Various - Autumn Leaves
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There was by no means a superabundance of heat; there was something
wrong, but the lack of warmth was a hundred-fold made up in smoke. No
one could see across the church, and the minister loomed up, as if in
a dense fog; all eyes were fountains of tears. At last the old sexton
went with a slow and subdued step up to the pulpit, and, wiping his
eyes, respectfully inquired, in a whisper, whether there was not a
_little_ too much smoke. This suggestion being very smilingly assented
to, he proceeded to extinguish the fires, and for that day the
services were not indebted to artificial warmth to promote their
effect.
How sad are improvements in places to which our childish recollections
cling! The gushing fulness of unchilled love is lavished even on
inanimate and senseless things, in a happy childhood. How was my heart
grieved when the old-fashioned meeting-house was converted into the
modern temple! Time and decay had rendered the tall spire unsafe, yet
its fall by force and premeditated purpose seemed a sacrilege. I felt
affronted for the huge weathercock, reclining sulkily against a fence,
no more to point his beak to the east with obstinate preference. I
mourned over the broad, old-fashioned dial, on which young eyes could
discern the time a mile off. The old sexton lived to see this change,
and at the end of half a century of care under that venerable roof he
went to his rest. The beloved minister, and many, many who sat with
trustful and devoted hearts under his teachings, are gone to their
reward. A board from the old pulpit, a piece of the red-damask
curtain, and the long wished-for gold vase, are now in my possession.
"SOMETHING THAN BEAUTY DEARER."
You ask me if her eyes are fair,
And touched with heaven's own blue,
And if I can her cheek compare
To the blush-rose's hue?
Her clear eye sheds a constant gleam
Of truth and purest love,
And wit and reason from it beam,
Like the light of the stars above.
Good-humor, mirth, and fancy throng
The dimples of her cheek,
And to condemn the oppressor's wrong
Her indignant blush doth speak.
You ask me if her form is light
And graceful as the fawn;
You ask me if her tresses bright
Are like the golden dawn?
Her step is light on an errand of love,
Scarce doth she touch the earth,
And in graceful kindness doth she move
Around her father's hearth;
And when to bless his child he bends,
His comfort and delight,
The silver with her dark hair blends,
Like a crown of holy light.
A TALE
FOUND IN THE REPOSITORIES OF THE ABBOTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES.
Swept from his saddle by a low branch, Count Robert lay stunned upon
the ground. The hunting-party swept on, the riderless steed galloping
wildly among them. No man turned back; not one loved the Count better
than his sport.
There came to the spot a man in a woodman's garb, yet of a knightly
and noble aspect. He bent over the fallen man, and bathed his temples,
turning back the heavy, clustering locks. The Count, opening his eyes,
gazed on him at first without surprise; he thought himself at home,
however he came there, so familiar was the face.
Then did the woodman embrace him with tears, crying, "My brother, O my
brother! it is I! it is Richard!"
"Thou in England!" cried the Count. "Art thou mad?" And he frowned
gloomily.
"Fear not for me," replied the exile, tenderly raising the Count from
the ground.
A narrow path wound through the wood to a ruined hermitage. The outlaw
here prepared a bed of leaves for the Count, laid him softly thereon,
and went to seek some refreshment. His loved brother might revive, and
yet smile kindly on the playmate of his youth, though under a ban.
When Richard returned, there followed him like a dog a horse of the
North-country breed, shaggy, and in size not much greater than a
stag-hound. Robert viewed him with surprise, and it seemed with
derision.
"Despise not him who is able to bear thee out of the wood," said
Richard. "Thou art faint; here is wine, and of no mean vintage."
Robert drank from the earthen bottle, and his eye grew brighter, yet
looked it not the more lovingly on Richard. He ate right gladly of the
store of the landless and penniless,--dried venison and oaten
bread,--and was refreshed, yet thanked him not. Richard gave fragments
to the neighing steed. He ate no morsel himself, nor tasted the
wine. His heart was full to bursting.
"Tell me of home,--of--of our father," he said, at last, with deep,
strong sobs.
"On the morrow, on the morrow," said Robert, disposing himself for
sleep. "Thou wilt hear soon enough."
But Richard seized him wildly by the shoulder, and bade him tell the
worst.
"Nay, then, if thou _wilt_ know, he is dead. I, thy younger brother,
am now thy superior."
"For that I care not. As well thou, as I, to sit in my father's
seat. But oh! left he no blessing for me? Did he not at the last
believe me the victim of calumny?--Alas! No word? Not one dying
thought of Richard?"
"He died suddenly."
Richard wept long and bitterly, and when, with faltering tongue, he
asked tidings of his betrothed, his face was covered; he saw not the
guilty flush upon his brother's brow, for that he had spread a lying
report of the exile's death.
"Would Bertha still brave the king's displeasure? Was she yet true to
the unfortunate?"
"Bertha is a very woman. She hath forgotten the absent lover, and
chosen another, and a better man."
"Who, who hath supplanted me?" cried Richard fiercely, and springing
upon his feet.
"I tell thee not, lest thou wreak on him thy spite against thy
faithless fair."
"Know that Bertha's choice, though a traitor, is safe from me, even
were I, as I was, a man to meet a knight on equal terms."
His generous heart could not dream of fraternal treachery. And when
his rival saw this, and that he suspected him not as yet, he smiled to
himself, turned his face to the wall, and closed his eyes, if so be he
might cut off further question. Soon, falling into slumber, he
clenched his hands, and ground his teeth. The sleep of a traitor is
ever haunted by uneasy dreams, and dark shadows of coming doom fell
upon his spirit.
Richard watched till dawn. Sometimes he started up to walk to and fro,
beating his bosom, and wringing his hands in agony. Anon he threw
himself prostrate in the stupor of despair. At the first carol of
birds in the forest, sleep surprised his weary senses, and the peace
of the innocent settled upon his features.
Side by side lay the brothers, alike in form, alike even in
feature. But in heart they bore no mark of the resemblance of kindred.
Envy of the elder-born early possessed the soul of Robert, like a base
fiend; first had it driven thence love, and lastly honor.
Does no one seek for the absent lord of the castle, while the weary
hunters return to be his guests? Keeps no one anxious vigil, the
live-long night? The unloving is not loved. But he hath a king beneath
his roof; a king and lords of high degree sit at the morning board,
and shall none but vassals be hospitably proud and busy?
Ladies of rank were there, and among them, pale and silent, sat
Bertha, looking on the king, it seemed, with an upbraiding eye. An
angry gloom sat upon his grimly compressed lips, and sadness was upon
his brow; for kingly power was naught, since remorse could not undo a
wrong done to one who no longer lived, and vengeance could not reach
its absent object. Richard's innocence had come to light, and Robert,
albeit he knew it not, was now the dishonored outlaw.
Ere the clock of the distant minster rung the hour of ten, the royal
cavalcade wound from the gates of the castle. At the same hour Count
Robert awoke, and saw that the sun was already very high. It shone
upon the calm face of Richard, tempered with quivering shadows from
the leafy canopy above.
"Up, brother Richard!" cried the Count; "thou wast ever a sluggard."
And Richard, at his bidding, filled his hunting-pouch with provisions
for the way, and went before, leading the little Northern nag, which
the Count bestrode. He bore himself bravely under the weight of a
rider whose feet nearly grazed the turf on each side.
Slowly they wound through the tangled wood. "Stay, I will lighten thy
burden for thee," said Robert, "if thou hast not left the bottle
behind. Here's to the fair Bertha. What, thou wilt not drink? Then
thou hast resigned her;--she is not worth a thought. Thou wilt not
peril thy life to see her again, the false one who careth not for
thee. Now depart, and when the king's wrath is overpast, I will
beseech him for thee. Leave thy cause in a brother's hands." But
Richard went not back, though, when they came to the edge of the wood,
they beheld the king's train advancing in the broad highway.
"Fly, Richard; escape while thou mayest!" cried Robert, yet offered
he not the horse for the greater speed. "Found on English ground,
thou diest a felon's death. Disgrace not thy family. Carest thou not
for life?" he cried, pursuing Richard, who stinted not, nor stayed, at
the sight of the king, but the rather hasted forward.
"What is life to me?" said Richard. "Let the king do with me as he
will." He strode onward proudly, with folded arms, offering himself to
the view of Edward, who as yet saw him not, or only as a forester.
"Halt at least that I may spur on and implore for thee," said Robert,
for he hoped that he might deliver him a prisoner to some one in
attendance, that he should not come to speech of the king.
With this wily purpose, he galloped forward. A shout arose, "The
traitor! The traitor!" He was made prisoner by no gentle hands, and,
at a nod from the king, found himself led away to the rear, but not
far removed.
He looked about for Richard. Could he not yet wave him back? Should
the king see that noble face, he must be moved to mercy, at least so
far as to give him audience. The brothers know not yet that all is
reversed. Robert sees a man in russet clothing kneel at the king's
stirrup; he sees the royal hand extended to raise him; he sees many
press forward eager to welcome the wanderer. He turns away, sick at
the sight.
One look more. Bertha has thrown herself into the arms of his hated
brother. He tears his beard; he curses his own natal day, and the
stars that presided over his birth and destiny.
Yet must he look once more, though to an envious soul the sight of a
brother's happiness is like the torment of purgatorial fire. Richard
is standing with his hand extended towards him. He is pleading the
cause of the mean and cowardly enemy who betrayed him. He pities and
forgives him; he even loves him still, for is he not his brother? As
the eyes of the king and of all the surrounding crowd are turned on
him, burning shame subdues the warring passions that fill the heart of
Robert, and a faint emotion of gratitude brings a tear to fall upon
his hot cheek. Something of old, childish love awakes in his bosom,
like dew in a dry land.
The king granted Richard's prayer, the more readily because his anger
was smothered by contempt. The title and inheritance returned to the
heir, who was worthy his ancient name. Robert, to the day of his
death, lived on his brother's bounty, harmless, the rather that the
king's decree had gone forth that in no case should he be Richard's
successor, or inherit aught from him.
* * * * *
NOTE.--Here ends the tale, but by patient research we have discovered
one verse of an ancient ballad, supposed to have the same tradition
for its subject. It is preserved in a curious collection of
fragmentary poetry, to be found in most private libraries, and, in its
more ancient and valuable editions, in the repositories of
antiquaries. It stands, in the modern copy which we possess, as
follows:--
Richard and Robert were two pretty men;
Both laid abed till the clock struck ten.
Up jumps Robert, and looks at the sky;
"Oho, brother Richard, the sun's very high!
You go before, with the bottle and bag,
And I'll come behind, on little Jack nag."
THE SEA.
"We sent him to school, we set him to learn a trade, we sent
him far back into the country; but it was of no use, he must
go to sea."--THE GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.
A child was ever haunted by a thought of mystery,
Of the dark, shoreless, desolate, heaving and moaning sea,
Which round about the cold, still earth goes drifting to and fro,
As a mother, holding her dead child, swayeth herself with woe.
In all the jar and bustle and hurrying of trade,
Through the hoarse, distracting din by rattling pavements made,
There sounded ever in his ear a low and solemn moan,
And his soul grew sick with listening to that deep undertone.
He wandered from the busy streets, he wandered far away,
To where the dim old forest stands, and in its shadows lay,
And listened to the song it sang; but its murmurs seemed to be
The whispered echo of the sad, sweet warbling of the sea.
His soul grew sick with longing, and shadowy and dim
Seemed all the beauty of the land, and all its joys, to him,--
Its mountains vast, its forests old. He only longed to be
Away upon the measureless, unfathomed, restless sea.
Thither he went. The foam-capped waves yet beat upon the strand,
With a low and solemn murmuring that none may understand;
And he lieth drifting to and fro, amid the ocean's roar,
With the drifting tide he loved to hear, but shall hear never more.
And thus we all are haunted,--there soundeth in our ear,
A low and restless moaning, that we struggle not to hear.
Yet still it soundeth, the faint cry of the dark deeps of the soul,--
Dark, barren, restless, as the sea which doth for ever roll
Hither and thither, bearing still some half-shaped form of good,
The flickering shadow of the moon upon the "moon-led flood."
And ever, 'mid all the joys and weary cares of life,
Through the dull sleep of sluggishness, and clangor of the strife,
We hear the low, deep murmuring of that Infinity
Which stretcheth round us dim and vast, as wraps the earth the sea.
And in the twilight dimness, in silence and alone,
The soul is almost startled by the power of its solemn tone.
When we view the fairest works of Nature and of Art,
They ever fill with longings, never satisfy, the heart;
But, like the lines of weed and shells that stretch along the beach,
And show how far the flowing tide and the high waters reach,
They seem like barriers to hold back, like weedy lines, to show
How far into this busy world the waves of beauty flow.
Yet when sweet strains of music rise about us, float, and play,
We almost dream these barriers of sense are broken away,
And that the beauty bound before is floating round us, free
As the bright, glancing waters of the ever-playing sea.
And for a little moment, the spirit seems to stand
With naked, wave-washed feet almost upon the strand.
But when she stoops to reach the wave, the waters glide away,
And whisper in an unknown tongue,--she hears not what they say.
FASHION.
Why is it that the introduction of a really graceful fashion is
generally met with ridicule and opposition, while ugly modes are
adopted with grave acquiescence and reverent submission?
"Seest thou not what a deformed thief this _Fashion_ is?" "I know that
Deformed; he goes up and down like a gentleman." Yes, we all know
_Deformed_. When any of his family come to us, from England or France
or any foreign country, we recognize the hideous brotherhood, and
extend our welcoming hands; but _Graceful_ must stay with us a long
time to be greeted kindly, and her sisters from foreign parts are
coldly looked upon, or dismissed at once.
To begin at the top,--"the very head and front of the offending." A
gentleman goes into a fashionable hatter's, and the shopman, holding
up for admiration a hat with a crown a foot high, of the genuine
stove-pipe form, and a brim an inch wide, says, "This is the newest
style, Sir." The gentleman walks home with the ugly thing on his head,
but no one stares or laughs. 'Tis a new fashion, but all "take it
easy." A year later, perhaps, the hatter shows him a thing with a brim
a half an inch wider, but rolled up at the sides, and a crown of a
much greater diameter at the top than where it joins the brim,--a
specimen of the bell-crown. This is solemnly donned, and the wearer
has the pleasure of knowing that the head-gear of all his friends is
as hideous as his own. The inverted cone is worn with a sweet,
Malvolio smile. And so "Deformed" has ruled the head of man for as
many years as any of us can number, only ringing the changes, from one
year to another, upon the three degrees of comparison of the word
_ugly_.
But a change takes place; a light, graceful, low-crowned hat, with a
brim wide enough for shelter or for shade, begins to appear as a
fashion;--and how is it received? The clergyman thinks it would be
very unclerical for him to wear it, though it may be as black, and is
as modest, as the rest of his apparel. The young doctor timidly tries
it on, and in his first walk meets the wealthy hypochondriac, his
favorite patient, and the one who is trying to introduce him to
practice, who seriously advises him, as a friend, not to wear that
new-fangled thing,--if the poor hat had only been ugly, there would
have been nothing bad in its _new-fangled_ quality,--as all his
respectable patients will leave him if he dresses so like a fool. The
young lawyer gets one, because he heard an old lady speak of "those
impudent-looking hats," and he is in hopes that impudence, which he
understands is all-important in his profession, and which he is
conscious of not possessing, may come with the hat. A lady goes out
with her son, who is just old enough to have gained a coat, and is
looking for his first hat. The mother has taste and judgment, and the
youth has yet some unperverted affinity with graceful forms left, and
so they choose and buy one of these comfortable and elegant
chapeaux. Just before they reach home, they meet one of their best
friends, a person whom the lady regards most kindly, and the young man
admires and respects, and _he_ greets him with, "Why, Tom! have _you_
got one of those rowdy hats?" And so the stiff, stove-pipe monstrosity
keeps its place, and the only pleasant, sensible, graceful, becoming
hat that the nineteenth century has known, is called all sorts of bad
names, and quiet gentlemen are afraid to wear it.
Has it not been the fate of the shawl, too, the most simple and
elegant wrapper, and comfortable withal, that a man can throw around
him, to be scouted and flouted?
Yes, Deformed! Come on next winter with a white surtout in your hand
that must fit so tightly that your victims can but just screw
themselves into it, with a stiff, square collar touching the ears, and
seven capes, one over the other, "small by degrees and beautifully
less," and all respectable gentlemen will accept it, and virtuously
frown down, as dandies or rowdies, those who will not sacrifice their
shawls to the ugly idol.
A GROWL.
I know it is generally considered decidedly boorish to utter
complaints against the ladies. But I am for the present a bachelor,
and in that capacity claim freedom of speech as my peculiar privilege.
In virtue of my unhappy position, then, I proceed to utter the first
of a series of savage growls, wishing the ladies to understand me as
fully in earnest in this; that when I growl _loud_, I must be supposed
to _mean_ what I growl.
For a month past, single gentlemen of every description have suffered
in common with other fancy stocks, and have remained hopelessly below
par. Those nice, trim, poetical, and polite young beaux, who, when no
great undertaking agitates the female mind, are treated with kindness,
and sometimes with distinction, by young ladies of discretion, are
now, as it were, ruthlessly thrust and bolted out of the pale of
feminine society by an awful demon who reigns supreme,--the Genius of
Dress-making. The other evening, I pulled sixteen different
bell-handles, in a gentlemanly manner, without obtaining admission
into any house for the purpose of making a call; and when I succeeded
in making an entrance at the seventeenth door by falsely representing
myself as the agent of a dry-goods dealer, with a large box of
patterns under my arm, I found the ladies in close conference with
three dress-makers, studying a fashion-plate with an assiduity worthy
of a better cause. A friend of mine, who has hitherto enjoyed the
privilege of dining every day with six ladies, and has derived from
their society great pleasure and profit, informed me yesterday, with a
tear in each eye, that he had left the house for ever, the
conversation being always turned upon topics with which he is utterly
unacquainted, and conducted in a language which is about as
intelligible to him as the most abstruse Japanese or the most classic
Law-Latin.
If we are so fortunate as to obtain, by any stratagem, admission to
hall or anteroom, in the mansions of our fair friends, our olfactories
are regaled with a fragrance which we instinctively associate with
tailors' shops, and which, I am informed, does in fact arise from the
contact of woollen substances with hot flat-irons. As we advance, our
ears are greeted by the resounding clash of scissors. Entering upon
the field of action, our eyes are dazzled by a thousand fragments of
rich and brilliant hues, and our personal safety endangered by swiftly
flying needles and unsuspected pins. Gossip is at an end, for the
thread must be continually bitten off. Dancing is child's play, a
folly of the past. The piano is converted into a table, or an
ironing-board. No games can be suggested but Thread-my-needle, and
Thimble-rig. No books are at hand but Harper, with the fashion-plate
at the end; the newspapers of the day are cut into uncouth shapes; and
conversation (when conducted in English) hangs the unsuccessful
Bloomer reform upon the gibbet of ridicule.
Now, if we would prevent utter disunion in society, something like a
compromise must be effected, and to the ladies belongs the laboring
oar. I use a metaphor which implies that they must do something they
are little accustomed to do; they must make some concession. We have
done all we could do, and I will make one statement which will
convince the world that we bachelors are not obstinate without good
reason. I confess (though it is not without some slight degree of
shame that I own it), that I have, during the last week, consumed the
greater part of every day in ineffectual study, trying to perfect
myself in the terminology of the science of Fashion. I have listened
attentively, and have gathered into a retentive memory sundry
technicalities; but in vain have I submitted these terms of a strange
dialect to the strictest etymological research. In vain have I
conversed upon this subject with the most intelligent dry-goods
dealers. In learning the few idiomatic phrases they employ, I have
experienced only the satisfaction which young students in Greek
literature feel, when they have, with infinite labor, mastered the
_alphabet_ of that rich and copious language.
But there is hope. Experience tells us, this state of things cannot
last for ever. A few weeks, and our sufferings shall be rewarded, our
forbearance repaid. Then shall gay streamers, pendent from rejuvenated
bonnets, float, as of yore, across our promenades, and on the
shoulders of Earth's fairest daughters the variegated mantle be again
displayed. The streets, now deserted by the fair, will ere long
glitter with the brilliant throng, and our sidewalks be swept once
more by the gracefully flowing silk. Taper fingers shall
condescendingly be extended to us, the smile of beauty beam on us, and
witty speech banish our resentful remembrance of incomprehensible
jargon.
TO JENNY LIND,
ON HEARING HER SING THE ARIA "ON MIGHTY PENS," FROM "THE CREATION."
When Haydn first conceived that air divine,
The voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine.
The Lark, that even now to heaven's gate springs,
And near the sky her earth-born carol sings,
Poured on his ear a higher, purer note,
And heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat.
To him, from groves of Paradise, the Dove
Breathed Eden's innocence and Eden's love;
And seraph-taught seemed the enchanting lay
The Nightingale poured forth at close of day;
For yet nor sin nor sorrow had its birth,
To touch, as now, the sweetest sounds of earth.
Yes! as upon his inner sense was borne
The melody of that primeval morn,
And all his soul was music,--O, to him
The voice of Nature was an angel's hymn!
But was there, _then_, one human voice that brought
Unto his outward ear his own rapt thought,
In tones, interpreting in worthy guise
The varied notes of Eden's melodies?--
O, happier we! for unto us 'tis given
To hear, through thee, the strains he caught from heaven.
December 1, 1851.
MY HERBARIUM.
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