the altar with Maria Louisa. The 
 divorce from Josephine and the murder of the 
 Due D'Enghien, are events that only recur more 
 
A LEAF FKOM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK. 51 
 
 impressively to the mind of the spectator because 
 uncoinmemorated. From the career of military 
 genius which transformed the destinies of France, 
 we pass to apartments where still breathes the 
 vestiges of legitimacy as in the hour of its prime. 
 The equestrian statue of Louis XIY. in the court- 
 yard, his bed and crown, his clock and chair in the 
 long suite of rooms kept sacred to his memory, 
 typify the age when genius and beauty min- 
 gled their charms in the corrupt atmosphere of 
 intrigue and profligacy. The noble expanse of 
 wood, water, and meadow; the paths lined with 
 stately myrtles and ancient box, spread as invit- 
 ingly to the eye from this embayed window, as 
 when the grand monarque stood there to watch the 
 graceful walk of La Valliere, or the staid carriage 
 of Maintenon. The abandonment and quietude of 
 these chambers, mirrored, tapestried, and solitary, 
 owe not a little of the spell they exercise over the 
 imagination, to the vicinity of the galleries devoted 
 to the men of the Revolution and the campaigns 
 of '92 ; amid the smoke of conflict ever appears 
 that resolute, olive face with the dark eye fixed and 
 the thin lip curved in decision or expectancy. We 
 mechanically repeat Campbell's elegy as we mark 
 " Hohenlinden," and linger with patriotic gratitude 
 over " Yorktown," notwithstanding the absurd 
 
52 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 prominence given to the French officers; Conde, 
 Turenne, Moreau, Lannes, Massena, and Lafayette 
 fight over again before us the wars of the Fronde, the 
 Empire, or the Eepublic. The monotony of these 
 scenes of destruction is only relieved by the indivi- 
 dual memories of the chiefs ; they link a certain in- 
 dividuality with the flame and shroud of war, the 
 fragmentary conquests, and the struggles that make 
 up so large a portion of external history ; and we 
 emerge from the crowd of warriors into the com- 
 pany of statesmen, wits, and poets, with a sensation 
 of refreshment. Each single triumph of thought, 
 each victory of imagination and memorial of 
 character, has an absolute worth and charm that 
 the exploits of armies can never emulate. 
 
 Racine's portrait revives the long controversy 
 between the classic and romantic schools ; that of 
 LaBruy^re the art of character-painting now one 
 of the highest functions of popular literature ; that 
 of Bossuet the pulpit eloquence of France and the 
 persecution of Fe"nelon, and that of Saint Cyr the 
 Jansenist discussion. A blank like that which desig- 
 nates the place of Marino Faliero in the Ducal 
 palace at Venice, is left here for Le Sage, as the 
 nativity of the author of Gil Bias is yet disputed. 
 "We look at Rousseau to revert to the social reforms, 
 of which he was the pioneer ; at La Place to realize 
 
A LEAF FEOM MY PAKIS NOTE-BOOK. 53 
 
 the achievements of the exact sciences, and at St. 
 Pierre to remember the poetry of nature. Voltaire's 
 likeness is not labelled for the same reason that 
 there is no name on the tomb of Ney ; both are too 
 well known to require announcement How incon- 
 gruous become the associations as we proceed ; old 
 Pere la Chaise cheek by jowl with the American 
 Presidents ; Cagliostro, who died before the word 
 his career incarnated had become indispensable to 
 the English tongue the apotheosis of humbug ; 
 Marmontel, dear to our novitiate as novel readers ; 
 and near by the original Pamela ; Chateaubriand's 
 ancestor the Marshal ; Bisson going below to 
 ignite the magazine, rather than "give up the 
 ship ;" and the battered war dog, with a single eye 
 and leg, beneath whose fragmentary portrait is 
 inscribed that Mars left him only a heart. 
 
 It is with singular interest that we look upon the 
 authentic resemblance of persons with whose minds 
 and career literature has made us familiar, and 
 compare what we have imagined of their appear- 
 ance with the reality. Of such characters as 
 Gluck, Klopstock and Madame Le Brun, whose 
 ministry of art has excited a vague delight, we may 
 have formed no very distinct image ; but associated 
 as is the name of Madame Roland with courage, 
 suffering and affliction, we naturally expect a more 
 
54: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 dignified and less vivacious expression than here 
 meets us, until we remember the earlier develop- 
 ment of her rare and sympathetic intelligence. 
 Count Mirabeau has a look of mildness and sang 
 froid instead of the earnestness we fancied. Who 
 would have supposed the fair assassin of Marat such 
 a thin, delicate and spirituelle blonde ? The sensuous 
 face of George IY. and the tragic one of Charles L, 
 in the ever recurring Yandyke, with Sheridan's 
 confident, handsome and genial physiognomy, seem 
 grouped to make more elevated, by comparison, 
 the noble abstraction of Flaxman. Talleyrand 
 resembles a keen, selfish, humorous and gentle- 
 manly man of the world, in an unexceptionable 
 white wig. Richelieu is piquant and Madame 
 de Stael impassioned and Amazonian. What 
 decadence even in the warlike notabilities is hinted 
 by glancing from Soult to Oudinot ! I thought of 
 the French fleet in the memorable storm off New- 
 port, as I recognized the portrait of the Count 
 d'Estaing ; and realized anew the military instinct 
 of the nation in the preponderance of battle-scenes 
 and heroes, and marked the interest with which 
 groups of soldiers lingered and talked before 
 them. 
 
THE KETUKN OF THE GODDESS. 
 
 BY BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn, 
 And cheeks all bright from rapture of the way, 
 But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn, 
 She comes to me to-day. 
 
 Does she forget the trysts we used to keep, 
 
 When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground ? 
 Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep 
 "With threats of silver sound ? 
 
 Does she forget how shone the happy eyes 
 
 When they beheld her ? how the eager tongue 
 Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies, 
 To reach her where she sung ? 
 
 How at her sacred feet I cast me down ? 
 
 How she upraised me to her bosom fair, 
 And from her garland shred the first light crown 
 That ever pressed my hair ? 
 
 65 
 
56 GIFTS OF 
 
 Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring 
 
 Their freshness back : why lingers she so long ? 
 The pulseless air is waiting for her wing, 
 Dumb with unuttered song. 
 
 If tender doubt delay her on the road, 
 
 Oh let her haste, to find that doubt belied ! 
 If shame for love unworthily bestowed, 
 
 That shame shall melt in pride. 
 
 If she but smile, the crystal calm will break 
 
 In music, sweeter than it ever gave, 
 As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake 
 And laughs in every wave. 
 
 The ripples of awakened song shall die 
 
 Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain, 
 Until, as once, upon her breast I lie, 
 Pardoned and loved again. 
 
POPULAR KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 BY GEOEGE 8. HILLAED. 
 
 AGAINST all institutions for the diffusion of know- 
 ledge among the community, an objection is often 
 urged that they can teach nothing thoroughly, but 
 only superficially, and that modest ignorance is 
 better than presumptuous half-knowledge. How 
 frequently is it said that "a little learning is a 
 dangerous thing." This celebrated line is a strik- 
 ing instance of the vitality which may be given to 
 what is at least a very doubtful proposition by 
 throwing it into a pointed form. If anything be a 
 good at all, it is a good precisely in proportion to 
 the extent in which it is possessed or enjoyed. A 
 great deal of it is better than a little, but a little is 
 better than none. ~No one says or thinks that 
 a little conscience, or a little wisdom, or a little 
 faith, or a little charity is a dangerous thing. Why 
 then is a little learning dangerous ? Alas, it is not 
 the little learning, but the much ignorance which 
 it supposes, that is dangerous ! 
 
 3* W 
 
58 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 We also frequently hear it said, that the general 
 diffusion of popular knowledge is unfavorable to 
 great acquisitions in any one individual. This is a 
 favorite dogma with those persons whose views are 
 all retrospective, who are ever magnifying past 
 ages at the expense of the present, and who will 
 insist upon riding through life with their faces 
 turned toward the horse's tail instead of his head. 
 " We have smatterers and sciolists in abundance," 
 say they, "but where are the giant scholars of 
 other days ?" Dr. Johnson once said, in reply to a 
 remark upon the general intelligence of the people 
 of Scotland, that learning in Scotland was like 
 bread in a besieged city, where every man gets a 
 mouthful, but none a full meal. He also observed 
 in a conversation held with Lord Monboddo, that 
 learning had much decreased in England, since his 
 remembrance ; to which his lordship remarked, 
 " you have lived to see its decrease in England ; I, 
 its extinction in Scotland." The fallacy, of views 
 like these consists in taking it for granted that 
 there is always just about the same aggregate 
 amount of knowledge in the world, and that only 
 the ratio of distribution is changed. But there is 
 no such analogy between learning and material 
 substances. The wealth of the mind is not like 
 gold, which must be beaten out the finer, as the 
 
ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE. 59 
 
 surface to be covered by it is more extensive. As 
 to the alleged superiority of past ages, in anything 
 essential, I am more than skeptical. I hold rather 
 that of all good things, learning included, there is 
 as much in the world now as there ever was not 
 to say more. The great scholars of Europe in our 
 time are not inferior to the greatest of their prede- 
 cessors. Even in classical literature and antiqui- 
 ties, the searching, analyzing and investigating 
 spirit of our age has poured new light upon the 
 remote past, and rendered the labors of former 
 generations useless. By elevating the general 
 standard, it is true that there is less distance 
 between the common mind and the deeply learned. 
 The scholars of the middle ages seem the higher, 
 from the low level of ignorance from which they 
 rise. They are like mountains shooting abruptly 
 from the plain. Our scholars seem to have reached 
 an inferior point of elevation, because the level of 
 the general mind has come nearer to them, as 
 mountain peaks lose somewhat of their apparent 
 height when they spring from a raised table land* 
 
ON RECEIVING A 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS 
 FROM A FRIEND. 
 
 BY THOMAS BUCHANAN BEAD. 
 
 A MODEST bud matured mid secret dews, 
 
 May yield its bloom beside some hidden path, 
 
 Full of sweet perfumes and of rarest hues 
 
 "While few may note the beauty which it hath 
 
 And yet perchance some maiden, wandering there, 
 May bend beside it with a loving look, 
 
 Or by the streamlet place it in her hair ; 
 And smile above her image in the brook. 
 
 A bird with pinions beautiful, and shy, 
 
 May sing scarce noted mid the noisier throng ; 
 
 Or 'scaping earth, take refuge in the sky 
 And though concealed still charm the air with 
 song. 
 
ON RECEIVING A VOLUME OF POEMS. 61 
 
 Yet haply some enamored ear may hark, 
 And deem it sweetest of the birds that sing ; 
 
 Or in his heart still praise the unseen lark 
 That leads his fancies toward its heavenward wing. 
 
 A star in some sequestered nook on high, 
 In its deep niche of blue may calmly shine, 
 
 While careless eyes that wander o'er the sky, 
 May only deem the brightest orbs divine. 
 
 But there are those who love to sit and trace 
 Between all these some shy retiring light, 
 
 For such, they know, shed through the veil of space 
 The general halo that adorns the night. 
 
 Thus many a poet's volume unproclaimed 
 By all the myriad tongues of Fame afar, 
 
 The few may deem as worthy to be named, 
 (As I do this) a Flower, a Bird, a Star ! 
 
THE PKINCE AT LAND'S END. 
 
 BY CAROLINE OHESEBEO. 
 
 LAST from the church came the organist, Daniel 
 Summerman. He was less hurried than others ; to 
 him it was not, as to people in general, a day of 
 increased social responsibility. His great duty was 
 now performed. Done, whether well or ill. He 
 descended the stairs slowly, but with a step so light 
 you might have taken it for a child's. No need for 
 him to haste ; the precious moments would go fast 
 enough he wished not to lose one. 
 
 In the porch he paused a moment, to draw on his 
 woollen gloves, and button his great coat, and for 
 something besides. Perhaps the person who laid 
 the wreath of cedar leaves on his organ stool was 
 somewhere about, and had some criticism to offer 
 in respect to the choir's performance. 
 
 But he descended the church steps without hav- 
 ing met even the sexton ; somewhat disappointed, 
 it was not with indifference that he saw a stranger 
 standing in the churchyard among the graves ; by 
 
 655 
 
63 
 
 the grave, it chanced, of a child who died in 
 October, five years old. "When the organist per- 
 ceived this, a purpose which he would have formed 
 later in the day, anticipated itself, and led him to 
 the little mound. He would leave the cedar 
 wreath on Mary's grave. 
 
 He was not ashamed of his gracious purpose 
 when he had drawn near. His gentle heart was 
 glad to do this homage to the dead, in the presence 
 of a stranger who had never seen the living child. 
 Stooping down, he smoothed the frozen grass, and 
 laid the wreath upon it ; and when he saw the 
 stranger watching him, he said : 
 
 u She was the prettiest child in the village ; if 
 she had lived, we should have had one singer in the 
 choir. I would have taught her. She loved music 
 so much." 
 
 Here was an introduction sufficient for an ordi- 
 nary man. At least the organist thought so. But 
 when he looked at the stranger he was sorry that 
 he had spoken, for no genial sympathy was in that 
 face, and still less in the voice that asked, 
 
 " Will you leave the wreath here ? "Where did 
 it come from ?" 
 
 The organist replied as though he did not per- 
 ceive the indifference with which the questions wer ft 
 asked : 
 
64: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 " I found it in the choir," said he. " One of the 
 children left it, may be. Any way this is the best 
 place for it. Dear little girl! I should hate to 
 think that she was really down there." 
 
 '.' "Where, then ?" asked the stranger. 
 
 "Up above, as sure as there's a heaven." As 
 Summerman spoke, he stepped from the frozen 
 ground to the gravel walk, and turning his back on 
 the stranger he brushed a tear from his cheek. 
 
 The gentleman, whose name was Redman Rush, 
 followed him. He was a well-dressed person ; 
 indeed, his attire was splendid, in comparison with 
 the rough garments of the little organist. His fine 
 broadcloth cloak was trimmed profusely with rare 
 fur, and he wore a fur cap that must have cost half 
 as much as the church paid Summerman for play- 
 ing the organ a twelvemonth. He was a noticeable 
 person, not merely on account of his dress. His 
 bearing was elegant, that of a well-bred man, not 
 indifferent to the eyes of others; that of a man 
 somewhat cautious of the reflection he should cast 
 in a region of shadows and appearances. But, 
 moreover, the face of this Redman Rush was the 
 face of misery. If ever a wreck came to shore, 
 here was the torn and battered fragment of a 
 gallant craft. 
 
 ""Were you in the church this morning?" asked 
 
65 
 
 the organist, struggling with himself, speaking 
 with effort; for, to his gaze, the aspect of the 
 stranger was forbidding and awful ; and yet it was 
 beyond his power to walk by the side of any man 
 cautious, cold, and dumb. This person was at least 
 a gentleman, and perhaps understood music. 
 
 " Yes," was the brief answer. 
 
 " How did the singing go ?" 
 
 " Tolerably." 
 
 "That's a comfort," said the organist, looking 
 more pleased than the occasion seemed to warrant. 
 But he was not a vain man ; he merely supposed 
 that the gentleman's reply promised criticism worth 
 hearing. 
 
 " Didn't you hear it yourself?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, after a fashion. I play the organ. It 
 isn't the best situation for hearing. I thought it 
 decent. Particularly the Gloria in Excelsis. I 
 was most anxious about that. How did it sound to 
 you, sir?" 
 
 " Well." 
 
 " But, after all, they didn't understand it." 
 
 " Understand what ?" 
 
 " The meaning. It opens with the song of the 
 angels, you. know. ' Glory be to God on high ; on 
 earth, peace, good will toward men.' They couldn't 
 tell, coherently, what the Peace and Good Will 
 
GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 meant. That's the worst of it. How can they 
 sing what they don't understand ?" 
 
 " Surely. Why don't you teach them ?" 
 
 " Why don't I teach them !" exclaimed the 
 organist. "I'm not a brain-maker; that's the 
 reason, I suppose." 
 
 "Then, you've tried it?" 
 
 For a minute Summerman seemed vexed by this 
 question ; but for no longer than a minute. 
 
 "What's the use? what's the use?" he said to 
 himself, and his answer to the question was a 
 laugh. 
 
 The laugh, though neither loud nor boisterous, 
 but merely a mild evidence of good-nature that 
 was not to be clouded by vexations, had a disagree- 
 able sound to Redman Rush. He looked con- 
 temptuous, and felt more than he looked, so that it 
 was really surprising to see him linger for such 
 conversation as this of the organist, and to hear 
 him ask, 
 
 " How do you teach your choir ? Whose fault is 
 it that they cannot learn ?" 
 
 " Their own fault," answered Summerman. 
 " They've got to learn more than the notes. So 
 they complain. You can't make a singer out of a 
 note-book. I've tried that enough. ~Now I try to 
 show them that peace means a riddance of selfish- 
 
6T 
 
 ness, and that selfishness is the devil's device for 
 holding the world together. Not God's ; for his 
 idea is love, and was in the beginning. "Wasn't 
 the world given to understand, that the life which 
 was born was the love, truth, and beauty of the 
 world, and that by Him all truth and beauty must 
 live ? They can't see it. I can't make a man or 
 woman understand that an idea must be the centre 
 around which the life will revolve. They come to 
 practise, not to hear preaching, they say." 
 
 It seemed as if at this, and because of this 
 announcement, Redman Hush drew himself apart 
 and up, loftily, and with a gloomy defiance looked 
 around him. "When Summerman's eyes turned 
 toward him, he seemed gazing into distance, and 
 gave no indication that he had heard a w^ord of 
 what had been said. The organist was disap- 
 pointed. He had hoped again for criticism ; but 
 he went on, perhaps with some suspicion of the 
 correctness of his convictions at least he had not 
 said all he wished to say. 
 
 " We must have a centre an idea," said he. 
 " And if that be self, then the devil's to pay. 
 Christ is the only absolute idea the only possible 
 giver of peace, therefore. I mean by Him, His 
 doctrine. He stands for that, "being Truth, aa he 
 said, you know. They came out better on the 
 
68 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 ' good will to men,' if you noticed. It was easier 
 for them to believe in the eternal good will of God, 
 this morning. But they failed in the next line, 
 'We bless Thee, we give thanks to Thee, for Thy 
 great glory !' If they knew more they w^ould sing 
 better. You know what was said, sir, 'Milton 
 himself could not teach a boy more than he could 
 learn.' That's the amount of it." 
 
 Now and then, during these last words, spoken so 
 evidently by a man who liked to talk because he 
 looked for sympathy, and hoped for it, the face 
 of the stranger had changed in its expression ; there 
 seemed to be less fierceness, more sadness in his 
 gloom. But the change was so slight as to be 
 hardly perceptible, even to the eyes of Summer- 
 man. When he paused in speaking he had still no 
 answer. 
 
 They walked on a few paces in silence, when 
 suddenly the organist stepped up to the door of a 
 house that opened on the sidewalk, and unlocked it. 
 
 "This is my shop," said he; "won't you come in, 
 and warm yourself? it is so cold in spite of the 
 sun." 
 
 Redman Hush hesitated, with his foot upon the 
 doorstep. He looked up and down the street. It 
 was beautiful and bright without, but, oh, how bare 
 and cold ! homely enough within, but the glare of 
 
THE PKINCE AT LAND'S END. 69 
 
 a hot coal fire suggested comfort, as the skylight 
 did cheerfulness. Did he really wish for warmth 
 and comfort, for cheerfulness and company ? That 
 was the point. 
 
 " Come in, I will show you something," said 
 Summerman. 
 
 "He invites me as if I were another boy like 
 himself," thought the man. Perhaps for the sake 
 of that unimaginable boyhood he crossed the 
 threshold, and allowed Summerman to close the 
 door behind him. 
 
 This room was the organist's home. His house- 
 hold gods were all around him when he stepped 
 into the shop. It was a little place, but so well 
 arranged, that there seemed room, and to spare. 
 Summerman was hospitable as a prince the shade 
 of Yoltaire reminds me of the great Frederick's 
 hospitality ! yet, let the word stand. 
 
 This shop gave outward and visible signs of the 
 versatility of its owner's mind. The front part was 
 devoted to the clock and watch making business ; 
 before the large window stood a table, where the 
 requisite tools were kept for conduct of that busi- 
 ness. A few clocks, and frames of clocks, gathered 
 probably from auction rooms, were ranged upon a 
 shelf, and dust was never allowed to accumulate 
 around or upon them. Never was housemaid 
 
TO GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 more exact and scrupulous than the proprietor of 
 this Gallery. 
 
 In the back part of the shop, which was lighted 
 by the skylight, stood the instrument for daguerreo- 
 typing, possession of which would have made the 
 organist a proud man, if anything could have 
 done- so. 
 
 When he had invited Mr. Eush to sit down, and 
 the invitation was accepted, it was by a device of 
 Summerman's that the gentleman found himself 
 directly facing the machine, and now, if he took an 
 interest in any earthly thing, or was capable of 
 curiosity, some good would come of it, thought the 
 organist. 
 
 He had promised to show his visitor somewhat, 
 and accordingly approached him with a miniature 
 case in his hand. 
 
 Mr. Hush had removed his fur cap, and Summer- 
 man approaching him, was so struck by his appear- 
 ance, the dignity, and pride, and trouble his 
 countenance expressed, that he nearly exclaimed in 
 his surprise, and quite forgot the intention he had, 
 till Mr. Rush reminded him by extending his hand 
 for the picture. 
 
 " This is little Mary," exclaimed he, presenting 
 the miniature. " I took it last summer. She died 
 in October. Maybe you will understand now why 
 
THE PRINCE At LAND'S END. 71 
 
 I said that we should have had a singer, if she had 
 lived." 
 
 But Summerman was in doubt about this, as, 
 from the point to which he immediately retired, he 
 cast a glance at the face of the stranger, who took 
 the picture, and surveyed it, with such a look. 
 
 At first, it appeared as if a glance would suffice 
 him. But he did not return it with a glance. 
 "Was it the brightness and innocence of the young 
 face that won upon him, or did it for the moment 
 take its place as the type of all beauty and inno- 
 cence, and hold him to contemplation, as for the 
 last time. Was it really into the face of that little 
 child, dead and buried since October, that he 
 looked ? or was he really here, under the roof of 
 this poor organist, shut up with the warmth of his 
 coal stove this bright Christmas day, locked safe 
 his secret thoughts, himself secure with them ? 
 
 At last some word or sound escaped the organist. 
 He had gazed at Mr. Rush till he seemed possessed 
 of nightmare. So wild, so haggard, so awful, the 
 man's face appeared to him, that the cry, an invol- 
 untary one, expressed better than any inquiry could 
 have done, how much disturbed he was. The stran- 
 ger heard, and seemed to understand, for at the 
 sound he rose quickly, and laid the picture on the 
 counter ; not gently ; at the same time he looked at 
 
GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Summerman and laughed ; but without merri- 
 ment. 
 
 " Come," said Summerman quickly, " let me 
 take your portrait. I have quite a collection here, 
 you Bee." And as he spoke he did not remove his 
 eyes from the stranger he had come to the con- 
 clusion that he was mad, or in some direful strait 
 that made him almost irresponsible, and his first 
 purpose was one of helpful commiseration. 
 
 Instead of quitting the shop straightway, as Sum- 
 merman expected he would do when he made this 
 proposition (and if he did depart he meant to fol- 
 low), the stranger walked toward the instrument, 
 and on his way picked up the picture he had thrown 
 down with so little ceremony. He seemed to think 
 he owed this courtesy : 
 
 " Do you find much patronage here ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh, considerable," replied Summerman. " Just 
 now more than common. Your likeness is such a 
 good present to make your friend !" 
 
 " Do you think so ?" 
 
 " Certainly," was the emphatic response. 
 
 " You ask to take my likeness what for 2" 
 
 " I want it myself." 
 
 " Oh for a sign. Well, young man, you don't 
 know what it's the sign of, after all," and here Mr. 
 Rush evidently set himself against the world. 
 
T3 
 
 " I hope it's the sign of a friend," answered Sum- 
 merman, who was keeping up his spirits by an 
 effort, for the mere presence of this man weighed on 
 them with an almost intolerable weight. Yet he 
 was sparing no effort to retain that presence. 
 
 "Why do you hope that?" asked Mr. Kush with 
 a disagreeable show of authority. 
 
 " Because we met at the church door on Christ- 
 mas day." Simple answer yet it was spoken so 
 gently, so truthfully, it seemed to make an impres- 
 sion. 
 
 " Christmas day. So it is. But it's getting late. 
 How high is the sun yet ?" 
 
 " Three hours, maybe." 
 
 Hearing this, the gentleman turned away, and 
 walked to the further extremity of the shop. Sum- 
 merman's eyes followed him with anxiety. But he 
 went on polishing a plate, and seemed beyond all 
 things intent on that. 
 
 Presently Mr. Kush came back. 
 
 " You may take my likeness," said he. " You 
 are a good fellow. And it will help pass time." 
 
 So the artist stepped quickly about, and looked 
 pleased, but not too much so. The work was soon 
 done. While Summerman was putting it through 
 fche process of perfection, the gentleman stood and 
 watched him. 
 
 4 
 
74: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 " How did you want your choir to sing * good 
 will to men ?' " lie asked. 
 
 Summerman did not look up to answer did not 
 express any surprise, but the whole man was in the 
 reply given : 
 
 " From the heart, sir. Full, confident, assuring. 
 They owe that to God and man, or they've no busi- 
 ness in a choir." 
 
 " Do you suppose they could do it ?" asked Mr. 
 Rush, not immediately, but, as it seemed, when he 
 had controlled the unpleasant influence the speaker's 
 enthusiastic mode of address had upon him. It 
 seemed as if he were not merely speaking, and 
 engaging the organist in speech for pastime but 
 rather because he could not help it. His questions, 
 when he asked them, had a more surprising sound 
 to himself than to the person who answered. And 
 they vexed him but not Summerman. "When Mr. 
 Kush asked him if he supposed it possible for them 
 to sing in the way signified, he replied quite confi- 
 dently : 
 
 " Yes, if they only knew what they were about." 
 
 " But you explained that to them ?" 
 
 " Well, then, yes, if they believed it ; for after 
 all, belief is of the heart." 
 
 " You don't think they believe it ?" 
 
 " It's a hard thing to say. But if they did, they 
 
THE PKINCE AT LANT)'s END. 75 
 
 would do better. They are not a happy set alto- 
 gether. They whine they talk one thing, and live 
 another. One of them lost a little money the other 
 day pretty nearly all he had, I suppose but what 
 of that?" 
 
 " What of that !" exclaimed Mr. Eush, and he 
 looked at the organist amazed. 
 
 " Yes, what of it ? The man has his health and 
 his faculties. "What's money ?" 
 
 What's money !". 
 
 " Yes, sir, when you come to the point what is 
 it? Eyes, hands, feet blood, brain, heart, soul? 
 You would think so to hear him talk. It's dust ! 
 I've seen that proved, sir, and I know 'tis true 1" 
 
 "You don't allow for circumstances," said the 
 stranger, sharply. 
 
 " Circumstances !" repeated Summerman, incredu- 
 lous. 
 
 "Yes, the difference between your affairs and 
 those of your neighbors. You seem to judge others 
 by yourself?" 
 
 " My affairs ! I haven't any to speak of," said 
 the organist, with a grave sort of wonder. 
 
 " I suppose," replied the stranger, almost angrily, 
 you are a human creature ; things happen to you, 
 and they do not. If you have any feeling at all 
 you are affected by what happens." He ceased 
 
GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 speaking with the manner of a man who is annoyed 
 that he should have been so far beguiled into 
 speech. 
 
 " Some things have happened to me," answered 
 Summerman quietly, seeing everything, pretending 
 to see nothing. " I lived ten years among the Gip- 
 sies. I belonged to them. That's where I had my 
 schooling. I worked in the tin ware; and clock 
 mending I took up of myself. I left my people 
 on account of a church-organ. My father and 
 mother were dead. I had no brother or sister ; nor 
 any relation. But I had friends, and they would 
 have kept me ; but I had to choose between them 
 and the rest. I couldn't learn the organ in the 
 woods and meadows ; I was caught by the music as 
 easily as a pink by a pin. But I kept to the clock 
 mending. I used to travel about on my business 
 once in a while, for a man can't settle down to four 
 walls and a tread-mill in a minute, when he's been 
 used to all creation. Then I learned to take pic- 
 tures, and I travelled about for a time, carrying the 
 machine with me. But for the last year I've lived 
 in this shop and had the church organ. So you see 
 how it is. I have all these things to look after, and 
 I try to keep in tune, and up to pitch. 
 
 " You are a happy man," said Mr. Rush, who 
 had listened with attention to this humble story. 
 
THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END. 77 
 
 " But," he added, " you could not understand for 
 you have had no cares, no one dependent on you 
 how necessary to some persons money is for happi- 
 ness. "What ruin follows the loss of it. How 
 many a man would prefer death to such a loss." 
 
 " I guess not," said Summerman, in a low tone. 
 " 1 believe in the Good Will doctrine." 
 
 "What has that to do with it?" asked the 
 stranger, impatiently. 
 
 To this Summerman replied, speaking slowly 
 -humblest acquiescence sounding through his 
 speech. 
 
 " When I settled down, and got the situation in 
 
 the church, I was about to bring her here 
 
 You understand She died about that time. 
 
 I have not seen her picture. Her brother had died 
 before. I was to be the son of the old people. We 
 were sure that after awhile they would be attracted 
 by our happy home, and by our fireside all their 
 wanderings would end. They should be free as in 
 
 the forests It is all changed now but I am 
 
 still their son, and I wish nothing better than to 
 work for them. The old man is failing, and I 
 think that I shall yet persuade them to come and 
 live with me we might be one family still and it 
 would please her. If I succeed, there are two or 
 three rooms close by where we can be tolerably 
 
Y8 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 happy, all together. God is not indifferent. He 
 sees all. And sure I am that He bears me no 
 ill will. So it must be for the best. She used to 
 wear this ribbon around her splendid hair. She 
 was so young and gay ! It would have done 
 you good to look at such a face. Sometimes 1 
 catch myself thinking what a long, gay life we 
 ought to have lived together and I know there's 
 no wickedness in that. It's more pleasant than 
 bitter." 
 
 " So you support the old people," was the listen- 
 er's sole comment. Not loss, but fidelity not 
 grief, but constancy, impressed him while he 
 hearkened to this story. 
 
 " I have adopted them," answered the organist. 
 " Yes, they are mine now. Just as they were to 
 have been. Just as she and I used to talk it over. 
 Only she is not here." 
 
 "So you support them," repeated Mr. Kush. 
 And he seemed to ponder that point, as if it 
 involved somewhat beyond his comprehension. 
 
 The organist replied, wondering. And he looked 
 at the questioner but the questioner looked not at 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, certainly," he said. 
 
 "I suppose they are moderate in their wants. 
 They don't require suites of chambers with frescoed 
 
79 
 
 ceilings, and walls hung with, white satin, rose 
 color, lavender and the rest. They don't need a 
 four-story palace, with carpets of velvet to cover 
 the floors from attic to basement. Do they ?" All 
 the scorn and bitterness expressed in these words 
 the organist happily could never perceive. But he 
 discerned enough to make him shudder, and he 
 believed that the speaker was mad. 
 
 " I don't think I understand you," he answered, 
 perplexed and cautious. He feared the effect of 
 his words. But anything that he might say would 
 produce now one sole result. 
 
 " Yery likely you don't understand," said Mr. 
 Eush. 
 
 " But," said the organist, " I wish I did." 
 
 Why, man ?" 
 
 " You look so troubled, sir." 
 
 "Troubled?" 
 
 "As if you hadn't tired out the Good "Will 
 doctrine. I mean yes, I do! that I shouldn't 
 suppose you believed in it," said Summerman, 
 bravely. 
 
 Mr. Rush laughed bitterly. "I'll tell you a 
 story," said he. 
 
 " No no I mean not yet don't," exclaimed 
 Summerman, quickly. 
 
 "Why, it's a short tale. I'm not going to 
 
80 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 trouble you much longer. A fine holiday you're 
 having ! But you'll never have another like it, 
 I believe. I I want your advice before I go. 
 Besides, you have kept to your green, sunny love so 
 long, I would like to give you a notion of what's 
 going on the other side of the fence/' 
 
 " Then we will walk," said Summerman, " if it's 
 agreeable to you, sir, I mean, of course. I always 
 walk around the lake at this hour." The little 
 man had put on his overcoat while he spoke, and 
 now stood waiting the stranger's pleasure, cap in 
 hand. 
 
 " Dare you leave that face of mine among the 
 other faces ?" asked Mr. Rush, with all seriousness. 
 
 The organist looked nervously around as if he 
 expected something to justify the trouble this 
 question occasioned him. 
 
 " Yes yes I'll take the risk," he answered, but 
 he spoke without a smile. One thought alone pre- 
 vented him from heartily wishing himself rid of 
 this companion, who, in spite of him, had cast such 
 a gloom over his Christmas day. The man seemed 
 to have more need of him than Summerman had of 
 his dinner deferred. 
 
 They set out together to walk through the frosty 
 air under the cloudless sky. The sun was near 
 to setting. In half an hour a deep orange belt 
 
THE PRINCE AT LAND ? S END. 81 
 
 would unroll round the east, flaming signs would 
 mark the heavens, and a great star hang in the 
 midst of an amethyst hemicycle. 
 
 They noticed that the sun was near to setting, 
 and one of them saw the glory. 
 
 " I want you to tell me honestly," said the other. 
 " You have taken my picture ; what do you think 
 it looks like ? That is a fair question." 
 
 " Like misery," replied Summerman, promptly 
 enough. 
 
 "Is that all? I thought worse. I thought it 
 looked like a very devil's face. When I go back, 
 I'll destroy it. But, then, it looks like me ! Now, 
 I can't afford to live a scarecrow. I believe I 
 wasn't made to frighten others to death. I'd choose 
 to die myself first." He dropped his voice to a 
 whisper. " I've been trying to do that. Tried 
 twice. Is there any particular luck in a third time, 
 that you know of?" 
 
 Summerman did not answer, though Rush was 
 looking full upon him; neither did he avoid the 
 long and piercing gaze the stranger fixed upon him. 
 He met that like a man. 
 
 " You think I'm mad," at last said Mr. Rush. 
 
 " Not exactly." 
 
 "Thank you. But you are "a gipsy. Read 
 my fortune." 
 
 4* 
 
82 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Gravely Summerman looked at the fair, smooth 
 palm that was suddenly stretched before him. 
 
 " You have been unfortunate," said he. 
 
 " Oh, no ; you mustn't admit that. Only a little 
 money lost, that's all." 
 
 " Is it all, indeed ?" asked Summerman, and he 
 dropped the palm. Then he shook his head. " I 
 do not think it could have served you so. A little 
 loss !" said he. 
 
 " That is because fortune never made a fool of 
 you. Let me alone ; I want to think." He spoke 
 in the quick, peremptory manner of a man who is 
 accustomed to command ; but he came very near 
 to smiling the next moment, as he looked down 
 at the little person whom he had ordered into 
 silence. 
 
 Then he broke the silence he had enjoined. 
 
 " Suppose you were in my case," said he, " how 
 would you act ?" 
 
 " I am not. How can I tell ?" was Summerman's 
 prudent answer. 
 
 These words, as indeed any words that he could 
 have spoken, were the best that Redman Hush 
 could hear ; for now he was leaning with the whole 
 weight of his moral nature on the life of this 
 strong-hearted, true-hearted organist. He liked the 
 uupresuming, modest, generous word. 
 
83 
 
 "I'll tell you what you would be," said he, 
 quickly. " A month ago worth half a million 
 to-day not a cent. Brought up like a fool, you 
 would probably be one. Turned out of house, 
 helpless as a baby. You have yourself master of 
 your wits and your hands. Look at these hands ! 
 And all my wits can advise me is, this life isn't 
 worth the keeping." 
 
 " Oh, no ; not to-day ! They don't say that 
 to-day !" exclaimed Summerman, speaking as if he 
 knew. And he ventured further, boldly: "They 
 advise you, go home to your wife and your child ; 
 live for them and yourself, and God's honor." 
 
 " "Wife child !" repeated Rush ; and he blushed 
 when he added ; " you read fortunes. Your 
 pardon." 
 
 "I saw it in your face," said the organist, 
 quietly. " When you looked at our little Mary, I 
 believed you were thinking of some other little 
 child. And it reminded you of some other young 
 lady, when I told you what I expected once. If it 
 hadn't been for them, you would never have 
 thought of destroying yourself; and I'm sure, on 
 their account, what you ought to ask and hope is, 
 that your life may be spared." 
 
 It is said that drowning men will grasp at straws. 
 This elegant stranger, who had emerged from mys- 
 
34: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 tery to disturb the Christmas day of a humble 
 organist, now leaned on the friendly arm of the little 
 man, walking along with him, not as he once saun- 
 tered through the promenade, a butterfly disdaining 
 all but the brightest of sunbeams, the sweetest of 
 flowers. Poor worm ! he was half frozen in this 
 wintry brightness, this exhilarating atmosphere, in 
 which Summerman throve so well. 
 
 " Are all the men that are born in woods and 
 meadows, and brought up tinkers, like you?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " No," answered Summerman. " Some turn out 
 fools, and some knaves, and some ten times better 
 men and wiser men, than I shall ever be." 
 
 " Like the rest of the world. Are men, men 
 everywhere ?" 
 
 " Pretty much. You talk about your wits. 
 You were made to do a bigger business than I shall 
 ever do. Go home and begin it. Pve a mind to 
 go with you, so you shan't lose your way." 
 
 " You know the way so well," said Rush. He 
 had not before spoken as he now spoke, almost 
 cheerfully, almost hopefully. Here was this fellow 
 that told fortunes, daring to prophesy good days for 
 him ! But then, was he not a bankrupt ? And if 
 ho lived a beggar still ? 
 
THE PRINCE AT LAND ? S END. 85 
 
 The sun had set, and the faces of the two men 
 were again turned to the village. They had walked 
 quite round the lake, and Summerman had con- 
 cluded that he would invite the gentleman to dine 
 with him when they came back to the inn ; would 
 he accept the courtesy? Summerman looked at 
 Mr. Hush, that he might ascertain the probabilities, 
 and thought that he could see a breaking of the 
 black clouds which held this man a prisoner. He 
 wanted to preach to him. He wanted exceedingly 
 to launch out again on the Good Will doctrine ; 
 and at length he did, but not exactly in the 
 manner he would have chosen, had he been left to 
 himself. 
 
 As they walked along in silence, suddenly came 
 and met them the sound of a quick clanging church 
 bell ; then rose a mighty cry, and a still more potent 
 flame ascending heavenward. 
 
 " It's a fire !" cried Summerman. And, true to 
 his living impulse and instinct, which was forever 
 first and last, and ever the good of the public, the 
 little man set off on a run. His companion, the 
 gentleman who had never, in his thirty years, run 
 to a fire, with generous intent, followed on as 
 fleetly. So they came together to the village 
 street, when, lo ! the shop of Daniel Summerman, 
 was making all this stir ! drawing such crowds 
 
86 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 about it as never before the artist's varied powers 
 had done. 
 
 There was neither door nor roof, wall or window, 
 visible, but a pit of flame, and within, as every- 
 body knew, the entire stock, sum total of the 
 organist's worldly goods. 
 
 " "Well ! well !" said he, as, panting, he came to 
 a stand-still in the middle of the street, his compa- 
 nion close beside him. 
 
 " Curse God, and die I" was all that the wife of 
 Job could think to say to him, in his extremity. 
 
 " Well ! well !" was the comment Redman Rush 
 could make on this disaster, repeating Summer- 
 man's words with an emphasis not all his own. It 
 was evident that, for a moment at least, he had 
 forgotten himself; his face was no longer dark with 
 misery, but full of consternation, alive with sym- 
 pathy. And still he said : 
 
 " "Where's your Good Will doctrine, though ?" 
 
 " Safe !" cried the organist, and he crossed his 
 arms on his breast with a look of perfect triumph. 
 
 " You eat your words with a vengeance. You 
 preach the best sermon I ever heard, I swear," 
 said Mr. Rush, looking at him with amazement. 
 
 " Humph !" ejaculated Summerman. 
 
 u I believe, after all, 'twas my cursed picture 
 that did it," continued Rush. He was not able to 
 
8T 
 
 stand there in silence listening to the roaring of the 
 fire, by the side of the man whose property was 
 being destroyed in this relentless manner. He 
 must talk ; and no one hindered him, for the most 
 of the working force of the village was busy trying 
 to draw water from the frozen pumps of the neigh- 
 borhood. 
 
 " I might have known such a face would raise 
 the devil," muttered he. 
 
 " Then, they are both done for !" was Summer- 
 man's quick answer. " If you are burnt to death, 
 it's clear you can't be drowned. So, it seems 
 you're a new man altogether. Sir, your wife calls 
 you! But, before you go, pray, take the Good 
 Will doctrine in. A present from me, if you 
 please." 
 
 Having said these words, the organist wiped his 
 eyes, and laughed. 
 
 " If this is a dream," said Redman Rush, aston- 
 ished into doubt of all he saw and heard, " let me 
 get home before I wake up, for God's sake." And he 
 turned away from the organist, and was hid in the 
 crowd from the eyes that followed him. 
 
 He turned away, but would he ever lose the 
 memory of a soft voice, saying : 
 
 " Mr. Summerman, my boys and I insist on your 
 coming to spend the holidays with us." 
 
88 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Or, of a grey-haired gentleman's aspect, who 
 came hurrying through the crowd till he stood face 
 to face with the little organist, whose hands he 
 grasped as he said : 
 
 "Never mind, lad; never mind. You'll be a 
 richer man before night than you ever were before. 
 Here is a year's salary in advance, from the church, 
 sir. You understand. And we all want our 
 daguerreotypes ; so order an instrument." 
 
 Or, of an agitated voice, that followed him like 
 the voice of a spirit, mysterious and persuasive : 
 
 " Oh, believe in the Good Will Doctrine !" 
 
SEA-WEED. 
 
 BY JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 NOT always unimpeded can I pray, 
 
 Nor, pitying saint, thine intercession claim; 
 
 Too closely clings the burden of the day, 
 
 And all the mint and anise that I pay 
 
 But swells my debt and deepens my self-blame. 
 
 Shall I less patience have than Thou, who know 
 That Thou revisit'st all who wait for Thee, 
 Nor only fill'st the unsounded depths below 
 But dost refresh with measured overflow 
 The rifts where unregarded mosses be ? 
 
 The drooping sea-weed hears, in night abyssed, 
 Far and more far the waves' receding shocks, 
 Nor doubts, through all the darkness and the mist 
 That the pale shepherdess will keep her tryst, 
 And shoreward lead once more her foam-fleeced 
 flocks. 
 
 CO 
 
90 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 For the same wave that laps the Carib shore 
 With momentary curves of pearl and gold, 
 Goes hurrying thence to gladden with its roar 
 The lorn shells camped on rocks of Labrador, 
 By love divine on that glad errand rolled. 
 
 And, though Thy healing waters far withdraw, 
 I, too, can wait and feed on hopes of Thee, 
 And of the dear recurrence of thy Law, 
 Sure that the parting grace which morning saw, 
 Abides its time to come in search of me. 
 
TKEFOIL. 
 
 BY EVEET A. DTJTCKINOK:. 
 
 " HOPE, by the ancients, was drawn in the form of a sweet and 
 beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-leaved 
 grass in her hand." 
 
 Citation from old Peacham in Dr. Johnsorts Dictionary* 
 
 THREE names, clustered together in more than 
 one marked association, have a pleasant fragrance 
 in English literature. A triple-leaved clover in a 
 field thickly studded with floral beauties, the 
 modest merits of HERBERT, YATJGHAN and CKASHAW 
 
 " Smell sweet and blossom in the dust " 
 
 endeared to us not merely by the claim of intel- 
 lect, but by the warmer appeal to the heart, of 
 kindred sympathy and suffering. True poets, they 
 have placed in their spiritual alembic the common 
 woes and sorrows of life, and extracted from them 
 " by force of their so potent art," a cordial for the 
 race. 
 
 91 
 
92 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Has it ever occurred to the reader to reflect how 
 much the world owes to the poets in the allevia- 
 tion of sorrow ? It is much to hear the simple voice 
 of sympathy in its plainest /^Iterances from the 
 companions around us ; it is something to listen to 
 the same burden from the good of former genera- 
 tions, as the universal experience of humanity ; but 
 we owe the greatest debt to those who by the 
 graces of intellect and the pains of a profounder 
 passion, have triumphed over affliction, and given 
 eloquence to sorrow. 
 
 There is a common phrase, which some poet must 
 first have invented " the luxury of woe." Poets 
 certainly have found their most constant themes in 
 suffering. When the late Edgar Poe, who prided 
 himself on reducing literature to an art, sat down to 
 write a poem which should attain the height of 
 popularity, he said sorrow must be its theme, and 
 wrote " The Haven." Tragedy will always have a 
 deeper hold upon the public than comedy; it 
 appeals to deeper principles, stirs more powerful 
 emotions, imparts an assured sense of strength, is 
 more intimate with our nature, or certainly it 
 would not be tolerated. There is no delight in the 
 exhibition of misery as such, it is only painful and 
 repulsive; we discard all vulgar horrors utterly, 
 and keep no place for them in the mind. Let, 
 
TREFOIL. 93 
 
 however, a poet touch the string, and there is 
 another response when he brings before us pictures 
 of regal grief, and gives grandeur to humiliation 
 and penalty. !Nbr is it only in the higher walks of 
 tragedy, with its pomp and circumstances of action, 
 that the poet here serves us. His humbler min- 
 strelsy has soothed many an English heart from the 
 tale of " Lycidas " to the elegiac verse of Tennyson. 
 George Herbert still speaks to this generation as 
 two centuries ago he spoke to his own. His quaint 
 verses gather new beauties from time as they come 
 to us redolent with the prayers and aspirations of 
 many successions of the wives, mothers and daugh- 
 ters of England and America ; bedewed with the 
 tears of orphans and parents; an incitement to 
 youth, a solace to age, a consolation for humanity 
 to all time. 
 
 These have been costly gifts to our benefactors. 
 " I honor," says Yaughan, " that temper which can 
 lay by the garland when he might keep it on ; 
 which can pass by a rosebud and bid it grow when 
 he is invited to crop it." This is the spirit of self- 
 devotion in every worthy action, and especially of 
 the pains and penalties by which poets have 
 enriched our daily life. We are indebted to the 
 poets, too, for something more than the alleviation 
 of sorrow. Perhaps it is, upon the whole, a rarer 
 
94: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 gift to improve prosperity. Joy, commonly, is less 
 of a positive feeling than grief, and is more apt to 
 slip by us unconsciously. Few people, says the 
 proverb, know when they are well off. It is the 
 poet's vocation to teach the world this 
 
 " to be possess'd with double pomp, 
 
 To guard a title that was rich before, 
 To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
 To throw a perfume on the violet." 
 
 The poet lifts our eyes to the beauties of external 
 nature, educates us to a keener participation in the 
 sweet joys of affection, to the loveliness and grace 
 of woman, to the honor and strength of manhood. 
 His ideal world thus becomes an actual one, as the 
 creations of imagination first borrowed from sense, 
 alight from the book, the picture or the statue once 
 again to live and walk among us. 
 
 The resemblances which have induced us to 
 bring together our sacred triumvirate of poets, are 
 the common period in which they lived, their 
 similar training in youth, a congenial bond of learn- 
 ing, a certain generous family condition, the inspi- 
 ration of the old mother church out of which they 
 sprung, the familiar discipline of sorrow, the early 
 years in which they severally wrote. 
 
 A brief glance at their respective lives may indi- 
 
TREFOIL. 05 
 
 cate still further these similarities and point a 
 moral which needs not many words to express 
 which seems to us almost too sacred to be loudly 
 or long dwelt upon. 
 
 HEEBEBT was the oldest of the band, having been 
 born near the close of the sixteenth century, in the 
 days of James, who was an intelligent patron of the 
 family. The poet's brother, the learned Lord Her- 
 bert of Cherbury, whose " Autobiography " breathes 
 the fresh manly spirit of the best days of chivalry, 
 was the king's ambassador to France. George Her- 
 bert, too, was in a fair way to this court patronage, 
 when his hopes were checked by the death of the 
 monarch. It is a circumstance, this court favor, 
 worth considering in the poet's life, as the antece- 
 dent to his manifold spirit of piety. Nothing is 
 more noticeable than the wide, liberal culture of 
 the old English poets ; they were first, men, often 
 skilled in affairs, with ample experience in life, and 
 then poets. 
 
 Herbert's education was all that care and aifec- 
 tion could devise. "He spent," says his amiable 
 biographer, Izaak Walton, " much of his childhood 
 in a sweet content under the eye and care of his 
 prudent mother, and the tuition of a chaplain or 
 tutor to him and two of his brothers in her own 
 
96 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 family." At Cambridge he became orator to the 
 University, gained the applause of the court by his 
 Latin orations, and what is more, secured the friend- 
 ship of such men as Bishop Andrews, Dr. Donne, 
 and the model diplomatist of his age, Sir Henry 
 Wotton. The completion of his studies and the 
 failure of court expectations were followed by a 
 passage of rural retirement a first pause of the 
 soul previous to the deeper conflicts of life. His 
 solitariness was increased by sickness, a period of 
 meditation and devotional feeling, assisted by the 
 intimations of a keen spirit in a feeble body and 
 out of the furnace came forth Herbert the priest 
 and saint. All that knowledge can inspire, all that 
 tenderness can endear, centres about that picture of 
 the beauty of holiness, his brief pastoral career as 
 we read it in his prose writings and his poems, and 
 the pages of Walton at the little village of Bemer- 
 ton. He died at the age of thirty-nine his gentle 
 spirit spared the approaching conflicts of his country, 
 which pressed so heavily upon the Church which he 
 loved. 
 
 The poems of Herbert are now read throughout 
 the world ; no longer confined to that Church which 
 inspired them. They are echoed at times in the 
 pulpits of all denominations, while their practical 
 lines are, if we remember rightly, scattered among 
 
TREFOIL. 97 
 
 the sage aphorisms of Poor Richard, and their wide 
 philosophy commends itself to the genius of 
 Emerson. 
 
 It is pleasant in these old poets to admire what 
 has been admired by others to read the old verses 
 with the indorsement of genius. The name adds 
 value to the bond. Coleridge, for instance, whose 
 " paper," in a mercantile sense, would have been, 
 on " change," the worst in England, has given us 
 many of these notable " securities." They live in 
 his still echoing "Table-Talk," and are sprinkled 
 generously over his writings while what record 
 is there of the " good," the best financial names 
 of the day ? One sonnet of Herbert was an 
 especial favorite with Coleridge. It was that 
 heart-searching, sympathizing epitome of spiritual 
 life, entitled 
 
 "SIN. 
 
 " LORD, with what care hast thou begirt us round ! 
 Parents first season us ; then school-masters 
 Deliver us to laws ; they send us bound 
 To rules of reason, holy messengers. 
 
 "Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, 
 Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes, 
 Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, 
 Bibles laid open, millions of surprises. ., 
 5 
 
98 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 " Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness. 
 The sound of Glory ringing in our ears : 
 Without, our shame ; within, our consciences : 
 A.ngels and grace, eternal hopes and fears. 
 
 " Yet all these fences and their whole array, 
 One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away." 
 
 These poems, it should be remembered, are private 
 devotional heart-confessions, not written for sale, 
 for pay or reputation ; they were not printed at 
 all during the author's life, but were brought forth 
 by faithful friends from the sacred coffer of his 
 dying-room, in order that posterity might know the 
 secret of that honorable life and its cheerful end. 
 Izaak Walton has given a beautiful setting to one 
 stanza from the eloquent ode "Sunday." "The 
 Sunday before his death," his biographer tells us, 
 " he rose suddenly from his bed or couch, called for 
 one of his instruments, took it into his hand, and 
 said: 
 
 "'My God, my God 
 My music shall find thee, 
 
 And every string 
 Shall have his attribute to sing. 
 
 And having tuned it, he played and sung : 
 
 " * The Sundays of man's life, 
 Threaded together on time's string, 
 
TEEFOEL. 99 
 
 Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
 Of the eternal glorious King. 
 On Sundays, heaven's door stands ope ; 
 Blessings are plentiful and rife ; 
 More plentiful than hope.' 
 
 " Thus he sung on earth such hymns and anthems 
 as the angels and he, and Mr. Farrer, now sing in 
 heaven." 
 
 As we have fallen upon this personal, biographi- 
 cal vein, and as the best key to a man's poetry is to 
 Jmow the man and what he may have encountered, 
 we may cite the poem entitled " The Pearl." It is 
 compact of life and experience : we see the courtier 
 and the scholar ripening into the saint ; the world 
 not forgotten or ignored, but its best pursuits 
 calmly weighed, fondly enumerated and left behind, 
 as steps of the celestial ladder. 
 
 "THE PEARL. 
 
 ** I know the ways of learning ; both the head 
 And pipes that feed the press, and make it run ; 
 What reason hath from nature borrowed, 
 Or of itself, like a good housewife, spun 
 In laws and policy ; what the stars conspire ; 
 What willing nature speaks, what forc'd by fire ; 
 Both th' old discoveries, and the new-found seas ; 
 The stock and surplus, cause and history : 
 All these stand open, or I have the keys : 
 Yet I love thce. 
 
100 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 "I know the ways of honor, what maintains 
 The quick returns of courtesy and wit : 
 In vies of favor whether party gains, 
 When glory swells the heart and mouldeth it 
 To all expressions both of hand and eye, 
 . Which on the world a true-love knot may tie, 
 And bear the bundle, wheresoe'er it goes : 
 How many drams of spirits there must be 
 To sell my life unto my friends or foes : 
 Yet I love thee. 
 
 "I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains, 
 The lullings and the relishes of it ; 
 The propositions of hot blood and brains ; 
 What mirth and music mean ; what love and wit 
 Have done these twenty hundred years, and more ; 
 I know the projects of unbridled store : 
 My stuff is flesh, not grass ; my senses live, 
 And grumble oft, that they have more in me 
 Than he that curbs them, being but one to five : 
 Yet I love thee. 
 
 44 1 know all these, and have them in my hand ; 
 Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes 
 I fly to thee, and fully understand 
 Both the main sale, and the commodities ; 
 And at what rate and price I have thy love ; 
 With all the circumstances that may move : 
 Yet through the labyrinths, not my grovelling wit, 
 But thy silk-twist let down from heav'n to me, 
 Did both conduct and teach me, how, by it, 
 To climb to thee." 
 
 A splendid retrospect this of a short, life : and 
 
TREFOIL. 101 
 
 with what accurate knowledge of art, science, 
 policy, literature, of powers of body and mind. 
 Herbert's poems are full of this sterling sense and 
 philosophical reflection the mintage of a master 
 121 in d. 
 
 Addison's version of the twenty-third Psalm has 
 entered into every household and penetrated every 
 heart by its sweetness and pathos. There is equal 
 gentleness and sincerity in Herbert's : 
 
 " The God of love my shepherd is, 
 
 And he that doth me feed. 
 
 While he is mine, and I am his, 
 
 What can I want or need ? 
 
 " He leads me to the tender grass, 
 
 Where I both feed and rest ; 
 Then to the streams that gently pass : 
 In both I have the best. 
 
 " Or if I stray, he doth convert, 
 And bring my mind in frame 
 And all this not for my desert, 
 But for his holy name. 
 
 " Yea, in death's shady, black abode 
 
 Well may I walk, not fear : 
 For thou art with me, and thy rod 
 To guide, thy staff to bear. 
 
 " Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine, 
 E'en in my eu'mies' sight ; 
 
102 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 My head with oil, my cup with wine, 
 Runs over day and night. 
 
 " Surely thy sweet and wond'rous love 
 
 Shall measure all my days : 
 
 And as it never shall remove, 
 
 So neither shall my praise." 
 
 "We might linger long with Herbert, gathering 
 the fruits of wisdom and piety from the abundant 
 orchard of his poems, where many a fruit " hangs 
 amiable ;" but we must listen to his brethren. 
 
 HENRY YATJGHAN was the literary offspring of 
 George Herbert. His life, too, might have been 
 written by good Izaak Walton, so gentle was it, full 
 of all pleasant associations and quiet nobleness, 
 decorated by the love of nature and letters, intima- 
 cies with poets, and with that especial touch of 
 nature which always went to the heart of the Com- 
 plete Angler, a love of fishing for Yaughan was 
 wont, at times, to skim the waters of his native 
 rivers. 
 
 He was born in Wales ; the old Roman name of 
 the country conferring upon him the appellation 
 u Silurist " for in those days local pride and 
 affection claimed the honor of the bard, as the 
 poet himself first gathered strength from the home, 
 earth and sky which concentrated rather than cir- 
 
TEEFOIL. ' 103 
 
 cumscribed his genius. His family was of good 
 old lineage, breathing freely for generations in the 
 upper atmosphere of life, warmed and cheered in a 
 genial sunlight of prosperity. It could stir, too, at 
 the call of patriotism, and send soldiers, as it did, to 
 bite the heroic dust at Agincourt. Another time 
 brought other duties. The poet came into the 
 world in the early part of the seventeenth century, 
 when the great awakening of thought and English 
 intellect was to be followed by stirring action. He 
 was not, indeed, to bear any great part in the 
 senate or the field ; but all noble spirits were moved 
 by the issues of the time. To some the voice of the 
 age brought hope and energy; to others, a not 
 ignoble submission. It was perhaps as great a 
 thing to suffer with the Royal Martyr, with all the 
 burning life and traditions of England in the throb- 
 bing heart, as to rise from the ruins into the cold 
 ether where the stern soul of Milton could wing its 
 way in self-reliant calmness. Honor is due, as in 
 all great struggles, to both parties. Yaughan's lot 
 was cast with the conquered cause. 
 
 His youth was happy, as all poets' should be, and 
 as the genius of all true poets, coupled with that 
 period of life, will go far to make it. There must 
 be early sunshine for the first nurture of that deli- 
 cate plant: the storm comes afterward to perfect 
 
104 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 its life. Vaughan first saw the light in a rural dis- 
 trict of great beauty. His songs bear witness to it. 
 Indeed he is known by his own designation, a fra- 
 grant title in the sweet fields of English poesy, as 
 the Swan of the Usk, though he veiled the title in 
 the thin garb of the Latin, " Olor Iscanus." Another 
 fortunate circumstance was the personal character 
 of his education, at the hands of a rural Welsh 
 rector, with whom, his twin brother for a com- 
 panion, he passed the years of youth in what, we 
 have no doubt, were pleasant paths of classical 
 literature. How inexhaustible are those old wells 
 of Greek and Roman Letters ! The world cannot 
 afford to spare them long. They may be less in 
 fashion at one time than another, but their beauty 
 and life-giving powers are perennial. The Muse 
 of English poesy has always been baptized in their 
 waters. 
 
 The brothers left for Oxford at the mature age 
 not a whit too late for any minds of seventeen or 
 eighteen. At the University there were other words 
 than the songs of Apollo. The Great Revolution 
 was already on the carpet, and it was to be fought 
 out with weapons not found in the logical armory 
 of Aristotle. The brothers were royalists, of course ; 
 and Henry, before the drama was played out, like 
 many good men and true, tasted the inside of a 
 
TEEFOIL. 105 
 
 prison doubtless, like Lovelace and Wither, sing- 
 ing his heartfelt minstrelsy behind the wires of his 
 cage. He was not a fighting man. Poets rarely 
 are. More than one lyrist as Archilochus and 
 Horace may bear witness has thrown away his 
 shield on the field of battle. Yaughan wisely re- 
 tired to his native Wales. Jeremy Taylor, too, it 
 may be remembered, was locking up the treasures 
 of his richly-furnished mind and passionate feeling 
 within the walls of those same Welsh hills. Nature, 
 alone, however, is inadequate to the production of 
 a true poet. Even Wordsworth, the most patient, 
 absorbed of recluses, had his share of education in 
 London and travel in foreign cities. Yaughan, too, 
 early found his way, in visits, to the metropolis, 
 where he heard at the Globe Tavern the last echoes 
 of that burst of wit and knowledge which had spo- 
 ken from the tongue and kindled in the eye of Shak- 
 speare, Spenser and Raleigh. Ben Jonson was still 
 alive, and the young poets who fiocked to him, as a 
 later age worshipped Dryden, were all " sealed of 
 the tribe of Ben." Eandolph and Cartwright were 
 his friends. 
 
 Under these early inspirations of youth, nature, 
 learning, witty companionship, Yaughan published 
 his first verses breathing a love of his art and its 
 pleasures of imagination, paying his tribute to his 
 
-106 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 paternal books in "Englishing," the "Tenth Satyre 
 of Juvenal," and not forgetting, of course, the 
 lovely " Amoret." A young poet without a lady 
 in his verse is a solecism which nature abhors. All 
 this, however, as his biographer remarks, " though 
 fine in the way of poetic speculation, would not do 
 for every-day practice." Of course not ; and the 
 young " swan " turned his wary feet from the glit- 
 tering stream to the solid land. The poet became a 
 physician. It was a noble art for such a spirit to 
 practise, and not a very rude progress from youth- 
 ful poesy if he felt and thought aright. There was 
 a sterner change in store, however, and it came to 
 him with the monition, " Physician, heal thyself I" 
 He was prostrated by severe bodily disease, and 
 thenceforth his spirit was bowed to the claims of 
 the unseen world. The " light amorist " found a 
 higher inspiration. He turned his footsteps to the 
 Temple and worshipped at the holy altar of Herbert. 
 His poetry becomes religious. "Sparks from the 
 Flint " is the title which he gives his new verses, 
 " Silex Scintillans." After that pledge to holiness 
 given to the world, he survived nearly half a 
 century, dying at the mature age of seventy-three 
 a happy subject of contemplation in the bosom of 
 his "Welsh retirement, passing quietly down the 
 vale of life, feeding his spirit on the early-gathered 
 
TREFOIL. 107 
 
 harvest of wit, learning, taste, feeling, fancy, 
 benevolence and piety. 
 
 Of such threads was the life of our poet spun. 
 
 His verse is light, airy, flying with the lark to 
 heaven. Hear him with " his singing robes" about 
 him: 
 
 " I would I were some bird or star, 
 Mutt'ring in woods, or lifted far 
 Above this inn 
 And road of sin ! 
 
 Then either star or bird should be 
 Shining or singing still to thee." 
 
 In this song of " Peace " 
 
 " My soul, there is a country 
 
 Afar beyond the stars, 
 Where stands a winged sentry 
 
 All skillful in the wars. 
 There, above noise and danger, 
 
 Sweet peace sits crown' d with smiles, 
 And one born in a manger 
 
 Commands the beauteous files. 
 He is thy gracious friend, 
 
 And (oh, my soul awake!) 
 Did in pure love descend, 
 
 To die here for thy sake. 
 If thou canst get but thither, 
 
 There grows the flower of peace, 
 The rose that cannot wither, 
 
 Thy fortress and thy ease. 
 
108 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Leave, then, thy foolish ranges ; 
 
 For none can thee secure, 
 But one, who never changes 
 
 Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure." 
 
 Or in that kindred ode, full of "intimations of 
 immortality received in childhood," entitled, " The 
 Retreat :" 
 
 " Happy those early days, when I 
 Shin'd in my angel infancy ! 
 Before I understood this place, 
 Appointed for my second race, 
 Or taught my soul to fancy aught 
 But a white, celestial thought ; 
 When yet I had not walkt above 
 A mile or two from my first love, 
 And looking back, at that short space, 
 Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; 
 When on some gilded cloud or flower 
 My gazing soul would dwell an hour, 
 And in those weaker glories spy 
 Some shadows of eternity ; 
 Before I taught my tongue to wound 
 My conscience with a sinful sound, 
 Or had the black art to dispense 
 A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense, 
 But felt through all this fleshly dress 
 Bright shoots of everlastingness. 
 Oh how I long to travel back, 
 And tread again that ancient track ! 
 That I might once more reach that plain 
 
TREFOIL. 109 
 
 Where first I left my glorious train ; 
 From whence th' enlight'ned spirit sees 
 That shady city of palni-trees. 
 But, ah ! my soul with too much stay 
 Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! 
 Some men a forward motion love, 
 But I by backward steps would move ; 
 And when this dust falls to the urn, 
 In that state I came, return." 
 
 Here is a picture of tlie angel-visited world of 
 Eden, not altogether destroyed by the Fall, when 
 
 " Each day 
 
 The valley or the mountain 
 Afforded visits, and still Paradise lay 
 
 In some green shade or fountain. 
 Angels lay licger here : each bush and cell, 
 
 Each oak and highway knew them ; 
 Walk but the fields, or sit down at some well, 
 
 And he was sure to view them." 
 
 Vaughan's birds and flowers gleam with ligli 4 
 from the spirit land. This is the opening of a little 
 piece entitled The Bird :" 
 
 " Hither thou com'st. The busy wind all night 
 Blew through thy lodging, where thy own warm wing 
 Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, 
 For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, 
 
 Rain'd on thy bed 
 
 And harmless head ; 
 
110 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 And now, as fresh and cheerful as the light, 
 Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing 
 Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm 
 Curb'd them, and cloth'd thee well and warm." 
 
 How softly the image of the little bird again 
 tempers the thought of death in his ode to the 
 memory of the departed : 
 
 " He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know 
 
 At first sight if the bird be flown ; 
 But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, 
 That is to him unknown." 
 
 But we must leave this fair garden of the poet's 
 fancies. The reader will find there many a flower 
 .yet untouched. 
 
 RICHARD CKASHAW was the contemporary of the 
 early years of Yaughan ; for, alas ! he died young 
 though not till he had transcribed for the world the 
 hopes, the aspirations, the sorrows of his troubled 
 life. He lived but thirty-four years the volume 
 of his verses is not less nor more than the kindred 
 books of the brother poets with whom we are now 
 associating his memory. A small body of verse 
 will hold much life ; for the poet gives us a concen- 
 trated essence, an elixir, a skillful confection of 
 humanity, which, diluted with the commonplaces 
 of every-day thought and living, may cover whole 
 
TEEFOIL. Ill 
 
 shelves of libraries. The secret of the whole of 
 one life may be expressed in a song or a sonnet. 
 The little books of the world are not the least. 
 
 Crashaw, also, was a scholar. The son of a clergy- 
 man, he was educated at the famed Charter-house 
 and afterward at Cambridge. The Revolution, 
 too, overtook him. He refused the oath of the 
 covenant, was ejected from his fellowship, became 
 a Roman Catholic, and took refuge in Paris, where 
 he ate the bread of exile with Cowley and others, 
 cheered by the noble sympathy it could not be 
 much more of Queen Henrietta Maria. She re- 
 commended him to Rome, and the sensitive poet 
 carried his joys and sorrows to the bosom of the 
 church. He lived a few years, and died canon of 
 Loretto, at the age of thirty-four. 
 
 Though the son of a zealous opponent of the 
 Roman church, Crashaw was bom with an instinct 
 and heart for its service. There runs through all 
 his poetry that sensuousness of feeling which seeks 
 the repose and luxury of faith which Rome always 
 offers to her ardent votaries. It is profitable to 
 compare the sentiment of Crashaw with the more 
 intellectual development of Herbert. What in the 
 former is the paramount, constant exhibition, in 
 the latter is accepted, and holds its place subordi- 
 nate to other claims. Without a portion of it there 
 
112 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 could be no deep religious life with it, in excess, 
 we fear for the weakness of a partial development. 
 There is so much gain, however, to the poet, that 
 we have no disposition to take exception to the single 
 string of Crashaw. The beauty of the Venus was 
 made up from the charms of many models. So, in 
 our libraries, as in life, we must be content with 
 parcel-work, and take one man's wisdom and ano- 
 ther's sentiment, looking out that we get something 
 of each to enrich our multifarious life. 
 
 Crashaw 's poetry is one musical echo and aspira- 
 tion, lie finds his theme and illustration constantly 
 in music. His amorous descant never fails him : his 
 lute is always by his side. Following the " Steps 
 of the Temple," a graceful tribute to Herbert, we 
 have the congenial title, " The Delights of the 
 Muses," opening with that exquisite composition : 
 
 " Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 The hidden soul of harmony," 
 
 "Music's Duel." It is the story a favorite one 
 to the ears of our forefathers two centuries ago of 
 the nightingale and the musician contending with 
 voice and instrument in alternate melodies, till the 
 sweet songstress of the grove falls and dies upon 
 the lute of her rapt rival. It is something more 
 than a pretty talc. Ford, the dramatist, introduced 
 
TREFOIL. 113 
 
 it briefly in happy lines in "The Lover's Melan- 
 choly," but Crashaw's verses inspire the very sweet- 
 ness and lingering pleasure of the contest. It is high 
 noon when the " sweet lute's master " seeks retire- 
 ment from the heat, " on the scene of a green plat, 
 under protection of an oak," by the bank of the 
 Tiber. The " light-foot lady," 
 
 "The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree," 
 
 " entertains the music's soft report," which begins 
 with a flying prelude, to which the lady of the tree 
 " carves out her dainty voice " with " quick 
 volumes of wild notes." 
 
 " His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string, 
 A cap'ring cheerfulness ; and made them sing 
 To their own dance." 
 
 She 
 
 " Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note 
 Through the sleek passage of her open throat : 
 A clear, unwrinkled song." 
 
 The contention invites every art of expression. 
 The highest powers of the lute are evoked in rapid 
 succession closing with a martial strain : 
 
 " this lesson, too, 
 She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out 
 
114 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt 
 
 Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, 
 
 And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill, 
 
 The pliant series of her slippery song ; 
 
 Then starts she suddenly into a throng 
 
 Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring vollies float, 
 
 And roll themselves over her lubric throat 
 
 In panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast r 
 
 That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nest 
 
 Of her delicious soul, that there does lie 
 
 Bathing in streams of liquid melody, 
 
 Music's best seed-plot ; when in ripen'd airs 
 
 A golden-headed harvest fairly rears 
 
 His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath, 
 
 Which there reciprocally laboreth. 
 
 In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire, 
 
 Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre ; 
 
 Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes 
 
 Of sweet-lipp'd angel imps, that swill their throats 
 
 In cream of morning Helicon ; and then 
 
 Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, 
 
 To woo them from their beds, still murmuring 
 
 That men can sleep while they their matins sing." 
 
 What wealth of imagery and proud association 
 of ideas the bubbling spring, the golden, waving 
 harvest, " ploughed by her breath " the fane of 
 Apollo suggesting in a word images of Greek 
 maidens in chorus by the white temple of the God, 
 the dew of Helicon, the soft waking of men from 
 beneficent repose. It is all very well to talk of a 
 
TREFOIL. 115 
 
 bird doing all this: we admire nightingales, but 
 Philomela never enchanted us in this way ; it is the 
 sex with which we are charmed. The poet's 
 " light-foot lady " tells us the secret. "We are sub- 
 dued by the loveliest of prima-donnas. 
 
 There is more of this, and as good. The little 
 poem is a poet's dictionary of musical expression. 
 Its lines, less than two hundred, deserve to be com- 
 mitted to memory, to rise at times in the mind 
 the soft assuagement of cares and sorrows. 
 
 A famous poem of Crashaw is "On a Prayer- 
 Book sent to Mrs. M. R." It breathes a divine 
 ecstasy of the sacred ode : 
 
 " Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 
 Of soul ; dear and divine annihilations ; 
 A thousand unknown rites 
 Of joys, and rarefied delights." 
 
 It is human passion sublimated and refined to 
 the uses of heaven, but human passion still the 
 very luxury of religion the rapture of earth-born 
 seraphs, as he sings with venturous exultation : 
 
 " The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, 
 Which with a swelling bosom there she meets, 
 Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures 
 
 Of pure inebriating pleasures : 
 Happy proof she shall discover, 
 What joy, what bliss, 
 
116 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 How many heavens at once it is, 
 To have a God become her lover !" 
 
 Mrs. M. R., whether maid or widow we know 
 not in Crashaw's day virgins were called Mistress 
 lias another poem addressed to her " Counsel 
 concerning her choice." It alludes to some check 
 or hindrance in love, and asks : 
 
 " Dear, heav'n-designed soul ! 
 
 Amongst the rest 
 
 Of suitors that besiege your maiden breast, 
 
 Why may not I 
 
 My fortune try, 
 
 And venture to speak one good word, 
 Not for myself, alas ! but for my dearer Lord ? 
 
 ***** 
 Your first choice fails ; oh, when you choose again, 
 May it not be among the sons of men !" 
 
 This is the language of devotional rapture com- 
 mon to the extremes of the religious world 
 Methodism and Roman Catholicism. Every one 
 has heard the ardent hymn by ]S"ewton " The 
 Name of Jesus," and that stirring anthem, " The 
 Coronation of Christ " few have read the eloquent 
 production of the canon of Loretto, a canticle from 
 the flaming heart of Home, addressed "To the 
 name above every name, the name of Jesus." 
 
TREFOIL. 117 
 
 " Pow'rs of my soul, be proud ! 
 
 And speak loud 
 
 To all the dear-bought nations this redeeming name ; 
 And in the wealth of one rich word proclaim 
 New smiles to nature. 
 
 ***** 
 Sweet name, in thy each syllable 
 A thousand blest Arabias dwell ; 
 A thousand hills of frankincense, 
 Mountains of myrrh, and beds of spices, 
 And ten thousand paradises, 
 The soul that tastes thee takes from thence. 
 How many unknown worlds there are 
 Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping ! 
 How many thousand mercies there 
 In Pity's soft lap lie asleeping !" 
 
 Crashaw's invitations to holiness breathe the 
 very gallantry of piety. He addresses " the 
 noblest and best of ladies, the Countess of Den- 
 bigh," who had been his patroness in exile, " per- 
 suading her to resolution in religion." 
 
 " What heaven-entreated heart is this 
 Stands trembling at the gate of bliss. 
 
 ***** 
 What magic bolts, what mystic bars 
 Maintain the will in these strange wars ! 
 What fatal, what fantastic bands 
 Keep the free heart from its own hands ! 
 So, when the year takes cold, we see 
 Poor waters their own prisoners be ; 
 
118 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Fetter' d and lock'd up fast, they lie 
 
 In a sad self-captivity ; 
 
 Th' astonish'd nymphs their floods' strange fate deplore, 
 
 To see themselves their own severer shore. 
 
 ***** 
 Disband dull fears ; give Faith the day ; 
 "To save your life, kill your delay ; 
 It is Love's siege, and sure to be 
 Your triumph, though his victory." 
 
 His poem, " The Weeper," shoots the prismatic 
 hues of the rainbow athwart the veil of fast-falling 
 tears : 
 
 " Hail sister springs, 
 Parents of silver-footed rills ! 
 
 Ever bubbling things ! 
 Thawing crystal ! snowy hills ! 
 Still spending, never spent ; I mean 
 Thy fair eyes, sweet Magdalene. 
 
 ***** 
 u Every morn from hence, 
 A brisk cherub something sips, 
 
 Whose soft influence 
 Adds sweetness to his sweetest lips ; 
 Then to his music, and his song 
 Tastes of this breakfast all day long. 
 
 " Not in the evening's eyes, 
 
 When they red with weeping are 
 For the sun that dies, 
 
 Sits sorrow with a face so fair. 
 Nowhere but here did ever meet 
 Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. 
 
TREFOIL. 119 
 
 " When Sorrow would be seen 
 
 In her brightest majesty, 
 For she is a queen, 
 
 Then is she drest by none but thee. 
 Then, and only then, she wears 
 Her richest pearls, I mean thy tears. 
 
 " The dew no more will weep, 
 
 The primrose's pale cheek to deck j 
 The dew no more will sleep, 
 
 Nuzzled in the lily's neck. 
 Much rather would it tremble here, 
 And leave them both to be thy tear." 
 
 These are some of Crashaw's "Steps to the 
 Temple " verily he walked thither on velvet. 
 
 " Wishes to his supposed Mistress," is more than 
 a pretty enumeration of the good qualities of 
 woman as they rise in the heart of a noble, gallant 
 lover : 
 
 " Whoe'er she be, 
 
 That not impossible she, 
 
 That shall command my heart and me : 
 " Where'er she lie, 
 
 Locked up from mortal eye, 
 
 In shady leaves of destiny : 
 "Till that ripe birth 
 
 Of studied fate, stand forth, 
 
 And teach her fair steps to our earth : 
 " Till that divine 
 
 Idea take a shrine 
 
 Of crystal flesh, through which to shine : 
 
120 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 " Meet you her, my wishes, 
 Bespeak her to my blisses, 
 And be ye call'd my absent kisses." 
 
 We are not reprinting Crashaw, and must for- 
 bear further quotation. It is enough if we have 
 presented to the reader a lily or a rose from his 
 pages, and have given a clue to that treasure- 
 house 
 
 " A box where sweets compacted lie." 
 
 A generation nurtured in poetic susceptibility by 
 the genius of Keats and Tennyson, should not 
 forget the early muse of Crashaw. His verse is 
 the very soul of tenderness and imaginative luxury : 
 less intellectual, less severe in the formation of 
 a broad, manly character than Herbert ; catching 
 up the brighter inspirations of Yaughan, and excel- 
 ling him in richness it has a warm, graceful garb 
 of its own. It is tinged with the glowing hues of 
 Spenser's fancy; baptized in the fountains of sacred 
 love, it draws an earthly inspiration from the 
 beautiful in nature and life, as in the devout paint- 
 ings of the great Italian masters, we find the models 
 of their angels and seraphs on earth. 
 
MISEEEEE DOMINE. 
 
 BY WILLIAM H. BFELEIGH. 
 
 THOU who look'st with pitying eye 
 
 From Thy radiant home on high, 
 
 On the spirit tempest-tost,- 
 
 Wretched, weary, wandering, lost 
 
 Ever ready help to give, 
 
 And entreating, " Look and Iwe /" 
 
 By that love, exceeding thought, 
 
 Which from Heaven the Saviour brought, 
 
 By that mercy which could dare 
 
 Death to save us from despair, 
 
 Lowly bending at Thy feet, 
 
 We adore, implore, entreat, 
 
 Lifting heart and voice to Thee 
 
 Miserere Domine! 
 
 With the vain and giddy throng, 
 FATHER ! we have wandered long ; 
 6 
 
122 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Eager from Thy paths to stray, 
 Chosen the forbidden way ; 
 Heedless of the light within, 
 Hurried on from sin to sin, 
 And with scoffers madly trod 
 On the mercy of our God ! 
 Now to where Thine altars burn, 
 FATHER ! sorrowing we return. 
 Though forgotten, Thou hast not 
 To be merciful forgot ; 
 Hear us ! for we cry to Thee 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 From the burden of our grief 
 Who, but Thou, can give relief ? 
 Who can pour Salvation's light 
 On the darkness of our night ? 
 Bowed our load of sin beneath, 
 Who can snatch our souls from death ? 
 Yain the help of man ! in dust 
 Yainly do we put our trust ! 
 Smitten by Thy chastening rod, 
 Hear us, save us, SON OF GOD ! 
 From the perils of our path, 
 From the terrors of thy wrath, 
 Save us, when we look to thee 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
MISEKERE DOMINE. 123 
 
 "Where the pastures greenly grow, 
 Where the waters gently flow, 
 And beneath the sheltering ROCK 
 With the shepherd rests the flock. 
 Oh, let us be gathered there 
 Kichly of Thy love to share ; 
 With the people of Thy choice 
 Live and labor and rejoice, 
 Till the toils of life are done, 
 Till the fight is fought and won, 
 And the crown, with heavenly glow, 
 Sparkles on the victor's brow ! 
 Hear the prayer we lift to Thee 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
THE 
 
 KINGDOMS OF NATUKE PKAISUsTG GOD : 
 A SHORT ESSAY ON THE 148TH PSALM. 
 
 BY REV. C. A. BARTOL. 
 
 SURROUNDED as we are with the art and handicraft 
 of man almost everything we see bearing the mark 
 of his finger, the house and the street, the market 
 and exchange, every instrument and utensil it is 
 well, occasionally, to look forth from this little 
 world of custom and convenience we ourselves 
 have constructed, into that which bears the impress 
 of the Almighty's hand is still as it was left from 
 His forming strength, and brings us into immediate 
 communion with His Infinite mind. Let us, at least, 
 listen to the notes of David's lyre on the creative 
 Majesty. 
 
 After an invocation to the heavenly host, the 
 Psalmist calls first on the forms of inanimate and 
 inorganic existence. These things, of which he 
 enumerates a few, praise the power of God. The 
 crags and headlands, jarred and worn by the bil- 
 
 124 
 
KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD. 125 
 
 lows they breast ; the granite peaks, bald and grey, 
 under light and tempest, with the silent host of 
 rocky boulders, swept, we know not by what con- 
 vulsions, from their native seat, stand up as the 
 Urst rank in the choir of the Maker's worship ; and 
 infidelity and atheism are hushed and abashed by 
 their lofty praise. 
 
 Organized, but still unconscious existence takes 
 the next station in this universal chorus. The 
 solemn grove lifting its green top into the heavens, 
 beside that motionless army of ancient stones, adds a 
 sweeter note than they can give to the great har- 
 mony. It is a note, speaking not alone of the 
 Creator's power, but of His wisdom too. Here is 
 life and growth. Here are adaptations and stages 
 of progress. From the minutest germination, 
 from the slenderest stem, from the smallest 
 trembling leaf to the hugest trunks and the 
 highest overshadowing branches, this vegetable 
 organization, verdant, pale, crimson, in changeable 
 colors, runs ; stopping short only with Alpine sum- 
 mits or polar posts, swiftly and softly clothing again 
 the rents and gashes in the ground made by the 
 stroke of labor or the wheels of war blooming 
 into the golden and ruddy harvest on the stalk 
 and the bough, even overpassing the salt shore, 
 to line the dismal and unvisited caves of the 
 
126 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 deep with peculiar varieties of growth ; and 
 casting forth into our hands from the foaming 
 brine delicate and strangely beautiful leaves and 
 slight ramifications of matchless tints and pro- 
 portions. 
 
 But the Psalmist summons a third order of beings 
 to contribute its melodious share to this hallelujah ; 
 and that is the living and conscious, though irra- 
 tional tribes. This sings not of power and wisdom 
 alone, but more complex and rich in adoration, 
 sings of goodness also. God has not made the 
 world for a dead spectacle and mere picture for His 
 own eye. How full and crowded with life, and 
 happy life, His creation is ! Go forth from inclos- 
 ing city walls, and, in the summer noontide, stop in 
 solitude and apparent silence and listen ; and soon 
 the sounds of this joyous life shall come to your 
 ear : the chirp of the insects the rustle of wings 
 the crackling of the leaves, as the blithesome airy 
 creatures pass the short, thick warble of the bird 
 by your side, or its varied tune, clearer than viol or 
 organ, from the thicket beyond while, from time 
 to time, the deep low of cattle reverberates from 
 afar. Or if you are where the still and speechless 
 creatures inhabit, open your eye to gaze and exam- 
 ine, and it shall be filled with the visible, as the ear 
 with the vocal signs of living enjoyment. "Walking 
 
KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD. 127 
 
 at the edge of the ebbing tide, you tread on life at 
 every step shelly tribe on tribe of fish pressing 
 together, while in the clear water, other tribes 
 noiselessly swim and glide away. Every vital 
 motion speaks of pleasure, whether in that restless 
 current below, or in the air above, as the feathered 
 songster passes, darting up and down his element, 
 delight gushing from his throat at every buoyant 
 spring silence and sound, with double demonstra- 
 tion, declaring to the Creator's praise the great and 
 limitless boon of life. 
 
 But there is one accent more, that of love, with- 
 out which the hymn is not complete ; and there is 
 another human order of Being to speak that accent., 
 Man includes in himself all the preceding orders of 
 Being, with all the notes of their praise : the 
 material clod, for is he not made of dust ; the plant, 
 for he has an outward growth and circulation the 
 animal, for he has instinct and feeling ; while reason 
 and conscience and spiritual aifection he has pecu- 
 liarly and alone ; so that Power, Wisdom, Goodness 
 and Love, all concentrated in him, complete the 
 ground of his praise. 
 
 Yet, as we look out upon this mighty sum of 
 things in the external universe, the level earth 
 stretching off to some ascending ridge in the hori- 
 zon's blue distance the boundless deep spread afar, 
 
128 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 till, at the misty edge of vision it bends, in ming- 
 ling threefold circles, to embrace the globe, the 
 impenetrable below and the infinite above him, 
 how slight and insignificant a creature he seems ! 
 like a fly that clings to the ceiling, or a mote that 
 swims in the sunbeam, one of the mere mites of 
 nature, easily lost by the way or a frail figure 
 ready to be crushed by any stroke of the ponder- 
 ous machinery mid which he moves. When he 
 reflects on his condition his brief date, his speedy 
 doom how inconsiderable his existence appears ! 
 Or when he regards himself as not a compound of 
 matter merely, but as a living soul, how easy it 
 seems, as his contemplation runs out absorbed into 
 the wondrous glory of the world, for all the vital 
 energy which is for a moment insulated in his 
 frame, when his frame dissolves, to pass into the 
 general substance from which it came, the thinking 
 creature ending as it began ! But a voice from hea- 
 ven cries to him and says, " Because he hath set his 
 love upon me, therefore will I deliver him. I will 
 set him on high because he hath known my name ; 
 with long life will I satisfy him and show him my 
 salvation." 
 
 This love of God makes the society of all human 
 affection. " God made the country, and man made 
 the town," is an oft quoted line ; and not seldom it 
 
KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD. 129 
 
 is implied that the open or thinly-peopled land- 
 scape is somehow a better and holier place for the 
 soul than the thronged city. But let it not be for- 
 gotten that man himself is God's work and His 
 highest work on earth. Would we sing our psalm 
 now or hereafter with the sweetest relish, we must 
 go forth from any little circle we may have drawn 
 around us, of private ease and personal comfort, in 
 friendly intercourse to hear the cry of the unfortu- 
 nate, the sighing of the prisoner, the sob of the 
 mourner, the groan of the sick, the appeal of the 
 injured and oppressed. By our aid, consolation 
 and succor, we must gather their voices into the 
 chorus, before, with perfect satisfaction, we can 
 mingle in it our own. 
 
 Upon a Sabbath day, I walked amid all those 
 charms and fascinations, in which nature can bind 
 us as in a spell. I passed through green aisles of 
 woods, that were ever-shadowed and made fragrant 
 with every various vegetable growth of this tempe- 
 rate northern clime ; while the morning beam of 
 the sun in heaven fell brightly aslant the leaves and 
 branches; and the birds, that my lonely step 
 startled from their perch or nest, flew from glen to 
 glen, making with their song, save the murmur of 
 the breeze in the boughs, the only sound I could 
 hear. At length, the high-arched avenues of this 
 6* 
 
130 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 immense forest-cathedral let me out upon the broad, 
 open shore, where I saw and heard wave after wave 
 break on the rocks, with shifting splendor and that 
 mellow thundering music which so saddens while 
 it delights. Solitude, verily, was stretched out 
 asleep in the sun upon the length of sandy beach 
 and beetling promontory ; and I sat and gazed now 
 over the boundless waters, now into the devouring 
 abysses opened by the bending crests of the bil- 
 lows, and anon into the gloomy depths of the forest 
 or the serene and measureless openings of the sky. 
 What grandeur in every line transcendent ! Yet 
 what impenetrable mystery too, what menacing 
 ruin to the small remnant of human life still 
 spared from the generations in ages past, already 
 swallowed up ! Peering around in this pensive 
 mood, in which the joy of being mixed with the 
 uneasy doubt of its tenure, my eye fell at last on 
 the spire of a little church, rising like a pencil of 
 light to heaven, out of the fathomless waste. And 
 there my soul alighted and found rest. Like some 
 sea mark to the voyager, that slender shaft, reared 
 by the social religion of the world, stood to tell me 
 where in the universe I was ; the common Christ- 
 ian consciousness reinforced my own, and dark 
 queries and agitating uncertainties subsided from 
 my spirit, as the deluge from the dove that Noah 
 
KINGDOMS OF NATUKE PKAISING GOD. 131 
 
 sent out to pluck the green branch of promise. 
 From the illimitable reaches of the huge, but dimly 
 responding creation around, the slight, frail temple 
 for God's praise drew me to its welcome and peace- 
 ful embrace. As I approached it, the tolling of the 
 bell struck on my ear in a touch of gladder tidings 
 than I had received from all the melody of the 
 great wind-harp of the trees, with all the soft 
 accord of the tossing billows. Stroke after stroke, 
 distinctly falling, seemed to bring to me the echoes 
 of a million holy telegraphic towers all over the 
 surface of the globe ; and when I came to stand 
 under the eaves of the small sanctuary, the mea- 
 sured turning, in the belfry, of the wheel, by revo- 
 lutions such as I had seen long years ago in my 
 childhood, filled my eyes with gracious tokens, that 
 were not drawn from me by the sublime circling of 
 the sun and moon, then moving east and west in 
 their spheres. The final tone of praise in the great 
 ascription to God is, in its fullness, supplied by a 
 revelation greater than blessed the times of David. 
 A new and sweeter string is strung upon the lyre 
 his royal fingers so nobly swept, and the voice of 
 thanksgiving is more highly raised for an " unspeak- 
 able gift." The kingdoms of nature are the chords 
 on the harp we may sound to the Creator of all. 
 There has been of late much discussion as to the 
 
132 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 place nature should hold among religious influences 
 and appeals, some super-eminently exalting her, 
 and others putting her in contrast and almost oppo- 
 sition with all spirit, beauty and truth. This is no 
 place, nor has the present writer inclination, here, 
 to take part in the grand debate, infinitely inter- 
 esting as it is, on either side. He would only catch, 
 or repeat and prolong the strain of an old and 
 sacred ode he would contribute a meditation. 
 He would run the matchless ancient verse into a 
 few particulars of fresh and modern illustration, 
 content if he can make no melody of his own, to 
 recall for some, perhaps not enough heeding it, the 
 Hebrew music that has lingered so long on the ear 
 of the world. 
 
TEANSLATIONS. 
 
 BY THE EEV. CHARLES T. BKOOKS. 
 I. 
 
 TO GOD'S CARE I COMMIT MYSELF! 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OF ARNDT.) 
 
 AGAIN is hushed the busy day, 
 And all to sleep is gone away ; 
 The deer hath sought his mossy bed, 
 The bird hath hid his little head, 
 And man to his still chamber goes 
 To rest from all his cares and woes. 
 
 Yet steps he first before his door, 
 
 To look into the night once more, 
 
 With love-thanks and love-greeting, there, 
 
 For rest his spirit to prepare, 
 
 To see the high stars shine abroad 
 
 And drink once more the breath of God. 
 
 138 
 
134 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Mild Father of the world, whose love 
 Keeps watch o'er all things from above, 
 To Thee my stammering prayer would rise ; 
 Bend down from yonder starry skies ; 
 And from Thy sparkling, sun-strewed way, 
 Oh teach thy feeble child to pray ! 
 
 All day Thou hadst me in Thy sight ; 
 So guard me, Father, through this night ; 
 Ajid by thy dear benignity 
 From Satan's malice shelter me ; 
 For what of evil may befall 
 The body, is the least of all. 
 
 Oh send from realms of purity 
 
 The dearest angel in to me, 
 
 As a peace-herald let him come, 
 
 And watchman, to my house and home, 
 
 That all desires and thoughts of mine, 
 
 Around thy heaven may climb and twine. 
 
 Then day shall part exultingly, 
 Then night a word of love shall be, 
 Then morn an angel-smile shall wear 
 Whose brightness no base thing can bear, 
 And we, earth's children, walk abroad, 
 Children of light and sons of God. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 135 
 
 And when the last red evening-glow 
 Shall greet these failing eyes below, 
 "When yearns my soul to wing its way 
 To the high track of endless day, 
 Then all the shining ones shall come 
 To bear me to the spirit's home. 
 
 II. 
 THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OP AUERSPERQ.) 
 
 THROUGH the city's narrow gateway 
 Forth an aged beggar fares, 
 
 None is there to give him escort, 
 And no farewell word he bears. 
 
 Heaven's grey cloud to no one whispers 
 Of God's message in its fold ; 
 
 Earth's grey rock to no one whispers 
 That it hides the shaft of gold. 
 
 And the naked tree in winter 
 Tells not straightway to the eye 
 
 That it once so greenly glistened, 
 Bloomed and bore so bounteously. 
 
136 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 None would dream that yon old beggar, 
 Tottering, bending toward the ground, 
 
 Once was clothed in royal purple, 
 And his silver locks gold-crowned ! 
 
 Foul conspirators discrowned him, 
 
 Tore the radiant purple off, 
 
 Placing in his hands, for sceptre, 
 
 Yonder wormy pilgrim-staff. 
 
 Thus, for years, now, has he wandered, 
 All ungreeted and unknown, 
 
 Through so many a foreign country, 
 Bowed and broken and alone. 
 
 Weary unto death, he lays him 
 'Neath a tree, in evening's beam, 
 
 Music in the twigs and blossoms 
 Sings him to an endless dream. 
 
 Men that to and fro pass by him, 
 Speak in softened tones of grief; 
 
 Who may be the poor old beggar, 
 That has found this sad relief? 
 
 But mild Nature, soft-eyed Nature, 
 Knows the aged sleeper there, 
 
 Obsequies of solemn splendor, 
 Meet for king, will she prepare. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 137 
 
 From the tree fall wreaths of blossoms, 
 Floating down to crown his head, 
 
 And a sceptre's golden lustre 
 Sunset on his staff hath shed. 
 
 For a canopy above him 
 
 Rustling twigs a green arch throw, 
 And he wears a royal purple 
 
 In the evening's mantling glow. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEA1STDEK, 
 
 THE CHURCH HISTORIAN. 
 
 BY THE EKV. EOSWELL D. HITCHCOCK, D.D. 
 
 IN the spring of 1848, during the progress of the 
 European revolutions, which promised so much and 
 performed so little, I spent several weeks in Berlin, 
 the capital of Prussia, and saw much, both in 
 public and in private, of " the father of modern 
 church history," whose name I had long revered, 
 and whose image now is one of the choicest trea- 
 sures of memory. Of all the Christian scholars I 
 have ever known, he stands in my thoughts without 
 a rival; a child in simplicity, a sage in learning, 
 and in broad, catholic and fervent piety, a noble 
 saint. In common with hundreds of my country- 
 men, I owe him a debt of gratitude, of which this 
 humble tribute to his memory will be but a faint 
 acknowledgment. 
 
 Of Neander's outward history there is but little 
 to be reported ; his life was the retired and unevent- 
 
 133 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER. 139 
 
 fill one of a peculiarly intense and abstracted 
 student. It is hardly a figure of speech, but almost 
 exactly the literal truth to say that he was born, 
 and lived, and died, beneath the shadow of the 
 Universities. He was not, indeed, quite so much 
 of a recluse as his fellow-countryman Kantj the 
 renowned Konigsberg philosopher, who, though he 
 reached the age of eighty, and had a reputation 
 which filled all Europe, was never more than 
 thirty-two miles away from the spot where his 
 mother rocked him in his cradle. But considering 
 the ampler means at his command, and the greatly 
 increased facilities for travelling, Neander's neglect 
 of locomotion is nearly as much to be wondered at 
 as Kant's ; I doubt if he was ever beyond the 
 boundaries of Germany. 
 
 He was born January 16th, 1789, in Gottingen, 
 a city of some eleven thousand inhabitants in the 
 kingdom of Hanover, the seat of a famous Univer- 
 sity, which, though now less prominent than for- 
 merly, has numbered amongst its professors such 
 men as Blumenbach, Eichhorn, and Michaelis. 
 His parents were of Jewish blood and the Jewish 
 religion, and he inherited from them, in a strong 
 degree, both the peculiar physiognomy and the 
 distinguishing faith of that despised but most 
 remarkable race. Nor was he a Jew only out- 
 
140 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 wardly ; from the beginning lie was marked as an 
 Israelite indeed, a true Nathanael soul. 
 
 At an early period in his life, his father having 
 suffered reverses and been reduced to poverty, he 
 removed with his parents to Hamburg, a commer- 
 cial" city on the Elbe, and one of the four free 
 municipalities of Germany. In the Hamburg 
 gymnasium, corresponding in rank with our Ameri- 
 can academies, though prescribing a wider range 
 of studies, he received his first public instruction. 
 It is related of him, that he used frequently to steal 
 into one of the book-stores, and for hours together 
 sit buried in some rare and erudite volume. And 
 here the original bent of his genius was early 
 developed ; subtlety, profoundness, and intense 
 subjectivity of thought were noticed as the distin- 
 guishing characteristics of his mind. In a letter 
 from Neumann to Chamisso, bearing date February 
 llth, 1806, when, of course, he was only seventeen 
 years old, it is said of him : " Plato is his idol, and 
 his perpetual watchword. He pores over that 
 author night and day ; and there are probably few 
 who receive him so completely into the sanctuary of 
 the soul. It is surprising to see how all this has been 
 accomplished without any influence from abroad. 
 It proceeds simply from his own reflection and his 
 innate love of study. He has learned to look with 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDEK. 141 
 
 indifference upon the outward world." Such was 
 the beginning of his illustrious career. He was 
 thoroughly a Platonist. And it happened to him, 
 as to so many of the early fathers of the church 
 before him ; he was led from Plato to Christ. The 
 honored walks of the Academy were exchanged for 
 the manger and the cross ; and so he passed from 
 Judaism to philosophy, and from philosophy to 
 faith. " Pray and labor," writes he in one of 
 his letters, " let that be the bass-note, or rather 
 praying merely ; for what else should a human, or 
 even a superhuman do than pray ?" This was the 
 dawning of the light. Of his progress in the 
 Christian experience, we have no means as yet of 
 tracing the steps. "We only know, in general, from 
 what he started, and to what he came. 
 
 In the April of 1806, he joined the University 
 at Halle, where he came under the influence of 
 Schleiermacher, whose learned and thrilling voice 
 was the first to sound the return of infidel Germany 
 to the truth as it is in Jesus. Schleiermacher was 
 then thirty-eight years old, in the first bloom and 
 vigor of his faculties, and made, of necessity, a 
 very profound and durable impression upon the 
 young and ardent Hebrew Platonist, who was 
 already, in obedience to his own impulses, seeking 
 the way of life. 
 
14:2 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 He had been in Halle about six months, when 
 the city was captured by the French under Berna- 
 dotte. The University was immediately suspended 
 by Napoleon, and the students ordered to disperse. 
 Neander fled, with one of his friends, to Gottingen, 
 the place of his birth, where, joining the University, 
 he came under the instruction of Gesenius, after- 
 ward the great Hebrew lexicographer, then but 
 twenty years of age, and just commencing his dis- 
 tinguished career. The manner of their introduc- 
 tion to each other is a curious bit of literary history 
 worth preserving. Gesenius was returning to Got- 
 tingen from his native place, Nordhausen, which 
 was then in flames, having been set fire to by the 
 French. The soldiers of the broken Prussian army 
 were hurrying to their homes. In the general 
 flight and confusion, Gesenius saw two young men 
 on their way from Halle to Gottingen, one of whom 
 had broken down, unable to go any further, and was 
 entirely out of money. He procured a carriage 
 for the unknown young student and conveyed him to 
 Gottingen. That young student was Meander ; and 
 this little adventure led to a friendship which lasted 
 for life, the gulf which subsequently yawned 
 between them, in respect to matters of faith, abat- 
 ing nothing of their mutual respect and kindliness. 
 " At first it was painful to me," said Neander, 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEA^DER. 143 
 
 writing from Gottingen, " to be thrown into this 
 place of icy coldness for the heart. But now 
 I find it was well, and thank God for it. In no 
 other way could I have made such progress. 
 From every human mediator, and even every 
 agreeable association, must one be torn away, in 
 order that he may place his sole reliance on the 
 only Mediator." 
 
 In 1809 he returned to Hamburg to become a 
 pastor. But the city had a small fund to support 
 one of its theologians as a lecturer at Heidelberg. 
 This was wisely appropriated to Meander, who 
 promised more as a scholar than as a preacher. 
 Accordingly, in 1811, we find him established at 
 Heidelberg as a teacher in the University, he 
 having previously, on his public profession of 
 Christianity, assumed the name of Neander, deriv- 
 ing it from the Greek, vioq dvrjp, " a new man," to 
 signify the entire change which had come over 
 him. The family name was MendeL The year 
 following he was appointed Professor Extraor- 
 dinary, which, in plain English, means a professor 
 without a regular salary from government, and 
 shortly issued his work on " The Emperor Julian 
 and his Time," the first of those monographs 
 which awakened the admiration of his learned 
 countrymen, and paved the way for the great 
 
144: GUTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 undertaking of his life, " A General History of the 
 Christian Religion and Church." 
 
 In 1813, when but twenty-four years of age, he 
 was called to a professorship in the then recently 
 established University of Berlin, and signalized his 
 removal thither by a work on " St. Bernard and his 
 Age." Five years later, he published a work on 
 Gnosticism, and in 1821, his "Life of Chrysostom;" 
 besides some treatises of minor note, which we need 
 not pause to enumerate. At length, in 1825, when 
 of course he was thirty-six years old, the first 
 volume of his General History of the Church 
 appeared. And to say that this work put him 
 directly at the very head of Christendom as the 
 expounder of its inward life, is saying only what 
 we all know to be true. After that, he turned 
 aside occasionally in obedience to other calls of 
 duty, at one time to write a history of the Apostolic 
 Age, and at another the Life of Christ, but always 
 returning to his General History, as the one great 
 task appointed him of God to do. As I parted 
 with him in the spring of 1848, my heart drawn 
 out toward him with an admiring tenderness and 
 reverence, such as I had never experienced toward 
 any other living scholar, I could not forbear 
 assuring him, that many prayers would go up for 
 him in America as well as in Europe, that he might 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER. 14:5 
 
 be spared to complete Ms work. " I hope it," lie 
 replied, " but that must be as God wills." But 
 this wish of his heart was denied him. He died in 
 Berlin on Sunday, July 14th, 1850, in the midst of 
 his unfinished labors. He had published what 
 brings us down to the year 1294, and was then at 
 work upon the centuries which lie between that 
 and the Reformation. The posthumous volume, 
 edited by Schneider, still falls short, by nearly a 
 hundred years, of that important epoch. Had he 
 been spared to proceed thus far, we had been the 
 better reconciled to his dying; although his 
 countrymen were anxious to have him turn his 
 peculiar powers upon the Reformation itself, and 
 the world- wide movements which have grown out 
 of it. But this was not to be. He died, leaving no 
 one to take his mantle ; died, too, somewhat pre- 
 maturely, for he was only sixty-one years old. 
 
 Of his personal appearance, which was altogether 
 unique, descriptions have frequently been given. 
 He was small of stature, his height not exceeding 
 five feet and four or five inches. He had studied 
 so hard, exercised so little, eaten so sparingly and 
 suffered so much from imperfect health, that his 
 muscles seemed entirely relaxed and flabby. His 
 hand, when he gave it in salutation or in parting, 
 was like that of a sick child. But his hair remained 
 
 1 
 
146 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 as black as a raven. His brows were shaggy and 
 overhanging, and his black eyes, when ever and 
 anon the drooping lids were lifted away from them, 
 shot forth a very deep and searching light. As 
 one. sat over against him, watching his words, he 
 might easily imagine himself gazing through those 
 glowing orbs back into the ages. His study, up 
 two flights of stairs, overlooking one of the public 
 squares of the city, was a place to be remembered. 
 Its furniture was a plain round table, a standing- 
 desk, an old sofa and two or three chairs. High up 
 on the walls between the book-shelves and the 
 ceiling, nearly all round the room, hung engraved 
 portraits of distinguished men ; and he showed his 
 noble catholicity of spirit, in having the great men 
 of his native land all there, without regard to their 
 peculiar schools and sentiments. His library con- 
 tained about 4,000 volumes. They filled the room ; 
 table, chairs and sofa were loaded with them ; they 
 lay in stacks upon the floor ; and, in some cases, 
 were piled, two or three tiers deep, into the shelves 
 against the walls. To anybody else the library 
 would have been a chaos ; but he could lay his 
 hand at once upon any book he wished for. It was 
 in this room, thus crammed with books, that he 
 used to entertain the little parties he invited to sup 
 with him. The repast was always frugal ; the con- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER. 147 
 
 versation, on his part, such as might have gone into 
 print. A man-servant brought in the refreshments 
 on a tray; or, sometimes, one of his pupils 
 officiated. His only sister, who kept house for him 
 during the greater part of his life, never made her 
 appearance at these exclusively masculine enter- 
 tainments. He himself rarely paid any attention 
 to the progress of the meal, but seemed to be as 
 much a visitor as any of his guests. The little he 
 needed was soon dispatched, and his thoughts were 
 again afloat, sounding along from theme to theme. 
 
 He never married, and, at the time I speak of, 
 was almost alone in the world. Neither father, nor 
 mother, nor any other near relative remained to 
 him, save his sister, Johanna, whose care of him 
 had need to be almost maternal. Well-nigh every 
 day in the year these two might be seen walking 
 out together to take the air. They went always 
 arm in arm, a beautiful embodiment of the tender- 
 est affection. Hardly the king himself attracted 
 more attention in the street. Scarcely a person he 
 met failed to raise his hat and salute the venerable 
 scholar with the heartiest good will. As he was 
 both short-sighted and suffering from diseased 
 vision, he had to depend upon his sister to know 
 who bowed to him ; and it was amusing to see his 
 returning salutation bestowed, in almost every 
 
148 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 instance, a little too late. Many anecdotes were 
 afloat in Berlin, and indeed all over Germany, 
 going to illustrate his habits of abstraction and 
 absent-mindedness, some of which no doubt were 
 true, and all of which were likely enough to have 
 been so. 
 
 An exact description of his manners in the 
 lecture-room would, by any one who never saw 
 him, be thought a caricature. He entered the 
 room with his eyes upon the floor, as if feeling his 
 way ; a student stood ready to take his hat and 
 overcoat and hang them up in their places ; while 
 he went directly to his stand a high pine desk ; 
 threw his left elbow upon it ; dropped his head so 
 low that his eyes could not be seen ; tilted the desk 
 over on its front legs, so that you expected every 
 moment to see it pitching forward into the lecture- 
 room, with the lecturer after it; and, seizing a 
 quill, always provided for the purpose, began at 
 once to speak, and to twist and twirl and tear in 
 pieces the quill. Sometimes, in the heat of his 
 discourse, he would suddenly jerk up his head, 
 whirl entirely round with his face to the wall and 
 his back to the audience, and then as suddenly 
 whirl back again, his words all the while pouring 
 along in a perfect torrent of involved and fervent 
 thought. Add to this a constant writhing and 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDEK. 149 
 
 swinging of his legs, with a frequent slight spitting, 
 produced by a chronic weakness of the salivary 
 glands, and you have a picture of the outward 
 man known in Berlin as John "William Augustus 
 Neander ; to be known in history as one of the 
 most learned, revered and beloved teachers of our 
 century. 
 
 "While it is indispensable to our full and lively 
 appreciation of Meander that these little things be 
 known of him, no one will be so foolish as to let 
 such accidents and eccentricities of the outward life 
 divert his attention from the grand and rarely 
 equalled manhood which lay behind and beneath 
 them. To give anything like a just estimate of this 
 manhood would be no easy task, however. His 
 native endowments, the attainments he had made in 
 the learning pertaining to his department, and the 
 part he was called to play in the regeneration of Ger- 
 man science and German faith, were all remarkable. 
 From the first glimpse we catch of him, when, at 
 17 years of age, he had given his head and heart 
 to Plato, he strikes us as no ordinary character ; 
 and our wonder deepens at every step, till at last 
 we behold him sinking exhausted amidst his labors, 
 and all Christendom gathered in sorrow around his 
 grave. 
 
 His native instincts, tastes and sympathies were 
 
150 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 all singularly pure and generous. His family 
 attachments were strong. In the latest periods of 
 his life, when she had long been dead, the name of 
 his mother could not be mentioned by him without 
 a visible gush of deep and tender emotion. The 
 loss of his favorite sister, some years before his own 
 departure, almost shattered him. For days he 
 drooped and mourned amongst his books, and could 
 do no work. Only the thought that God had taken 
 her to Himself, and that He doeth all things well, 
 finally availed to quiet him. So of all his friends ; 
 he never forgot and was never false to them. But 
 his special care was bestowed upon the young men 
 of the University, who had gathered about him, in 
 the spirit of a most enthusiastic discipleship, out of 
 all Germany, and indeed out of nearly all Christen- 
 dom. To the last he continued to be a young man 
 himself, as fresh, impulsive and eager, and with as 
 entire a freedom from all appearance of assumption 
 and authority, as though his pupils and he were- 
 merely peers. There was at once a warmth, a 
 blandness and a child-like simplicity of manners, 
 which made him the idol of every heart. And he 
 carried the same amenity of temper into all the 
 theological controversies of his life. He never 
 stooped to ungracious personalities, and never 
 seemed to be in pursuit of victory at the expense 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER. 151 
 
 of truth and fairness. The result was that he was 
 never assailed with personalities in return. Through 
 all the bitterest contentions which raged around him, 
 he was uniformly treated with respect and defer- 
 ence. "Not that men were ignorant of his opinions, 
 or thought him neutral, but because he was felt to 
 be an Israelite indeed, in whom there was no guile. 
 He committed himself to no clique, and allowed no 
 clique to be committed to him. 
 
 In his personal habits he was temperate and fru- 
 gal in the extreme ; though not for the sake of 
 accumulation. His income from his books and lec- 
 tures must have been considerable ; but he gave it 
 nearly all away. Hundreds of indigent students 
 could testify to his generosity, while amongst the 
 poor of the city, there were many pensioners upon 
 his bounty. 
 
 In regard to his intellectual gifts and powers, 
 their peculiar cast has already been intimated. The 
 dominant feature of his genius was its deeply sub- 
 jective and spiritual character. The accidents of a 
 subject never detained him for a moment from his 
 search after the essential and the abiding. Out- 
 ward circumstances were of little interest to him. 
 And in this direction lay the main defect of his 
 mind; it was too exclusively Platonic, subjective 
 and spiritual. Had his profound Germanic intui- 
 
152 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 tiveness of vision been tempered with a little more 
 of our homely Anglo-Saxon common sense, the com- 
 bination would have been well-nigh perfect. 
 
 What, has just been said of his intellectual pecu- 
 liarities will help us to understand also his religious 
 life. It was preeminently an inward life ; a fire in 
 the very marrow of his being. As it was his own 
 solitary and independent reflection which first turn- 
 ed his feet toward Nazareth and Calvary, so was it 
 by deep and steady communion with his own heart 
 that he advanced in sanctity. The natural and 
 unchanging atmosphere of his life was that of 
 faith and prayer. His religious experience was 
 rooted in peculiarly deep and pungent views of sin. 
 Not that he had gross outward offences : to be 
 ashamed of ; but he felt the law of evil working 
 within him, disturbing his peace; and he longed 
 for the serenity of a child of God. Thus did he 
 learn his need of Christ. His pupils relate with 
 much interest how, on the evening of one of his 
 birth-day festivals, when they were gathered at his 
 house, he spoke to them of his own spiritual infirm- 
 ities, and with trembling voice confessed himself 
 a poor sinner seeking forgiveness through atoning 
 blood. Theologically, he was comparatively indif- 
 ferent in regard to minor points ; but he clung with 
 the tenacity of a martyr's faith to the great essen- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER. 153 
 
 tials of the Gospel. His religious life was therefore 
 at once very fervent and very catholic. Loving 
 Christ with all the ardor of a passion, he loved 
 with a generous latitude of heart all those of every 
 name in whom he discerned Christ's image. The 
 motto adopted by him as best describing his own 
 aim and method, was that of St. Augustine : " Pec- 
 tus est quod facit theologum." It is the heart 
 which makes the theologian. It was a Divine Form, 
 for which he was ever seeking, while he walked 
 about amongst men, as he walked up and down the 
 centuries of our Christian faith, murmuring to him- 
 self: " It is the Lord." 
 
 As a writer of church history, his first great 
 claim to gratitude is on account of the living pulse 
 of faith and love which beats through all his pages. 
 He traces the golden thread of Christian life 
 through the darkest centuries. He does much to 
 save the church of God from reproach, and God's 
 own gracious promise from contempt, by showing 
 how much there has been of Christian grace and 
 truth under the worst forms and in the worst ages. 
 He has thus made his History what he said it 
 should be, " a speaking proof of the Divine power 
 of Christianity, a school of Christian experience, 
 and a voice of edification and warning sounding 
 through all ages for all who are willing to believe." 
 1* 
 
154 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Of the original sources of history, particularly for 
 the earlier centuries, his knowledge was profound, 
 and his use of them masterly. How thorough and 
 how fair he is, can be fully appreciated only by 
 those who explore for themselves the fountains 
 from which he drew his materials. His chief defect 
 is in the matter of form. He had but little dra- 
 matic power. He gives us the inward life, but not 
 the outward stir and shock of history. Nor is he 
 remarkable for analytical sharpness in his delinea- 
 tion of the growth of Christian doctrine. It is in 
 the sphere of experience and life that he succeeds 
 the best. His own doctrinal views were not, at all 
 points, quite up to our English and American 
 standards of orthodoxy. But these points were of 
 minor importance. All that is cardinal was 
 precious to him. With peculiar fidelity did he 
 cling to the Head, which is Christ, and was full of 
 that faith which conquers the world and saves the 
 soul. 
 
 His last days, as described by his friends and 
 pupils, were in marked keeping with his whole 
 career. On Monday, the 8th of July, at 11 o'clock, 
 he lectured at the University. But he had been 
 for some time back much feebler than usual, the 
 weather was sultry and debilitating, and his system 
 was out of tune. His voice failed him two or 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER. 155 
 
 three times in the course of the lecture, and it was 
 only by a desperate struggle that he got to the 
 end ; his strength barely sufficing to bring him 
 home. The impression upon his class was such, 
 that one of the students, turning to his neighbor, 
 said : " This is the last lecture of our Neander." 
 Immediately after dinner, which he scarcely tasted, 
 his reader came. He dictated on his Church 
 History three hours in succession, repressing by 
 force of will the rising groans, his debility all the 
 while increasing. At 5 o'clock the symptoms of a 
 dangerous illness appeared; but he would not 
 abandon his work. His sister, who came to 
 expostulate with him and warn him against further 
 effort, was sent impatiently away. " Let me 
 alone," he said ; " every laborer, I hope, may work 
 if he wishes ; wilt thou not grant me this ?" At 
 seven he was compelled to pause. His reader gone, 
 his first thought was to call back his much loved 
 sister, and say to her: "Be not anxious, dear 
 Jenny, it is passing away; I know my constitu- 
 tion." But his physicians were agreed in the 
 opinion that the very worst was to be feared. They 
 succeeded, however, in subduing the symptoms of 
 the disease, which was a violent cholera, and began 
 to hope. The next morning, having hardly got 
 breath from this first furious attack, he inquired 
 
GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 with touching sadness, "shall I not be able to 
 lecture to-day ?" When answered in the negative, 
 he distinctly demanded that the suspension should 
 be only for that one day. In the afternoon of 
 Tuesday, he called out vehemently for his reader, 
 desired him to go on with Hitter's -Palestine, with 
 which he had been occupied, and impatiently 
 blamed the anxiety of his friends who had dis- 
 missed his assistant too hastily. He then, accord- 
 ing to his daily custom, had another of his pupils 
 read to him the newspaper. He followed the 
 reading with lively attention, making his remarks 
 now of agreement and now of dissent, till at length 
 he fell asleep, and so ended the day's work. Later 
 in the afternoon, while racked with pain, it occurred 
 to him that his sister might think of foregoing sleep 
 on his account, which he begged her not to do. 
 Wednesday he had the newspaper read to him, and 
 made his comments, as usual. Thursday night 
 brought with it a convulsive hiccough. Friday, his 
 spirit was clear, peaceful and full of love. But 
 Friday night extinguished the last hopes of his 
 friends. The pains he endured were excruciating. 
 With an indescribably affecting and deeply tender 
 voice, before which no eye remained tearless, he 
 exclaimed, " Would to God I could sleep." Satur- 
 day he was clamorous for the servant to bring him 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDEK. 157 
 
 his clothes, that he might dress and go about his 
 work. His sister came : " Think, dear August, 
 what thou hast said to me when I have rebelled 
 against the directions of the physician, c lt comes 
 from God, therefore must we acquiesce in it." : 
 "That is true," answered quickly the softened 
 voice, " it all comes from God, and we must thank 
 him for it." During the day he asked to be taken 
 into the study. The sweet sunlight, streaming on 
 his nearly blinded eyes, refreshed and gladdened 
 him. After this, a bath of wine and strengthening 
 herbs was administered, which seemed to do him 
 good. Finding himself amongst his books again, 
 he rose upon the cushions which supported him, 
 and, to the astonishment of all, began a lecture upon 
 the New Testament, and announced for the coming 
 term a course of lectures upon the Gospel of John. 
 At half-past nine, having inquired the hour, he fell 
 asleep. "When he awoke, it was Sunday. There 
 came back a gush of bodily strength, the last 
 leaping of the light before it nickered in the socket. 
 Taking up the thread of his history where he had 
 dropped it two days before, he began to dictate for 
 some one to write. The passage was about the 
 mystics of the 14th and 15th centuries. The 
 concluding sentence was : " So it was in general ; 
 the further development is to follow." Then turn- 
 
158 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 ing to his sister, he said : " I am tired ; let us make 
 ready to go home ;" as though they were some- 
 where on a long and wearisome journey. And 
 then rallying his last energies in one parting word 
 of tenderness to her who was bending over him 
 with a breaking heart, he murmured, " Good 
 night," and died. 
 
 Thus he died with his harness on, not aware, 
 probably, that he was so near his end ; else he 
 might have uttered some dying testimony, which 
 would have passed into the literature of the church 
 to be the comfort of other saints in their mortal 
 agony. But, on his own account, no such dying 
 testimony was required. For thirty-seven years 
 he had stood his ground gallantly in Berlin, 
 witnessing for Christ in the face of a learned 
 skepticism, and he could well afford to pass directly, 
 without an interlude, from the toils and conflicts 
 of earth to the joys and triumphs of the redeemed 
 in heaven. 
 
 His labors had been prodigious. He usually 
 lectured not less than fifteen times a week, pub- 
 lished twenty-five volumes, and left behind him 
 several other volumes nearly ready for the press. 
 His health was never firm. A rheumatic disease 
 lurked in his system from the time of his illness 
 at Gottingen. Three years before he died, this 
 
EECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDEK. 159 
 
 disease settled in his eyes, and made him nearly 
 blind. But against all impediments, lie struggled 
 on, fighting the good fight of faith, patient and 
 resolute, till suddenly his course was finished, and 
 he took his crown. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 BY JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 I. 
 
 THE BEE'S SONG 
 
 Do not tie my wings, 
 Says the honey-bee ; 
 Do not bind my wings, 
 Leave them glad and free. 
 If I fly abroad, 
 If I keep afar, 
 Humming all the day. 
 Where wild blossoms are, 
 'Tis to bring you sweets, 
 Rich as summer joy, 
 Clear as gold and glass ; 
 The divinest toy 
 That the god's have left, 
 Is the pretty hive, 
 Where a maiden reigns, 
 And the busy thrive. 
 
POEMS. 161 
 
 If you bar my way, 
 Your delight is gone, 
 No more honey-gems ; 
 From the heather borne ; 
 No more tiny thefts, 
 From your neighbor's rose, 
 Who were glad to guess 
 Where its sweetness goes. 
 
 Let the man of arts 
 Ply his plane and glass ; 
 Let the vapors rise, 
 Let the liquor pass ; 
 Let the dusky slave 
 Till the southern fields ; 
 Not the task of both 
 Such a treasure yields ; 
 Honey, Pan ordained, 
 Food for gods and men, 
 Only in my way 
 Shall you store again. 
 
 Leave me to my will 
 While the bright days glov 
 While the sleepy flowers 
 Quicken as I go. 
 When the pretty ones 
 
162 GIFfS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Look to me no more, 
 Dead, beneath your feet, 
 Crushed and dabbled o'er ; 
 In my narrow cell 
 I will fold my wing ; 
 Sink in dark and chill, 
 A forgotten thing. 
 
 Can you read the song 
 Of the suppliant bee ? 
 "Tis a poet's soul, 
 Asking liberty. 
 
 II. 
 LIMITATIONS OF BENEVOLENCE. 
 
 " THE beggar boy is none of mine," 
 The reverend doctor strangely said ; 
 
 " I do not walk the streets to pour 
 Chance benedictions on his head. 
 
 " And heaven I thank who made me so. 
 
 That toying with my own dear child, 
 I think not on his shivering limbs, 
 His manners vagabond and wild." 
 
POEMS. 163 
 
 Good friend, unsay that graceless word ! 
 
 I am a mother crowned with joy, 
 And yet I feel a bosom pang 
 
 To pass the little starveling boy. 
 
 His aching flesh, his fevered eyes 
 His piteous stomach, craving meat ; 
 
 His features, nipt of tenderness, 
 And most, his little frozen feet. 
 
 Oft, by my fireside's ruddy glow, 
 I think, how in some noisome den, 
 
 Bred up with curses and with blows, 
 He lives unblest of gods or men. 
 
 I cannot snatch him from his fate, 
 The tribute of my doubting mind 
 
 Drops, torch-like, in the- abyss of ill, 
 That skirts the ways of humankind. 
 
 But, as my heart's desire would leap 
 To help him, recognized of none, 
 
 I thank the God who left him this, 
 For many a precious right foregone. 
 
 My mother, whom I scarcely knew, 
 Bequeathed this bond of love to me ; 
 
 The heart parental thrills for all 
 The children of humanity. 
 
EABTH'S WITNESS. 
 
 BY ALICE B. HAVEN. 
 
 THAT Poet wrongs his soul, whose dreary cry 
 Calls "winds " and " waves," and " burning stars 
 
 of night" 
 To bring our darkness nature's clearer light 
 
 On that just sentence, " Thou shalt surely die ;" 
 
 To track the spirit as it leaves its clay 
 To bring back surety of its future home, 
 Or echo of the voice that calleth " come," 
 
 To prove that it is borne to perfect day. 
 
 Say rather, " winds," who heard the Master speak, 
 And " waves," who by His voice transfixed were 
 
 stayed, 
 And stars that lighted Christ's deep shade 
 
 Your confirmation of our trust we seek. 
 
 Ye know how shadowy Death's dreary prison, 
 Because ye witnessed Christ our life, up risen. 
 
 THE WILLOWS, 1858. 
 
 161 
 
THE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING. 
 
 BY THE REV. HENRY W. BELLOWS, D.D. 
 
 WHEN cellar and barn and storehouse were filled 
 with food for the coming winter, our pious New 
 England forefathers used their first common leisure 
 to make public and joyful acknowledgment of their 
 blessings to the God of sunshine and of rain; to 
 Him, who clothes the valleys with corn, and the 
 hills with flocks. Almost universally, they placed 
 the meeting-houses, where these thanks were ren- 
 dered, on the hill-top commanding the widest view 
 of the fields from which their prosperity sprung, 
 and nearest to the sky, whence their blessings came. 
 Their modest homes were sheltered from the winds 
 by the barns that held their wealth and over- 
 shadowed their low dwellings. The earth was 
 precious in their eyes, as the source of their living. 
 They could spare no fertile or sheltered spot, even 
 for the burial-ground, but economically laid it out 
 in the sand, or on the bleak hill- side ; while they 
 threw away no fencing on the house of God, but 
 
 1G5 
 
166 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 jealously preserved that costly distinction for their 
 arable lands and orchards. They were farmers ; 
 and it was no unmeaning thing for them to keep 
 the harvest feast. They had prayed in drought, 
 with all faith and fervor, for the blessing of rain ; 
 in seed-time, for the favoring sunshine and soft 
 showers ; and in harvest, that blight and frost might 
 spare their corn ; and when in the late autumn, all 
 their prayers had been heard, and their hands and 
 homes were crowned with plenty, their thanks- 
 giving anthem was an incense of the heart, and 
 their honored pastors knew not how to pour out a 
 flood of gratitude too copious for the thankful 
 people's " Amen." A full hour's prayer wearied 
 not their patient knees ; and the sermon, with its 
 sixteenthly, finally, and to conclude (before the 
 improvement, itself a modern sermon in length), did 
 not outmeasure the people's honest sense of their 
 grounds of thankfulness to God. 
 
 The landscape appropriate to thanksgiving is not 
 furnished by brick walls and stone pavements. It 
 is a rural festival. The smoke from scattered 
 cottages should be slowly curling its way through 
 frosty air. As we look forth from the low porch 
 of the homestead, the ground lightly covered with 
 snow, stretches off to a not distant horizon, broken 
 irregularly with hills, clothed in spots with ever- 
 
1'HE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING. 167 
 
 greens, but oftener with bare woods. The distant 
 and infrequent sleigh-bells, with the smart crack of 
 the rifle from the shooting match in the hollow, 
 strike percussively upon the ear. Yast piles of 
 fuel, part neatly corded, part lying in huge logs, 
 with heaps of brush, barricade the brown, paintless 
 farmhouses. Swine, hanging by the ham-strings 
 in the neighboring shed ; the barn-yard speckled 
 with the ruffled poultry, some sedate with recent 
 bereavement, others cackling with a dim sense of 
 temporary reprieve ; the rough-coated steer butting 
 in the fold, where the timid sheep huddle together 
 in the corner; little boys on a single skate improv- 
 ing the newly frozen horse-pond these furnish the 
 foreground of the picture during the earlier hours 
 of the morning. Later in the day, without, the 
 sound of church bells, the farmers' pungs, or the 
 double sleighs, with incredible numbers stowed in 
 their strawed bottoms, drive up to the meeting- 
 house door. An occasional wagon from the hills, 
 from which the snow has blown, with the crunch- 
 ing, whistling sound of wheels upon snow, sets 
 the teeth of the crowd in the porch on edge, as it 
 grinds its way to the stone steps to deposit its load. 
 Great white coats, with seven or eight capes apiece, 
 dismount, and muffs and moccasins each a whole 
 bearskin follow. Long stoves, with live coals 
 
168 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 got at the neighboring houses, occasionally join the 
 procession. Few come afoot ; for our pious ances- 
 tors seemed to think it as much a part of their 
 religion to fill the family horse-shed as the family 
 pew ; and in good weather would send a mile to 
 pasture for the horses to drive a half mile to 
 meeting. But, meeting out, the parson's prayer 
 and sermon said, the choir's ambitious anthem 
 lustily sung, the politics of the prayer, and the 
 politics of the sermon, both summarily criticised, 
 approved, condemned, partly with looks and winks, 
 and partly with loud words in the porch, there is 
 now a little space for kind inquiries after the absent, 
 the sick, and the poor ; a few solitary spinsters, and 
 one old soldier, lame and indigent, are seized on 
 and carried off to homes, where certain blessed 
 Mothers in Israel, are wont to keep a vacant chair 
 for a poor soul that might feel desolate if left alone 
 on this sociable day. Some full-handed visits are 
 paid on the way home to scattered and rickety 
 houses; but by one o'clock, all the people are 
 beneath their own roofs, never so attractive as on 
 this glorious day. The married children from the 
 neighboring towns have come home, and the old 
 house is full. 
 
 The great event of the day is at hand. It is din- 
 ner-time. The table of unnatural length, narrower 
 
THE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING. 169 
 
 at one end, where it has been eked out for the occa- 
 sion, groans with the choicest gifts of the year. 
 There is but one course, but that possesses infinite 
 variety and reckless profusion. For one day, at 
 least, the doctrine of an apostle is in full honor. 
 " For every creature of God is good, and nothing 
 to be refused, if it be received with thanksgiving." 
 The long grace sanctifies the feast with the word of 
 God and with prayer. The elders and males are 
 distributed to front the substantiate of the board 
 the round of arlarmode^ the brown crisp pig with 
 an apple in his mouth, the great turkey who has 
 frightened the little red-cloaked girls and saucy 
 pugs for months past, the chicken-pie with infinite 
 crimping and stars and knobs, decorating its snowy 
 face. The mothers and daughters are placed over 
 against the puddings and pies, which have exer- 
 cised their ambition for weeks vying with rival 
 housekeepers in the number and variety of sorts 
 and which, after the faint impression made on 
 them to-day, shall be found for a month, filling the 
 shelves of spare-closets and lending a delicious 
 though slightly musty odor to the best ward- 
 robe of the family. Children of all ages to the 
 toddling darling, the last babe of the youngest 
 daughter fill up the interstices, while the few 
 books in the house are barely sufficient to bring the 
 
 8 
 
170 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 little ones in their low chairs to an effective level 
 with the table. Incredible stowage having been 
 effected, the sleepy after-dinner hours are somewhat 
 heavily passed ; but with the lamps and the tea- 
 board, sociability revives. The evening passes 
 among the old people, with chequers and back-gam- 
 mon. Puss-in-the-corner, the game of forfeits blind- 
 man's-buff entertain the young folks. Apples, nuts 
 and cider come in at nine o'clock, and perhaps a 
 mug of flip but it is rather for form's sake than 
 for appetite. At ten o'clock the fire is raked up, 
 and the household is a-bed. Excepting some bad- 
 dreams, Thanksgiving day is over. 
 
SONG OF THE AKCHANGELS 
 
 (FBOM GOETHE'S FAUST.) 
 BY GEORGE P. MARSH. 
 
 RAPHAEL. 
 
 E'EN as at first, in rival song 
 
 Of brother orbs, still chimes the SUN, 
 And his appointed path along 
 
 Rolls with harmonious thundertone ; 
 With strength the sight doth Angels fill, 
 
 Though none can solve its law divine ; 
 Creation's wonders glorious still, 
 
 As erst they shone, eternal shine. 
 
 GABRIEL. 
 
 THE gorgeous EARTH doth whirl for aye 
 In swift, sublime, mysterious flight, 
 
 And alternates elysian day 
 
 "With deep, chaotic, shuddering night ; 
 
 With swelling billows foams the sea, 
 Chafing the cliff's deep-rooted base, 
 
 While sea and cliff both hurrying flee 
 
 In swift, eternal, circling race. 
 
 in 
 
172 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 MICHAEL. 
 
 AND howling TEMPESTS scour amain 
 From sea to land, from land to sea, 
 
 And, raging, weave around a chain 
 Of deepest, wildest energy ; 
 
 The scathing bolt with flashing glare 
 Precedes the pealing thunder's way ; 
 
 And yet Thine Angels, LORD, revere 
 The gentle movement of Thy day. 
 
 TKIO. 
 WITH strength the sight doth Angels fill, 
 
 For power to fathom THEE hath none. 
 . The works of Thy supernal will 
 
 Still glorious shine, as erst they shone. 
 
V. NIGHT AND DAY AT YALPAEAISO. 
 
 BY EOBEET TOMES. 
 
 As night came on, the steamer doubled the 
 rocky cape, and, steaming with all its engine force, 
 stood right for Valparaiso. Her speed soon slack- 
 ened, and she began to feel her way cautiously, 
 going ahead, backing, turning, and coining to a full 
 stop. " Let go the anchor," was now the word, fol- 
 lowed by a hoarse rumble of the chains and a noisy 
 burst of steam. A fleet of shadowy ships and 
 small craft surrounded us, and ahead glimmered 
 the lights of the city, which, irregularly scattered 
 about the dark hill-sides, appeared in the night like 
 so many stars dimly twinkling through a broken 
 rain cloud. With the quick instinct of the pre- 
 sence of a stranger, the dogs became at once 
 conscious of our arrival, and began a noisy welcome 
 of barks and yelps, which continued throughout the 
 night. The port officials in tarnished gilt came 
 alongside the steamer, had their talk with the cap- 
 tain and pushed off again. Two or three gusty-look- 
 
 173 
 
174: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 ing sea-captains boarded us, gave their rough 
 grasps of welcome, drank off their stiff supplies of 
 grog, and pulled back to their ships. Some few of 
 the more impatient of our comrades turned out from 
 the bottom of their trunks their " best," and went 
 ashore in glossy coats and shining boots. Most of 
 us, however, awaited the coming of the morning. 
 
 I was up on deck at the earliest dawn of day. 
 The steamer was at anchor close before the city, 
 and I looked with no admiring eyes upon its flimsy 
 white-washed houses and wooden spires, scattered 
 aboiit the base and sides of the cindery, earth- 
 quaky hills upon which it is built. There was 
 hardly a blade of grass or tree to be seen anywhere, 
 except where the thriving European and American 
 residents had perched themselves on one of the 
 acclivities. The dwarfed trees here, moreover, 
 all in a row before the little painted bird-cage- 
 looking houses, appeared to have no more life of 
 growth and color in them than so many painted 
 semblances in a toy village. Familiar looking 
 shanties, of the tumble-down sort, built of pine 
 wood and shingles, crowded the ground by the 
 water side, and indeed the low land seemed better 
 suited to their staggering aspect than the steep 
 acclivities. Painted signs with English names and 
 English words, stared familiarly from every building. 
 
A NIGHT AND DAY AT VALPARAISO. 175 
 
 The universal "John Smith" there conspicuously 
 posted his name and his " Bakery." Mine host of 
 the " Hole in the Wall " invited the thirsty in good 
 round Saxon to drink of his " Best Beer on Tap," 
 or his "Bottled Porter," as "you pays your money 
 and take your choice." 
 
 The steamer was enlivened from the earliest hour 
 by the native fishermen, who, with their fleet of 
 canoes, had sought the shades of our dark hull, to 
 protect them from the hot sun, which seemed to be 
 fairly simmering the waters of the bay. They were 
 making most miraculous draughts of fishes. I watch- 
 ed one little fellow. He was hardly a dozen years 
 of age, 'but he plied his trade with such skill and 
 enterprise, that he nearly filled his canoe during the 
 half hour I was watching him. It was terrible to 
 see with what intense energy and cruelty the little 
 yellow devil, with bared arms blooded to the 
 shoulders, pounced upon his prey. With a quick 
 jerk he pulled his fish in, then clutching it with one 
 hand and thrusting the fingers of the other with the 
 prompt ferocity of a young tiger into the panting 
 gills, he tore oif with a single wrench the head, and 
 threw the body, yet quivering with life, among the 
 lifeless heap of his victims lying at the bottom of 
 his boat. The sea gulls, hovering about shrieking 
 shrilly and pouncing upon the heads and entrails as 
 
176 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 they were thrown into the water, fighting over 
 them and gulping them down with hungry voracity, 
 seemed to heighten this picture of the " Gentle art 
 of angling." 
 
 The return of the steward and chaplain with a 
 boat load of " marketing " was a welcome surprise. 
 The parson, whose unquestionable taste in the aesthe- 
 tics of eating had been wisely secured by the 
 steward, dilated with great gusto upon the juicy 
 beefsteaks, the freshness of the fish, and the rich- 
 ness of the fruit. When, at breakfast, we enjoyed 
 as salt-sea voyagers only could, the stores of fresh 
 meat, fresh eggs, fresh butter, fresh milk, juicy 
 grapes, white and purple, with the morning's bloom 
 still upon them, the peaches, the apples, the pears, 
 the tumas (prickly pear fruit) the melons, musk and 
 water, we acknowledged his reverence's judgment, 
 and gratefully thanked him for his services. 
 
 On landing to take a look at the town, I made 
 my way through a throng of boatmen, of pictu- 
 resque native fruitsellers and loitering sailors, to 
 the chief business street, which ran along the shore. 
 The stores, which were mainly under the pro- 
 prietorship of the foreign merchants, had a rich, 
 thriving look, being crammed full of miscellaneous 
 goods, while the sidewalks were heaped with bales 
 and boxes. Odd-looking carts moved slowly along 
 
A NIGHT AND DAY AT VALPARAISO. 177 
 
 with their drivers in picturesque costume lying in 
 full length upon their loads, smoking their ciga- 
 rettes, and looking wondrously lazy and happy. 
 Stately Chilians from the interior, dressed in 
 genuine Fra Diavolo style, rode by on their pran- 
 cing horses, all glistening and jingling with silver. 
 There were abundant loungers about, in the cool 
 shade of every corner and projecting roof. The 
 listless men with the universal poncho an oblong 
 mantle of variegated cotton or woollen, through a 
 hole in the centre of which the head is thrust, 
 allowing the garment to hang in folds about the 
 person looked as if they had been roused suddenly 
 from their beds, and not finding their coats at 
 hand, had walked out with their coverlets over 
 their shoulders. The women, too, in their loose 
 dresses and with shawls thrown carelessly over 
 their heads, had a very bed-chamber look. They 
 were mostly pretty brunettes, with large, slumber- 
 ing black eyes, which, however, were sufficiently 
 awake to ogle effectively. 
 
 Having a letter of introduction to present, I 
 entered the counting-house of the merchant whose 
 acquaintance I sought. I found him boxed off at 
 the further end of his long, heaped-up warehouse. 
 He had closed his ledger, lighted his cigar, and 
 had just filled his glass from a bottle of wine which 
 8* 
 
178 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 stood on the window-sill, when I entered. I was 
 not surprised, under such provocation to good 
 fellowship, to receive a warm welcome. My mer- 
 cantile friend was in the best possible humor, for 
 times", he said, were very good. Every one at 
 Valparaiso was making his fortune. It was the 
 epoch of the gold excitement. Large fortunes had 
 already been made. The contents of the shops ana 
 warehouses had, as soon as the gold discovery 
 became known, been emptied into every vessel in 
 the harbor, and sent to San Francisco. The lucky 
 speculators had gained five or six hundred per cent, 
 profit for their ventures of preserved and dried 
 fruits, champagne, other wines and liquors, Madeira 
 nuts and the most paltry stuff imaginable. In five 
 months some of the Valparaiso merchants had 
 cleared five hundred thousand dollars. The ex- 
 citement was still unabated. Shippers were still 
 loading and dispatching their goods daily for San 
 Francisco. Many were going there themselves, 
 and hardly a clerk could be kept at Valparaiso at 
 any salary, however large. 
 
 The day was brilliantly bright, and the air so 
 pure and bracing that it did the lungs good to 
 breathe. So I made my way out of counting-house 
 and street for a walk. I ascended the dry, crumb- 
 ling hills which with long, deep gullies and breaks 
 
A NIGHT AND DAT AT VALPARAISO. 179 
 
 in them, and friable soil, looked as if they were 
 ready to tumble into pieces at the first shake of one 
 of those earthquakes so frequent in the country. 
 On the road, chained gangs of surly convicts were 
 at work, and some smart-looking soldiers, in blue 
 and white, came marching along! Caravans of 
 mules, laden with goods, produce and water casks, 
 trotted on, and here and there rode a dashing Chi- 
 lian cavalier on his prancing steed, or a dapper citi- 
 zen on his steady cob. In a ravine between the 
 dry hills there trickled the smallest possible stream. 
 Above, some water carriers were slowly filling their 
 casks, while the mules patiently waited for their 
 burdens ; below, was a throng of washerwomen, 
 beating their clothes upon the stones, just moistened 
 by the scant water which flowed over them, and 
 interchanging Spanish Billingsgate with each other 
 and a gang of man-of-war sailors. 
 
 Frightened away by the stony stare of the Eng- 
 lish occupant from an imposing-looking residence 
 on the top of the hill, I crossed the road and entered 
 the private hospital. Around a quadrangle, laid 
 out in gardens beds there was a range of low two 
 story buildings. Some bleached sailors, in duck 
 trowsers and blue jackets, were about ; one was 
 reading a song-book, another his Bible, and a third 
 was busily making a marine swab out of ropes' ends. 
 
180 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Among the convalescents, out on the balconies to 
 catch a breath of the pure air, was a naval officer in a 
 gilt cap, reading a novel ; and all looked snug and 
 encouraging. On entering, I asked the attendant, a 
 gaunt-looking Englishman, who in his musty black 
 suit, was not unlike a carrion crow or a turkey buz- 
 zard, whether there was any serious case of illness 
 in the hospital. "There are two consumptives," 
 said he, " who've been a deceiving us for the last two 
 weeks." He seemed to think it a very base fraud 
 that these two consumptives had not died when he 
 and the doctor thought it was their duty to do so, 
 some fortnight before. 
 
 Coming from the one bill to another, I reached a 
 miserable quarter of the town, called by the sailors 
 the "foretop." It was composed of rude mud hovels, 
 stuffed with a population of half-breeds, a half-naked 
 gipsy-looking people, grovelling in the dirt, and brea- 
 thing an atmosphere reeking with the stench of filth, 
 garlic and frying fat. I was glad to escape, and get 
 to the " Star Hotel," where, refreshing myself with 
 a chop and brown stout, I could fancy myself, with 
 hardly an effort of the imagination, taking my dinner 
 at an ordinary in the Strand. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 BY THE REV. THEODORE PARKER. 
 I. 
 
 TWO LOVERS. 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OF MOHRIKB.) 
 
 A LIGHT skiff swam on Danube's tide, 
 Where sat a bridegroom and his bride, 
 He this side and she that side. 
 
 Quoth she, " Heart's dearest, tell to me, 
 What wedding-gift shall I give thee ?" 
 
 Upward her little sleeve she strips, 
 And in the water briskly dips. 
 
 The young man did the same straightway, 
 And played with her and laughed so gay. 
 
 " Ah, give to me, Dame Danube fair, 
 Some pretty toy for my love to wear I" 
 
 181 
 
182 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 She drew therefrom a shining blade, 
 For which the youth so long had prayed. 
 
 The bridegroom, what holds he in hand ? 
 Of milk-white pearls a precious band. 
 
 He twines it round her raven hair ; 
 She looked how like a princess there ! 
 
 " Oh, give to me, Dame Danube fair, 
 Some pretty toy for my love to wear !" 
 
 A second time her arm dips in, 
 A glittering helm of steel to win. 
 
 The youth, o'erjoyed the prize to view, 
 Brings her a golden comb thereto. 
 
 A third time she in the water dips. 
 Ah woe! from out the skiff she slips. 
 
 He leaps for her and grasps straightway 
 Dame Danube tears them both away. 
 
 The dame began her gifts to rue 
 The youth must die, the maiden too ! 
 
 The little skiff floats down alone, 
 Behind the hills soon sinks the sun. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 183 
 
 And when the moon was overhead, 
 To land the lovers floated dead, 
 He this side and she that side ! 
 
 II. 
 THE FISHER-MAIDEN. 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.) 
 
 THOU handsome fisher-maiden, 
 Push thy canoe to land ; 
 
 Come and sit down beside me 
 We'll talk, love, hand in hand. 
 
 Thy head lay on my bosom, 
 
 Be not afraid of me, 
 For careless thou confidest 
 
 Each day in the wild sea. 
 
 My heart is like the ocean, 
 Has storm, and ebb, and flow ; 
 
 And many pearls so handsome 
 Kest in its deeps below. 
 
184 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 III. 
 MY CHILD WHEN WE WEEE CHILDEEN. 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.) 
 
 MY child when we were children, 
 Two children small and gay, 
 
 "We crept into the hen-house 
 And hid us under the hay. 
 
 We crowed, as do the cockerils, 
 When people passed the road, 
 
 " Kikeriki /" and they fancied 
 It was the cock that crowed. 
 
 The chests which lay in the court-yard, 
 We papered them so fair, 
 
 Making a house right famous, 
 And dwelt together there. 
 
 The old cat of our neighbor, 
 
 Came oft to make a call ; 
 We made her bows and courtesies, 
 
 And compliments and all. 
 
 We asked with friendly question, 
 How her health was getting on : 
 
 To many an ancient pussy 
 The same we since have done. 
 
TRANSLATIONS. 185 
 
 In sensible discoursing 
 
 We sat like aged men, 
 And told how in our young days 
 
 All things had better been. 
 
 That Truth, Love and Eeligion 
 
 From the earth are vanished quite 
 
 And now so dear is coffee, 
 And money is so tight ! 
 
 But gone are childish gambols, 
 And all things fleeting prove 
 
 Money, the world, our young days, 
 Eeligion, Truth and Love. 
 
PAID FOE BY THE PAGE. 
 
 BY EDWAED S. GOULD. 
 
 THE labourer is worthy of his hire. A man who 
 produces an available u article " for a newspaper or 
 a periodical, is as properly entitled to a pecuniary 
 recompense, as a doctor, or a lawyer, or a clergy- 
 man, for professional services ; or, as a merchant or 
 a mechanic for his transferable property. This is a 
 simple proposition, which nobody disputes. The 
 rate of such compensation must be a matter of 
 agreement. As between author and publisher, 
 custom seems to have fixed on what an arithmeti- 
 cian would call " square measure," as the basis of 
 the bargain; and the question of adjustment is 
 simplified down to " how much by the column, or 
 the page ?" 
 
 This system has its advantages in a business 
 point of view ; because, when the price, or rate, is 
 agreed on, nothing remains but to count the pages. 
 "Whether the publisher or the writer is benefited 
 by this plan of computation, in a literary point 
 of view, may, however, be doubted. 
 
 186 
 
PAID FOB BY* THE PAGE. 187 
 
 A man who is paid by the page for his literary 
 labour, has every inducement but one to expand 
 lines into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and 
 paragraphs into extravagant dimensions. An idea, 
 to him, is a thing to be manufactured into words, 
 each of which has a money value ; and if he can, 
 by that simplest of all processes a verbal dilution 
 give to one idea the expansive power of twelve ; 
 if he can manage to spread over six pages what 
 would be much better said in half a page, he gains 
 twelve prices for his commodity, instead of one ; 
 and he sacrifices nothing but the quality of his 
 commodity and that is no sacrifice, so long as his 
 publisher and his readers do not detect it. 
 
 When a man writes for reputation, he has a very 
 different task before him ; for no one will gain high 
 and permanent rank as an author, unless his ideas 
 bear some tolerable proportion to his words. He 
 who aims to write welly will avoid diffuseness. 
 Multuin inparvo will be his first consideration ; and 
 if he achieves that, he will have secured one of the 
 prime requisites of literary fame. 
 . In the earlier days of our republic, a discussion 
 was held by several of the prominent statesmen of 
 the period, on the expediency of extending the 
 right of suffrage to others than freeholders. Some 
 of the debaters made long speeches ; others made 
 
188 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 short ones. At length, Mr. JAY was called on for 
 his views of the matter. His brief response was : 
 " Gentlemen, in my opinion, those who own the coun- 
 try ought to rule it." If that distinguished patriot 
 had- been writing for the bleeding Kansas Quarterly, 
 at the rate of a dollar a page, he would probably have 
 expanded this remark. He might have written thus : 
 " Every man is born free and independent ; or, 
 if he is not, he ought to be. E pluribus unum. 
 He is, moreover, the natural proprietor of the soil ; 
 for the soil, without him, is nothing worth. He 
 came from the soil ; he lives on the soil ; and he 
 must return to the soil. De gustibus, non est dispu- 
 tandum. So much for man in his natural state, 
 breathing his natural air, surrounded by his natural 
 horizon, and luxuriating in his natural prerogatives. 
 But this is a very limited view of the question. Man 
 is expansive, aggressive, acquisitive. Vox populi, 
 vox Dei. Having acquired, he wills to acquire. Ac- 
 quisition suggests acquisition. Conquest promotes 
 conquest. And, speaking of conquests, the greatest 
 of all conquests is that which a man obtains over him- 
 self provided always that he does obtain it. This 
 secured, he may consider himself up to anything. 
 Arma virumque cano. Owning the soil by right of 
 possession; owning himself by right of conquest; 
 and, being about to establish a form of government 
 
PAID FOR BY THE PAGE. 189 
 
 conformable to his own views of right and wrong ; 
 let him protect the right, confound the wrong, and 
 make his own selection of subordinate officers. 
 Mus cucwrrit plenum sed" 
 
 This, by way of illustration. The Jay style 
 sounds the best: the dollar-a-page style pays the 
 best. But the dollar-a-page system is a very bad 
 one for the well-being of our newspaper and 
 periodical literature, simply because the chief 
 inducement is on the wrong side. If an author 
 receives twice as much pay for a page as for half a 
 page, he will write a page as a matter of course ; 
 and, as a matter of course, the quality of what he 
 writes will be depreciated in geometrical propor- 
 tion. For the same thing, said in few words, is ten 
 times more effectual than when said in many 
 words. 
 
 No doubt, different subjects require different 
 handling, and more space is needed for some than 
 for others. An essay is not necessarily too long 
 because it fills five columns, or fifty pages; but 
 periodical and newspaper writing demands com- 
 pactness, conciseness, concentration; and the fact 
 of being' paid by measurement, is a writer's ever- 
 present temptation to disregard this demand. 
 
 The conceit of estimating the value of an article 
 by its length and rating the longest at the highest 
 
190 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 price, is about as wise as to estimate a man by his 
 inches instead of his intellect. 
 
 Certain names there are in the literary world, 
 which cany great weight in a reader's regard, 
 independently of the quality of the contributions. 
 If a Sir Walter Scott were to write for the North 
 American Review, he would temporarily elevate 
 the reputation of the Review, however carelessly 
 he might throw his sentences together. But, 
 theoretically, the articles in our periodical litera- 
 ture are anonymous ; and, practically, they stand 
 on their intrinsic merits. And it is out of the 
 question that a system which offers a money 
 premium for the worst fault in periodical writing 
 to wit, prolixity should not deteriorate the charac- 
 ter of such writing. 
 
 Much more might be said on this subject ; but, 
 to the wise, a word is sufficient. And it would ill 
 become one who is endeavouring to recommend 
 conciseness, to disfigure that very endeavour by 
 diffuseness. 
 
WORDS FOE MUSIC 
 
 BY GEOEGE P. MOEEIS. 
 
 I KNEW a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye, 
 
 Who was born in the shade 
 
 The witch-hazel-tree made, 
 
 Where the brook sang a song 
 
 All the summer-day long, 
 And the moments, like birdlings went by, 
 
 Like the birdlings the moments new by. 
 
 n. 
 
 I knew a fair maid, soul enchanting in grace, 
 
 Who replied to my vow, 
 
 !Neath the hazel-tree bough : 
 
 " Like the brook to the sea, 
 
 Oh, I yearn, love, for thee." 
 And she hid in my bosom her face 
 
 In my bosom her beautiful face. 
 
 191 
 
192 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 m. 
 
 I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide ; 
 Wooed and won in the shade 
 The witch-hazel tree made, 
 Where the brook sings its song 
 All the summer day long, 
 
 And the moments in harmony glide, 
 
 Like our lives they in harmony glide. 
 
"THE CHRISTIAN GBEATNESS." 
 
 (PASSAGES FROM A MANUSCRIPT SERMON.) 
 BY THE EEV. OEVILLE DEWET, D.D. 
 
 THE OFFERING OF CONTRITION. 
 
 THAT deepest lowliness of all the prostration 
 before God, the prostration in penitence is the 
 highest honor that humanity can achieve. It is 
 the first great cardinal requisition in the Gospel; 
 and it is not meant to degrade, but to exalt us. 
 Self-condemnation is the loftiest testimony that can 
 be given to virtue. It is a testimony paid at the 
 expense of all our pride. It is no ordinary offering. 
 A man may sacrifice his life to what he calls 
 honor, or conceives to be patriotism, who never 
 paid the homage of an honest tear for his own 
 faults. That was a beautiful idea of the poet, who 
 made the boon that was to restore a wandering 
 shade to the bliss of humanity a boon sought 
 through all the realm of nature and existence to 
 consist, not in wealth or splendor, not in regal 
 9 193 
 
194: GIFTS OP GENIUS. 
 
 mercy or canonized glory, but in a tear of peni- 
 tence. Temple and altar, charity and pity, and 
 martyrdom, sunk before that. 
 
 I have seen the magnificence of all ceremonial in 
 worship ; and this was the thought that struck me 
 then. Permit me to describe the scene, and to 
 express the thought that rose in my mind, as I 
 gazed upon it. It was in the great cathedral 
 church of the world ; and it brings a kind of 
 religious impression over my mind to recall its 
 awfulness and majesty. Above, far above me, rose 
 a dome, gilded and covered with mosaic pictures, 
 and vast as the pantheon of old Home ; the four 
 pillars which supported it, each of them as large as 
 many of our churches; and the entire mass, lifted 
 to five times the height of this building its own 
 height swelling far beyond; no dome so sublime 
 but that of heaven was ever spread above mortal 
 eye. And beyond this dome, beneath which I 
 stood, stretched away into dimness and obscurity 
 the mighty roofing of this stupendous temple 
 arches behind arches, fretted with gold, and touched 
 with the rays of the morning sun. Around me, a 
 wilderness of marble; with colors as variegated 
 and rich as our autumnal woods ; columns, pillars, 
 altars, tombs, statues, pictures set in ever-during 
 stone; objects to strike the beholder with never- 
 
"THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS."' 195 
 
 ceasing wonder. And on this mighty pavement, 
 stood a multitude of many thousands ; and through 
 bright lines of soldiery, stretching far down the 
 majestic nave, slowly advanced a solemn and 
 stately procession, clothed with purple, and crim- 
 son, and white, and blazing with rubies and 
 diamonds; slowly it advanced amidst kneeling 
 crowds and strains of heavenly music; and so it 
 compassed about the altar of God, to perform the 
 great commemorative rite of Christ's resurrection. 
 Expect from me no sectarian deprecation ; it was a 
 goodly rite, and fitly performed. But, amidst 
 solemn utterances, and lowly prostrations, and 
 pealing anthems, and rising incense, and all the 
 surrounding magnificence of the scene, shall I tell 
 you what was my thought? One sigh of contri- 
 tion, one tear of repentance, one humble prayer to 
 God, though breathed in a crypt of the darkest 
 catacomb, is worth all the splendors of this gorgeous 
 ceremonial and this glorious temple. 
 
 VIRTUE DT OBSCURITY. 
 
 And let me add, that upon many a lowly bosom, 
 the gem of virtue shines more bright and beautiful 
 than it is ever likely to shine in any court of 
 royalty or crown of empire : and this, for the very 
 
196 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 reason that it shines in loneliness and obscurity, 
 and is surrounded with no circlet of gazing and 
 flattering eyes. There are positions in life, in 
 society, where all loveliness is seen and noted; 
 chronicled in men's admiring comments, and per- 
 haps celebrated in adulatory sonnets and songs. 
 And well, perhaps, that it is so. 1 would not 
 repress the admiration of society toward the 
 lovely and good. But there is many a lowly 
 cottage, many a lowly bedside of sickness and pain, 
 to which genius brings no offering ; to which the 
 footsteps of the enthusiastic and admiring never 
 come ; to which there is no cheering visitation but 
 the visitation of angels! There is humble toil 
 there is patient assiduity there is noble disinterest- 
 edness there is heroic sacrifice and unshaken truth. 
 The great world passes by, and it toils on in silence ; 
 to its gentle footstep, there are no echoing praises ; 
 around its modest beauty, gathers no circle of ad- 
 mirers. It never thought of honor ; it never asked 
 to be known. Unsung, unrecorded, is the labor of its 
 life, and shall be, till the heavens be no more ; till 
 the great day of revelation comes ; till the great 
 promise of Jesus is fulfilled ; till the last shall be 
 first, and the lowliest shall be loftiest; and the 
 poverty of the world shall be the riches and 
 glory of heaven. 
 
THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN. 
 
 BY LTDIA HTJNTLEY 8IGOUENEY. 
 
 A CHERUB in its mother's arms, 
 Look'd from a casement high 
 
 And pleasure o'er the features stray'd, 
 
 As on his simple organ play'd 
 A boy of Italy. 
 
 So, day by day, his skill he plied, 
 
 With still increasing zeal, 
 For well the glittering coin he knew, 
 Those fairy fingers gladly threw, 
 
 Would buy his frugal meal. 
 
 But then ! alas, there came a change 
 
 Unheeded was his song, 
 And in his upraised, earnest eye 
 There dwelt a silent wonder, why 
 
 The baby slept so long 
 
 197 
 
198 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 That polished brow, those lips of Eosc 
 
 Beneath the flowers were laid 
 But where the music never tires, 
 Amid the white-robed angel choir 
 The happy spirit stray'd. 
 
 Yet lingering at the accustom'd place 
 
 That minstrel ply'd his art, 
 Though its soft symphony of words 
 Convulsed with pain the broken chords 
 Within a mother's heart. 
 
 They told him that the babe was dead 
 
 And could return no more, 
 Dead ! Dead ! to his bewildered ear, 
 A foreign language train'd to hear 
 The sound no import bore. 
 
 At length, by slow degrees, the truth 
 
 O'er his young being stole, 
 And with sad step he went his way 
 No more for that blest babe to play, 
 The tear-drop in his soul. 
 
 City of Washington, May 24, 1858. 
 
THE EEL -KING. 
 
 (FROM THE GERMAN OP GOETHE.) 
 BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. 
 
 BY night through the forest who rideth so fast, 
 While the chill sleet is driving, and fierce roars 
 
 the blast? 
 'Tis the father, who beareth his child through the 
 
 storm, 
 And safe in his mantle has wrapped him from 
 
 harm. 
 
 " My son, why hid'st thy face, as in fear ?" 
 " Oh, father ! see, father ! the Erl-king is near ! 
 The Erl-king it is, with his crown and his 
 
 shroud !" 
 " My boy ! it is naught but a wreatli of the cloud." 
 
 " Oh, pretty child ! come wilt thou go with me ! 
 With many gay sports will 1 gambol with thee ; 
 
 199 
 
200 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 There are flowers of all hues on our fairy strand 
 My mother shall weave thee robes golden and 
 grand." 
 
 " Oh, father ! my father ! and dost thou not hear 
 What the Erl-king is whispering low in mine ear?" 
 
 " Be quiet, my darling ! thy hearing deceives ; 
 'Tis but the wind whistling among the crisp 
 leaves." 
 
 " Oh, beautiful boy ! wilt thou come with me I- 
 
 say! 
 
 My daughters are waiting to join thee at play ! 
 In their arms they shall bear thee through all the 
 
 dark night 
 They shall dance, they shall sing thee to slumber 
 
 so light?" 
 
 " My father ! oh, father ! and dost thou not see 
 Where the Erl-king's daughters are waiting for 
 me?" 
 
 " My child ! 'tis no phantom ! I see it now plain ; 
 'Tis but the grey willow that waves in the rain." 
 
 " Thy sweet face hath charmed me ! I love thee, 
 
 my joy ! 
 
 And com'st thou not willing, I'll seize thee, fair 
 boy!" 
 
THE EKL-KING. 201 
 
 Ob, father ! dear father ! his touch is so cold ! 
 He grasps me ! I cannot escape from his hold !" 
 
 Sore trembled the father, he spurs through the 
 
 wild, 
 
 And folds yet more closely his terrified child ; 
 He reaches his own gate in darkness and dread- 
 Alas ! in his arms lay the fair child dead ! 
 
 9* 
 
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. 
 
 BY THE EEV. SAMUEL OSGOOD, D.D. 
 
 FENELON died at Cambray, January 7, 1715, aged 
 64, some years after the death of Bossuet, his anta- 
 gonist, and shortly before the death of his royal 
 patron and persecutor, Louis XIY. The conscience 
 of Christendom has already judged between the 
 two parties. Never was the spirit of the good arch- 
 bishop more powerful than now. Whilst ambitious 
 ecclesiastics may honor more the name of Bossuet, 
 the heart of France has embalmed in its affections 
 the name of his victim, and our common humanity 
 has incorporated him into its body. When Fene- 
 lon's remains were discovered in 1804, the French 
 people shouted with joy that Jacobinism had not 
 scattered his ashes, and a monument to his memory 
 was forthwith decreed by Napoleon. In 1826, his 
 statue was erected in Cambray, and three years 
 after, a memorial more eloquent than any statue, a 
 selection from his works, exhibiting the leading fea- 
 tures of his mind, bore witness of his power and 
 
 202 
 
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. 203 
 
 goodness to this western world. The graceful 
 monument which the wife of Follen thus reared to 
 his memory was crowned by the hand of Channing 
 with a garland that as yet has shown no trace of 
 decay. 
 
 To any conversant with that little work, or with 
 the larger productions of Fenelon's mind, need I 
 say a single word of tribute to his character or gifts ? 
 Yet something must be said to show the compass of 
 his character, for common eulogium is too indiscri- 
 minate in praise, exaggerating certain amiable 
 graces at the expense of more commanding virtues. 
 
 He was remarkable for the harmony of his vari- 
 ous qualities. In his intellect, reason, understand- 
 ing, fancy, imagination, were balanced in an almost 
 unexampled degree. The equilibrium of his cha- 
 racter showed itself alike in the exquisite propriety 
 of his writings and the careful and generous eco- 
 nomy of his substance. He died without property 
 and without debt. Some critics have denied him 
 the praise of philosophical depth. They should 
 rather say, that his love of prying analytically into 
 the secret principles of things was counterbalanced 
 by the desire to exhibit principles in practical com- 
 bination, and by his preference of truth and virtue 
 in its living portraiture to moral anatomizing or 
 metaphysical dissection. He could grapple wisely 
 
204 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 with the fatalism of Malebranche and the pantheism 
 of Spinosa, as his controversial works show; he 
 could hold an even argument with the terrible Bos- 
 suet on the essence of Christianity. He preferred, 
 however, to exhibit under forms far more winning 
 than controversy, his views of human agency, divine 
 power, and Christian love. The beautiful structure 
 of his narratives, dialogues, and letters, is not the 
 graceful cloak that hides a poverty of philosophical 
 ideas. It is like the covering which the Creator 
 has thrown around the human frame, not to dis- 
 guise its emptiness, but to incase its energies, and 
 to ease and beautify its action. With this reserva- 
 tion, we will allow it to be said that his mind was 
 more graceful than strong. 
 
 His heart was equally balanced with his intellect. 
 Piety and humanity, dignity and humility, justice 
 and mercy, blended in the happiest equilibrium. 
 His gentleness never led him to forget due self- 
 respect, or forego any opportunity of speaking un- 
 welcome truths. Bossuet and Louis, in their pride, 
 as well as young Burgundy, in his confiding attach- 
 ment, had more than one occasion to recognize the 
 singular truthfulness of this gentle spirit. Measured 
 by prevalent standards, his character may be said 
 to lack one element fear. His life was love. The 
 text that the beloved disciple drew from his Mas- 
 
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON, 205 
 
 ter's bosom was the constant lesson of his soul: 
 " He that loveth not knoweth not God, for God is 
 love!" 
 
 His active powers were great, for he filled with 
 efficiency posts of duty so various as to call for dif- 
 ferent orders of ability. Priest, preceptor, prelate, 
 as well as statesman, poet, orator, theologian, he 
 was eminent in every capacity, and in each sphere 
 took something from his distinction by being rival 
 of himself in other spheres. Take him for all in all 
 allowing to other men superior excellence in sin- 
 gle departments where can we find a man on the 
 whole so perfect as he was ? 
 
 I am well aware that he has not escaped dispa- 
 ragement, and that the animadversions of his con- 
 temporary, St. Simon, have been more than re- 
 peated in the suspicions of the over-skeptical histo- 
 rian Michelet. True, that the coiirtesy that won 
 the hearts alike of master and servant, the high- 
 born lady who sought his society and the broken- 
 spirited widow who asked his Christian counsel, 
 has been ascribed to a love of praise that rejoiced 
 in every person's homage, or a far-sighted policy 
 that desired every person's suffrage. True, that his 
 self-denial has been called a deep self-interest that 
 would win high honors by refusing to accept the 
 less rewards. True, that his piety has sometimes 
 
206 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 been called sentimentalism, and an alloy of baser 
 emotion lias been hinted at as running through 
 some of his letters to enthusiastic devotees. True, 
 that he has been called very politic and ambitious. 
 We claim for him no superhuman perfection. Nor 
 do we deny that he was a Frenchman, whilst we 
 maintain that he was every inch a man. 
 
 But let him be judged not by a skeptical suspi- 
 cion that doubts from the habit of doubting of vir- 
 tue, but by the spirit of his whole life. That life, 
 from beginning to end, was an example of the vir- 
 tue commended by our Lord in his charge to his 
 apostles. Sent forth like a lamb in the midst of 
 wolves, he blended the wisdom of the serpent with 
 the gentleness of the dove. Whatever failings he 
 may have had he conquered. His course was ever 
 onward to the mark whither he deemed himself 
 called of God. 
 
 We probably have often felt, on reading Fenelon, 
 as if his sweetness of temper were sometimes at the 
 expense of his manliness, and we could easily spare 
 some of his honeyed words for an occasional flow of 
 hearty, even if bitter, indignation. To his credit, 
 however, be it said, that with him gentle speech was 
 often but the smooth edge of faithful counsel most 
 resolutely pointed and sharpened at the consciences 
 of the great whom rudeness would offend and inele- 
 
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. 207 
 
 gance disgust. Ilecent discoveries have given am- 
 ple proof of Iris unflinching boldness to the French 
 Court. During his banishment (1694-97) he wrote 
 that masterly and fearless letter to Louis XIV., 
 which was not discovered until 1825, and which the 
 most earnest of his eulogists, not even Channing, 
 we believe, seems to have noted. Than these intre- 
 pid words, Christian heroism cannot further go. 
 
 "Would that there were time to speak of his works 
 in their various departments, especially those in the 
 departments of education, social morals, and reli- 
 gion. 
 
 ~No name stands above his among the leaders in 
 the great cause of education. None surpass him in 
 the power with which he defended the mind of 
 woman from the impoverishing and distorting sys- 
 tems prevalent in his day, and by his example and 
 pen taught parents to educate their daughters in a 
 manner that should rebuke vanity and deceit, and 
 blend grace with utility. None went before him 
 in knowledge of the art of taming obstinate boy- 
 hood into tenderness, and with all modern improve- 
 ments our best teachers may find in his works a 
 mine of knowledge and incentive both in their tasks 
 of instruction and discipline. 
 
 In social morals he was a great reformer ; not, 
 indeed, so remarkable for being engrossed with 
 
208 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 some favorite innovation, as for urging the constant 
 need of applying Christian truth and duty to every 
 social institution. He rebuked the passion for war, 
 by his own demeanor disarmed the hostility of com- 
 batants, and by his instructions struck at the root 
 of warfare in the councils of princes. We may well 
 be amazed at his political wisdom, and taught more 
 emphatically than ever that we are to look for this 
 not to the hack-politicians who think only of the 
 cabals of the moment, but to the sage men who in- 
 terpret the future from the high ground of reason 
 and right. His political papers embody the lessons 
 that France has since learned by a baptism of blood. 
 Hardly a single principle now deemed necessary for 
 the peace and prosperity of nations, can be named, 
 that cannot be found expressed or implied in Fene- 
 lon's various advice to the royal youth under his 
 charge. Well may the better minds of France and 
 Christendom honor his name for the noble liber- 
 ality with which he qualified the mild conservatism 
 so congenial with his temperament, creed and posi- 
 tion. 
 
 As a theologian, he constantly breathes one en- 
 grossing sentiment. With him, Christianity was 
 the love of God and its morality was the love of the 
 neighbor. Judged by occasional expressions, his 
 piety might seem too ascetic and mystical too 
 
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. 209 
 
 urgent of penance and self-crucifixion too enthu- 
 siastic in emotion, perilling the sobriety of reason 
 in the impassioned fervors of devotion sometimes 
 bordering upon that overstrained spiritualism, 
 which, in its impulsive flights, is so apt to lose its 
 just balance and sink to the earth and the empire 
 of the senses. He has written some things that pru- 
 dence, nay, wisdom, might wish to erase. But, 
 qualified by other statements, and above all, inter- 
 preted by his own life, his religion appears in its 
 true proportion without gloom, without extrava- 
 gance. To his honor be it spoken, that in an age 
 when priests and prelates eminent for saintly piety 
 sanctioned the scourging and death of heretics, and 
 enforced the Gospel chiefly by the fears of perdition, 
 Fenelon was censured for dwelling too much on the 
 power of love, that perfect charity that casteth out 
 fear. It may, perhaps, be a failing with him that 
 he had too little sympathy with the fears and pas- 
 sions of men, and appreciated too little the more 
 sublime and terrible aspects of Divine Providence. 
 His mind was tuned too gently to answer to all of 
 the grandest music of our humanity, and we must 
 abate, something of our admiration of him for his 
 want of loyalty to the new ages of Christian thought 
 and heroism. He evidently loved Yirgil more than 
 Dante, Cicero more than Chrysostom, and thought 
 
210 GIFfS OF GENIL T S. 
 
 the Greek Parthenon, in its horizontal lines and 
 sensuous beauty, a grander and more perfect struc- 
 ture, alike in plan and execution, than Notre Dame 
 or Strasbourg Cathedral, with its uplifting points 
 and spiritual sublimity. He was a Christianized 
 Greek, who had exchanged the philosopher's robe 
 for the archbishop's surplice. 
 
 Viewing him now on the whole, considering at 
 once his gifts and graces of mind, and heart, and 
 will; his offerings upon the altar of learning, 
 humanity and religion, we sum up our judgment in 
 a single saying. He worshipped God in the beauty 
 of holiness. His whole being, with all its graces 
 and powers so harmoniously combined, was an 
 offering to God that men cannot but admire and 
 the Most High will not despise. 
 
 We may not take leave of Fenelon without 
 applying to our times the teachings of his spirit, 
 the lesson of his life. However rich the topic in 
 occasion for controversial argument, we defer all 
 strife to the inspiration of his gentle and loving 
 wisdom. Let an incident connected with the tomb 
 of Fenelon furnish us an emblem of the spirit in 
 which we shall look upon his name. His remains 
 were deposited in the vault beneath the main altar 
 at which he had so often ministered. It would 
 seem as if some guardian-angel shielded them from 
 
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. 211 
 
 desecration. ' Eighty years passed and the Reign 
 of Terror came upon France in retribution for her 
 falsity to her best advisers. The allied armies were 
 marshalling their hosts against the new republic. 
 Every means must be used to add to the public 
 resources, and the decree went forth that even the 
 tombs should be robbed of their coffins. The re- 
 publican administrator of the District of Cambray, 
 Bernard Cannorine, in company with a butcher and 
 two artillery-men, entered the cathedral and went 
 down into the vault which held the ashes of so 
 many prelates. The leaden coffins with their con- 
 tents were carried away and placed upon the cars ; 
 but when they came to the inclosure whose tablet 
 bore the name of Fenelon, and lifted it from its 
 bed, it appeared that the lead had become unsol- 
 dered and they could take away the coffin and leave 
 the sacred dust it had contained. Years passed, 
 and the reign of Napoleon bringing a better day, 
 rebuked the Vandalism that would dishonor all 
 greatness and spoil even its grave. The facts re- 
 garding the acts of desecration were legally ascer- 
 tained and the bones of the good archbishop 
 triumphantly reserved for a nobler than the 
 ancient sepulchre. There was a poetical justice in 
 the preservation of them from violence. It was 
 well that the bloody revolutionists who went to the 
 
212 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 tombs for metal to furnish their arsenals, were 
 made, in spite of themselves, to respect the ashes of 
 one whose counsels of duty heeded would have 
 averted that revolution by a system of timely con- 
 cessions and benignant legislation. 
 
 Now that we virtually draw near the resting-place 
 of this good man, let it not be to furnish material 
 for bullets of lead or paper to hurl against theologi- 
 cal antagonists. Appreciating the beauty of his 
 spirit, let us learn and apply the rebuke and en- 
 couragement it affords. A genius so rare we may 
 not hope to approach or imitate. Graces still more 
 precious and imitable are associated with that 
 genius and create its highest charm. Our time has 
 been worse than thrown away, and our study of his 
 works and his biographies has been in vain, if we 
 are not better, more wise, and earnest, and gentle 
 for the page of history, the illustration of divine 
 providence that has now come before us. Placed 
 in the most perplexing relations, he never lost hold 
 of the calm wisdom that was his chosen guide. 
 Exposed to the most irritating provocations, he 
 never gave up the gentle peacefulness of his 
 spirit. 
 
 Our age is not peculiarly ecclesiastical, yet we 
 have not done with the church and its teachers. 
 Many a time of late we have had cause to think 
 
THOUGHTS UPON FENELON. 213 
 
 with regret of the persuasive eloquence of the Arch- 
 bishop of Cambray, of the sacred Art that could 
 make truth lovely to wayward youth, and religion 
 beautiful to hard and skeptical manhood. Has it 
 not sometimes seemed as if ambitious prelacy had 
 forgotten the purer example for the baser, and 
 copied Bossuet's pride instead of Fenelon's charity ? 
 Nay, has not priestly assumption coveted the talons 
 and forgotten the wings of the Eagle of Meaux and 
 lost sight wholly of the Dove of Cambray ? What 
 government or ruler in Christendom would not be 
 the better for a counsellor as eloquent and fearless 
 as he who dared rebuke without reserve the great 
 Louis of France in words like, these : 
 
 "You do not love God; you do not even fear 
 him but with a slave's fear ; it is hell and not God 
 whom you fear. Your religion consists but in super- 
 stitions, in petty superficialities. You are like the 
 Jews, of whom God said : ' Whilst they honor me 
 with their lips, their hearts are far from me. You 
 are scrupulous upon trifles and hardened upon ter- 
 rible evils. You love only your own glory and 
 comfort. You refer everything to yourself as if you 
 were the God of the earth, and everything else here 
 created only to be sacrificed to you. It is you, on 
 the contrary, whom God has put into the world 
 only for your people." 
 
POEMS. 
 
 BY MES. GEOBGE P. MAESH. 
 I. 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 THE earnest traveller, who would feed his eve 
 
 To fullness of content on Nature's charms, 
 
 Must not forever pace the easy plain. 
 
 No ! he must climb the rugged mountain's side, 
 
 Scale its steep rocks, cling to its crumbling crags, 
 
 Nor fear to plunge in its eternal snows. 
 
 And yet, if he be wise, he will not choose 
 
 To find the doubtful way alone, lest night 
 
 O'ertake him wandering, and her icy breath 
 
 Chill him to marble ; not alone will risk 
 
 His foot unwonted on the glassy bed 
 
 Of rifted glacier, lest a step amiss 
 
 Should hurl him headlong down some fissure dark, 
 
 That yawns unseen thence to arise no more. 
 
 But, furnished with a trusty guide, he mounts 
 
 From peak to peak in safety, though with toil. 
 
 214 
 
POEMS. 215 
 
 Once on the lofty summit, he beholds 
 A glory in earth's kingdom all undreamed 
 Till now. The heavy curtains are withdrawn, 
 That shut the old horizon down so close ; 
 And, lo ! a world is lying at his feet.! 
 A world without a flaw ! What late he held 
 But as discordant fragments, now show forth, 
 From this high vantage ground, the perfect parts 
 Of a harmonious whole ! He would not dare 
 To change one line in all that picture marvellous 
 Of hill and vale, bright stream and rolling sea, 
 O'erhung by the great sun that gildeth all. 
 
 And thou ! If thou would'st truly feast thy soul 
 Upon the things invisible of Him 
 "Who made the visible, fear not to tread 
 The awful heights of Thought ! not to thyself 
 Sole trusting, lest thou perish in thy pride ; 
 But following where Faith enlightened leads, 
 Thou shalt not miss or fall. The way is rough, 
 But never toil did win reward so rich 
 As that she findeth here. At every step 
 ISTew prospects open, and new wonders shine ! 
 Mount higher still, and whatsoe'er thy pains, 
 Thou'lt envy not the sleeper at thy feet ! 
 Visions of truth and beauty shall arise 
 So multiplied, so glorified, so vast, 
 
216 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 That thy enraptured soul amazed shall cry, 
 " No longer Earth, but the new Heavens I see 
 Lighted forever by the throne of God." 
 
 H. 
 FABLE. 
 
 A WIDOW, feeble, old and lonely, 
 
 Whose flock once numbered many a score, 
 Had now remaining to her only 
 
 One little lamb, and nothing more. 
 
 And every morning forced to send it 
 
 To scanty pastures far away, 
 With prayers and tears did she commend it 
 
 To the good saint that named the day. 
 
 Nor so in vain ; each kindly patron, 
 George, Agnes, Nicolas, Genevieve, 
 
 Still mindful of the helpless matron, 
 Brought home her lambkin safe at eve. 
 
 All-Saints' day dawned ; with faith yet stronger, 
 On the whole hallowed choir the dame 
 
 Doth call to one she prays no longer. 
 That day the wolf devoured the lamb ! 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 
 
 BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN I was in Yenice I knew the Marchesa 
 Negropontini. Many strangers knew her twenty 
 and thirty years ago. In my time she was old and 
 somewhat withdrawn from society ; but as I had 
 been a fellow-student and friend of her grand- 
 nephew in Yienna, I was admitted into her house 
 familiarly, until the old lady felt as kindly toward 
 me, as if I, too, had been a nephew. 
 
 Italian life and character are different enough 
 from ours. They are traditionally romantic. But we 
 are apt to disbelieve in the romance which we hear 
 from those concerned. I cannot disbelieve, since I 
 knew this sad, stern Italian woman. Can you dis- 
 believe, who have seen Titian's, and Tintoretto's, 
 and Paolo Yeronese's portraits of Venetian women ? 
 You, who have floated about the canals of Venice ? 
 
 I was an American boy; and my very utter 
 10 * 
 
218 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 strangeness probably made it easier for tae 
 Marchesa Negropontini to tell me the story, which I 
 now relate. She told it to me as we sat one even- 
 ing in the balcony of her house, the palazzo Orfeo, 
 on the Grand Canal. 
 
 II. 
 
 The Marchesa sat for a long time silent, and we 
 watched the phantom life of the city around us. 
 Presently she sighed deeply and said : 
 
 " Ah, me ! it is the eve of the Purification. My 
 son, seventy years ago to-day the woman was born 
 whose connection with the house of Negropontini 
 has shrouded it in gloom, like the portrait you have 
 seen in the saloon. Seventy years ago to-day my 
 father's neighbor, the Count Balbo, saw for the first 
 time the face of the first daughter his wife had given 
 him. The countess lay motionless the flame of 
 existence flickered between life and death. 
 
 " ' Adorable Mother of God !' said the count, as 
 he knelt by her bedside, c if thou restorest my wife, 
 my daughter shall be consecrated to thy service.' 
 
 "The slow hours dragged heavily by. The 
 mother lived. 
 
 " My brother Camillo and I were but two and 
 four years older than our little neighbor. We were 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 219 
 
 children together, and each other's playmates. 
 When the little neighbor, Sulpizia Balbo, was four- 
 teen, Camillo was eighteen. My son, the sky of 
 Venice never shone on a more beautiful girl, on a 
 youth more grave and tender. He loved her with 
 his whole soul. Gran' Dio ! 'tis the old, old story ! 
 "She was proud, wayward, passionate, with a 
 splendor of wit and unusual intelligence. He was 
 calm, sweet, wise ; with a depthless tenderness of ' 
 passion. But Sulpizia inherited her will from her 
 father, and at fourteen she was sacrificed to the 
 vow he had made. She was buried alive in the 
 convent of our Lady of the Isle, and my brother's 
 heart with her. 
 
 III. 
 
 " Sulpizia's powerful nature chafed in the narrow 
 bounds of the convent discipline. But her religious 
 education assured her that that discipline was so 
 much the more necessary, and she struggled with 
 the sirens of worldly desire. The other sisters were 
 shocked and surprised, at one moment by her sur- 
 passing fervor, at another by her bold and startling 
 protests against their miserable bondage. 
 
 " Often, at vespers, in the dim twilight of the 
 chapel, she flung back her cape and hood, with the 
 
220 GIFfB OF GENIUS. 
 
 tears raining from her eyes and her voice gushing 
 and throbbing with the melancholy music, while 
 the nuns paused in their singing, appalled by the 
 religious ecstasy of Sulpizia. She was so sweet and 
 gentle in her daily intercourse that all of them loved 
 her, bending to her caresses like grain to the breeze ; 
 but they trembled in the power of her denuncia- 
 tion, which shook their faith to the centre, for it 
 seemed to be the voice of a faith so mu\ch pro- 
 founder. 
 
 " While she was yet young she was elected abbess 
 of the convent. It was a day of triumph for her 
 powerful family. Perhaps the Count Balbo may 
 have sometimes regretted that solemn vow, but he 
 never betrayed repentance. Perhaps he would 
 have been more secretly satisfied by the triumphant 
 worldly career of a woman like his daughter, but 
 he never said so. 
 
 "Sulpizia knew that my brother loved her. I 
 think she loved him at least I thought so. 
 
 " The nuns were not jealous of her rule, for the 
 superior genius which commanded them also con- 
 soled and counselled; and her protests becoming 
 less frequent, her persuasive affection won all 
 their hearts. They saw that the first fire of youth 
 slowly saddened in her eyes. Her mien became 
 even more lofty; her voice less salient; and a 
 
A STOEY OF VENICE. 221 
 
 shadow fell gently over her life. The sisters 
 thought it was age; but Sulpizia was young. 
 Others thought it was care ; but her duties could not 
 harass such a spirit. Others thought it was repent- 
 ance ; but natures like hers do not early repent. 
 
 " It was resolved that the portrait of the abbess 
 should be painted, and the nuns applied to her 
 parents to select the artist. They, in turn, consulted 
 my brother Camillo, who was the friend of the 
 family, and for whom the Count Balbo would, I be- 
 lieve, have willingly unvowed his vow. Camillo had 
 left Yenice as the great dooof the convent closed 
 behind his life and love. He fled over the globe. 
 He lost himself in new scenes, in new employ- 
 ments. He took the wings of the morning, and 
 flew to the uttermost parts of the earth,* and there 
 he found himself. So he returned an older and a 
 colder man. His love, which had been a passion, 
 seemed to settle into a principle. His life was 
 consecrated to one remembrance. It did not dare 
 to have a hope. 
 
 " He brought with him a friend whom he had met 
 in the East. Together upon the summit of the 
 great pyramid they had seen the day break over 
 Cairo, and on the plain of Thebes had listened for 
 
 * I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's. 
 
222 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Memnon to gush with music as the sun struck him 
 with his rod of light. Together they had travelled 
 over the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence 
 only with words that did not profane it. My 
 brother conversing with wise sadness his friend 
 Luigi with hope and enthusiasm. 
 
 " Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother 
 was proud, but real grief prunes the foolish side of 
 pride, while it fosters the nobler. It was a rare 
 and noble friendship. Bare, because pride often 
 interferes with friendships among men, where all 
 conditions are not eq*al. Noble, because the two 
 men were so, although only one had the name and 
 the means of a nobleman. But he shared these 
 with his friend, as naturally as his friend shared his 
 thoughts with him. Neither spoke much of the 
 past. My brother had rolled a stone over the 
 mouth of that tomb, and his friend was occupied 
 with the suggestions and the richness of the life 
 around him. If some stray leaf or blossom fell 
 forward upon their path from the past, it served to 
 Luigi only as a stimulating mystery. 
 
 " ' This is my memory,' he would say, touching 
 his portfolio, which was full of eastern sketches. 
 ' These are the hieroglyphics Egypt has herself 
 written, and we can decipher them at leisure upon 
 your languid lagunes.' 
 
A STOKT OF VENICE. 223 
 
 " It was not difficult for my brother to persuade 
 Luigi to return with him to Venice. I shall not 
 forget the night they came, as long as I remember 
 anything." 
 
 The Marchesa paused a moment, dreamily. 
 
 " It was the eve of the Purification," she said, at 
 length, pausing again. After a little, she resumed : 
 
 ""We were ignorant of the probable time of 
 Camillo's return ; and about sunset my mother, my 
 younger sister Fiora, and I, were rowing along the 
 Guidecca, when I saw a gondola approaching, con- 
 taining two persons only beside the rowers, followed 
 by another with trunks and servants. I have 
 always watched curiously new arrivals in Venice, 
 for no other city in the world can be entered with 
 such peculiar emotion. I had scarcely looked at 
 the new comers before I recognized my brother, 
 and was fascinated by the appearance of his com- 
 panion, who lay in a trance of delight with the 
 beauty of the place and the hour. 
 
 " His long hair flowed from under his slouched 
 hat, hanging about a face that I cannot describe ; 
 and his negligent travelling dress did not conceal 
 the springing grace of his figure. But to me, 
 educated in Venice, associated only with its silent, 
 stately nobles; a child, early solemnized by the 
 society of decay and of elders whose hearts were 
 
224: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 never young, to me the magnetic charm of the 
 young man was his youth, and I gazed at him 
 with the same admiring earnestness with which he 
 looked at the city and the scene. 
 
 " The gondolas constantly approached. My bro- 
 ther lay lost in thoughts which were visible in the 
 shadow they cast upon his features. His head 
 rested upon his hand, and he looked fixedly toward 
 the island on which the convent stands. A light 
 summer cloak was drawn around him, and hid Ins 
 figure entirely, except his arm and hand. His cap 
 was drawn down over his eyes. He was not con- 
 scious of any being in the world but Sulpizia. 
 
 " Suddenly from the convent tower the sound of 
 the vesper bell trembled in throbbing music over 
 the water. It seemed to ring every soul to prayer. 
 My brother did not move. He still gazed intently 
 at the island, and the tears stole from his eyes. 
 Luigi crossed himself. We did the same, and mur- 
 mured an Ave Maria. 
 
 " ' Heavens ! Camillo !' cried my mother, sud- 
 denly. He started, and was so near that there was 
 a mutual recognition. In a moment the gondolas 
 were side by side, and the greetings of a brother 
 and sisters and mother long parted, followed. 
 Meanwhile, Camillo's companion remained silent, 
 having respectfully removed his hat, and looking as 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 225 
 
 if lie felt his presence to be profane at such a 
 moment. But my brother turned, and taking him 
 by the hand, said : 
 
 " ' Dear mother, I might well have stayed away 
 from you twice as long, could I have hoped to find 
 a friend like this.' 
 
 " His companion smiled at the generosity of his 
 introduction. He greeted us all cordially and 
 cheerfully, and the light fading rapidly, we rowed 
 on in the early starlight. The gondolas slid side by 
 side, and there was a constant hum of talk. 
 
 "I alone was silent. I felt a sympathy with 
 Camillo which I had never known before. The 
 tears came into my eyes as I watched him gently 
 conversing with my mother, turning now and then 
 in some conversation with Luigi and my younger 
 sister. How I watched Luigi ! How I caught the 
 words that were not addressed to me ! How my 
 heart throbbed at his sweet, humorous laugh, in 
 which my sister joined, while his eyes wandered 
 wonderingly toward mine, as if to ask why I was so 
 silent. 1 tried to see that they fastened upon me with 
 special interest. I could not do it. Gracious and 
 gentle to all, I could not perceive that his manner 
 toward me was different, and I felt a new sorrow. 
 
 " So we glided over the Lagune into the canal, 
 and beneath the balconied palaces, until we reached 
 
 10* 
 
226 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 our own. The gondolas stopped. Luigi leaped out 
 instantly upon the broad marble pavement, and 
 assisted my mother to alight, then my sister. Then 
 I placed my hand in his, and my heart stood still. 
 It was a moment, but it was also an age. The 
 next instant I stood free upon the step. Free but 
 bound forever. 
 
 " We were passing up the staircase into the 
 palace, Luigi plucked an orange bud and handed it 
 to me. I was infinitely happy ! 
 
 " A few steps further, and he broke an acacia for 
 my sister : ah ! I was miserable ! 
 
 "We ascended into the great saloon, and a cheer- 
 ful evening followed. Fascinated by these first 
 impressions of Yenice, Luigi abandoned himself to 
 his abundant genius, and left us at midnight, 
 mutually enchanted. Youth and sympathy had 
 overcome all other considerations. We had planned 
 endless days of enjoyment. He had promised to 
 show us his sketches. It was not until our mother 
 asked of my brother who he was, that all the 
 human facts appeared. 
 
 " ' Heavens !' shouted my younger sister, Fiora, 
 laughing with delight, ' think of the noble Marchese 
 Cicada, who simpers, per J3acco^ that the day is 
 warm, and, per died, that I am lovelier than ever. 
 Yiva Luigi ! Yiva O il pittore.' 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 227 
 
 " * My daughter,' said my grave, cautious mother, 
 < you are very young yet you do not understand 
 these things. Good night, my child !' 
 
 " Fiora kissed her on the brow, and darted out of 
 the room as if she were really alive. 
 
 u When she had gone, Camillo smiled in his cold, 
 calm way, and turning to me, asked how I liked 
 Luigi. I answered calmly, for I was of the same 
 blood as my brother. I did not disguise how much 
 superior I thought him to the youth I knew. I 
 was very glad he had found such a friend, and 
 hoped the young man would come often to see us, 
 and be very successful in his profession. 
 
 " Then I was silent. I did not say that I had 
 never lived until that evening. I did not say how 
 iny heart was chilled, because, in leaving the room, 
 Luigi's last glance had not been for me, but for 
 Fiora. 
 
 " Camillo did not praise him much. It was not 
 his way; but I felt how deeply he honored and 
 loved him, and was rejoiced to think that necessity 
 would often bring us together ; only my mother 
 seemed serious, and I knew what her gravity meant. 
 
 " < Do not be alarmed, dear mother,' I said to her, 
 as I was leaving the room. 
 
 " c My daughter,' she answered, with infinite 
 pride, 'it is not possible. I do not understand 
 
228 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 you. And you, my daughter, you do not under- 
 stand yourself nor the world." 
 
 " She was mistaken. Myself I did understand ; 
 the world I did not." 
 
 Again the Marchesa was silent and tears stood in 
 her eyes. She was seventy years old. Yes, but in 
 love's calendar there is no December. 
 
 " The days passed, and we saw Luigi constantly. 
 He was very busy, but found plenty of time to be 
 with us. His paintings were full of the same kind 
 of power I felt in his character. He never wearied 
 of the gorgeous atmospheric effects of which 
 Titian and Paul, Giorgione and Tintoretto were the 
 old worshippers. They touched him sometimes 
 with a voluptuous melancholy in which he found 
 a deeper inspiration. 
 
 " Every day I loved him more and more, and 
 nobody suspected it. He did not, because he was 
 only glad to be in my society when he wanted 
 criticism. He liked me as an intelligent woman. 
 He loved Fiora as a bewitching child. 
 
 " My mother watched us all, and soon saw there 
 was nothing to fear. I sought to be lively to 
 frequent society ; for I knew if my health failed I 
 should be sent away from Venice and Luigi. He 
 had given me a drawing a scene composed from 
 our first meeting upon the Lagune. The very soul 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 
 
 of evening repose brooded upon the picture. It 
 had even an indefinable tone of sadness, as if lie 
 had incorporated into it the sound of the vesper 
 bell. It had been simply a melancholy sound to 
 him. To the rest of us, who loved Camillo, it was 
 something more than that. In his heart the mere 
 remembrance of the island rang melancholy vespers 
 forever. 
 
 " This drawing I kept in a private drawer. At 
 night, when I went to my chamber, I opened the 
 drawer and looked at it. It lay so that I did not 
 need to touch it ; and as I gazed at it, I saw all his 
 own character, and all that I had felt and lived 
 since that evening. 
 
 " At length the day came, on which the- parents 
 of Sulpizia came to my brother to speak of her 
 portrait. Camillo listened to them quietly, and 
 mentioned his friend Luigi as a man who could 
 understand Sulpizia, and therefore paint her por- 
 trait. The parents were satisfied. It was an 
 unusual thing; but at that time, as at all times, a 
 great many unusual things could be done in 
 convents, especially if one had a brother, who 
 was Cardinal Balbo. 
 
230 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 IY. 
 
 " It was a bright morning that Camillo carried 
 Luigi in his gondola to the convent. He had 
 merely said to him that there was a beautiful 
 abbess to paint, an old friend of his; and Luigi 
 replied that he would always willingly desert 
 beautiful waters and skies for beautiful eyes. They 
 reached the island " 
 
 The Marchesa beat the floor slowly with her foot, 
 and controlled herself, as if a spasm of mortal 
 agony had seized her. 
 
 "They reached the island, and stepped ashore 
 into the convent garden. They went into the little 
 parlor, and presently the abbess entered veiled. 
 My brother, who had not seen her since she was his 
 playmate, could not pierce. the veil; and as calmly 
 as ever told her briefly the name of his friend, said 
 a few generous words of him, and, rising, promised 
 to call at sunset for Luigi, and departed." 
 
 The Marchesa now spoke very rapidly. 
 
 " I do not well know nobody knows but 
 Sulpizia raised her veil, and Luigi adjusted his 
 easel. He painted they conversed the day fled 
 away. Sunset came. Camillo arrived in his 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 231 
 
 gondola, and Luigi came out without smiling. The 
 gondoliers pulled toward the city. 
 
 " i Is she beautiful '?' asked Camillo. 
 
 " ' Wonderful,' responded his friend, and said no 
 more. He trailed his hands in the water, and then 
 wiped them across his brow. He took off his hat 
 and faced the evening breeze from the sea. He 
 cried to the gondoliers that they were lazy that 
 the gondola did not move. It was darting like a 
 wind over the water. 
 
 "The next day they returned to the island and 
 the next. But at sunset, Luigi did not come to the 
 gondola. Camillo waited, and sat until it was quite 
 dark. Then he went through the garden of the 
 convent, and inquired for the painter. They sought 
 him in the parlor. He was not there. The abbess 
 was not there. Upon the easel stood her portrait 
 partly finished strangely beautiful. Camillo had 
 followed into the room, and stood suddenly before 
 the picture. He had not seen Sulpizia since she 
 was a child. Even his fancy had scarcely dreamed 
 of a face so beautiful. His knees trembled as he 
 stood, and he fell before it in the attitude of prayer. 
 The last red flash of daylight fell upon the picture. 
 The eyes smiled the lips were slightly parted 
 a glow of awakening life trembled all through the 
 features. 
 
232 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 "The strong man's heart was melted, and the 
 nuns beheld him kneeling and weeping before the 
 portrait of their abbess. 
 
 "But where was she ? 
 
 " Nobody knew. There was no clue except that 
 the gondola of the convent was gone. 
 
 "Camillo took the portrait and stepped into his 
 gondola. He returned to the city, to the palace of 
 Sulpizia's parents. Slowly he went up the great 
 staircase, dark and silent, up which his eager steps 
 had followed the flying feet of Sulpizia. He 
 entered the saloon slowly, like a man who carries a 
 heavy burden but rather in his heart than in his 
 hands. 
 
 " ' It is all that remains to you of your daughter,' 
 said he in a Tow voice, throwing back his cloak, 
 and revealing the marvellous beauty of their child's 
 portrait to the amazed parents. Then came the 
 agony a child lost a friend false. 
 
 " Camillo returned to us and told the tale. I felt 
 my heart wither and grow old. My mother was 
 grieved in her heart for- her son's sorrow in her 
 pride for its kind and method. Fiora did not smile 
 any more. Her step was no longer bounding upon 
 the floor and the stairs, and the year afterward she 
 married the Marchese Cicada. 
 
 " The next day, Camillo returned to the island. 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 233 
 
 The abbess had not returned, nor had any tidings 
 been received. Only the gondola had been found 
 in the morning in its usual place. The days passed. 
 A new abbess was chosen. The church did not 
 dare to curse the fugitive, for there was no proof 
 that she had willingly gone away. It might be 
 supposed it could not be proved. Camillo hung 
 in his chamber the unfinished portrait, and a black 
 veil shrouded it from chance and curious eyes. He 
 did not seem altered. He was still calm and 
 grave still cold and sweet in his general inter- 
 course. 
 
 " My friendship with him became more intimate. 
 He saw that I was much changed for although 
 pride can do much, the heart is stronger than the 
 head. But he had no suspicion of the truth. 
 People who suffer intensely often forget that there 
 are other sufferers in the world, you know. 
 Camillo was very tender toward me, for he thought 
 that I was paying the penalty of too warm a 
 sympathy with him, and often begged me not to 
 wear away my health and youth in commiseration 
 for what was past and hopeless. I cultivated my 
 consciousness of his suffering as a defence against 
 my own. "We never mentioned the names of either 
 of those of whom we were always thinking; but 
 once in many months he would call me into his 
 
234 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 chamber and remove the veil from the portrait, 
 while we stood before it as silent as devotees in a 
 church before the picture of the Madonna. Camillo 
 pursued his affairs the cares of his estate the 
 duties of society. He assembled all the strangers 
 of distinction at his table. Yes, it was a rare and 
 great triumph. 
 
 " For myself, I was mistress of my secret, and I 
 reveal it to you for the first time. Why not ? I 
 am seventy years old. You know none of the 
 persons you hear it as you would read a romance. 
 My heart was broken my faith was lost and I 
 have never met since any one who could restore it. 
 I distrust the sweetest smile if it move me deeply, 
 and although men may sometimes be sincere, yet 
 sorrow is so sure that we must steer by memory, 
 not by hope. In this world we must not play that 
 we are happy. That play has a frightful forfeit. 
 Society is wise. It eats its own children, whose 
 consolation is that after this world there is another 
 and a better, say the priests. Of course for it 
 could not be a worse. 
 
 V. 
 
 "Suddenly Sulpizia returned. My brother was 
 in his library when a messenger came for him from 
 her parents. He ran breathless and pale to his 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 235 
 
 gondola. The man was conquered in that moment 
 and the wild passion of the boy flamed up again. 
 When he reached the Balbo palace he paused a 
 moment, despite himself, upon the stairs, and the 
 calmness of the man returned to him. Nature is 
 kind in that to her noble childz'en. Their regrets, 
 their despairs, their lightning flashes of hope, she 
 does not reveal to those who cause them. Every 
 man is weak, but the weakness of the strong man 
 is hidden. He entered the saloon. There stood 
 Sulpizia with her parents. 
 
 "Death and victory were in her eyes. They 
 were fearfully hollow; and the strongly-carved 
 features, from which the flesh had fallen during the 
 long struggles of the soul, were pure and pale as 
 marble. It seemed as if she must fall from weak- 
 ness, but not a muscle moved. 
 
 "Nothing was said. Camillo stood before the 
 woman who had always ruled his soul, to whom it 
 was still loyal. The parents stood appalled behind 
 their daughter. It was a wintry noon in Yenice 
 cold and still. 
 
 " c Camillo,' said Sulpizia at length, in a. tone not 
 to be described, but seemingly destitute of emotion 
 as the ocean might seem when a gale calmed it 
 ' he has left me. 3 
 
 " Child, I have not fathomed the human heart ; 
 
236 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 but after a long, long silence my brother answered 
 only, I know not from what feeling of duty and of 
 sacrifice : 
 
 " ' Sulpizia, will you marry me ?' 
 
 " Cardinal Balbo arranged the matter at Eome, 
 and after a short time they were married. I was 
 the only one present with the parents of Sulpizia, 
 who were glad enough so to cover what they called 
 their daughter's shame. My mother would not 
 come, "but left Venice that very day and died 
 abroad. The circumstances of the marriage were 
 not comprehended ; but the old friends of the family 
 came occasionally to make solemn, stately visits, 
 which my brother scrupulously returned. 
 
 "You may believe that we enjoyed a kind of 
 mournful peace after the dark days of the last few 
 years. I loved Sulpizia, but her cheerfulness with- 
 out smiling was the awful serenity of wintry sun- 
 light. She faded day by day. It was clear to us 
 that the end was not far away. 
 
 "Two years after the marriage, Sulpizia was lying 
 upon a couch in th*e room behind us, where you 
 have seen the veiled portrait which hung in my 
 brother's chamber. All the long windows and 
 doors were open and we sat by her side, talking 
 gently in whispers. I knew that death was at hand, 
 
A STORY OF VENICE. 237 
 
 but I rejoiced to think that much as he had suffered, 
 there was one bitter drop that had been spared 
 him. 
 
 "Sulpizia's voice was scarcely audible, and the 
 deadly pallor deepened every moment upon her 
 face. Camillo bent over her without speaking, and 
 bowed his head. I stood apart. In a little while 
 she seemed to be unconscious of our presence. Her 
 eyes were open and her glance was toward the 
 window, but her few words showed her mind to be 
 wandering. Still a few moments, and her lips 
 moved inaudibly, she lifted her hands to Camillo's 
 face and drew it toward her own with infinite 
 tenderness. His listening soul heard one word 
 only the glimmering phantom of sound it was 
 * Luigi.' 
 
 "His head bowed more profoundly. Sulpizia's 
 eyes were closed. I crossed her hands upon her 
 breast. I touched my brother he started a 
 moment looked at me, at his wife, and sunk slowly, 
 senseless by the couch." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Think of it ! The birds sing the sun shines 
 the leaves rustle the flowers bud and bloom 
 children shout young hearts are happy the world 
 
238 GIFTS OF GENIirS. 
 
 wheels on and such tragedies are, and always 
 have been ! 
 
 I sat with the old Marchcsa upon her balcony, 
 and listened to this terrible tale. She tells it no 
 more, for she is gone now. The Marchesa tells it 
 no more, but Venice tells it still ; and as you glide 
 in your black gondola along the canal, under the 
 balconies, in the full moonlight of summer nights, 
 listen and listen ; and vaguely in your heart or in 
 your fancy you will hear the tragic strain. 
 
THE TOKTUKE CHAMBER. 
 
 BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLEE. 
 
 DOWN the broad, imperial Danube, 
 As its wandering waters guide, 
 
 Past the mountains and the meadows, 
 Winding with the stream, we glide. 
 
 RATISBON we leave behind us, 
 
 Where the spires and gables throng, 
 
 And the huge cathedral rises, 
 Like a fortress, vast and strong. 
 
 Close beside it, stands the Town-Hall, 
 With its massive tower, alone, 
 
 Brooding o'er the dismal secret, 
 Hidden in its heart of stone. 
 
 There, beneath the old foundations, 
 
 Lay the prisons of the State, 
 Like the last abodes of vengeance, 
 
 In the fabled realms of Fate. 
 
 239 
 
240 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 And the tides of life above them, 
 Drifted ever, near and wide, 
 
 As at Yenice, round the prisons, 
 Sweeps the sea's incessant tide. 
 
 Never, like the far-off dashing, 
 Or the nearer rush of waves, 
 
 Came the tread or murmur downward, 
 To those dim, unechoing caves. 
 
 There the dungeon clasped its victim, 
 And a stupor chained his breath, 
 
 Till the torture woke his senses, 
 With a sharper touch than death. 
 
 Now, through all the vacant silence, 
 Reign the darkness and the damp, 
 
 Broken only when the traveller 
 
 Comes to gaze, with guide and lamp. 
 
 All about him, black and shattered, 
 Eaten with the rust of Time, 
 
 Lie the fearful signs and tokens 
 Of an age when Law was Crime. 
 
 And the guide, with grim precision, 
 Tells the dismal tale once more, 
 
 Tells to living men the tortures 
 Living men have borne before. 
 
THE TORTURE-CHAMBER. 
 
 Well that speechless things, unconscious, 
 Furnish forth that place of dread, 
 
 Guiltless of the crimes they witnessed, 
 Guiltless of the blood they shed ; 
 
 Else what direful lamentations, 
 
 And what revelations dire, 
 Ceaseless from their lips would echo, 
 
 Tossed in memory's penal fire. 
 
 Even as we gaze, the fancy 
 
 With a sudden life-gush warms, * 
 
 And, once more, the Torture Chamber, 
 With its murderous tenants swarms. 
 
 Yonder, through the narrow archway, 
 Comes the culprit in the gloom, 
 
 Falters on the fatal threshold 
 Totters to the bloody doom. 
 
 Here the executioner, lurking, 
 Waits, with brutal thirst, his hour, 
 
 Tool of bloodier men and bolder, 
 Drunken with the dregs of power. 
 
 There the careful leech sits patient, 
 Watching pulse, and hue, and breath, 
 
 Weighing life's remaining scruples 
 With the heavier chance of death. 
 11 
 
24:2 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Eking out the little remnant, 
 Lest the victim die too soon, 
 
 And the torture of the morning 
 Spare the torture of the noon. 
 
 Here, behind the heavy grating, 
 Sits the scribe, with pen and scroll, 
 
 Waiting till the giant terror 
 Bursts the secrets of the soul ; 
 
 Till the fearful tale of treason 
 ^From the shrinking lips is wrung, 
 
 Or the final, false confession 
 
 Quivers from the trembling tongue : 
 
 "When the spirit, torn and tempted, 
 Tried beyond its utmost scope, 
 
 By an anguish past endurance, 
 Madly cancels all its hope ; 
 
 From the pointed cliffs of torture, 
 With its shrieks upon the air, 
 
 Suicidal, plunging blindly, 
 In the frenzy of despair ! 
 
 But the grey old tower is fading, 
 Fades, in sunshine, from the eye, 
 
THE TORTURE-CHAMBER. 24:3 
 
 Like some evil bird whose pinion 
 Dimly blots the distant sky. 
 
 So the ancient gloom and terror 
 
 Of the ages fade away, 
 In the sunlight of the present, 
 
 Of our better, purer day ! 
 
THE HOME OF CHAKLOTTE BKONTE. 
 
 A PASSAGE FROM A DIARY. 
 
 BY W. FRANCIS WILLIAMS. 
 
 '* Such shrines as these are pilgrim shrines 
 
 Shrines to no code or creed confined ; 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The Meccas of the mind." 
 
 H ALLEGE. 
 
 THE date is September 5, 1857. I am at Ha- 
 worth, wliitlier I had walked from the Bradford 
 Station, some ten or twelve miles distant. This 
 Haworth a place but a few years since quite un- 
 known to any but the few residing in its immediate 
 vicinity is built upon the side of a hill, and, with 
 its long line of grey houses creeping up the slope, 
 seems like a huge saurian monster, sprawling along 
 the hill-side, his head near the top and his tail 
 reaching nearly to the vale below. At the summit, 
 in the very head of our saurian, stands Haworth 
 Parsonage, and the church near by, with the square 
 old tower rising above the houses that cluster about 
 it. I well remember my first view of this place. 
 It was an autumn afternoon, and near sunset. The 
 
 244 
 
THE HOME OF CHAELOTTE BRONTE. 245 
 
 sky had been cloudy, but as I stopped to take iny 
 first long look at the little village, so hallowed by 
 the memory of the Bronte sisters, the declining sun 
 sent through a breach in the clouds a few spears of 
 dazzling light, that played about the old church 
 and parsonage with an ineffable glory. It lasted 
 but a few moments, the sun went down, and dark- 
 ness and night gradually settled over the scene. 
 The little incident seemed almost like a type of the 
 life of the gifted woman chiefly to whom Ha^worth 
 owes its fame ; for her life, like this very day, had 
 been dark and wearisome, overshadowed by clouds 
 of cares, tears falling like rain-drops upon new- 
 made graves, until near its close, when there came 
 a sweet season of bright domestic happiness, that 
 lasted too shortly, and then gave place to the dark- 
 ness and night of death. 
 
 Strolling through the village, after my quiet meal 
 at the Black Bull Inn, which poor Branwell Bronte 
 had so often frequented, I stopped to make some 
 trifling purchases at a stationery store, and casually 
 asked the proprietor a small, delicate-looking man, 
 with a bright eye and a highly intellectual counte- 
 nance if he remembered the Bronte sisters. It 
 was a fortunate question, for he knew them well, 
 and was a personal friend of the authoress of Jane 
 Eyre, to whose handsomely-framed portrait he 
 
246 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 proudly pointed. He had provided her, as he said, 
 with joyful delight, with the paper on which she 
 wrote the manuscripts of most of her novels ; he is 
 referred to in one of Miss Bronte's letters to Mrs. 
 Gaskell, as her "one friend in Haworth," and is 
 the "working-man" mentioned in her memoirs, 
 who wrote a little critique on Jane Eyre, that came 
 to the notice of the authoress and afforded her great 
 pleasure. To talk of the Bronte girls to express 
 his admiration of them to one who had come from 
 America to visit their home and grave, was to him 
 a great gratification. He told me how he used to 
 meet them on the moors how they were accus- 
 tomed to stroll all three together, and talk and 
 gather flowers ; then how Emily died, and Anne 
 and Charlotte were left to pace the familiar path 
 arm-in-arm ; then how they took Anne away to the 
 sea-side, whence she never returned, while Charlotte 
 would take her lonely moorland walk, rapt in sad 
 contemplation. Sometimes he would meet her on 
 these occasions, and if he passed by without at- 
 tracting her attention, she would chide him when 
 told of it afterward. She was always so kind, so 
 good-hearted, and with those she knew, so really 
 sociable. 
 
 Sunday > with my new friend, I attended the 
 church. The storm of the day before had cleared 
 
THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 24:7 
 
 away, and even the place of graves looked bright 
 and cheerful. The churchyard was crowded with 
 country people from miles around, who sat care- 
 lessly on the long, flat stones that so thickly covered 
 the ground, waiting for the opening services, while 
 the parish bell kept up a merry peal. Everything 
 seemed simple and happy, and I do not wonder 
 that the Brontes loved their home, with its little 
 garden of lilac bushes, the old church in front, and 
 the sweeping moors stretching far behind. On 
 many a Sunday morning like this they had trodden 
 the very path I then was treading, and had entered 
 the church-door ; but how few of these simple vil- 
 lagers knew the treasures of genius showered on 
 these quiet, reserved sisters ! 
 
 The church inside is old, and quaint, and simple ; 
 it can neither be called elegant, comfortable, spa- 
 cious nor antique. Old Mr. Bronte was to preach, 
 and the Eev. Mr. Nicholls read the service. As a 
 compliment to a stranger, I had been invited by the 
 organist of the church to play the organ a neat lit- 
 tle instrument of some eight or ten stops; and it was 
 while " giving out " the familiar tune of Antioch 
 that I noticed, in the reflection of a little mirror 
 placed above the keyboard, that Mr. Bronte had 
 entered the church, and was passing up the aisle. 
 He wore the customary black gown, and the lower 
 
24:8 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 part of his face was quite buried in an enormous 
 white neckcloth the most monstrous article of the 
 kind I had ever beheld. The reflection in that 
 little mirror I shall never forget. The old man, 
 walking feebly up the aisle, shading his eyes with 
 his right hand, and supporting himself with a cane, 
 the quiet congregation, and the singular dress and 
 venerable bald head of the old preacher, all formed 
 a character-picture, that is not often seen. His ser- 
 mon was extempore, and consisted of a series of 
 running paraphrases and simple and touching ex- 
 planations upon a few verses selected from the 
 
 Lamentations of Jeremiah. 
 
 * * * # * * 
 
 After church, my friend the stationer walked with 
 me on the moors. Charlotte Bronte's experience of 
 the world was so very limited, that in drawing the 
 characters in her novels, she had to select the real, 
 living people in the vicinity. Thus, my friend 
 pointed out one house and another to me as being 
 the residence of many of the originals of many of 
 the characters in her works, especially in " Shirley." 
 Soon, however, our path across the moors took us 
 out of human habitations, and among the moorland 
 solitudes the Bronte sisters so fondly loved. Cold 
 and desolate as they appear from a distance, a nearer 
 examination proves them to be replete with exqui- 
 
THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BKONTE. 24:9 
 
 site beauty. Delicate heather blooms carpet the 
 immense slope, and bend, like nodding plumes, 
 in graceful waves, to the breezes that play heed- 
 lessly down the hill-side. Gay yellow buttercups, 
 bright purple heath-flowers, and dark bilberries 
 vary the general violet tint, while the tiny stems 
 of these gentle plants spring from rich tufts of 
 emerald moss, and are pushed aside by the spray- 
 like leaves of the wild fern. The hum of bees im- 
 parts a half busy half drowsy sound to the scene, 
 while far down the long easy slopes are little val- 
 leys, through which trickle talkative brooks, that 
 sometimes peep between the low foliage on their 
 margins, and are the next moment lost to sight 
 behind the crowding bushes. It is no wonder that 
 Charlotte and her sisters loved their quiet walks 
 along the moors. 
 
 The next day I bade farewell to Haworth. It is 
 now frequently included in the route of American 
 tourists, by many of whom the memory of Char- 
 lotte Bronte is as fondly cherished as by her own 
 countrymen and women ; and Haworth is no longer 
 the quiet, unknown Yorkshire hamlet that it was a 
 few years ago. 
 
THOEWALDSEN'S CHEIST. 
 
 BY THE REV. E. A. WASHBUBN. 
 
 SILENT stood the youthful sculptor 
 Gazing on the breathing stone 
 From the chaos of the marble 
 Into godlike being grown. 
 But a gloom was on his forehead, 
 . In his eye a drooping glance, 
 And at length the heavy sorrow 
 From the lip found utterance : 
 
 " Holy Art ! thy shapes of beauty 
 Have I carved, but ne'er before 
 Reached my thought a faultless imago. 
 Still unbodied would it soar ; 
 Still the pure unfound Ideal 
 Would ensoul a fairer shrine ; 
 In my victory I perish, 
 And no loftier aim is mine." 
 
 CDO ' 
 
THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST. 251 
 
 Noble artist ! thine the yearning, 
 Thine the great inspiring word, 
 By the sleepless mind forever 
 In its silent watches heard ; 
 For the earthly it is pleasure 
 Only earthly ends to gain ; 
 For the seeker of the perfect, 
 To be satisfied is pain. 
 
 Visions of an untold glory 
 Milton saw in his eclipse, 
 Paradise to outward gazers 
 Lost, with no apocalypse ; 
 Holier Christs and veiled Madonnas, 
 Painted were on Kaphael's soul ; 
 Melodies he could not utter 
 O'er Bethoven's ear would roll. 
 
 Ever floats the dim Ideal 
 Far before the longing eyes ; 
 Ever, as we travel onward, 
 Boundless the horizon flies ; 
 Not the brimming cups of wisdom 
 Can the thirsty spirit slake, 
 And the molten gold in pouring 
 Will the mould in pieces break. 
 
252 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Voice within our inmost being, 
 Calling deep to answering deep, 
 Midst the life of weary labor 
 Thou shalt waken us from sleep ! 
 . All our joy is in our Future 
 And our motion is our rest, 
 Still the True reveals the Truer, 
 Still the good foretells the Best. 
 
JUNE WENTY-&INTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY- 
 NINE. 
 
 BY CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND. 
 
 To talk about the weather is the natural English 
 and American mode of beginning an acquaintance. 
 
 This day the one that glares upon us at our 
 present writing is eminently able to melt away 
 what is called the frost of ceremony, and to induce 
 the primmest of us to throw off all disguises that 
 can possibly be dispensed with. It is a day to 
 bring the most sophisticated back to first principles. 
 The very thought of wrapping anything up in 
 mystery, to-day, brings a thrill like the involuntary 
 protest of the soul against cruelty. We are not 
 even as anxious as usual to cover up our faults. 
 We hesitate at enveloping a letter. 
 
 The shimmer that lives and moves over yonder 
 dry fallow, as if ten thousand million fairies were 
 fanning themselves with midges' wings, fatigues the 
 eye with a notion of unnecessary exertion. Wiser 
 seems yon glassy pool, moveless, under heavy, not 
 
254: GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 melancholy, boughs. That is reflecting keeping 
 one pleasant thought all the time satisfying itself 
 with one picture for a whole morning, as we all 
 did while the "Heart of the Andes" was laid 
 open .to our longing gaze. The pool has the 
 advantage of us, too ; for it receives into its wave- 
 less bosom the loveliness of sky and tree without 
 emotion, while we, gazing on the wondrous tran- 
 script made by mortal man of these measureless 
 glories, felt our souls stirred, even to pain, with a 
 sense of the artist's power, and of the amount of 
 his precious life that must have gone into such a 
 creation. 
 
 By the way, if we had energy enough to-day to 
 wish anything, it would be to find ourselves far 
 away amid flashing seas and wild winds, hunting 
 icebergs, with Church for our Columbus, his banner 
 of Excelsior streaming over us, his wondrous eye 
 piercing the distant wreaths of spray, in search of 
 domes and pinnacles of opal and lapis lazuli, 
 turned, now to diamonds, now to marble, by sun 
 and shade. One whose good fortune it was to be 
 with the young discoverer at Niagara, came away 
 with the feeling of having acquired a new sense, by 
 the potent magic of genius. 
 
 But to-day, Art is nothing genius is nothing 
 but no ! that is blasphemous. It is we that are 
 
JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE. 255 
 
 nothing if not stupid. Dullness is the universe. 
 The grasshoppers are too faint to sing, the birds sit 
 still on the boughs, waiting for the leaves to fan 
 them. Children are wilted into silence and slum- 
 berous nonentity ; boys do not bathe to-day they 
 welter, hour after hour, in the dark water near the 
 shaded rock. Even they and the tadpoles can 
 hardly be seen to wriggle. The cow has found a 
 shade, and, preferring repose to munching, lies 
 contented under the one great elm mercifully left 
 in the middle of her pasture 
 
 A hot day in June is hotter than any other hot 
 day. It finds us cruelly unguarded. After we 
 have been gently baked awhile, the crust thus 
 acquired makes us somewhat tortoise-like and 
 quiescent. If we were condemned to suffer thirty- 
 nine stripes, or even only as many as belong to our 
 flag, would it or would it not be a privilege to take 
 them by degrees, say one on the first day, two on 
 the second, four on the third, etc., in the celebrated 
 progression style, until the whole were accom- 
 plished? Or were it better to have the whole at. 
 once, and so be done with it ? In either case, or in 
 present case, what a blessing to be made pachy- 
 dermatous ! (a learned word lately acquired by 
 ladies, though doubtless long familiar to lords). 
 
 But words beginning with the sound of ice, are 
 
256 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 more agreeable for to-day such as icicle, isolation, 
 Islip. 
 
 Some unhappy critic has said that the " icicle 
 that hangs on Dian's temple " is not colder than 
 other icicles. We pity him, and would like to try 
 the comparison to-day. We have already tried 
 " thinking on the frosty Caucasus," and quite agree 
 with Claudio was it, or Romeo, or who? that 
 this is of no service in case of fire. 
 
 Delicious music for to-day the tinkling of ice in 
 the pitcher, as Susan, slowly and carefully, brings 
 up-stairs the water we wait for. It were really a 
 loss to have the way shorter, or the servant a 
 harum-scarum thing who would dash in with 
 her precious burden before one knew it was 
 coming 
 
 We might try, to-day, the latest novelty in 
 cookery, a ball of solid ice wrapped in puff-paste, 
 and baked so adroitly that the paste shall be brown 
 while the ice remains unmelted. 
 
 Akin to this, is an antique achievement culinary, 
 as old as Mrs. Glasse, at least the roasting of a 
 pound of butter, an operation not unlike the very 
 work we are engaged in at this moment indeed so 
 like it, that the remembrance has occurred several 
 times. Your pound of butter is to be thoroughly 
 crusted in bread-crumbs to begin with, and then 
 
JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE. 257 
 
 put upon the spit and turned before a very hot fire ; 
 the unhappy cook standing by to dredge on crumbs 
 continually, to prevent the slippery article from 
 running away. When the crumbs (and cook) are 
 quite roasted, the thing is done. 
 
 And so should we be, but that here comes a 
 thunder storm, fit conclusion for an intense day, 
 and very like the sudden and terrific blowings up 
 which terminate the more ferocious kind of friend- 
 ships. Thick clouds, shaped like piles of cannon 
 balls, have slowly peered up from behind the 
 horizon, and rolled themselves hither and thither, 
 spreading and gathering as they went. Now and 
 then a thunder-whisper is heard, so faint, that if 
 we were conversing, we should not notice it ; and 
 an occasional flash of lightning seems, in the sun's 
 glare, like the waving of a curtain by the fitful 
 breeze that begins to touch the pool here and there. 
 The cloud masses gather fresh and fresh accession 
 as they move on, like revolutionary armies march- 
 ing up to battle. Looking overhead, there seems a 
 field-day in heaven; great bodies of artillery in 
 motion, forming themselves into solid phalanx, and 
 giving more and more dreadful notes of prepara- 
 tion. Volleys tell when divisions join, and the light 
 that announces them is as if the adamantine arch 
 were riven, disclosing dread splendors unspeakable. 
 
258 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 Most grand, most beautiful storm ! New music 
 that of the delicious rain, and in such abundance 
 that it washes away the very memory of the 
 parched and burning day. No wild commotion, 
 no terror ! Sublime order and an awe which is like 
 peace. One more proof of the unfailing, tender 
 love of our heavenly Father. 
 
NO SONGS IN WINTER 
 
 BY T. B. ALDEICH. 
 I. 
 
 THE robin and the oriole, 
 
 The linnet and the wren 
 When shall I see their fairyships, 
 
 And hear their songs again ? 
 
 n. 
 
 The wind among the poplar trees, 
 
 At midnight, makes its moan ; 
 The slim red cardinal flowers are dead, 
 
 And all sweet things are flown ! 
 
 m. 
 
 A great white face looks down from heaven, 
 
 The great white face of Snow : 
 I cannot sing or morn or even, 
 
 The demon haunts me so ! 
 
 TV. 
 It strikes me dumb, it freezes me, 
 
 I sing a broken strain 
 Wait till the robins and the wrens 
 
 And the linnets come again ! 
 
THE BE1ST-ISKAEL. 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 CRAMMED lobbies, galleries, boxes, floor ; 
 Heads piled on heads at every door. 
 The actors were a painted group, 
 Of statue shapes, a " model " troupe, 
 With figures not severely Greek, 
 And drapery more or less antique ; 
 The play, if one might call it so, 
 A Hebrew tale, in silent show. 
 
 And with the throng the pageant drew 
 There mingled Hebrews, not a few, 
 Coarse, swarthy, bearded at their side 
 Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed. 
 If scarce a Christian hope for grace, 
 That crowds one in his narrow place, 
 What will the savage victim do, 
 Whose ribs are kneaded by a JEW ? 
 
THE BENI-ISEAEL. 261 
 
 Close on my left, a breathing form 
 Sat wedged against me, soft and warm ; 
 The vulture-beaked and dark-browed face 
 Betrays the mould of Abraham's race ; 
 That coal-black hair that bistred hue 
 Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew ! 
 I started, shuddering, to the right, 
 And squeezed a second Israelite ! 
 
 Then rose the nameless words that slip 
 From darkening soul to whitening lip. 
 The snaky usurer him that crawls, 
 And cheats beneath the golden balls, 
 The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes 
 I stabbed them deep with muttered oaths : 
 Spawn of the rebel, wandering horde 
 That stoned the saints, and slew their Lord ! 
 
 Up came their murderous deeds of old 
 The grisly story Chaucer told, 
 And many an ugly tale beside, 
 Of children caught and crucified. 
 I heard the ducat-sweating thieves 
 Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves, 
 And, thrust beyond the tented green, 
 The leper's cry, "Unclean, unclean !" 
 
262 GIFTS OF GENIUS. 
 
 The show went on, but, ill at ease, 
 
 My sullen eye it could not please ; 
 
 In vain the haggard outcast knelt, 
 
 The white-haired patriarch's heart to melt ; 
 
 I thought of Judas and his bribe, 
 
 And steeled my soul against his tribe. 
 
 My neighbors stirred ; I looked again, 
 
 Full on the younger of the twain. 
 
 A soft, young cheek of olive brown, 
 A lip just flushed with youthful down, 
 Locks dark as midnight, that divide 
 And shade the neck on either side ; 
 An eye that wears a moistened gleam, 
 Like starlight in a hidden stream ; 
 So looked that other child of Shem, 
 The maiden's Boy of Bethlehem ! 
 
 And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood 
 That flows untainted from the Flood ! 
 Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains 
 Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes ! 
 Scum of the nations ! In thy pride 
 Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side, 
 And, lo ! the very semblance there 
 The Lord of Glory deigned to wear ! 
 
THE BENI-ISKAEL. 263 
 
 I see that radiant image rise, 
 The midnight hair, the starlit eyes ; 
 The faintly-crimsoned cheek that shows 
 The stain of Judah's dusky rose. 
 Thy hands would clasp His hallowed feet 
 Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat ; 
 Thy lips would press His garment's hem, 
 That curl in scornful wrath for them ! 
 
 A sudden mist, a watery screen, 
 Dropped like a veil before the scene ; 
 I strove the glistening film to stay, 
 The wilful tear would have its way. 
 The shadow floated from my soul, 
 And to my lips a whisper stole, 
 Soft murmuring, as the curtain fell, 
 " Peace to the Beni-Israel 1" 
 
BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET. 
 
 From the Portuguese of Manoel de Barbosa do Bocage. 
 
 BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 k 
 
 PVE seen my life, without a noble aim, 
 
 In the mad strife of passions waste away. 
 Fool that I was ! to live as if decay 
 
 Would spare the vital essence in my frame ! 
 Ind Hope, whose flattering dreams are now my 
 
 shame, 
 
 Showed years to come, a long and bright array, 
 Yet all too soon my nature sinks a prey 
 
 To the great evil that with being came. 
 Pleasures, my tyrants ! now your reign is past : 
 
 My soul, recoiling, casts you off to lie 
 In that abyss where all deceits are cast. 
 
 Oh God ! may life's laot moments, as they fly, 
 Win back what years have lost, that he, at last, 
 Who knew not how to live, may learn to die. 
 
 204 
 
 
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