EMERSON.
HOW I CAME TO BE A SLOVEN.
AN UNPUBLISHED FRENCH NOVEL.
THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE.
THE PYRENEES.
JUDAISM IN THE LEGISLATURE.
PÆANS OF THE ATHENIAN NAVY.—NO. I.
OUR CURRENCY, OUR TRADE, AND OUR TARIFF.
INDEX TO VOL. LXII.

[643]

BLACKWOOD’S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCLXXXVI.           DECEMBER, 1847.           VOL. LXII.

EMERSON.

[1]

The genius of America seems
hitherto disposed to manifest itself
rather in works of reason and
reflection than in those displays
of poetic fervour which are usually
looked for in a nascent literature.
And a little consideration would
lead us, probably, to expect
this. America presents itself upon
the scene, enters into the drama
of the world, at a time when the
minds of men are generally awakened
and excited to topics of grave and
practical importance. It is not a
great poem that mankind now want
or look for; they rather demand a
great work, or works, on human society,
on the momentous problems
which our social progress, as well as
our social difficulties, alike give rise
to. If on a new literature a peculiar
mission could be imposed, such
would probably be the task assigned
to it.

The energetic and ceaseless industry
of the people of America, the
stern and serious character of the
founders of New England, the tendency
which democracy must necessarily
encourage to reason much and
boldly on the interests of the community,—would
all lead us to the
same anticipation; so far as any
anticipation can be warranted, regarding
the erratic course and capricious
development of literary genius.

The first contribution, we believe,
our libraries received from America,
was the half theological, half metaphysical
treatise on the Will by
Jonathan Edwards. This follower
of Calvin is understood to have stated
the gloomy and repulsive doctrines of
his master with an unrivalled force
of logic. Such is the reputation
which Edwards on the Will enjoys,
and we are contented to speak from
reputation. The doctrine of necessity,
even when intelligently applied
to the circle of human thoughts and
passions, is not the most inviting
tenet of philosophy. It is quickly
learned, and what little fruit it
yields is soon gathered. But when
combined with the theological dogma,
wrung from texts of scripture, of
predestination; when the law of
necessity supposed to regulate the
temper and affairs of the human
being in this little life, is converted
into a divine sentence of condemnation
to a future and eternal fate—it
then becomes one of the most odious
and irrational of tenets that ever
obscured the reason or clouded the
piety of mankind. We confess,
therefore, that we are satisfied with
re-echoing the traditional reputation
of Jonathan Edwards, without
earning, by perusal of his work, the
right to pronounce upon its justice.

The first contribution, also, which
America made to the amount of our
knowledge, was of a scientific character,
and, moreover, the most anti-poetical
[644]imaginable. As such, at
least, it must be described by those
who are accustomed to think that a
peculiar mystery attached to one
phenomenon of nature more than
another, is essentially poetic. Several
poets, our Campbell amongst the
number, have complained that the
laws of optics have disenchanted the
rainbow; but the analysis of Newton
is poetry itself compared to that instance
of the daring and levelling
spirit of science which Franklin exhibited,
when he proved the lightning
to be plain electricity; took the bolts
of Jupiter, analysed them, bottled them
in Leyden jars, and experimented on
them as with the sparks of his own
electrical machine.

As the first efforts of American
genius were in the paths of grave and
searching inquiry, so, too, at this
present moment, if we were called upon
to point out amongst the works of our
trans-Atlantic brethren, our compatriots
still in language, the one which,
above all others, displayed the undoubted
marks of original genius,—it
would be a prose work, and one of a
philosophical character we should
single out:—we should point to the
writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The Americans are frequently
heard to lament the absence of
nationality in their literature. Perhaps
no people are the first to perceive
their own character reflected
in the writings of one of their countrymen;
this nationality is much
more open to the observation of a
foreigner. We are quite sure that
no French or German critic could
read the speculations of Emerson,
without tracing in them the spirit
of the nation to which this writer
belongs. The new democracy of the
New World is apparent, he would
say, in the philosophy of one who
yet is no democrat, and, in the
ordinary sense of the word, no politician.
For what is the prevailing
spirit of his writings? Self-reliance,
and the determination to see in the
man of to-day, in his own, and in his
neighbour’s mind, the elements of all
greatness. Whatever the most exalted
characters of history, whatever the
most opulent of literatures, has displayed
or revealed, of action or of
thought,—the germ of all lies within
yourself. This is his frequent text.
What does he say of history? “I have
no expectation that any man will
read history aright, who thinks that
what was done in a remote age, by
men whose names have resounded
far, has any deeper sense than what
he is doing to-day.” He is, as he
describes himself, “an endless seeker
of truth, with no past at his back.”
He delights to raise the individual
existing mind to the level, if not
above the level, of all that has been
thought or enacted. He will not
endure the imposing claims of antiquity,
of great nations, or of great,
names. “It is remarkable,” he says,
“that involuntarily we always read
as superior beings. Universal history,
the poets, the romancers, do not, in
their stateliest pictures, in the sacerdotal,
the imperial palaces, in the
triumphs of will or of genius, anywhere
make us feel that we intrude, that this
is for our betters, but rather is it true
that in their grandest strokes, there
we feel most at home. All that
Shakspeare says of the king, yonder slip
of a boy that reads in the corner, feels
to be true of himself.“

Neither do the names of foreign
cities, any more than of ancient nations,
overawe or oppress him. Of
travelling, he says, “I have no
churlish objection to the circumnavigation
of the globe, for the purposes
of art, of study, and benevolence, so
that the man is first domesticated, or
does not go abroad with the hope of
finding somewhat greater than he
knows. He who travels to be amused,
or to get somewhat which he does
not carry, travels away from himself,
and grows old even in youth among
old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra,
his will and mind have become old
and dilapidated as they. He carries
ruins to ruins. Travelling is a fool’s
paradise. We owe to our first journeys
the discovery that place is nothing.
At home, I dream that at Naples, at
Rome, I can be intoxicated with
beauty, and lose my sadness. I pack
my trunk, embrace my friends, embark
on the sea, and at last wake up
in Naples, and there beside me is the
stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting,
identical, that I fled from. I seek the
Vatican and the palaces. I affect to
be intoxicated with sights and suggestions,
but I am not intoxicated.[645]
My giant goes with me wherever I
go.”

In a still higher strain he writes,
“There is one mind common to all
individual men. Every man is an
inlet to the same, and to all of the
same. He that is once admitted to
the right of reason is made a freeman
of the whole estate. What Plato has
thought he may think; what a saint
has felt he may feel; what at any
time has befallen any man he can
understand. Who hath access to
this universal mind, is a party to
all that is or can be done, for this is
the only and sovereign agent.” This
passage is taken from the commencement
of the Essay on History, and
the essay entitled “Nature,” opens
with a similar sentiment. He disclaims
the retrospective spirit of our
age that would “put the living generation
into masquerade out of the
faded wardrobe of the past.” He
will not see through the eyes of others.
“Why should not we also,” he demands,
“enjoy an original relation
to the universe? Why should not
we have a poetry and philosophy
of insight, and not of tradition, and
a religion by revelation to us, and
not the history of theirs? The sun
shines to-day also! Let us demand
our own works, and laws, and worship.”

In the Essay on Self-reliance—a
title which might over-ride a great
portion of his writings—he says:
“Our reading is mendicant and
sycophantic. In history, our imagination
makes fools of us, plays us
false. Kingdom and lordship, power
and estate, are a gaudier vocabulary
than private John and Edward in a
small house and common day’s work:
but the things of life are the same to
both: the sum total of both is the
same. Why all this deference to
Alfred, and Scanderberg, and Gustavus?
Suppose they were virtuous:
did they wear out virtue?”
And in a more sublime mood he proceeds:
“Whenever a mind is simple,
and receives a divine wisdom, then
old things pass away,—means,
teachers, texts, temples fall. Whence,
then, this worship of the past? The
centuries are conspirators against the
sanity and majesty of the soul….
Man is timid and apologetic. He is
no longer upright. He dares not say
‘I think,’ ‘I am,’ but quotes some
saint or sage. He is ashamed before
the blade of grass or the blowing
rose. These roses under my window
make no reference to former roses,
or to better ones; they are for what
they are; they exist with God to-day.
There is no time to them.
There is simply the rose,—perfect in
every moment of its existence. But
man postpones or remembers; he
does not live in the present, but with
reverted eye laments the past, or,
heedless of the riches that surround
him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the
future. He cannot be happy and
strong until he, too, lives with nature
in the present, above time.”

Surely these quotations alone—which
we have made with the additional
motive of introducing at
once to our readers the happier
style and manner of the American
Philosopher—would bear out the
French or German critic in their
views of the nationality of this
author. The spirit of the New World,
and of a self-confident democracy,
could not be more faithfully translated
into the language of a high and abstract
philosophy than it is here. We
say that an air blowing from prairie
and forest, and the New Western
World, is felt in the tone and spirit of
Emerson’s writings; we do not intend
to intimate that the opinions expressed
in them are at all times such
as might be anticipated from an
American. Far from it. Mr Emerson
regards the world from a peculiar
point of view, that of an idealistic
philosophy. Moreover, he is one of
those wilful, capricious, though powerful
thinkers, whose opinions it would
not be very easy to anticipate, who
balk all prediction, who defy augury.

For instance, a foreigner might
naturally expect to find in the speculations
of a New England philosopher,
certain sanguine and enthusiastic
views of the future condition of society.
He will not find them here. Our
idealist levels the past to the present,
but he levels the future to the present
also. If with him all that is old is
new, so also all that is new is old. It
is still the one great universal mind—like
the great ocean—ebbing, flowing,
in tempest now, and now in calm.[646]
He will not join in the shout that sees
a new sun rising on the world. For
ourselves, (albeit little given to the
too sanguine mood) we have more
hope here than our author has expressed.
We by no means subscribe
to the following sentence. The
measure of truth it expresses—and so
well expresses—bears but a small proportion
to the whole truth. “All
men plume themselves on the improvement
of society, and no man improves.
Society never advances. It recedes
as fast on one side as it gains on the
other. It undergoes continual changes:
it is barbarous, it is civilised, it is
christianised, it is rich, it is scientific;
but this change is not amelioration.
For every thing that is given, something
is taken. Society acquires new
arts and loses old instincts. What
a contrast between the well-clad,
reading, writing, thinking American,
with a watch, a pencil, and a bill of
exchange in his pocket, and the naked
New Zealander, whose property is a
club, a spear, a mat, and an undivided
twentieth of a shed to sleep under.
But compare the health of the two
men, and you shall see that his aboriginal
strength the white man has
lost. If the traveller tell us truly,
strike the savage with a broad axe,
and in a day or two the flesh shall
unite and heal as if you struck the
blow into soft pitch, and the same
blow shall send the white to his grave.
The civilised man has built a coach,
but has lost the use of his feet. He
is supported on crutches, but loses so
much support of muscle. He has got
a fine Geneva watch, but he has lost
the skill to tell the hour by the sun.
A Greenwich nautical almanac he has,
and so being sure of the information
when he wants it, the man in the
street does not know a star in the sky.
The solstice he does not observe; the
equinox he knows as little; and the
whole bright calendar of the year is
without a dial in his mind. His notebooks
impair his memory; his libraries
overload his wit; the insurance
office increases the number of accidents;
it may be a question whether
machinery does not encumber; whether
we have not lost by refinement some
energy, by a christianity (entrenched
in establishments and forms) some
vigour of wild virtue. For every stoic
was a stoic; but in Christendom where
is the Christian?“

A French critic has designated
Emerson the American Montaigne,
struck, we presume by his independence
of manner, and a certain egotism
which when accompanied by
genius is as attractive, as it is ludicrous
without that accompaniment.
An English reader will be occasionally
reminded of the manner of Sir
Thomas Brown, author of the “Religio
Medici.” Like Sir Thomas, he
sometimes startles us by a curiosity of
reflection, fitted to suggest and kindle
thought, although to a dry logician it
may seem a mere futility, or the idle
play of imagination. Of course this
similarity is to be traced only in single
and detached passages; but we
think we could select several quotations
from the American writer which
should pass off as choice morsels of
Sir Thomas Brown, with one who
was familiar with the strain of thought
of the old Englishman, but whose
memory was not of that formidable
exactness as to render vain all attempt
at imposition. Take the following
for an instance:—”I hold our
actual knowledge very cheap. Hear
the rats in the wall, see the lizard on
the fence, the fungus under foot, the
lichen on the log. What do I know
sympathetically, morally, of either of
these worlds of life? As long as the
Caucasian man—perhaps longer—these
creatures have kept their council
beside him, and there is no record
of any word or sign that has passed
from the one to the other….
I am ashamed to see what a shallow
village tale our so-called history is.
How many times we must say Rome,
and Paris, and Constantinople.
What does Rome know of rat or lizard?
What are Olympiads and Consulates
to these neighbouring systems of
being?”

Or this:—”Why should we make
it a point to disparage that man we
are, and that form of being assigned
to us? A good man is contented.
I love and honour Epaminondas, but
I do not wish to be Epaminondas.
I hold it more just to love the world
of this hour, than the world of his
hour. Nor can you, if I am true,
excite me to the least uneasiness by
saying ‘he acted and thou sittest still.’[647]
I see action to be good, when the
need is, and sitting still to be also
good. Epaminondas, if he was the
man I take him for, would have sat
still with joy and peace, if his lot had
been mine. Heaven is large, and
affords space for all modes of love
and fortitude. Why should we be
busy-bodies, and superserviceable?
Action and inaction are alike to the
true…. Besides, why should
we be cowed by the name of action?
‘Tis a trick of the senses,—no more.
We know that the ancestor of every
action is a thought. The rich mind
lies in the sun and sleeps, and is
Nature. To think is to act.”

Or if one were to put down the
name of Sir Thomas Brown as the
author of such a sentence as the following,
are there many who would
detect the cheat? “I like the silent
church, before the service begins, better
than any preaching. How far
off, how cool, how chaste the persons
look, begirt each one with a precinct
or sanctuary; so let us always sit.
Why should we assume the faults of
our friend, or wife, or father, or child,
because they sit around our hearth,
or are said to have the same blood?”

But Emerson is too original a mind
to be either a Montaigne or a Sir
Thomas Brown. He lives, too, in
quite another age, and moves in a
higher region of philosophy than
either of them. The utmost that can
be said is, that he is of the same class
of independent, original thinkers,
somewhat wayward and fitful, who
present no system, or none that is distinctly
and logically set forth, but
cast before us many isolated truths
expressed in vivid, spontaneous eloquence.

This class of writers may be described
as one whose members, though not deficient
in the love of truth, are still more
conspicuous for their love of thought.
They crave intellectual excitement;
they have a genuine, inexhaustible
ardour of reflection. They are not
writers of systems, for patience would
fail them to traverse the more arid
parts of their subject, or those where
they have nothing new, nothing of
their own, to put forth. The task of
sifting and arranging materials that
have passed a thousand times through
the hands of others, does not accord
with their temperament. Neither are
they fond of retracing their own steps,
and renewing, from the same starting-place,
the same inquiry. They are
off to fresh pastures. They care not
to be ruffling the leaves of the old
manuscript, revising, qualifying, expunging.
They would rather brave
all sorts of contradictions and go on,
satisfied that to an ingenuous reader
their thoughts will ultimately wear a
true and faithful aspect. They will
not be hampered by their own utterances
more than by other men’s—”If
you would be a man,” says Emerson,
“speak what you think to-day
in words as hard as cannon-balls, and
to-morrow speak what to-morrow
thinks in hard words again, though
it contradict every thing you said to-day.”
These headstrong sages, full
of noble caprice, of lofty humours,
often pour forth in their wild profusion
a strange mixture of great truths
and petty conceits—noble principles
and paradoxes no better than conundrums.
As we have said, they are
lovers pre-eminently of thought. Full
of the chase, they will sometimes run
down the most paltry game with unmitigated
ardour. Such writers are
not so wise as their best wisdom, nor
so foolish as their folly. When certain
of the ancient sages who were in
the habit of guessing boldly at the
open riddle of nature, made, amidst
twenty absurd conjectures, one that
has proved to be correct, we do not
therefore give them the credit of a
scientific discovery. One of these
wise men of antiquity said that the
sea was a great fish; he asserted
also that the moon was an opaque
body, and considerably larger than
she appears to be. He was right
about the moon; he was wrong about
the fish; but as he speculated on both
subjects in the same hap-hazard
style, we give him very little
more credit in the one case than the
other. Perhaps his theory which
transformed the sea into a fish, was
that on which he prided himself most.
Something of the same kind, though
very different in degree, takes place
in our judgment upon certain moral
speculators. When a man of exuberant
thought utters in the fervour
or the fever of his mind what comes
first, his fragments of wisdom seem[648]
as little to belong to him as his fragments
of folly. The reader picks up,
and carries off, what best pleases him,
as if there were no owner there, as if
it were treasure-trove, and he was
entitled to it as first finder. He foregoes
the accustomed habit of connecting
his writer with the assemblage of
thoughts presented to him, as their
sole proprietor for the time being:
“he cries halves,” as Charles Lamb
has said on some similar occasion, in
whatever he pounces on.

The task of the critic on a writer of
this class, becomes more than usually
ungracious and irksome. He meets
with a work abounding with traits of
genius, and conspicuous also for its
faults and imperfections. As a reader
only, he gives himself up to the
pleasure which the former of these
inspire. Why should he disturb that
pleasure by counting up the blemishes
and errors? He sees, but passes
rapidly over them; on the nobler
passages he dwells, and to them alone
he returns. But, as critic, he cannot
resign himself entirely to this mood;
or rather, after having resigned himself
to it, after having enjoyed that
only true perusal of a book in which
we forget all but the truth we can
extract from it, he must rouse himself
to another and very different act
of attention; he must note defects and
blemishes, and caution against errors,
and qualify his admiration by a recurrence
to those very portions of the
work which he before purposely hurried
over.

We take up such a book as these
Essays of Emerson. We are charmed
with many delightful passages of
racy eloquence, of original thought, of
profound or of naive reflection. What
if there are barren pages? What if
sometimes there is a thick entangled
underwood through which there is no
penetrating? We are patient. We
can endure the one, and for the other
obstacle, in military phrase, we can
turn it. The page is moveable. We
are not bound, like the boa-constrictor,
to swallow all or none. Meanwhile,
in all conscience, there is sufficient
for one feast. There is excellence
enough to occupy one’s utmost attention;
there is beauty to be carried
away, and truth to be appropriated.
What more, from a single book, can
any one reasonably desire? But if
the task of criticism be imposed
upon us, we must, nevertheless, sacrifice
this easy and complacent mood,—this
merely receptive disposition;
we must re-examine; we must cavil
and object; we must question of
obscurity why it should stand there
darkening the road; we must refuse
admittance to mere paradox; we
must expose the trifling conceit or
fanciful analogy that would erect
itself into high places, and assume
the air of novel and profound truth.

Some portion of this less agreeable
duty we will at once perform, that we
may afterwards the more freely and
heartily devote ourselves to the more
pleasant task of calling attention to
the works of a man of genius,—for we
suspect that Emerson is not known in
this country as he deserves to be.
With some who have heard his name
coupled with that of Carlyle, he
passes for a sort of echo or double
of the English writer. A more independent
and original thinker can nowhere
in this age be found. This
praise must, at all events, be awarded
him. And even in America—which
has not the reputation of generally
overlooking, or underrating, the
merits of her own children—we understand
that the reputation of Emerson is
by no means what it ought to be; and
many critics there who are dissatisfied
with merely imitative talent, and
demand a man of genius of their own,
are not aware that he stands there
amongst them.

When we accuse Mr Emerson of
obscurity, it is not obscurity of style
that we mean. His style often rises—as
our readers have had already
opportunities of judging—into a vivid,
terse, and graphic eloquence, agreeably
tinged at times with a poetic colouring;
and although he occasionally
adopts certain inversions which are
not customary in modern prose, he
never lays himself open to the charge
of being difficult or unintelligible.
But there is an obscurity of thought—in
the very matter of his writings—produced
first by a vein of mysticism
which runs throughout his works, and,
secondly, by a manner he sometimes
has of sweeping together into one
paragraph a number of unsorted ideas,
but scantily related to each other—bringing[649]
up his drag-net with all
manner of fish in it, and depositing
it then and there before us.

Mysticism is a word often so
vaguely and rashly applied, that we
feel bound to explain the sense in
which we use it. It is not because
Mr Emerson is an idealist in his philosophy—what
we are in the habit
in the present day of describing as
the German school of metaphysics,
though he does not appear to have
drawn his tenets from the Germans,
and more frequently quotes the name
of Plato than that of Kant or Hegel—it
is not for this we pronounce him to
be a mystic. Berkeley was no mystic.
In support of this philosophy reasons
may be adduced which appeal to the
faculties, and are open to the examination
of all men. We do not pronounce
idealism to be mystical, but
we pronounce him to be a mystic who
upholds this, or any other philosophy,
upon grounds of conviction
not open to all rational men; whose
convictions, in short, rest upon some
profound intuition, some deep and
peculiar source of knowledge, to which
the great multitude of mankind are
utter strangers. A man shall be an
idealist, and welcome; we can discuss
the matter with him, we can follow
his reasonings, and if we cannot sustain
ourselves in that nicely-balanced
aerial position he has assumed, poised
above the earth on a needle’s point of
faith, we can at least apprehend how
the more subtle metaphysician has
contrived to accomplish the feat. But
the moment a man proclaims himself
in the possession of any truth whatever,
by an intuition of which we, and
other men, find no traces in our own
mind, then it is that we must, of
force, abandon him to the sole enjoyment
of an illumination we do not
share, and which he cannot impart.
We call him mystical, and he calls
us blind, or sense-beclouded. We
assume that he pretends to see where
there is no vision, and no visual
organ; he retorts that it is we, and
the gross vulgar who have lost, or
never attained, the high faculty of
vision which he possesses. Whether
it is Plato or Swedenborg, Pagan or
Christian, who lays claim to this
occult and oracular wisdom, we must
proclaim it a delusion. It is in vain
to tell us that these men may be the
élite of humanity, that they are thus
signally favoured because they have
more successfully cultivated their
minds, both intellectually and morally,
and purified them for the reception of
a closer communion with the divine
and all-sustaining and interpenetrating
Intelligence, than is vouchsafed
to the rest of mankind. We, who
have nothing but our eyesight and
our reason, we of the multitude who
are not thus favoured, can, at all
events, learn nothing from them.
Whether above or beside human
reason, they are equally remote from
intellectual communion. We do not
recognise their reason as reason, nor
their truth as truth; and we call
them mystics to express this unapproachable
nature of their minds, this
hopeless severance from intercommunion
of thought, from even so
much of contact as is requisite for the
hostilities of controversy. These
wisest of mankind are in the same
predicament as the maddest of mankind;
both believe that they are the
only perfectly sane, and that all the
rest of the world have lost their
reason. The rest of the world hold
the opposite opinion, and we are not
aware that in either case there is any
appeal but to the authority of numbers,
to which, of course, neither the
lunatic nor the mystic will submit.

We have frequent intimations in Mr
Emerson’s writings of this high intuitive
source of truth. Take the following
passage in the Essay on Self-reliance:—

“And now at last the highest truth on
this subject remains unsaid, probably,
cannot be said; for all that we say is the
far off remembering of the intuition. The
thought by what I can now nearest approach
to say it, is this. When good is
near you, when you have life in yourself,
it is not by any known or appointed way;
you shall not discern the foot-prints of any
other; you shall not see the face of man;
you shall not hear any name; the way,
the thought, the good, shall be wholly
strange and new; it shall exclude all
other being. You take the way from
man not to man. All persons that ever
existed are its fugitive ministers. There
shall be no fear in it. Fear and hope are
alike beneath it. It asks nothing. There
is somewhat low even in hope. We are
then in vision. There is nothing that can[650]
be called gratitude, nor, properly, joy.
The soul is raised over passion. It seeth
identity and eternal causation. It is a
perceiving that Truth and Right are. Hence
it becomes a tranquillity out of the knowing
that all things go well. Vast spaces
of nature—the Atlantic Ocean—the South
Sea—vast intervals of time—years—centuries—are
of no account. This, which I
think and feel, underlay that former state
of life and circumstances as it does underlie
my present, and will always all circumstance,
and what is called life, and
what is called death.”

Whenever a man begins by telling
us that he cannot find language to
express his meaning, we may be
pretty sure that he has no intelligible
meaning to express; and Mr Emerson,
in the above passage, fully bears
out this general observation. “I cannot,”
he says in another place, “I
cannot, nor can any man, speak precisely
of things so sublime, but it
seems to me, the wit of man, his
strength, his grace, his tendency, his
art, is the grace and the presence of
God. It is beyond explanation. When
all is said and done, the rapt saint is
found the only logician. Not exhortation,
not argument, becomes our lips,
but pæans of joy and praise. But not
of adulation: we are too nearly related
in the deep of the mind to that we
honour. It is God in us which checks
the language of petition by a grander
thought. In the bottom of the heart it
is said ‘I am, and by me, O child! this
fair body and world of thine stands and
grows. I am: all things are mine: and
all mine are thine.‘”

If we can gather any thing from
this language, it must imply that the
individual mind is conscious of being
a part, an emanation of the Divine
mind—is conscious of this union or
identity—the pretension to which
species of consciousness is, in our
apprehension, pure mysticism.

But we shall not weary our readers
by seeking further proofs of this charge
of mysticism; for what can be more
wearisome than to have a number of
unintelligible passages brought together
from different and remote parts
of an author’s works. We pass to
that other cause of obscurity we have
hinted at,—the agglomerations of a
multitude of unrelated, or half-related,
ideas. Sometimes a whole paragraph,
and a long one too, is made up of separate
fragments of thought or fancy, good
or amusing, it may be, in themselves,
but connected by the slightest and
most flimsy thread imaginable. Glittering
insects and flies of all sorts,
caught and held together in a spider’s
web, present as much appearance of
unity as some of these paragraphs we
allude to.

For an example, we will turn to the
first essay in the series, that on History.
It is, perhaps, the most striking of
the whole, and one which has a more
distinct aim and purport than most of
them, and yet the reader is fairly bewildered
at times by the incongruous
assemblage of thoughts presented to
him. It is the drift of the essay to
show, that the varied and voluminous
record of history is still but the development
and expansion of the individual
being man, as he existed
yesterday, as he exists to-day. “A
man,” he says, “is the whole encyclopædia
of facts. The creation of a
thousand forests is in one acorn, and
Egypt, Greece, Rome, Gaul, Britain,
America, lie folded already in the first
man. Epoch after epoch, camp, kingdom,
empire, republic, democracy, are
merely the application of his manifold
spirit to the manifold world.” This
idea is explained, illustrated, amplified,
and very often in a novel and ingenious
manner. To exemplify the necessity
we feel to recognise ourselves in the
past, he says,—”All inquiry into
antiquity, all curiosity respecting the
pyramids, the excavated cities, Stonehenge,
the Ohio circles, Mexico,
Memphis, is the desire to do away
this wild, savage, and preposterous
There or Then, and introduce in its
place the Here and the Now. It is to
banish the Not me, and supply the Me.
It is to abolish difference and restore
unity. Belzoni digs and measures
in the mummy-pits and pyramids of
Thebes, until he can see the end of
the difference between the monstrous
work and himself. When he has
satisfied himself, in general and in
detail, that it was made by such a
person as himself, so armed and so
motived, and to ends to which he
himself, in given circumstances, should
also have worked, the problem is then
solved, his thought lives along the
whole line of temples and sphinxes and
catacombs, passes through them all[651]
like a creative soul, with satisfaction,
and they live again to the mind, or are
now.”

This is good, but by and by he
begins to intercalate all sorts of
vagrant fantasies, as thus:—

“Civil history, natural history, the
history of art, and the history of literature,—all
must be explained from individual
history, or must remain
words. There is nothing but is related
to us, nothing that does not interest
us,—kingdom, college, tree, horse, or
iron shoe, the roots of all things are
in man. It is in the soul that architecture
exists. Santa Croce and the
dome of St Peter’s are lame copies
after a divine model. Strasburg
cathedral is a material counterpart of
the soul of Erwin of Steinbach. The
true poem is the poet’s mind, the true
ship is the ship-builder,” and so forth.
It would be waste of time and words
to ask how “tree and horse,” in the
same sense as kingdom and college,
can be said to have “their roots in
man;” or whether, when it is said
that “Strasburg cathedral is the
material counterpart of the soul of
Erwin of Steinbach,” this can possibly
mean anything else than the undoubted
fact, that the architect thought and
designed before he built.

This subject of architecture comes
sadly in the way of the author, and of
the reader too, whom it succeeds in
thoroughly mystifying. “The Gothic
cathedral is a blossoming in stone,
subdued by the insatiable demand of
harmony in man. The mountain of
granite blooms into an eternal flower
with the lightness and delicate finish,
as well as the aerial proportions and
perspective of vegetable beauty. In
like manner, all public facts are to be
individualised, all private facts are to
be generalised. Then at once history
becomes fluid and true, and biography
deep and sublime.”

The fables of Pagan mythology
next cross his path, and these lead to
another medley of thoughts. “These
beautiful fables of the Greeks,” he says,
“being proper creations of the imagination,
and not of the fancy, are
universal verities.” And well they
may be, whether of the fancy or the
imagination (and the great distinction
here marked out between the two, we
do not profess to comprehend), if each
mind, in every age, is at liberty to
interpret them as it pleases, and with
the same unrestrained license that
our author takes. But how can he
find here an instance of the present
man being written out in history,
when the old history or fable is perpetually
to receive new interpretations,
as it is handed down from generation
to generation—interpretations which
assuredly were never dreamt of by the
original inventor?

“Apollo kept the flocks of Admetus,
said the poets. Every man is a
divinity in disguise, a god playing the
fool. It seems as if heaven had sent
its insane angels into our world as to
an asylum, and here they will break
out into their native music, and utter
at intervals the words they have heard
in heaven; then the mad fit returns,
and they mope and wallow like dogs.”
Whether witty or wise, such interpretations
have manifestly nothing to do
with the fable as it exists in history,
as part of the history of the human mind.

“The transmigration of souls: that
too is no fable; I would it were. But
men and women are only half human.
Every animal of the barn-yard, the
field and the forest, of the earth and
of the waters that are under the earth,
has contrived to get a footing, and to
leave the print of its features and form
in some one or other of these upright,
heaven-facing speakers.” Very good;
only, if poets and wits are to set themselves
to the task, we should like to
know what fable there is in the world,
whether the product of imagination or
fancy, which might not be shown to
abound in eternal verities.

Travelling on a little farther, we
meet with the following paragraph,
some parts of which are to be made
intelligible by putting ourselves in the
point of view of the idealistic philosopher;
but the whole together, by
reason of the incongruity of its parts,
produces no other effect than that of
mere and painful bewilderment,—

“A man is a bundle of relations, a knot
of roots, whose flower and fruitage is the
world. All his faculties refer to natures
out of him. All his faculties predict the
world he is to inhabit, as the fins of
the fish foreshow that water exists, or
the wings of an eagle in the egg presuppose
a medium like air. Insulate and
you destroy him. He cannot live[652]
without a world. Put Napoleon in an
island prison, let his faculties find no
men to act on, no Alps to climb, no stake
to play for, and he would beat the air
and appear stupid. Transport him to
large countries, dense population, complex
interests and antagonist power, and
you shall see that the man Napoleon,
bounded, that is, by such a profile and
outline, is not the virtual Napoleon.
This is but Talbot’s shadow;

“His substance is not here:

For what you see is but the smallest part,

And least proportion of humanity;

But were the whole frame here,

It is of such a spacious lofty pitch,

Your roof were not sufficient to contain it.

Columbus needs a planet to shape his
course upon. Newton and Laplace need
myriads of ages and thick-strewn celestial
areas. One may say, a gravitating solar
system is already prophesied in the
nature of Newton’s mind. Not less does
the brain of Davy and Gay-Lussac, from
childhood exploring always the affinities
and repulsions of particles, anticipate the
laws of organisation. Does not the eye
of the human embryo predict the light?
the ear of Handel predict the witchcraft
of harmonic sound? Do not the constructive
fingers of Watt, Fulton, Whittemore,
and Arkwright, predict the fusible,
hard, and temperable texture of metals,
the properties of stone, water, and wood?
the lovely attributes of the maiden child
predict the refinements and decorations
of civil society? Here, also, we are reminded
of the action of man on man.
A mind might ponder its thoughts for
ages, and not gain so much self-knowledge
as the passion of love shall teach
it in a day. Who knows himself before
he has been thrilled with indignation at
an outrage, or has heard an eloquent
tongue, or has shared the throb of thousands
in a national exultation and alarm?
No man can antedate his experience, or
guess what faculty or feeling a new object
shall unlock, any more than he can draw
to-day the face of a person whom he shall
see to-morrow for the first time.”

And the essay concludes by presenting
its leading idea in this distorted
and exaggerated shape:—

“Thus, in all ways does the soul concentrate
and reproduce its treasures for
each pupil, each new-born man. He, too,
shall pass through the whole cycle of experience.
He shall collect into a focus
the rays of nature. History no longer
shall be a dull book. It shall walk incarnate
in every just and wise man. You
shall not tell me by languages and titles
a catalogue of the volumes you have
read. You shall make me feel what
periods you have lived. A man shall be
the Temple of Fame. He shall walk as
the poets have described that goddess, in
a robe painted all over with wonderful
events and experiences;—his own form
and features by that exalted intelligence
shall be that variegated vest. I shall
find in him the Foreworld; in his childhood
the age of gold; the apples of
knowledge; the Argonautic expedition;
the calling of Abraham; the building of
the temple; the advent of Christ; dark
ages; the revival of letters; the Reformation;
the discovery of new lands, the
opening of new sciences, and new regions
in man. He shall be the priest of Pan, and
bring with him into humble cottages the
blessing of the morning stars, and all the
recorded benefits of heaven and earth.”

We regret to say that instances of
this painful obscurity, of this outrageous
and fantastical style of writing,
it would not be difficult to multiply,
were it either necessary or desirable.
We have quoted sufficient
to justify even harsher terms of censure
than we have chosen to deal
in; sufficient to warn our readers
who may be induced, from the
favourable quotations we have made,
and shall continue to make, to turn
to the works of this author, that it is
not all gold they will find there, that
the sun does not always shine upon
his page, that a great proportion of
his writings may be little suited to
their taste.

That which forms the great and
inextinguishable charm of those
writings is the fine moral temper
they display, the noble ardour, the
high ethical tone they every where
manifest and sustain, and especially
that lofty independence of his intellect,
that freedom of his reason which
the man who aspires after true cultivation
should watch over and preserve
with the utmost jealousy. Addressing
the Divinity students of Cambridge,
U. S., he says,—

“Let me admonish you, first of all, to
go alone; to refuse the good models,
even those most sacred in the imagination
of men, and dare to love God without
mediator or veil. Friends enough you
will find, who will hold up to your emulation
Wesleys and Oberlins, saints and
prophets. Thank God for these good
men, but say, ‘I also am a man.’ Imitation
cannot go above its model. The[653]
imitator dooms himself to hopeless mediocrity.
The inventor did it because it
was natural to him; and so in him it has
a charm. In the imitator, something
else is natural, and he bereaves himself
of his own beauty, to come short of
another man’s….

“Let us not aim at common degrees of
merit. Can we not leave to such as love
it the virtue that glitters for the commendation
of society, and ourselves pierce
the deep solitudes of absolute ability and
worth? We easily come up to the standard
of goodness in society. Society’s
praise can be cheaply secured, and almost
all men are content with those easy
merits; but the instant effect of conversing
with God, will be to put them away.
There are sublime merits; persons who
are not actors, not, speakers, but influences;
persons too great for fame, for display;
who disdain eloquence; to whom
all we call art and artist seems too nearly
allied to show and by-ends, to the exaggeration
of the finite and selfish, and
loss of the universal. The orators, the
poets, the commanders, encroach on us
only, as fair women do, by our allowance
and homage. Slight them by preoccupation
of mind,—slight them, as you can
well afford to do, by high and universal
aims, and they instantly feel that you
have right, and that it is in lower places
that they must shine. They also feel your
right; for they, with you, are open to the
influx of the all-knowing spirit, which
annihilates before its broad noon the little
shades and gradations of intelligence in
the compositions we call wiser and wisest.

“In such high communion, let us study
the grand strokes of rectitude: a bold
benevolence, an independence of friends,
so that not the unjust wishes of those
who love us shall impair our freedom;
but we shall resist, for truth’s sake, the
freest flow of kindness, and appeal to
sympathies far in advance. And, what is
the highest form in which we know this
beautiful element?—a certain solidity of
merit that has nothing to do with opinion,
and which is so essentially and manifestly
virtue, that it is taken for granted that
the right, the brave, the generous step
will be taken by it, and nobody thinks of
commending it. You would compliment
a coxcomb doing a good act, but you
would not praise an angel. The silence
that accepts merit as the most natural
thing in the world, is the highest applause.”

Nothing but the necessity to husband
our space prevents us from
quoting other passages of the same
noble strain.

There is an Essay on Love which
has highly pleased us, and from which
we wish to make some extracts.
To a man of genius the old subjects
are always new. The romance and
enthusiasm of the passion is here
quite freshly and vividly portrayed,
while the great moral end of that
charming exaggeration which every
lover makes of the beauty and excellence
of his mistress, is finely pointed
out. There is both poetry and philosophy
in the essay—as our readers
shall judge for themselves from the
following extracts. We do not always
mark the omissions we make for the
sake of economy of space, nor
always cite the passages in the
order they appear in the essay.

“What fastens attention, in the intercourse
of life, like any passage betraying
affection between two parties? Perhaps
we never saw them before, and never
shall meet them again. But we see them
exchange a glance, or betray a deep emotion,
and we are no longer strangers. We
understand them, and take the warmest
interest in the development of the romance.
All mankind love a lover. The earliest
demonstrations of complacency and kindness
are nature’s most winning pictures.
It is the dawn of civility and grace in the
coarse and rustic. The rude village boy
teases the girls about the school-house
door;—but to-day he comes running into
the entry, and meets one fair child arranging
her satchel: he holds her books to
help her, and instantly it seems to him
as if she removed herself from him infinitely,
and was a sacred precinct.
Among the throng of girls he runs rudely
enough, but one alone distances him; and
these two little neighbours that were so
close just now, have learned to respect
each other’s personality.”

As is ever the case when men describe
what is, or might be an exquisite
happiness, there steals a melancholy
over the description; and our
author makes it a primary condition,

“That we must leave a too close and
lingering adherence to the actual, to facts,
and study the sentiment as it appeared
in hope, and not in history. Let any man
go back to those delicious relations which
make the beauty of his life, which have
given him sincerest instruction and nourishment,
he will shrink, and shrink.
Alas! I know not why, but infinite compunctions
imbitter in mature life all the
remembrances of budding sentiment, and
cover every beloved name. Every thing[654]
is beautiful seen from the point of the intellect,
or as truth. But all is sour, as
seen from experience. It is strange how
painful is the actual world,—the painful
kingdom of time and space. There dwell
care, canker, and fear. With thought,
with the ideal, is immortal hilarity, the
rose of joy. Round it all the muses sing.
But with names and persons and the partial
interests of to-day and yesterday, is
grief.

“But be our experience in particulars
what it may, no man ever forgot the visitations
of that power to his heart and
brain which created all things new; which
was the dawn in him of music, poetry, and
art; which made the face of nature radiant
with purple light, the morning and the
night varied enchantments; when a single
tone of one voice could make the heart
beat, and the most trivial circumstance
associated with one form, is put in the
amber of memory; when we became all eye
when one was present, and all memory
when one was gone; when the youth becomes
a watcher of windows, and studious
of a glove, a veil, a ribbon, or the wheels
of a carriage; when no place is too solitary,
and none too silent for him who has
richer company and sweeter conversation
in his new thoughts, than any old friends,
though best and purest, can give him;
when all business seemed an impertinence,
and all the men and women running to
and fro in the streets, mere pictures.

“For, though the celestial rapture falling
out of heaven, seizes only upon those
of tender age, and although a beauty,
overpowering all analysis or comparison,
and putting us quite beside ourselves, we
can seldom see after thirty years, yet the
remembrance of these visions outlasts all
other remembrances, and is a wreath of
flowers on the oldest brows.”

And on this matter of beauty how
ingenious and full of feeling are the
following reflections!—

“Wonderful is its charm. It seems
sufficient to itself. The lover cannot
paint his maiden to his fancy poor and
solitary. Like a tree in flower, so much
soft, budding, informing loveliness, is society
for itself, and she teaches his eye why
Beauty was ever painted with Loves and
Graces attending her steps. Her existence
makes the world rich. Though she extrudes
all other persons from his attention
as cheap and unworthy, yet she indemnifies
him by carrying out her own being
into somewhat impersonal; so that the
maiden stands to him for a representation
of all select things and virtues. For that
reason the lover sees never personal resemblances
in his mistress to her kindred or to
others. His friends find in her a likeness
to her mother, or her sisters, or to persons
not of her blood. The lover sees no
resemblance except to summer evenings and
diamond mornings, to rainbows and the
song of birds.

“Beauty is ever that divine thing the
ancients esteemed it. It is, they said, the
flowering of virtue. Who can analyse the
nameless charm which glances from one
and another face and form? We are
touched with emotions of tenderness and
complacency, but we cannot find whereat
this dainty emotion, this wandering gleam,
points. It is destroyed for the imagination
by any attempt to refer it to organisation.
Nor does it point to any relations
of friendship or love that society knows
or has, but, as it seems to me, to a quite
other and unattainable sphere, to relations
of transcendent delicacy and sweetness, a
true faerie land; to what roses and violets
hint and foreshow. We cannot get at
beauty. Its nature is like opaline doves’-neck
lustres, hovering and evanescent.
Herein it resembles the most excellent
things, which all have this rainbow character,
defying all attempts at appropriation
and use. What else did Jean Paul
Richter signify, when he said to music,
‘Away! away! thou speakest to me of
things which in all my endless life I have
found not, and shall not find.’ The same
fact may be observed in every work of
the plastic arts. The statue is then
beautiful, when it begins to be incomprehensible,
when it is passing out of criticism,
and can no longer be defined by
compass and measuring wand, but demands
an active imagination to go with
it, and to say what it is in the act of
doing. The god or hero of the sculptor
is always represented in a transition
from that which is representable to the
senses, to that which is not. Then first
it ceases to be a stone.

“So must it be with personal beauty
which love worships. Then first is it
charming and itself when it dissatisfies
us with any end; when it becomes a story
without an end; when it suggests gleams
and visions, and not earthly satisfactions;
when it seems

‘Too bright and good

For human nature’s daily food;’

when it makes the beholder feel his unworthiness;
when he cannot feel his right
to it, though he were Cæsar; he cannot
feel more right to it, than to the firmament
and the splendours of a sunset.”

But this dream of love is but one
scene in the play; and our author
concludes his essay by pointing out
what is, or should be, the denouement
of the drama.

[655]“Meantime, as life wears on, it proves
a game of permutation and combination
of all possible positions of the parties to
extort all the resources of each, and acquaint
each with the whole strength and
weakness of the other. For, it is the
nature and end of this relation, that they
should represent the human race to each
other.

“At last they discover that all which
at first drew them together,—those once
sacred features, that magical play of
charms, was deciduous, had a prospective
end, like the scaffolding by which the
house was built; and the purification of
the intellect and the heart, from year to
year, is the real marriage foreseen and
prepared from the first, and wholly above
their consciousness. Looking at these
aims with which two persons, a man and
a woman, so variously and correlatively
gifted, are shut up in one house to spend in
the nuptial society forty or fifty years, I
do not wonder at the emphasis with which
the heart prophesies this crisis from early
infancy,—at the profuse beauty with which
the instincts deck the nuptial bower, and
nature and intellect and art emulate each
other in the gifts and the melody they
bring to the epithalamium. Thus are we
put in training for a love which knows not
sex, nor person, nor partiality, but which
seeketh virtue and wisdom every where,
to the end of increasing virtue and wisdom.”

If there is some of the ideal in this
account given of love and matrimony,
there is, nevertheless, a noble truth
in it. And surely in proportion as the
sentiment of love is refitted and spiritualised,
so also ought the moral culture,
to which it is subservient, to be
pure and elevated.

The longest essay in the collection,
and that which approaches nearest to
the more formidable character of a treatise,
is that entitled “Nature.” This
exhibits, so to speak, the practical point
of view of an idealist. The idealist
has denied the substantial, independent
existence of the material world,
but he does not deny the existence of
a phenomenal world. The Divine
Nature reveals itself in the twofold
form of finite mind and this phenomenal
world. Thus, we believe, we
may express the general creed of these
philosophers, though it is a very delicate
matter to act as interpreter to
this class of thinkers: they are rarely
satisfied with any expressions of their
own, and are not likely to be contented
with those of any other person.
This phenomenal world has for its
final cause the development and education
of the finite mind. It follows,
therefore, that all which a realist could
say of the utility of nature can be
advanced also by the idealist. He
has his practical point of view, and
can discourse, as Mr Emerson does
here, on the various “uses” of nature
which, he says, “admit of being
thrown into the following classes:—commodity,
beauty, language, and
discipline.”

We have not the least intention of
proceeding further with an analysis
of this essay; as we have already
intimated, the value of Mr Emerson’s
writings appears to us to consist in the
beauty and truthfulness of individual
passages, not at all in his system, or
any prolonged train of reasoning he
may adopt. It is impossible to read this
production without being delighted
and arrested by a number of these
individual passages sparkling with
thought or fancy; it would be equally
impossible to gather from it, as a
whole, any thing satisfactory or
complete.

On the beauty of nature he is
always eloquent; he is evidently one
who intensely feels it. “Every day,
the sun; and, after sunset, night and
the stars. Ever the winds blow;
ever the grass grows.” The shows of
heaven and earth are with him a
portion of daily life. “In the woods
is perpetual youth.” “We talk,” he
says in another place, “with accomplished
persons who appear to be
strangers in nature. The cloud, the
tree, the turf, the bird are not theirs,
have nothing of them; the world is
only their lodging and table.” No
such stranger is our poet-philosopher.
“Crossing a bare common, in twilight,
under a clouded sky, without having
in my thoughts any occurrence of
special good fortune, I have enjoyed a
perfect exhilaration. Almost I fear
to think how glad I am.”

The only quotation we shall make
from the Essay on “Nature,” shall be
one where he treats of this subject—

“A nobler want of man is served by
nature,—namely, the love of beauty.
Such is the constitution of all things, or
such the plastic power of the human eye,
that the primary form, as the sky, the[656]
mountain, the tree, the animal, give us a
delight in and for themselves; a pleasure
arising from outline, colour, motion, and
grouping. And as the eye is the best
composer, so light is the first of painters.
There is no object so foul, that intense light
will not make beautiful. And the stimulus
it affords to the sense, and a sort of
infinitude which it hath, like space and
time, will make all matter gay. But
besides this general grace diffused over
nature, almost all the individual forms are
agreeable to the eye, as is proved by our
endless imitations of some of them; as the
acorn, the grape, the pine-cone, the wheat-ear,
the egg, the wings and forms of most
birds, the lion’s claw, the serpent, the
butterfly, sea-shells, flames, clouds, buds,
leaves, and the forms of many trees, as the
palm.

“The influence of the forms and actions
in nature is so needful to man that, in its
lowest functions, it seems to lie on the
confines of Commodity and Beauty. To
the body and mind which have been
cramped by noxious work or company,
nature is medicinal and restores their
tone. The tradesman, the attorney, comes
out of the din and craft of the street, and
sees the sky and the woods, and is a man
again. In their eternal calm he finds himself.
The health of the eye seems to demand
a horizon. We are never tired so
long as we can see far enough.

“But in other hours nature satisfies the
soul purely by its loveliness, and without
any mixture of corporeal benefit. I have
seen the spectacle of morning from the
hill-top over against my house, from daybreak
to sunrise, with emotions which an
angel might share. The long slender
bars of cloud float like fishes in the sea
of crimson light. From the earth, as a
shore, I look out into that silent sea. I
seem to partake its rapid transformations;
the active enchantment reaches my dust,
and I dilate and conspire with the morning
wind. How does nature deify us
with a few and cheap elements! Give me
health and a day, and I will make the
pomp of emperors ridiculous. The dawn
is my Assyria, the sunset and moonrise
my Paphos, and unimaginable realms of
faerie.”

Mr Emerson has published a volume
of poems, and it has been generally
admitted that he has not succeeded in
verse. But there are touches of
charming poetry in his prose. This
discrepancy, which is not unfrequently
met with, must result, we presume,
from an inaptitude to employ the forms
of verse, so that the style, instead of
being invigorated, and polished, and
concentrated by the necessary attention
to line and metre, becomes denaturalised,
constrained, crude, and
unequal. We have looked through
this volume of poems, but we should
certainly not be adding to the reputation of
the author by drawing attention
to it. If we wished to find instances
of the poetry of Emerson, we should
still seek for them in his prose essays.
Thus he says:—

“In this pleasing contrite wood-life
which God allows me, let me record,
day by day, my honest thought, without
prospect or retrospect, and I
cannot doubt it will be found symmetrical,
though I mean it not and see
it not. The swallow over my window
should interweave that thread or straw
he carries in his bill into my web also.“

“Our moods,” he says, “do not
believe in each other. To-day I am
full of thoughts; but yesterday I saw
a dreary vacuity in this direction in
which now I see so much; and a
month hence, I doubt not, I shall
wonder who he was that wrote so many
continuous pages. Alas for this infirm
faith, this will not strenuous, this
vast ebb of a vast flow! I am God in
nature—I am a weed by the wall!“

“A lady,” he writes on another
occasion, “with whom I was riding
in the forest, said to me that the woods
always seemed to her to wait, as if the
genii who inhabit them suspended their
deeds until the wayfarer has passed
onward. This is precisely the thought
which poetry has celebrated in the
dance of the fairies which breaks off
on the approach of human feet.” The
lady had a true poetic feeling. And
the following thought is illustrated by
a very happy image.

“In man, we still trace the rudiments
or hints of all that we esteem
badges of servitude in the lower
races, yet in him they enhance his
nobleness and grace; as Io in Æschylus,
transformed to a cow, offends the
imagination, but how changed when
as Isis in Egypt she meets Jove, a
beautiful woman, with nothing of the
metamorphosis left but the lunar
horns, as the splendid ornament of her
brows!”

In his philosophy, we have seen
that Mr Emerson is an idealist, something,
too, of a pantheist. In theology,
we have heard him described as[657]
a Unitarian; but although the Unitarians
of America differ move widely
from each other, and from the standard
of orthodoxy, than the same denomination
of men in this country, we
presume there is no body of Unitarians
with whom our philosopher would
fraternise, or who would receive him
amongst their ranks. His Christianity
appears rather to be of that description
which certain of the Germans,
one section of the Hegelians for
instance, have found reconcilable
with their Pantheistic philosophy. It
is well for him that he writes in a
tolerant age, that he did not make
his appearance a generation too soon;
the pilgrim fathers would certainly
have burnt him at the stake; he would
have died the death of Giordano Bruno.
And we believe—if the spirit of his
writings be any test of the spirit of
the man—that he would have suffered
as a martyr, rather than have foregone
the freedom and the truthfulness of
his thought. His essays are replete
with passages such as this:—”God
offers to every mind its choice between
truth and repose. Take which you
please—you can never have both.
Between these, as a pendulum, man
oscillates ever. He in whom the love
of repose predominates, will accept
the first creed, the first philosophy, the
first political party he meets,—most
likely his father’s. He gets rest, commodity,
and reputation; but he shuts
the door of truth. He in whom the
love of truth predominates, will keep
himself aloof from all moorings and
afloat. He will abstain from dogmatism,
and recognise all the opposite
negations, between which, as walls,
his being is swung. He submits to
the inconvenience of suspense and imperfect
opinion, but he is a candidate
for truth, as the other is not, and he
respects the highest law of his being.”

We gather from what little has
reached us of his biography, that he
has in fact sacrificed somewhat of the
commodity of this life, to this “higher
law of his being.” In a work which
has just fallen into our hands, entitled
“The Prose Writers of America, with
a Survey of the Intellectual History,
Condition, and Prospects of the
Country, by Rufus Wilmot Griswold,”
we find the following scanty account
of Emerson. “He is the son of a
Unitarian clergyman of Boston, and
in 1821, when about seventeen years
of age, was graduated at Harvard
University. Having turned his attention
to theology, he was ordained
minister of one of the congregations
of his native city, but, embracing soon
after some peculiar views in regard to
the forms of worship, he abandoned
his profession, and retiring to the quiet
village of Concord, after the manner
of an Arabian prophet, gave himself
up to ‘thinking,’ preparatory to his
appearance as a revelator.” Which
meagre narrative, not very happily
told, leads us to infer that the recluse
of Concord has lived up to the high
spirit of his own teaching.

It is remarkable that Mr Griswold,
in the prefatory essay which he entitles
The Intellectual History, Condition,
and Prospects of the Country,
although he has introduced a host of
writers of all grades, some of whom
will be heard of in England for the
first time, never once mentions the
name of Emerson! Yet, up to this
moment, America has not given to
the world any thing which, in point of
original genius, is comparable to his
writings. That she has a thousand
minds better built up, whose more
equal culture, and whose more sober
opinions, one might prefer to have,—this
is not the question,—but in that
highest department of reflective genius,
where the power is given to impart
new insights into truth, or make old
truths look new, he stands hitherto
unrivalled in his country; he has no
equal and no second.

Very popular he perhaps never may
become; but we figure to ourselves
that, a century hence, he will be recognised
as one of those old favourite
writers whom the more thoughtful
spirits read, not so much as teachers,
but as noble-minded companions and
friends, whose aberrations have been
long ago conceded and forgiven. Men
will read him then, not for his philosophy,—they
will not care two straws
for his idealism or his pantheism:
they will know that they are there,
and there they will leave them,—but
they will read him for those genuine
confessions of one spirit to another,
that are often breathed in his writings;
for those lofty sentiments to which all
hearts respond; for those truths which
make their way through all systems,
and in all ages.

[658]

HOW I CAME TO BE A SLOVEN.

A pretty question this, my dear
Eusebius,—and that the question
comes from you, who at no time of
your life were a “Beau Nash,” is
rather extraordinary. It is after the
fashion of most of your movements,
however, and so far should not be
thought extraordinary in you. For
as you do not walk in the track that
other men’s shoes have made, nor
dress your thoughts in other men’s
draperies; but both walk and think
as few other men do, I ought not to
wonder that you turn suddenly round
upon me, eye me from head to foot,
and ask me this curious question, How
I came to be a sloven. Now, I can easily
imagine your own slovenly attitude
and attire when you wrote me this
precious letter, and how fantastically
conceited you fancied yourself standing
before me, ωστε Ζωγραφης
—like a
painter, as says Hecuba, when she
bad her rags and misery be looked at,—and
thought to put me out of countenance
with your own perfections.
Perfections, indeed! Why, your whole
wardrobe would not be worth exporting
in charity to the land of Ne’erdo-weels—and
I doubt not that the loss of a
single suit, bad as it may be, would leave
you in some small respects as bare as
when you came into the world. You
have been reading, you tell me, the
“Æsthetics of Dress,” as you term
them, those very amusing papers in
Maga—from which you mean to cull
materials for the history of the art,
and to write a treatise on “The Philosophy
of Tailors,” wherein you intend
to set forth upon what principles
of the “Fitness of things” it is that
nine tailors make a man. It is a
whimsical notion of yours that the
game of nine-pins was set up in
honour of these nine worthies—”Knights
of the thimble”—signifying
how weakly they stand upon their
pins, and how they go by the board at
the very breath of a ball. You affect
to think that the Templars were but
the imitators of a more honourable
cross-legged company—and that
their antiquity is shown prior to the
invention of Heraldry, for that the
very term, the coat of arms, must have
come from them. You say they can
show parchments with the oldest companies
and families, and cut to
shivereens the longest pedigrees, and
yet never go beyond their own measure.

What would a parliament be without
them? They not only make
their man, but seat him. Indeed, man
is no man, till he is made one by
these Novemviri, and hath been invested
by them, as of old, with the
toga virilis; and now-a-days (we
vulgarise every thing even in the
nomenclature) the first advance to
manhood is to be “breeched:”—that
first step when, with the dignity of
newly assumed and duly authorised
manhood, the dressed youth puts his
best foot foremost, on the first step
of the ladder of life, and is not
ashamed, while ascending, to turn his
back, and show what stuff he is made
of.

It is said, that when a man marries
he enters into a bond with society for
his future good behaviour—but of what
consequence is this, in comparison
with that previous bottomry bond,
to use a mercantile word suitable to
these our mercantile days, that every
man has entered into and given the
surety of nine men besides, without
which, whatever bottom he may show
in the fight, the greatest hero would
be but a sans culotte. Heroes! why,
are not tailors the very models after
which men should dress themselves?
They have made, in all senses, the
best regiments. And what a large
slice of this globe is governed and
commanded by the Board in Threadneedle
Street.

Thread and thimble do wonders to
make a man—rig him out with the
best materials—no devil’s dust, disdaining
dishonest “thimble-riggery.”

The son of Japetus admired not
more his man-invention, than does the
tailor. The fleshly life which he condescends
to stuff into his manufacture,
is with him but a secondary consideration;
and it must be confessed
he is often not very choice in these
his human materials. Any thing that
way will do to adorn the real “man
of shreds and patches.” Pegs and[659]
lay figures would answer the purpose
quite as well as these, pattern-humanities,
if they would but walk. Bad,
however, as they are, as specimens
per se, they are made so much of by
the adornments, that their painted
effigies and portraits, as they are exhibited
in tailors’ laboratories, saloons,
and establishments, excite the envy
and wonder of a gaping population.
They are set forth, to show what the
worst man may be made—to portray
vividly the excellence of the art, and
to “give the world assurance of a
man,” even built and fabricated
out of next to nothing but his dress.
It is no longer “Ex pede Herculem.”
The boot-maker has been defeated—Hoby
dethroned—you may have
a Hercules or an Apollo only according
to cloth measure. Then will the
proud artificer hold the mirror up to
Nature to show her how vastly she
is improved, even though it be by
the slandered hands of “Nature’s journeymen.”
Then, so various in its
powers is the art, that the real professors
will at the shortest notice
turn the shopman into the esquire,
and, if need be, the thief into an
archdeacon. They will fit you with
any character, fit or unfit:—will send
you most genteelly to the court or to
the gallows. Vain is the conceit of
the scoffing world of fashion that
affect to scorn the craft that makes
them what they are;—nay, a great deal
better, and to look what they are not.
Let them try to set up for themselves,
what sorry figures they would be—perfectly
ridiculous, to be kicked out
of Fop’s Alley, and whipped by the
beadle!! worse clad than Prince
Vortigern in that despicable and invisible
slip of a vestment,

But that can never be to any extent.
What man in his senses would enter
upon this stage of the world, rushing
in like a wild man of the woods, a
general wonder, and without the introductory
aid of his proper master
of the ceremonies; when, too, at a
trifling cost, he can take his ticket of
admission, and go boldly certificated
by the sign-manual of a Doudney or
a Moses? No man dares to walk entirely
out of rules sartorial, nor utterly
to despise the images which it pleaseth
the tailors to set up. Not that their
laws are like those of the Medes and
Persians, which alter not—their very
principle is change—and every change
is suitable. The seasons change not
fast enough for them. Is a man to be
married?—even then he is in the tailor’s
hands—he must have a new suit—nay,
he must wait for it, he dare
not appear without it. Is he to be
hanged?—he must have a new suit;
nay, before condemnation he is tried
in his best, as if he were to be judged
as much by appearance as evidence.
The public, the real thinking public,
take more notice of his appearance
than of his crimes. Every journal is
full of accurate detail, not of his doings,
but of his looks and of his dress.
The Pictorials present the very cut of
his coat, and pattern on his waistcoat;
and what the graver cannot, they
supply in words, so that you may see
not only the shape but the colour.
Blue is the favourite colour at the
altar of Hymen,—a suit of black on the
platform of the hangman—but that
is a compliment to the clergy—or a
malice, that folk may think most who
go out of the world that way are of
the cloth—and that is what they call
giving the culprit “the benefit of
clergy.”

Really man should be defined “a
dressing animal.”—Were all the powers
of the earth to meet together to consult
upon their everlasting interests,
the previous question would be, in
what are they to appear; and the
first announcement of the great congress
of the gentlemen of the press
would be what they wore,—what they
said, would be slurred over as of less
importance. Thus, for example, the
Roman historian is particular when
he describes the great ambassador
before the senate of the Carthagenains,
making a fold of his robe, as if it alone
were worthy to contain the fate and
fortunes of empires, asking them
which they would have, Peace or
War—and so letting it fall loose out
of his hand,—just as a modern senator
on the opposition side might put
his hands into his breeches pockets,
make a show of searching, and taking
them out with nothing in them, might,
with all the dignity of senatorial energy,
declare that he could not surmise[660]
where the minister would get his supplies.

It is extraordinary man is ashamed of
nothing so much as of his own natural
figure. It is a mean and low thing to appear
to have flesh and blood, excepting
in the face and hands,—this remark
must, however, apply only to the male
sex. The female is allowed a greater
latitude. Even a Count D’Orsay would
be hooted through the streets, should he
dare to appear, on foot or on horseback,
without a coat, and with his shirtsleeves
tucked up,—such is the obeisance
we make to the tailoring craft.
And if it be a folly, it is one of an old
growth, and is rife among our antipodes
as ourselves. Savage and cultivated,
civil and uncivil, all have the propensity.
The Chinese exquisites felt
the skirts of the coats of the members
of our embassy, and burst out into
immoderate laughter. They quizzed
the cut and colour, proud of their own
envelopes; and, to their cost, judged
us by our clothes. They have since
felt our arms. Your tailor is an important
personage all the world over,
but alas! he is too restricted in his
commerce. He is confined to spots
and spaces, that is, individually speaking,—universal
is the race. It is quite
curious to consider what free trade
may do for him. The export and the
import may quite change the appearances
of all, men, women, and children.
When navigation laws shall be done
away with, and “free bottoms shall
carry free goods,” then, indeed, may it
come to pass that “motley is your only
wear.” The picturesque will triumph;
wondrous will be the variety; in
apparel, China and Kamschatka shall
meet and shuffle together in every
public way. Then “all the world
will be a stage,” and all the men and
women at least look like players. The
drab world will be extinct—it is nearly
so now. Quakers have been long
since ashamed of their Sartorian
antipathies, and from growing to be
coxcombs in their own particular line,
have pretty generally thrown off the
dull garb, and plunged with eagerness
into the emporium of fashion, and
come out so as that their mothers
would not know them. The snake
throws off his old skin, and when he
comes out shining in his new, looks
with a sly leer from under the hedge,
and seemeth to say, “Thanks, friend,
thee hast complimented me by following
my example, I am verily proud of
thy similitude.” Too many of us have
a spice in our veins of the snake’s
venom,—shift skins, and turn coats,—but
no more of that, Eusebius, it
leads to fearful questioning, and we
both eschew politics; and do not let us
call up the evil one, whoever may be
among the tailors. Yet let me remind
you of a whimsical accident that
happened the other day to a certain
M.P., who, having bought a ready-made
paletot, walked boldly into the
streets, forgetting that he was thus
ticketed on the back, “This neat
article to be sold cheap.” I dare to
say, it was warranted to keep its gloss,
and turn as good as new—and that
the wearer peeled well in the house.

You would, I see, implicate
me in fopperies. If it is not my
humour to patronise by personal
wear, I at least panegyrise all fraternities
of tailors. You may make
yourself look ridiculous if you please,
and the change may not ill become
your vagary-loving mind; but I do
not mean to doff my old habit, not
having faith in novelties, that I should
trust the present easy motion of my
limbs to unused ties and compressions.
Dress, with such old ones as we are,
Eusebius, should have the blessings
Sancho bestows upon sleep, and
“should wrap us warm like a blanket;”
and what reason is there that we
should think the worse of ourselves
for showing the dates of our thoughts
and ways, and bearing upon our coats
the figures of a somewhat backward
age. We may yet brighten up our
countenances, and say out of the book
of that dramatist who knew life so
well, and may thus depict ours—even
for some few years to come, my dear
good Eusebius,—

They that have taken off and put on
their clothes as often as you and I
have done, may well look upon them
as old friends, with their familiar
looks, and see in their wear and tear
a certain kinship with ourselves, and
all our own elbow rubs that the world
hath given us, and the thread-bare[661]
arguments that we have put upon
ourselves, from which we imagined
we could raise fine flattering maxims,
and substantial truths, which have
more deceived us in the wear than in
the affection with which they retain
us and are still retained.

says the old song,—and how much
does it imply—what a world of memory
is involved in its every fold. At the
shaking of the skirts out fly visions of
the past,—familiar faces, endearing
converse round the pleasant hearth,—cares
that we have wrapped round
with them, buried in them, and now
come up but as effigies of thoughts
that no longer trouble, dreams of life’s
anxieties, from which the mind takes
wholesome food, indulging in the repose
of the old envelopment. Would
you exchange this, Eusebius, for any
new untried thing, forcing its intimacy
upon you without claim to your friendship,
jerking you and twitting you
with impertinent and ill-fitting pressure,
with no other association but of
the congregational squattings of the
nine journeymen who made its existence,
redolent of misshapen and snuff-stained
thumbs?

I would no more willingly part
with the habit that gives me personal
ease, and is familiar with all
my movements, than I would with
that metaphorical habit of mind, of
thoughts and feeling, that makes the
continuing identity of my being. I
say identity, for a man of any character
must identify himself with his
clothes: by wear they acquire somewhat
more than a likeness. No man
can ride the same horse daily for five
years, but the two animals will in
some strange way give out to each
other something of their natures—there
is sure to be a resemblance. So
is it with our clothes. There is an
old caricature of Bunbury’s,—”The
Country Club”—in which this truth is
shown. You know you could put
every man’s hat upon his head, though
they are all hung on pegs. And this
is surely a most characteristic kind of
portraiture. I should as much think
of setting up the painted likeness of a
deceased friend or dearer relative as a
sign to a pot-house for the Saracen’s
head, as I would give his suit of
clothes, at least in the shape in which
he left them, to a mumper that should
go begging in them. Would it not be
an offence, that the noble air of freedom
and of sentient responsibility they
have acquired, should be doomed to contract
in damp and unwholesome decay,
the look of degradation and drooping
melancholy of a vicious meanness,
retaining, at the same time, that something
of the departed, which, by its
presence, seems to connect him with
an abominable deterioration? Let the
clothes be buried with the man, lest
your friend’s very effigies be seen in
low haunts and vile places. For you
can steep them in no dye of a Lethe
that will wash away the remembrances,
the likenesses they have acquired.
Would you have the apron of sanctity
transferred, by ill-advised gift, from a
defunct archbishop to the boddice of
an indecent figurante? Detestable
notions these—that nothing should be
lost, and all turned to use! What use
of any thing is better than that one
which keeps feelings, affections, respect,
entire! Were I a modern
iconoclast, I would rather burn the
petticoats of “our Lady of Loretto,”
than transfer them to a still lower
puppet-show. I had rather say for
ever with the Mayor of Garratt,
“Stand back, you gentleman without
a shirt,” than present him with one
of my grandfather’s wearing. When
a boy, I always used to think it a
painful sight to see cast clothes hung
out on poles or lines, and extending
half across a street, blown to and fro
with the winds, like ghosts affecting
the show and motion of vitality,
undergoing their purification in an
upper aerial purgatory, preparatory to
their metempsychosis, uncertain if
they should adopt unto themselves a
bodily being of a higher or a lower
order. To hang the coat seemed very
like hanging the man.

Pythagoras was the first man, says
history, that wore breeches. When he
hung up the shield of Euphorbus in
the temple of Juno, to show that he
had been Euphorbus, did he suspend
his breeches also? He probably did,
disliking any meaner transmigration
for them; for we are told his fashion
was not followed until some generations
had passed. The modern Pythagorean
would send them to the pawnbrokers.

The fine idea of Lucian, that our[662]
shadows will be our accusers, might
very properly be transferred to coats
and inexpressibles; for, besides that
they might witness of our whereabouts
and of our doings, they might
witness of our ingratitude in casting
them off,—wearing our old friends
thread-bare, and then throwing them
off when they have most singularly
accommodated themselves to all our
strange ways,—of sending them, as
the unfeeling do the high-mettled
racer to the cart, to other service to
which they are but ill-fitted. The
wearer of another man’s coat is guilty
of a kind of larceny; he does more
than steal from the person, he in one
sense steals the person itself! At
least, he should be held responsible
for all that has been done in the coat,
and that on the principle of taxation,
as the law comes not on the tenant
gone off, but upon the land. Better
that a man should make a museum of
his apparel, than part with it out of
the family of which it so properly
forms a part.

A gallery of suspended braces
might represent one’s ancestors,
equally with the be-wigged portraits
that seem to lay their hands upon
their hearts, and say from their
frames, “Posterity, I begot you.” A
breeches-gallery might with much less
expense serve the same purpose; for
if these articles have not fittingly
belonged to posterity, it is notorious
that they have most fittingly belonged
to something very like it. Do you
not think, Eusebius, that these suspension
breeches, the idea of which
is worthy the Shandean philosophy,
would be very expressive of family
character, and nicely distinguish unseemly
interpolation; and that a
genealogical wardrobe-gallery would
become an object of pride, and most
proper appendage to the family seat?
It could no more be doubted to what
race and blood apparel would justly
belong, than to what shoulders certain
heads must belong—which illustration
reminds me of that saying of
Bishop Bonner’s to Henry VIII. who
threatened to cut off the head of every
Frenchman in his power, should
Francis I. take the life of the bishop?
“True, sire,” said he with a smile, “but
I question, if any of their heads would
fit my shoulders as well as that I have
on.” So would the family-fit be no
bad test of the true character and vitality
in the genealogical tree.

I suppose that, by your question—How
I came to be a sloven—you
would have me throw off my old
habits, and put on new—and perhaps,
in your satirical innuendo, attack more
than apparel, which we abuse by metaphor,
when we term ill manners
“bad habits!” Did I tell you how
ingeniously our gay and jocund friend
and poetical satirist defended himself
in encounter of wit with a bantering
opponent? “How do we know,”
said he, “but that our vices may be
our persecuted virtues.” “Slovenry,”
Eusebius, is a persecuted virtue. It
is a tone and virtue that unbends,
loosens the stiffness of the social
body, liberates it from the strict tie
of an awkward formality, and is to
the whole of society what variety is
in the dress in an individual—a happy
relief, without which there would be
too much monotony. The philosopher
who made his bow to the jewelled
and richly dressed man, and thanked
him for the sight, and the trouble he
took in putting on and bearing such a
costly suit, should have been thanked,
in his turn, for acting the foil, the contrast,
which made the finery so conspicuous.
If we were all dressed up
kings and queens—were all the world
to wear a lord mayor’s livery, there
would be no show to see. It is the
intermixture, the great variety, that
makes the exhibition, which is only
then complete when it has a little
dash of slovenry. What a sorry picture
it would be that should have all
bright colours! the finest carnation
is best set off with a little adjacent
umber. You would no more wish to
see people in the streets all dressed
alike, than you would wish to see the
streets all alike, and every house like
another. Nature dresses not after
this one millinery. In the richest
corn field, it is not every blade, and
ear, and stalk, that is equally broad,
full, and straight. Some have a kind
of slovenly lying off from others,
a grace, the very purposed gift of
Nature, to entice the eye to a more
curious and nice selection, whereby to
discover the infinite degrees of beauty,
that all united make the whole perfection.
The precision of the tall and[663]
upright stalk is the more strongly
marked in its strength, by the decoration
of its neighbour—and how
beautifully do a few clustered together
plume off their individual irregularity
into a graceful shape! Has not the
tangled hedge its own beauty even
when it “putteth forth disordered
twigs?” You would not bear all
pruned to one smooth fashion. The
finery of Nature’s robes makes but a
small part of her wardrobe; she hath her
ordinary wear, and even when she putteth
on her mantle of the richest green,
she trims it sparingly—and that for
the most part with a loose lacery of
unobtrusive jasmine and vine-weed.
And the nature that bids all the garniture
of earth thus grow variously
in richness, in moderation, and in a
sweet and humble disorder, putteth
it into man’s mind; for he is doomed
to dress himself, so as to follow her law;—and
thus it is, that in any given
number of persons you shall see some
few endowed with this natural gift and
grace of slovenry. And that careless,
modest, unassuming part in the arabesque
ornament of life, you and I,
Eusebius, are intended to perform.
One character for the harlequin, another
for the clown, and we must have
the lean and slippered pantaloon—and
there must be some one besides, my
good friend, to play the fool too, or
the stage will not be well filled, nor
the comedy of life well performed,
nor the spectators well pleased.

Take, Eusebius, which part you
please,—you will ultimately fall into
your natural character, and however
you may shift a little with age, you
will ever have a hankering after “one
more last appearance” in motley. I
doubt if the daily moving scene would
be perfect without the beggar’s rags.
Their loose uncared for freedom, the
independence of an escape beyond the
limits of poverty, which, says the satirist,
makes men ridiculous, floating
in the wind or drooping in the rain,
alike defying and disregarding the
better or the worse of fortune, have
their moral as well as pictorial use and
dignity too in the panorama. The
beggar’s negligence is the running
commentary on the rich man’s
anxieties. All is right in its place;
you have only to look and admire the
show. The grandest cathedrals, with
their ornamented towers or spires seeking
heaven as their own, are not always
the worse for a contiguous
poverty of humble dwellings, which
they do but seem to take under their
sacred protection; and thus the low
elevates still more the great. You
and I may be well content, by the
lowness of our apparel, to magnify the
magnificent; only, I confess that when
I find myself standing as a foil to one
of our rough-haired, be-whiskered and
bearded fops, I do sometimes feel inclined
to throw a nut in his way to
see if he be a monkey or a man. One
would not wish to be showman to the
brute. The contempt of the fop is of
little moment; and here I cannot but
think Anacharsis was wrong, when he
proposed to himself to leave Greece
on account of the derision cast upon
him for his dress.

I admire your offering the example
of Aristippus, as an inducement to
quit the character of the sloven. You
say he accepted a rich robe; but you
must remember that the wiser Plato
refused it. Besides, it was in the
philosophy of Aristippus to take either
part, and to appear fop or sloven as
his humour pleased him, or convenience
led him. “Omnis Aristippum
decuit color,” says Horace; and let
me suggest that color must have
meant, not color vitæ, (or if it so be,
it is a metaphor from the thing,) but
the colour of his cloth—black, perhaps,
turned brown—seedy.
He was certainly one to “cut his coat
according to his cloth.” Diogenes in
his rags and his tub was a coxcomb—one
would not be like him; he tricked
up his poverty, to be observed, and
looked at, and admired, quite as much
as any other coxcomb would trick out
his fashion for the eye. When he
desired Alexander to step aside, not
to interpose his person between him
and the sun, it was but a self-magnifying
vanity, that his filthy rags might
be the more conspicuous and set off
in the splendour of a new light, as
conceited religionist sects have done,
calling aloud for the finger of scorn to
point at the filthy rags of their own
flesh and blood; vilifying their bodily
man, that their unfleshed and spiritual
selves might be seen by that
glass through which they bid you look,
to rise above and shine in the new[664]
light of their own glorification—an
idea which they have borrowed from
those picture-cherubs, who, only heads
and wings, seem altogether to have
dropped their bodies and enveloped
themselves in a smoky and cloudy
vapour peculiarly their own. And
truly, Eusebius, I am apt to agree
with you, when we see these congregated
saints of the New Calendar, and
to join in their personal vilification,
and to think that merely heads and
wings might offer a more salutary
odour of sanctity than that which you
say you have ever found too pungent
in the “Rag Fair” of their New-Paradise
Row.

And your Aristippus was not
quite to my mind; for though there
was a show of wisdom in his carelessness,
it was the very show
that was displeasing, and the easy
putting on of other men’s tastes and
opinions, as if he himself was as
changeable as they. Does not the
confirmed sloven appear to be actuated
by a nobler kind of philosophy, who,
with a soul bent, as man’s should be,
on durability, resisting to the utmost
a common, degrading, and visible
mutability, and seeing how changeable
a thing fashion of any kind is, and
how unworthy a thing it is to become
to-morrow utterly unlike what he is
to-day, and to be to-day what he was
not yesterday, despises these shiftings
and changes,—these fittings on and
takings off,—these ever-varying metamorphoses
that so unman him, and
rests with a firm disregard of appearance,
which, if unsteady, must be
false to the character that is or should
be within him; and if it be not false,
is but the greater shame, and fixes the
instability upon his mind? Is it not a
kind of blot upon the fair profession
of respect and reverence, to stoop and
put on the livery of a fashion which
leads you up to the portraits of your
ancestors, and bids you turn to ridicule
their attire, and perhaps makes you
laugh at the father who begat you?—or
subject yourself to a like disgrace,
by imagining them to be looking down
from the walls in contempt upon yourself,
and that the fading colours blush
for you? I have heard a neighbour
tell of a friend of his, who had done
great things, in a worldly sense, for
his family, and who, wishing to stand
well in the eyes of his posterity, with
an affectionate reminiscence had his
portrait taken in his wedding-suit.
But after this, going to a play, and
seeing the counterpart upon the stage,
he bethought him that such might be
the case with his suit,—that it might
be sold, and go to the theatrical wardrobe:
so, as he said, to save his
posterity the disgrace of casting contempt
or ridicule upon one who had
done so much for them, he had the
dress painted out, and left it in his
will, that the real wedding-suit should
be buried with him. Indeed, it is
recorded of a gentleman about a century
ago, who, having a very goodly
show of ancestors, was so shocked
at the unfashionable appearances of
his Vandykes, that he had the fashionable
bob-wigs of the day put upon
them all.

And this, Eusebius, reminds me to
speak of painters, who in nothing are
more at a loss than in what manner
to dress their sitters. They have
almost all come to the conviction at
last, that a kind of slovenly undress
is the best, and are sure to adopt it,
unless by particular desire, and to
commemorate official consequence,
the robes and chain of a lord mayor
are required, at an extra charge, or
the solemn look of one who is nobody
must be removed from asinine insignificance
by a great quantity of fur,
or a red curtain suspended from a marble
column in the open air. Sculptors
take a bolder step, and, with a taste
that does credit to their sagacity,
give the bust, without hesitation, a
slovenly dignity,—simply throw an
old huckaback towel round the chest
and over the shoulder, and trust to
the features of the man and the material
of the marble to add weight and
consequence. The historical painter
would be worse off still, had he not by
common consent a kind of sovereignty
over dress. His greatest desire is,
upon all occasions, entirely to discard
it, as much as may be to paint the
nude, as if there were no truth but
naked truth. The trim suit is his aversion;
the wardrobe for his lay figures
offers but a curious assemblage of rags.

It would be difficult to learn how
to grapple with this Proteus of dress—mutable
fashion. I am told that our
dresses, male and female, were extremely[665]
ridiculous in the eyes of the
French, when we visited the continent
after the Peace. The Persian visitors
were astonished that we wore our
hair in the wrong place—on the head
instead of the chin. There is almost
a slovenly simplicity which alone properly
imitates the natural ease and
grace of unconfined nature. The
farther we depart from it, we go but
back again to the rude, uncultured
barbarian. Sir Joshua somewhere
says, that if a tattooed Indian and
a powdered and buttoned man of
fashion should meet in the street, he
that laughed first would be the real
savage.

I am not, Eusebius, contending
against the advice of Polonius,

You should, however, remember to
whom that advice was given,—to
the courtier Laertes, that “man about
town” in Denmark.

Your quotation will not, be assured,
fit me, and, I suspect, not yourself
either, with a new suit. We must
play our parts, and dress accordingly.
For, as the old courtier adds—

I would have your courtier, who is
but a sort of palace furniture, dress to
suit, and make perfect the millinery
and upholstery about him. You say
that the being a good dresser made
the fortune of Sir Walter Raleigh,
when he threw his costly paletot
before the feet of Queen Elizabeth.
True; but that trick is not to be
played twice. You are more likely
to enter the palace like the boy Jones,
than through any such Eusebian
gallantry. And what should you or
I do there? You would make but a
sorry Aristippus, wearing your court
suit, indeed, “with a difference;”
for there is not a tailor that would
not mismeasure you in your unsteady
postures; and you would make them
worse by your uncontrolled laugh at
your new position.

I am no greater sloven than yourself.
You have, in fact, therein the
advantage of me by a greater laxity.
You could not make a Mantalini. But—not
to think of that extravagance—let
me remind you of a kind of “well-dressed
man” whom I have often
heard you say you should like to trip
up and lodge in a gutter. It is one
who is always well-dressed, always
the same, whatever the temperature—one
whom rain never wets, suns never
make to fade, whom dirt will not
splash. In summer he never looks
hot. Dust will not attach to his boots
or to his coat. He walks about, and
always alone. He is quite out of the
pale and contact of friendship, as if
the invisible creatures so admirably
described in the “Rape of the Lock”
were with invisible brushes ever busying
themselves about his male attire.
You never see him accost or be
accosted by man or woman. His
shadow, if he has one, must smooth
the dust upon which it falls. There
is no wear and tear in him, nor in
any thing about him. His voice, if
utterance he hath, must be of a poor
monotony, of a preservative tone, and
without growth. Whence he comes
or whither he goes, is an undivulged
secret. Does he undress? He
is so unchangeable, so ever the same
neat, well-dressed, unsoiled, and unsoilable
man. He never was in a
chrysalis state. He must have been
beat out of some tailor’s brains with a
goose, and come into the world ready
dressed, and unborn of woman. However
fashion changes, it is all the
same, he is never out of it. Like
dissolving views, he slides unnoticeably
from costume to costume, without
one article about him being ever
newer or older, and you never can tell
where the difference is. Changes
must take place, yet in some charmed
invisible manner. He is like a man
made by the magical words of Pancrates
the Memphian out of a broomstick,
and set walking about, and as
if the Encrates tailor had forgotten
the charm to reduce him again; and
so he had walked about ever since.

While I thus laugh in the glory of
slovenliness, I must refrain from entering
upon a wider field,—woman’s
influences in the full dressed world.—Let
them enjoy their prerogative undisturbed.
As we shall not undergo
a feminine metamorphosis, we are not
likely to suffer, from their amiable
dress vagaries, unless they should
return to some of their older fashions,
in which case, we must alter our very
houses to please them; as was done
for Isabel of Bavaria, the luxurious[666]
consort of Charles VI. of France, who,
when he kept court at Vincennes, was
compelled to call in the architect, and
have all the doors of the palace made
higher, to admit the head-dresses of
the Queen and her ladies. Yet we
need not laugh, for, Eusebius, if the
trunk hose should come into vogue
again, our doorways must be widened.
That would not be so bad as a
return on our side of the question to
a tight fit, on which condition every
limb was in misery, that, to think of,
will reconcile you to our loose indifference.
What a monstrous contrast of
extremes has been exhibited, from the
tight pantaloon, such as we see it in
some old pictures, to the great breeches
worn in the beginning of the reign of
Elizabeth! In the “Pedigree of the
English gallant,” an account is given
of a man, whom the Judges accused
of wearing breeches contrary to law,
(a law was made against them.) His
defence of himself is curious. “He
drawed out of his sloops the contents,”
viz., a pair of sheets, two table-cloths,
ten napkins, four shirts, a brush, a
glass, and a comb, with night-caps, and
other things, saying, “Your worships
may understand, that because I have
no safer a store-house, these pockets
do serve me for a room to lay up my
goods in, and though it be a straight
prison, yet it is big enough for them,
for I have many things of value yet
within it.” He was discharged, as he
should have been, with his merchandise,
and allowed to trade freely on
his own bottom. Hudibras carried
some such a cupboard. Small must
have been the population, when these
inexpressibles, great inexpressibles,
gallanted with the ladies’ large hoop
farthingales. A few pairs must have
occupied no small space. A courtship
in those days must have resembled a
siege, where the principal defence lay
in the outworks, and the difficulty of
approach was not a little enhanced by
the encumbrances of the advancing
party.

Who was the first coxcomb? Was
dress, in its origin, a modest or immodest
appendage to the person; or
rather when did it first cease to be
merely a protection or concealment?
Is love of ornament a natural virtue,
or a superinduced vice? These are
curious speculations. There is an
old play I have somewhere read of,
which represents our first parents in
Paradise perfectly nude, and so were
they exhibited, and in public, without
shame. The subsequent acts introduced
them dressed; and the last act,
I believe, in the fashion of the day in
which the play was acted. As all
plays were then serious, was this
representation a satire on coxcombry,
and intended to exhibit the progress
of personal degradation?

What does a man propose to himself
when he goes to his tailor’s? Is
it to be clothed or adorned? Is it to
hide a defect, that he may not appear
worse than he is, or that he may
appear better than he is? To attract
observation or to escape it. Is the pride
in dress, or in undress? Ingenious
in self-deceit was the reply of the man
reproved for the badness of his dress,
“Oh every body knows me here;”
and his reply when seen in the same
suit far from his home, “Oh nobody
knows me here.” This was a true
amateur; he loved slovenliness for its
own sake. Few believe themselves
so ill-made, as that the “dogs will
bark at them.” Even Richard III., who
owned to his deformity, gets a little
in love with himself, and thinks of
adorning his person. “I do mistake
my person all this while.” He determines
to act the exquisite.

Or does the satirical and successful
Richard merely laugh at your fop-wooers,
and, proud of his own superiority,
contemn them, by imagining
their dress on his own person? One
would really think, from the figures one
sees, that there are people who dress
purposely to spite the tailors, as there
are those who are paid to be walking
placards of recommendation.

The butcher who ran after the fat
man, and stopped him crying, “Be so
good, sir, as to say you buy your meat
of me,” was not more aware of the
benefit of such a personal recommendation,
than is our fashionable
tailor. A well-made man, if he is in
tolerable fashion, may be supplied with
clothes, as I am credibly informed, for[667]
nothing but the merely notifying the
makers. They are the decoy-ducks,
excepting that, though they have fine
feathers, they have no bills.

I am told that a fashionable tailor
would be quite shy of an ill-made and
vulgar looking customer; and generally
charges his dislike in his bill,
that he may lose him. I knew a
portrait painter, that professed to decline,
painting ugly people, upon that
principle, and consequently his success
was quite astonishing; every one
he did paint was in better humour
with himself, and was proud of his
certificate of beauty when he named
the artist. Were you and I, Eusebius,
to presume to enter the saloon
of a fashionable cutter, and order
suits, they would be purposely so ill-made,
that no one should suspect
from whence they came. And we
should ever wear them with a hitch of
discomfort in some part or other. So
that, were we to try our best at foppery,
we could not now succeed. I have tried
it upon various occasions, and convinced
myself that I was not born to it,
and certainly neither of us has acquired
a second nature that any tailor would
recognise. A tailor’s man, like the
poet, must be born with nature’s fit,
or nothing else will fit him,—”nascitur
non fit.” Some wear their limbs so
loosely, that they move them as do
those German toys, whose legs you
see children jerk with a string. The
best Sartorial artist can make nothing
of them; they are a mockery even
upon the manufacture of “journeymen,”
they “imitate nature so abominably.”

How I came to be a sloven! Well,
if I am a sloven, which I hardly
know how to admit, and if I am a
little in love with a kind of genteel
slovenry, how came I by it? I did
not take to it naturally, as you did,
Eusebius; I caught it. And once
caught, however we may upon occasions
throw it off, it returns like an
influenza, and becomes a continual
habit. Few, indeed, are there who
are not born with a contrary propensity,
inheriting it from their
mothers, whose preparations for the
coming offspring were of the finest,
the ventum textilem, as Apuleius
calls it,—woven wind. Early, indeed,
in his day of existence, is the little
infant taught to show off, both his
nude and his finery, and to hear the
beauty of both commended. Thus is
vanity engendered in the bud. You
were a born genius, and exempt from
the cradle from this visible mark of
frailty. It was not so with me; I
was an incipient fop before I could
walk. And now I remember, Eusebius,
that I sent you a letter some
years ago, that should have answered,
though perhaps imperfectly, your question.
It was a “passage of autobiography,”
giving you an account of
my first entrance at a public school,
and how I was “breeched.” How
one Mr. Flight, after much tugging
and pulling, by himself and foreman,
did contrive to fit me into a pair of
mouse-colour leather inexpressibles,—a
good name for them, too, for I was
hardly pressible in or out of them.
Do you not remember my narration
of the second time of putting them on,
on my first morning at Winchester
College, while the chapel bell was
going, and I not yet fitted in; and
how at last I did contrive to get some
portion of me into them, and to fasten
one button, and how I ran (but that
word won’t express the movement I
made) breathless into the chapel,
and on kneeling down, the button
gave way to my shame, discomfort,
and disgrace, exposure, ridicule. I
might parody what the cock said to
the fox,

This was my first disgust at my own
personal appearance. I hated my
leathers; but they stuck to me,
nevertheless,—my wardrobe contained
nothing but leathers. I was like the
dog that had killed his first lamb,
forced to wear the skin, that became
more odious every day. Here was a
first distaste to dress. The fit was
uncomfortable enough; but, besides,
I was a subject of ridicule.

Time, with its wear and tear, took
off the pride of my nether garment,
and affected at length a kind of reconciliation
between us. We fitted
each other better, and both entered
into a compact of mutual slovenry.
Things won’t last for ever, although,
in those days, the trade did affect to
manufacture a material they called[668]
“everlasting.” As the quotation
from an old song will show:

With new breeches come new manners,
new ideas. Foppery takes growth
again, though it is somewhat tender;
struggles for life, but somehow
or other acquires strength in the
struggle. You contend against it,
you wrestle with it, and, by a kind
of enchantment, it becomes the
tailor Antæus, and rises from every
defeat a bigger man than ever. Behold
me, let me stand for my picture,
Ætatis 18, Scholæ Wintoniensis
alumnus. The date is at present
unmentionable,—it will be found
one of these days at the back of
the canvass; behold me at the college
gates, turning my back, for about my
last holidays, upon those statuesque
antique worthies, Sophocles, Euripides,
Æschylus. We have shaken hands
finally with the sublime Longinus,
preferring for the time a “sublime
and beautiful” of our own, a butterfly
of the first down. On second
thoughts, I am not quite fit to stand
there yet; I must describe my preliminary
state. My boots, I rather
think, my first boots, had come home
the night before; boots then were no
more like boots now, than are loose
trousers to Mr. Flight’s mouse-coloured
tights. There was nearly the same
process of pulling and tugging to get
them on, and when once on, the
revocare gradum was next to an impossibility.
The leather, too, was
of a more soaky oily kind, I suppose,
and stuck like adhesive plaster, and
drew like that medicated material.
My boots were on, over-night, but no
tug of war, no steam power of man
or men—for we all tugged, and all
steamed—could get them off. So it
was determined I should sleep in
them. It was very well so to determine,
but sleep, as the negro said,
“hab no massa,” and would not
obey. The bootmaker had advised
and disappeared. It was soon found
a just observation, Ne sutor ultra crepidam.
Sleep would not be bed ridden,
for I was booted, possibly spurred;
not even a classical charm would do,

Sleep was only the more obstinate,
and preferred better society, or worse.
Sleep has been too much petted by
panegyrists, till he has learnt ill manners,
lies down with the clown and
the drunkard, for whom he leaves
the presence and courting arms of
suffering beauty,—such were my
thoughts in those youthful classical
and romantic days, and the above
passage was most likely Latinised,—”shown
up.” Probatum est.

I must hasten on, for I am, though
booted, not dressed yet. With a
sickening sensation, at the earliest
gray light of a midsummer dawn, did
I put on my clothes—my bran-new,
in which I was to go out into the
sunshine of life. First, there was a
pair of bright orange-colour plush
breeches; a light buff waistcoat with
a sham-red under; a coat—no—nor
jacket nor coat, but a beautiful tailor-creation,
a coatee; colour, green;
buttons, shining metal. My boots
were of the kind called tops.

Now I am ready to stand at the
college gates for my picture, whip in
hand, though a chaise is waiting for
me and two more. My “copartners in
exile” temporary, are waiting for me.
They vociferate impatience. Is the
portrait finished? Then complete it
at your leisure, secundum artem. I
am off. But while I have been standing
for this portrait, the sun has risen;
it is intensely hot. Heat of weather,
tight boots, and swelling legs and
limbs, are doing their work in and
out of me. I am in a sad perspiration;
and so off we go. We had reached
the first mile-stone; then I discover
I had left my purse behind me. Out
I leap, run all the way back to
“chamber,” and away again to the
chaise. I have at this moment a
painful remembrance of that short
pedestrian excursion—the heat intense,
the orange-yellow plush flushing
up into my face, the glare of buttons,
the now-agony of my booted legs
and feet, the difficulty of making the
needful speed, and fear of the practical
joke of leaving me behind—altogether
these pains and discomforts put me
into a kind of bilious fever, so that, if I
did not loathe myself, I did most thoroughly
my clothes. From that day
I took a disgust to yellows, any thing
glaring—abhorred my orange-plush:[669]
and I do not believe I had any symptom
of foppery about me for three
years after that memorable time.
There is, indeed, a miniature portrait
of me extant, taken about that period:
it has a dash of powder in the hair, a
rather smirking look; and there is a
blue coat, metal buttons, the yellow
waistcoat and red under; but I suspect
these are not out of my wardrobe.
They are from Mr Carmine’s recipe-book
of portrait costume, and may be
found in page 6, lettered, “For very
young gentlemen.” I am pretty sure
the dress, at least as it looks there,
was not mine; for I remember well a
remonstrance from my parent about
that time, thus—”My son, you are
too great a sloven.”

I never quite recovered this; but
there did come days of philandering,
when I mended a little, and occasionally
appeared thus. Behold me entering
the ball-room—coat, blue, metal
buttons; waistcoat, white dimity;
nethers, black tights; pinkish silk
stockings, highly-polished shoes, with
small silver buckles; hair slightly
powdered, and a slip of a tail that
could flirt with either shoulder. You
will see that there is a little of the
sentimental cast in this: it was a
doubtful dress, capable, by a very
small change, of making the wearer a
Hamlet or a Romeo for the night, as
he might determine beforehand. I
continued thus for a while respectable,
and might have remained so to this
day, but for an unfortunate taste
which I acquired, and which threw
me into irredeemable slovenry, in
which I have remained ever since.
In my idleness, which soon became,
as Shakespeare so aptly calls it,
“shapeless,” I dabbled with paints,
oils, and colours; and as with growing
improvement I enlarged the dimensions
of my operations from inch
to the foot, and from foot to the yard,
I was soon above my elbows in the
unclean “materièl.” There were no
tube colours in those days; we had
bladders. They were always bursting;
and thus they bedaubed the
hands, and the hands bedaubed the
clothes; and amateurs were then
Picts, up to their very eyes. Young
as I was, I of course fancied myself a
genius, and painted so large, and so
largely, that a common-sized palette
impeded my work. I enlarged that,
and increased the quantity of my
colours. I now mention a frequent
disaster, that, being frequent, was
quite enough to make a sloven of any
one. Take the following scene:—A
room such as could be spared me, not
too large, in tolerable confusion;
daubs in all states of disorder on the
walls, against the walls, loose and
strained, in all directions; large slabs
for grinding colours—oils, turpentine,
varnishes, &c. &c., all in that proper
disorganisation to enable any youth of
a tolerably slovenly person to set up
for a genius. Now—it has taken
me an hour to set my palette—look
at it—here is a goodly row of colours
mixed and intermixed after the recipe
of Lionardo da Vinci, who would
have added more, if paper, as he said,
had not failed him. Here, however,
are quite enough—and more than
enough—satis superque—I look at
the palette with extreme satisfaction—my
canvass is on the easel—imagination
begins to work—alas! too
soon—I am not quite ready; I
must put in a cup, that diluent
oil—in another, turpentine; it is
done. I am a little weary, and sit,
down for a moment to rest, looking
full on my canvass, and giving loose to
my fancy—I rise, where is my palette—alas!
I have sat upon it. I have had
misfortunes in etching with aqua
fortis—have been the “biter bit”—but
here I was the painter painted.
I do not know why the arts should be
called Fine—”The Fine Arts”—unless
it be in derision of the slovenliness
which they occasion. Many a time
have I sat upon my colours: a poetical
friend once wrote me an ode upon
it, and begged me to learn it by
rote, as a kind of memoria technica,
or charm of preservation. This I declined,
not being good-humoured
enough to admire any poetry not my
own. But I remember upon one
such occasion working off my vexation
in a sonnet. And I recommend the
recipe; you may successfully salve
over many a sore distraction by
soothing verse. There is a great
charm in rhyme, or at least in searching
for it, and versifying either altogether
saves swearing, or enables you
to throw it off very genteelly, and
with a grace. I addressed the Fine[670]
Arts, whose epithet Fine I take to be
given with a superstition of dread, as
the old poets did the Furies, calling
them Eumenides, thinking they should
not fare the worse for giving them a
good name; and as later times called
the Fairies “the good people,” lest
they should punish poor innocents,
and pinch o’nights. Read, Eusebius,
my remonstrance to these personified,
deified, and worshipped Fine Arts.

Look, Eusebius, as I dare to say
you have often done, into the smudge
of a colour-maker’s shop, and imagine
a personification of it in a
young amateur aspirant. What a
ludicrously serious Harlequin he is
made! At last, in despair of acquirement
of cleanliness, I plunged, as it
were, into the very mud and smudge
of paint, and did not hesitate to wipe
a brush upon my sleeves.

Thus, I acquired a bad habit—and
as I often had the fit to paint when
my better dress was on, I now and
then seized an unlucky moment of desire,
and the better soon came to be
the worse. By degrees I fell into a
despair of mending; and so I became
a confirmed sloven.

One who fastens his knapsack on his
back, that is to hold his temporary all,
including materials for art, and pedestrianises
over a roughish country,
may acquire an exquisite taste; but
he will not be personally an exquisite.
He will be characteristic in
look, of the picturesque which he hunts
after. He will be very unlike the
man I have described to you, whom
dust would not soil, or rain wet, or
sun burn. The geologist who walks
forth, armed to tomahawk the mountains,
and bag their bones, will, in a
month or so, acquire a strange and
stony look; and be, on his first return,
and sitting in civil society, little
better than the “Man Mountain”
himself. Our pursuits are in us and
about us, soil our dress and chisel
our features. We look in the glass,
easily reconcile ourselves to any metamorphosis,
and think no one has a
right to quarrel with that, which we
think, in our self-satisfaction, makes
up our beloved identity. No man
can be every thing—not all
“Admirable Crichtons”—it is the
diversity and the difference that
makes the pleasing motley in the
masquerade of the world. Though
you might dance more like the brutes,
it does not at all follow but that you
may fiddle like Orpheus. Johnson
defended Kit Smart, the sloven,
(mockery of a name,) having himself
no great predilection for clean linen.
Dionysius was more happy in the
“inky cloak” of the slovenly schoolmaster,
than in the golden mantle
which his father took from the statue
of Jupiter.

Let us both be content to remain
as we are. For be assured, Eusebius,
that if we make the attempt to change
our habits, either of person or of mind,
and put on the more trim, and
of more fashionable cut, we shall
but amuse the spectators by becoming
ridiculous; and in making up the
characters that are to figure on the
stage of the drama of life, insignificant
though we be, there will be found
wanting two good slovens.

[671]

AN UNPUBLISHED FRENCH NOVEL.

In the year 1843, a fancy fair was
held at Paris, for the benefit of the
sufferers by an earthquake in the
island of Guadaloupe. The patronage
of the Queen of the French, added to
the strong sympathy awakened by the
catastrophe, filled the bazaar with a
gay throng, delighted to combine
amusement with charity, and to chaffer
for baubles with aristocratic saleswomen.
Amidst the multitude of
tasteful trifles, exposed for sale was
a contribution from Queen Marie
Amélie—fifty books, printed at the
royal press and elegantly bound.
They were fifty copies of a volume
containing three charming tales, and
soon it was whispered that no others
had been printed, and that the author
was a lady of rank, distinguished for
grace and wit, but whose literary
talents were previously unknown, save
to a limited circle of discreet and admiring
friends. At the queen’s request,
and at the voice of pity, pleading for
the unfortunates of Point-à-Pitre,
she had sanctioned the printing of
fifty copies; these taken, the types had
been broken up. Such rumours were
more than sufficient to stimulate curiosity,
and raise the value of the volume.
Every body knows that an
author’s title often sells a stupid book;
should any doubt it, we refer them to
our friends Puff and Co.; how much
greater the attraction when the book
is a clever one, written by a countess,
printed by a sovereign’s command,
and at a royal press. The market
rose instantly. Sixty francs, eighty
francs, five napoleons, were freely
given; how much higher competition
raised the price, we cannot say; but
we are credibly informed the improvement
did not stop there.

The editor of the Revue des Deux
Mondes was not the last to hear the
history of the volume. He procured
a copy, and esteeming it unjust to
reserve for a few what was meant for
mankind, by limiting the produce of so
graceful a pen to the narrow circulation
of fifty copies—he laid violent hands
upon one of the tales, and reprinted
it in his excellent and widely-circulated
periodical. Although literally
a day after the fair, it was not the
less acceptable and successful. The
tale, whose title is “Resignation,” was
attributed by many to the amiable
Duchess of Orleans, then in the first
year of her widowhood. The real
authoress is the Countess d’Arbouville,
wife of the lieutenant-general
of that name, granddaughter of
Madame d’Houdetot, and niece by
marriage of Monsieur de Barante. Inheriting
much of the wit of her celebrated
ancestress, and no small share
of the literary aptitude of her accomplished
uncle, this lady, without
aiming at the reputation of a woman
of letters, writes tales of very remarkable
merit. Whilst her husband, as
governor of Constantine, wields the
sabre in defence of Algeria, the Countess,
secluded in her boudoir, beguiles
her leisure and delights her friends by the
exercise of her pen. Last spring,
it became known that she had completed
the matter of a second volume.
Thereupon, she was so besieged by
petitioners for the favour of a perusal,
that in self-defence, and out of regard
to the integrity of her manuscript,
she was compelled to print fifty copies
for private circulation. Through the
kindness of a Parisian friend one of
these has reached us. It contains
two tales. The first, “Le Medecin
du Village,” is a simple and touching
story, highly attractive by its purity
of style and exquisite feeling. The
circumstances under which it was
printed forbid criticism; otherwise
we might cavil at its introduction
as unartistical, and at one of the
incidents—the restoration of an idiot
boy of fifteen to unclouded reason—as
unprecedented and out of nature.
But one dwells not on these blemishes
whilst reading the old doctor’s affecting
tale, which does equal honour to
the heart and mind of the authoress.
We would gladly place it before our
readers in an English dress, but the
indefatigable Monsieur Buloz, ever
watchful of the interests of his review,
has already pounced upon it. It had
scarcely been printed, when he transferred
it to the pages of the Revue des
Deux Mondes. We are obliged, therefore,[672]
to content ourselves with the
second tale, no way inferior to its
fellow, but whose greater length compels
us to abridge. This we would
fain avoid, for even without such curtailment
it is impossible to render in
another language the full charm of the
original, a charm residing in delicacy
of style and touch rather than in description
or incident. We will do our
best, however, and should the attempt
meet the eye and disapproval of
Madame d’Arbouville, we wish it
may stimulate her to print her next
work by thousands instead of tens,
that all conversant with the French
tongue may have opportunities of reading
and appreciating the productions
of so pleasing a writer.

The tale in question is entitled—

UNE HISTOIRE HOLLANDAISE.

It was the hour of sunrise. Not
the gorgeous sunrise of Spain or Italy,
when the horizon’s ruddy blaze suddenly
revives all that breathes, when
golden rays mingle with the deep
azure of a southern sky, and nature
bursts into vitality and vigour, as if
light gave life. The sun rose upon
the chilly shores of Holland. The
clouds opened to give exit to a pale
light, without heat or brilliancy.
Nature passed insensibly from sleep
to waking, but continued torpid when
ceasing to slumber. No cry or joyous
song, no flight of birds, or bleating of
flocks, hail the advent of a new day.
On the summit of the dykes, the reed-hedges
bend before the breeze, and
the sea-sand, whirled over the slight
obstacle, falls upon the meadows,
covering their verdure with a moving
veil. A river, yellow with the slime
of its banks, flows peaceably and
patiently towards the expectant
ocean. Seen from afar, its waters
and its shore appear of one colour,
resembling a sandy plain; save where
a ray of light, breaking upon the surface,
reveals by silvery flashes the
passage of the stream. Ponderous
boats descend it, drawn by teams of
horses, whose large feet sink into the
sand as they advance leisurely and
without distress to the goal of their
journey. Behind them strides a
peasant, whip on shoulder; he hurries
not his cattle, he looks neither at the
stream that flows, nor the beasts that
draw, nor the boat that follows; he
plods steadily onwards, trusting to
perseverance to attain his end.

Such is a corner of the picture presented
to the traveller in Holland, the
country charged, it would seem, more
than any other, to enforce God’s
command to the waters, Thou shalt go
no farther! This silent repose of
creatures and things, this mild light,
these neutral tints and vast motionless
plains, are not without a certain
poetry of their own. Wherever space
and silence are united, poetry finds
place; she loves all things more or
less, whether smiling landscape or
dreary desert; light of wing, a trifle
will detain and support her—a blade
of grass often suffices. And Holland,
which Butler has called a large ship
always at anchor, has its beauties for
the thoughtful observer. Gradually
one learns to admire this land at war
with ocean and struggling daily for
existence; those cities which compel
the waters to flow at their ramparts’
foot, to follow the given track, and
abide in the allotted bed; then those
days of revolt, when the waves would
fain reconquer their independence,
when they overflow and inundate,
and destroy, and at last, constrained
by the hand of man, subside and again
obey.

As the sun rose, a small boat glided
rapidly down the stream. It had a single
occupant, a tall young man, lithe,
skilful, and strong, who, although
apparently in haste, kept near the
shore, following the windings of the
bank, and avoiding the centre of the
current, which would have accelerated
his progress. At that early hour the
fields were deserted; the birds alone
had risen earlier than the boatman,
whose large hat of gray felt lay beside
him, whilst his brown locks, tossed
backward by the wind, disclosed
regular features, a broad open forehead,
and eyes somewhat thoughtful,
like those of the men of the north.
His costume denoted a student from
a German university. One gathered
from his extreme youth, that his life[673]
had hitherto passed on academic
benches, and that it was still a new
and lively pleasure to him to feel the
freshness of morning bathe his brow,
the breeze play with his hair, the
stream bear along his bark. He
hastened, for there are times when
we count the hours ill; when we outstrip
and tax them with delay. Then,
if we cannot hurry the pace of time,
we prefer at least to wait at the appointed
spot. It calms impatience,
and resembles a commencement of
happiness.

When the skiff had rounded a promontory
of the bank, its speed increased,
as if the eye directing it
had gained sight of the goal. At a
short distance the landscape changed
its character. A meadow sloped
down to the stream, fringed by a thick
hedge of willows, half uprooted and
inclined over the water. The boat
reached the shadow of the trees,
and stopping there, rocked gently on
the river, secured by a chain cast
round a branch. The young man
stood up and looked anxiously through
the foliage; then he sang, in a low
tone, the burthen of a ballad, a love-plaint,
the national poetry of all countries.
His voice, at first subdued, not
to break too suddenly the surrounding
silence, gradually rose as the song
drew to a close. The clear mellow
notes escaped from the bower of
drooping leaves, and expired without
echo or reply upon the surface of the
pasture. Then he sat down and
contemplated the peaceful picture
presented to his view. The gray sky
had that melancholy look so depressing
to the joyless and hopeless; the
cold dull water rolled noiselessly onward;
to the left, the plain extended
afar without variety of surface. A
few windmills reared their gaunt arms,
waiting for the wind; and the wind,
too weak to stir them, passed on and
left them motionless. To the right,
at the extremity of the little meadow,
stood a square house of red bricks and
regular construction, isolated, silent,
and melancholy. The thick greenish
glass of the windows refused to reflect
the sunbeams; the roof supported
gilded vanes of fantastical form; the
garden was laid out in formal parterres.
A few tulips, drooping their heavy
heads, and dahlias, propped with white
sticks, were the sole flowers growing
there, and these were hemmed in and
stifled by hedges of box. Trees, stunted
and shabby, and with dust-covered
leaves, were cut into walls and into
various eccentric shapes. At the corners
of the formal alleys, whose complicated
windings were limited to a narrow
space, stood a few plaster figures.
One of these alleys led to the willow-hedge.
There nature resumed her
rights; the willows grew free and
unrestrained, stretching out from the
land and drooping into the water;
their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges,
supported but at one end.
The bank was high enough for a certain
space to intervene between the
stream and the horizontal stems. A
few branches, longer than the rest,
swept the surface of the river, and
were kept in constant motion by its
current.

Beneath this dome of verdure the
boat was moored, and there the young
man mused, gazing at the sky—melancholy
as his heart—and at the stream,
in its course uncertain as his destiny.
A few willow leaves fluttered against
his brow, one of his hands hung in the
water, a gentle breeze stirred his hair;
nameless flowerets, blooming in the
shelter of the trees, gave out a faint
perfume, detectible at intervals, at the
wind’s caprice. A bird, hidden in
the foliage, piped an amorous note,
and the student, cradled in his skiff,
awaited his love. Ungrateful that
he was! he called time a laggard, and
bid him speed; he was insensible to
the charm of the present hour. Ah!
if he grows old, how well will he
understand that fortune then lavished
on him the richest treasures of life—hope
and youth!

Suddenly the student started, stood
up, and, with outstretched neck, and
eyes riveted on the trees, he listened,
scarce daring to breathe. The foliage
opened, and the face of a young girl
was revealed to his gaze. “Christine!”
he exclaimed.

Christine stepped upon the trunk
of the lowest tree, and seated herself
with address on this pliant bench,
which her weight, slight as it was,
caused to yield and rock. One of her
arms, extended through the branches
that drooped towards the water,
reached that of her lover, who tenderly[674]
pressed her hand. Then she drew
herself up again, and the tree, less
loaded, seemed to obey her will by
imitating her movement. The young
man sat in his boat, with eyes uplifted
towards the willow on which she he
loved reposed.

Christine Van Amberg had none of
the distinguishing features of the
country of her birth. Hair black as
the raven’s wing formed a frame to a
face full of energy and expression.
Her large eyes were dark and penetrating;
her eyebrows, strongly marked
and almost straight, would perhaps
have imparted too decided a character
to her young head, if a charming expression
of candour and naïveté had
not given her the countenance of a
child, rather than of a woman. Christine
was fifteen years of age. A
slender silver circlet bound her brow
and jet-black tresses—a holiday ornament,
according to her country’s custom:
but her greatest festival was
the sight of her lover. She wore a
simple muslin dress of a pale blue
colour; a black silk mantle, intended
to envelope her figure, was placed
upon her hair, and fell back upon her
shoulders, as if the better to screen
her from the gaze of the curious.
Seated on a tree trunk, surrounded by
branches and beside the water, like
Shakspere’s Ophelia, Christine was
charming. But although young,
beautiful, and beloved, deep melancholy
was the characteristic of her
features. Her companion, too, gazed
mournfully at her, with eyes to which
the tears seemed about to start.

“Herbert,” said the young girl,
stooping towards her lover, “Herbert,
be not so sad! we are both too young
to despair of life. Herbert! better
times will come.”

“Christine! they have refused me
your hand, expelled me your dwelling,—they
would separate us entirely:
they will succeed, to-morrow perhaps!…”

“Never!” exclaimed the young girl,
with a glance like the lightning’s flash.
But, like that flash, the expression of
energy was momentary, and gave
way to one of calm melancholy.

“If you would, Christine, if you
would!… how easy were it to fly
together, to unite our destinies on a
foreign shore, and to live for each
other, happy and forgotten!… I
will lead you to those glorious lands
where the sun shines as you see it in
your dreams,—to the summit of lofty
mountains whence the eye discovers a
boundless horizon,—to noble forests
with their thousand tints of green,
where the fresh breeze shall quicken
your cheek, and sweep from your
memory these fogs, this humid clime,
these monotonous plains. Our days
shall pass happily in a country worthy
of our loves.”

As Herbert spoke, the young girl
grew animated; she seemed to see
what he described, her eager eye
sought the horizon as though she
would overleap it, her lips parted as
to inhale the mountain breeze. Then
she passed her hand hastily across her
eyes, and sighed deeply. “No!” she
exclaimed, “no, I must remain here!…
Herbert, it is my country:
why does it make me suffer? I remember
another sky, another land,—but
no, it is a dream! I was born
here, and have scarcely passed the
boundary of this meadow. My mother
sang too often beside my cradle
the ballads and boleros of her native
Seville; she told me too much of
Spain, and I love that unknown
land as one pines after an absent
friend!”

The young girl glanced at the river,
over which a dense fog was spreading.
A few rain-drops pattered amongst the
leaves; she crossed her mantle on her
breast, and her whole frame shivered
with sudden chill.

“Leave me, Christine, you suffer!
return home, and, since you reject my
roof and hearth, abide with those who
can shelter and warm you.”

A sweet smile played upon Christine’s
lips. “My beloved,” she said,
“near you I prefer the chilling rain,
this rough branch, and the biting
wind, to my seat in the house, far
from you, beside the blazing chimney.
Ah! with what joy and confidence
would I start on foot for the farthest
corner of the earth, your arm my sole
support, your love my only wealth.
But …”

“What retains you, Christine? your
father’s affection, your sisters’ tenderness,
your happy home?”

The young girl grew pale. “Herbert,
it is cruel to speak thus. Well[675]
do I know that my father loves me not,
that my sisters are often unkind to
me, that my home is unhappy; I
know it, indeed I know it, and I will
follow you … if my mother consents!”

Herbert looked at his mistress
with astonishment. “Child!” he exclaimed,
“such consent will never
leave your mother’s lips. There are
cases where strength and resolution
must be found in one’s own heart.
Your mother will never say yes.”

“Perhaps!” replied Christine,
slowly and gravely. “My mother
loves me; I resemble her in most
things, and her heart understands
mine. She knows that Scripture
says a woman shall leave her father
and mother to follow her husband;
she is aware of our attachment, and,
since our door has been closed against
you, I have not shed a tear that she
has not detected and replied to by
another. You misjudge my mother,
Herbert! Something tells me she
has suffered, and knows that a little
happiness is essential to life as the air
we breathe. Nor would it surprise
me, if one day, when embracing me,
as she does each night when we are
alone, she were to whisper: Begone,
my poor child!”

“I cannot think it, Christine. She
will bid you obey, be comforted,
forget!”

“Forget! Herbert, my mother
forgets nothing. To forget is the
resource of cowardly hearts. No,—none
will bid me forget.”

And once more a gloomy fire flashed
in Christine’s eyes, like the rapid
passage of a flame which illumines
and instantly expires. It was a revelation
of the future rather than the
expression of the present. An ardent
soul dwelt within her, but had not yet
cast off all the encumbrances of childhood.
It struggled to make its way,
and at times, succeeding for a moment,
a word or cry revealed its presence.

“No—I shall not forget,” added
Christine; “I love you, and you love
me, who am so little loved! You find
me neither foolish, nor fantastical, nor
capricious; you understand my reveries
and the thousand strange thoughts
that invade my heart. I am very
young, Herbert; and yet, here, with
my hand in yours, I answer for the
future. I shall always love you!…
and see, I do not weep. I have faith
in the happiness of our love; how?
when? I know not,—it is the secret
of my Creator, who would not have
sent me upon earth only to suffer.
Happiness will come when He deems
right, but come it will! Yes,—I am
young, full of life, I have need of air
and space; I shall not live enclosed
and smothered here. The world is
large, and I will know it; my heart
is full of love, and will love for ever.
No tears, dearest! obstacles shall be
overcome, they must give way, for
I will be happy!”

“But why delay, Christine? My
love! my wife! an opportunity lost
may never be regained. A minute
often decides the fate of a lifetime.
Perhaps, at this very moment, happiness
is near us! A leap into my
boat, a few strokes of the oar, and we
are united for ever!… Perhaps,
if you again return to land, we are
for ever separated. Christine, come!
The wind rises: beneath my feet is a
sail that will quickly swell and bear
us away rapidly as the wings of
yon bird.”

Tears flowed fast over Christine’s
burning cheeks. She shuddered,
looked at her lover, at the horizon,
thought of liberty; she hesitated,
and a violent struggle agitated her
soul. At last, hiding her face amongst
the leafage of the willow, she clasped
her arms round its stem, as if to withhold
herself from entering the boat,
and in a stifled voice muttered the
words,—”My mother!” A few seconds
afterwards, she, raised her pallid
countenance.

“If I fled,” said she gently, “to
whom would my mother speak of her
dear country? Who would weep
with her when she weeps, if I were
gone? She has other children, but
they are gay and happy, and do not
resemble her. Only my mother and
myself are sad in our house. My
mother would die of my absence. I
must receive her farewell blessing or
remain by her side, chilled like her
by this inclement climate, imprisoned
in yonder walls, ill-treated by those
who love me not. Herbert, I will
not fly, I will wait!” And she made
a movement to regain the strand.

“One instant,—yet one second,—Christine![676]
I know not what chilling
presentiment oppresses my heart.
Dearest,—if we were to meet no
more! If this little corner of earth
were our last trysting-place—these
melancholy willows the witnesses of
of our eternal separation! Is it—can
it be—the last happy hour of my life
that has just slipped by?”

He covered his face with his hands,
to conceal his tears. Christine’s heart
beat violently—but she had courage.

Letting herself drop from the tree,
she stood upon the bank, separated
from the boat, which could not come
nearer to shore.

“Adieu, Herbert!” said she, “one
day I will be your wife, faithful and
loving. It shall be, for I will have
it so. Let us both pray God to hasten
that happy day. Adieu, I love you!
Adieu, and till our next meeting, for
I love you!”

The barrier of reeds and willows
opened before the young girl. A few
small branches crackled beneath her
tread; there was a slight noise in the
grass and bushes, as when a bird takes
flight; then all was silence.

Herbert wept.

The clock in the red brick house
struck eight, and the family of Van
Amberg the merchant were mustered
in the breakfast-room. Christine was
the only absentee. Near the fire
stood the head of the family—Karl
Van Amberg—and beside him his
brother, who, older than himself,
yielded the prerogative of seniority,
and left him master of the community.
Madame Van Amberg was
working near a window, and her two
elder daughters, fair-haired, white-skinned
Dutchwomen, prepared the
breakfast.

Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded
chief of this family, was of lofty
stature; his gait was stiff; his physiognomy
passionless. His face,
whose features at first appeared insignificant,
denoted a domineering temper.
His manners were cold. He
spoke little; never to praise, but often
in terms of dry and imperious censure.
His glance preceded his
words and rendered them nearly
superfluous, so energetically could
that small sunken gray eye make
itself understood. With the sole aid
of his own patience and ambition,
Karl Van Amberg had made a large
fortune. His ships covered the seas.
Never loved, always respected, his
credit was every where excellent.
Absolute monarch in his own house,
none dreamed of opposing his will.
All were mute and awed in his presence.
At this moment, he was
leaning against the chimney-piece.
His black garments were very plain,
but not devoid of a certain austere
elegance.

William Van Amberg, Karl’s
brother, was quite of an opposite
character. He would have passed
his life in poverty, subsisting on the
scanty income left him by his parents,
had not Karl desired wealth. He
placed his modest fortune in his
brother’s hands, saying, “Act as for
yourself!” Attached to his native
nook of land, he lived in peace,
smoking and smiling, and learning
from time to time that he was a richer
man by a few hundred thousand
francs. One day, he was told that
he possessed a million; in reply, he
merely wrote, “Thanks, Karl; it
will be for your children.” Then he
forgot his riches, and changed nothing
in his manner of life, even adhering
in his dress to the coarse materials
and graceless fashion of a peasant
dreading the vicinity of cities. His
youthful studies had consisted of a
course of theology. His father, a
fervent Catholic, destined him for
the church, but it came to pass, as a
consequence of his indecision of
character, that William neither took
orders nor married, but lived quietly
in his brother’s family. The habitual
perusal of religious books sometimes
gave his language a mystical tone,
contrasting with the rustic simplicity
of his exterior. This was his only
peculiarity; otherwise he had nothing
remarkable but his warm heart and
strong good sense. He was the primitive
type of his family: his brother
was an example of the change caused
by newly acquired wealth.

Madame Van Amberg, seated at
the window, sewed in silence. Her
countenance had the remains of great
beauty, but she was weak and suffering.
A single glance sufficed to fix
her birth-place far from Holland. Her
black hair and olive tint betrayed a[677]
southern origin. Silently submissive
to her husband, his iron character had
pressed heavily upon this delicate
creature. She had never murmured;
now she was dying, but without complaint.
Her look was one of deep
melancholy. Christine, her third
daughter, resembled her. Of dark
complexion, like her mother, she contrasted
strongly with her rosy-cheeked
sisters. M. Van Amberg did not love
Christine. Rough and cold, even to
those he secretly cherished, he was
severe and cruel to those he disliked.
He had never been known to kiss
Christine. Her mother’s were the
only caresses she knew, and even
those were stealthily and tearfully bestowed.
The two poor women hid
themselves to love each other.

At intervals, Madame Van Amberg
coughed painfully. The damp climate
of Holland was slowly conducting to
her grave the daughter of Spain’s
ardent land. Her large melancholy
eyes mechanically sought the monotonous
horizon, which had bounded
her view for twenty years. Fog and
rain surrounded the house. She gazed,
shivered as if seized with deadly cold,
then resumed her work.

Eight o’clock had just struck, and
the two young Dutchwomen, who,
although rich heiresses, waited upon
their father, had just placed the tea
and smoked beef upon the table, when
Karl Van Amberg turned abruptly to
his wife.

“Where is your daughter, Madam?”

He spoke of Christine, whom the
restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg
vainly sought through the fog veiling
the garden. At her husband’s question,
the lady rose, opened the door,
and, leaning on the banister, twice
uttered her daughter’s name. There
was no reply; she grew pale and again
looked out anxiously through the fog.

“Go in, Madame,” was the surly
injunction of Gothon, the old servant
woman, who knelt on the hall flags,
which she had flooded with soap and
water, and was now vigorously scrubbing;
“Go in, madame; the damp
increases your cough, and Mademoiselle
Christine is far enough away!
The bird flew before daybreak.”

Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful
glance across the meadow, where
nothing moved, and into the parlour,
where her stern husband awaited her;
then she went in and sat down at the
table, around which the remainder of
the family had already placed themselves.
No one spoke. All could
read displeasure upon M. Van Amberg’s
countenance, and none dared
attempt to change the course of his
ideas. His wife kept her eyes fixed
upon the window, hoping her
daughter’s return. Her lips scarcely
tasted the milk that filled her cup;
visible anguish increased the paleness
of her sweet, sad countenance.

“Annunciata, my dear, take some
tea,” said her brother-in-law. “The
day is chill and damp, and you seem
to suffer.”

Annunciata smiled sadly at William.
For sole answer she raised to her lips
the tea he offered her, but the effort
was too painful, and she replaced the
cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg
looked at nobody; he ate, his eyes
fixed upon his plate.

“Sister,” resumed William, “it is
a duty to care for one’s health, and
you, who fulfil all your duties, should
not neglect that one.”

A slight flush tinged the brow of
Annunciata. Her eyes encountered
those of her husband, which he
slowly turned towards her. Trembling,
almost weeping, she ceased her
attempts to eat. And the silence was
again unbroken, as at the commencement
of the meal. At last steps were
heard in the passage, the old servant
grumbled something which did not
reach the parlour, then the door
opened, and Christine entered; her
muslin dress damp with fog, her graceful
curls disordered by the wind, her
black mantle glittering with a thousand
little rain-drops. She was crimson
with embarrassment and fear. Her
empty chair was beside her mother;
she sat down, and hung her head;
none offered aught to the truant child,
and the silence continued. Yielding
to maternal anxiety, Madame Van
Amberg took a handkerchief and
wiped the moisture from Christine’s
forehead and hair; then she took
her hands to warm them in her own.
For the second time M. Van Amberg
looked at his wife. She let
Christine’s hands fall, and remained
downcast and motionless as her
daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from[678]
table. A tear glistened on the mother’s
eyes on seeing that her daughter had
not eaten. But she said nothing,
and returning to the window, resumed
her sewing. Christine remained at
table, preserving her frightened and
abashed attitude. The two eldest
girls hastened to remove the breakfast
things.

“Do you not see what Wilhelmina
and Maria are about? Can you not
help them?”

At her father’s voice, Christine
hastily rose, seized the cups and teapot,
and hurried to and fro from parlour
to pantry.

“Gently! You will break something!”
cried M. Van Amberg.
“Begin in time, to finish without
hurry.”

Christine stood still in the middle of
the room. Her two sisters smiled as
they passed her, and one of them muttered—for
nobody spoke loud in M.
Van Amberg’s presence,—”Christine
will hardly learn housekeeping by
looking at the stars and watching the
river flow!”

“Now then, Mademoiselle, you are
spoiling every thing here!” said the
old servant, who had just come in;
“go and change that wet gown, which
ruins all my furniture.”

Christine remained where she was,
not daring to stir without the master’s
order.

“Go,” said M. Van Amberg.

The young girl darted from the
room and up the stairs, reached her
chamber, threw herself upon the bed
and burst into tears. Below, Madame
Van Amberg continued to sew, her
head bent over her work. When the
cloth was removed, Wilhelmina and
Maria placed a large jug of beer,
glasses, long pipes, and a store of
tobacco upon the mahogany table, and
pushed forward two arm-chairs, in
which Karl and William installed
themselves.

“Retire to your apartment,
Madam,” said M. Van Amberg, in
the imperious tone habitual to him
when he addressed his wife; “I have
to discuss matters which do not concern
you. Do not leave the house;
will call you bye and bye; I wish
to speak with you.”

Annunciata bowed in token of obedience,
and left the room. Wilhelmina
and Maria approached their
father, who silently kissed their pretty
cheeks. The two brothers lit their
pipes, and remained alone. William
was the first to speak.

“Brother Karl!” said he, resting
his arms upon the table, and looking
M. Van Amberg in the face, “before
proceeding to business, and at risk of
offending you, I must relieve my
heart. Here, all fear you, and counsel,
the salutary support of man, is
denied you.”

“Speak, William,” coldly replied
M. Van Amberg.

“Karl, you treat Annunciata very
harshly. God commands you to protect
her, and you allow her to suffer,
perhaps to die before your eyes, without
caring for her fate. The strong
should sustain the weak. In our
native land, we owe kindness to the
stranger who cometh from afar. The
husband owes protection to her he
has chosen for his wife. For all these
reasons, brother, I say you treat Annunciata
ill.”

“Does she complain?” said M.
Van Amberg, filling his glass.

“No, brother; only the strong resist
and complain. A tree falls with
a crash, the reed bends noiselessly to
the ground. No, she does not complain,
save by silence and suffering,
by constant and passive obedience,
like that of a soul-less automaton.
You have deprived her of life, the
poor woman! One day she will cease
to move and breathe; she has long
ceased to live!”

“Brother, there are words that
should not be inconsiderately spoken,
judgments that should not be hastily
passed, for fear of injustice.”

“Do I not know your whole life,
Karl, as well as my own, and can I
not therefore speak confidently, as
one well informed?”

M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke
of his pipe, threw himself back in his
arm-chair, and made no reply.

“I know you as I know myself,”
resumed William gently, “although
our hearts were made to love and not
to resemble each other. When you
found our father’s humble dwelling
too small, I said nothing; you were
ambitious; when a man is born with
that misfortune or blessing, he must do
like the birds, who have wings to[679]
soar; he must strive to rise. You
departed; I pressed your hand, and
reproached you not; it is right that
each man should be happy his own
way. You gained much gold, and
gave me more than I needed. You
returned married, and I did not approve
your marriage. It is wiser to
seek a companion in the land where
one’s days are to end; it is something
to love the same places and things, and
then it is only generous to leave one’s
wife a family, friends, well-known
objects to gaze upon. It is counting
greatly on one’s self to take sole charge
of her happiness. Happiness sometimes
consists of so many things!
Often an imperceptible atom serves
as base to its vast structure: for my
part, I do not like presumptuous experiments
on the hearts of others. In
short, you married a foreigner, who
perishes with cold in this country,
and sighs, amidst our fogs, for the sun
of Spain. You committed a still
greater fault—Forgive me, brother;
I speak plainly, in order not to return
to this subject.

“I am attending to you, William;
you are my elder brother.”

“Thanks for your patience, Karl.
No longer young, you married a very
young woman. Your affairs took
you to Spain. There you met a needy
Spanish noble, to whom you rendered
a weighty service. You were always
generous, and increasing wealth did
not close your hand. This noble had
a daughter, a child of fifteen. In spite
of your apparent coldness, you were
smitten by her beauty, and you asked
her of her father. Only one thing
struck you; that she was poor and
would be enriched by the marriage.
A refusal of your offer would have
been ingratitude to a benefactor.
They gave you Annunciata, and you
took her, brother, without looking
whether joy was in her eyes, without
asking the child whether she
willingly followed you, without interrogating
her heart. In that country
the heart is precocious in its awakening
… perhaps she left behind her
some youthful dream … some
early love…. Forgive me,
Karl; the subject is difficult to
discuss.”

“Change it, William,” said M.
Van Amberg coldly.

“Be it so. You returned hither,
and when your business again took
you forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata
to my care. She lived many
years with me in this house. Karl,
her youth was joyless and sad. Isolated
and silent, she wore out her
days without pleasure or variety.
Your two eldest daughters, now the
life of our dwelling, were then in the
cradle. They were no society to their
mother; I was a very grave companion
for that young and beautiful
creature. I have little reading and
knowledge, no imagination; I like my
quiet arm-chair, my old books, and
my pipe. I at first allowed myself to
believe—because I loved to believe
it—that Annunciata resembled me,—that
tranquillity and a comfortable
dwelling would suffice for her happiness,
as they sufficed for mine. But at last I
understood—what you, brother, I fear
have never comprehended—that she
was never intended for a Dutch housewife.
In the first place, the climate
tortured her. She constantly asked
me if finer summers would not come,—if
the winters were always so
rigorous,—the fogs so frequent. I
told her no, that the year was a bad
one; but I told her a falsehood, for
the winters were always the same.
At first she tried to sing her Sevillian
romances and boleros, but soon her
song died away and she wept, for it
reminded her too much of her own
native land. Silent and motionless
she sat, desiring, as I have read in the
Bible,—’The wings of the dove to
fly away and be at rest.’ Brother, it
was a melancholy sight. You know
not how slowly the winter evenings
passed in this parlour. It was dark at
four, and she worked by lamp-light
till bed-time. I endeavoured to converse,
but she knew nothing of the
things I knew, and I was ignorant of
those that interested her. I saw at
last that the greatest kindness was to
leave her to herself. She worked or
was idle, wept or was calm, and I
averted my eyes to give her the only
consolation in my power,—a little
liberty. But it was very sad,
brother!”

There was a moment’s silence,
broken by M. Van Amberg. “Madame
Van Amberg was in her own
dwelling,” said he, severely, “with[680]
her children, and under the protection
of a devoted friend. Her
husband toiled in foreign parts to
increase the fortune of the family;
she remained at home to keep house
and educate her daughters; all that is
very natural.” And he filled his
pipe.

“True,” replied William; “but
still she was unhappy. Was it a
crime? God will decide. Leave her
to his justice, Karl, and let us be
merciful! During your long absence,
chance conducted hither some Spaniards
whom Annunciata had known
in her childhood, and amongst them
the son of an old friend of her father’s.
Oh! with what mingled joy and
agitation did the dear child welcome
her countrymen! What tears she
shed in the midst of her joy …
for she had forgotten how to be happy,
and every emotion made her weep.
How eagerly she heard and spoke her
native tongue! She fancied herself
again in Spain; for a while she was
almost happy. You returned, brother,
and you were cruel; one day,
without explaining your motives, you
shut your door upon the strangers.
Tell me, why would you not allow
fellow-countrymen, friends, a companion
of her childhood, to speak to
your wife of her family and native
land? Why require complete isolation,
and a total rupture with old
friends? She obeyed without a
murmur, but she suffered more than
you thought. I watched her closely;
I, her old friend. Since that fresh proof
of your rigour, she is sadder than
before. A third time she became a
mother; it was in vain; her unhappiness
continued. Brother, your hand
has been too heavy on this feeble
creature.”

M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly
paced the room. “Have you finished,
William?” said he; “this conversation
is painful, let it end here; do not
abuse the license I give you.”

“No; I have yet more to say.
You are a cold and severe husband,
but that is not all; you are also an
unjust father. Christine, your third
daughter, is denied her share of your
affection, and by this partiality you
further wound the heart of Annunciata.
Christine resembles her; she
is what I can fancy her mother at
fifteen—a lively and charming Spaniard;
she has all her mother’s tastes;
like her she lives with difficulty in
our climate, and although born in it,
by a caprice of nature she suffers from
it as Annunciata suffered. Brother,
the child is not easy to manage;
independent, impassioned, violent in
all her impressions, she has a love of
movement and liberty which ill agrees
with our regular habits, but she has
also a good heart, and by appealing to
it you might perhaps have tamed her
wild spirit. For Christine you are
neither more nor less than a pitiless
judge. Her childhood was one long
grief. And thus, far from losing her
wild restlessness, she loves more than
ever to be abroad and at liberty; she
goes out at daybreak; she looks upon
the house as a cage whose bars hurt
her, and you vainly endeavour to
restrain her. Brother, if you would
have obedience, show affection. It is
a power that succeeds when all others
fail. Why prevent her marrying the
man she loves? Herbert the student
is not rich, nor is his alliance brilliant;
but they love each other!”

M. Van Amberg, who had continued
his walk, now stopped short,
and coldly replied to his brother’s
accusations; “Christine is only fifteen,
and I do my duty by curbing the
foolish passion that prematurely disturbs
her reason. As to what you
call my partiality, you have explained
it yourself by the defects of her character.
You, who reproach others as
pitiless judges, beware yourself of
judging too severely. Every man acts
according to his internal perceptions,
and all things are not good to be
spoken. Empty your glass, William,
and if you have finished your pipe, do
not begin another. The business
I had to discuss with you will keep
till another day; it is late, and I am
tired. It is not always wise to rake
up the memories of the past. I wish
to be alone a while. Leave me, and
tell Madame Van Amberg to come
to me in a quarter of an hour.”

“Why not say, ‘Tell Annunciata?’
Why, for so long a time, has that
strange sweet name never passed
your lips?”

“Tell Madame Van Amberg I
would speak with her, and leave me,
brother,” replied Karl sternly.

[681]William felt he had pushed Karl Van
Amberg’s patience to its utmost limit;
he got up and left the room. At the
foot of the stairs he hesitated a moment,
then ascended, and sought
Annunciata in Christine’s chamber.
It was a narrow cell, shining with
cleanliness, and containing a few
flowers in glasses, a wooden crucifix,
with chaplets of beads hanging on
it, and a snow-white bed; a guitar
(it was her mother’s) was suspended
on the wall. From the window was
seen the meadow, the river, and the
willows. Christine sat on the foot of
the bed, still weeping; her mother
was beside her, offering her bread and
milk, with which Christine’s tears
mingled. Annunciata kissed her
daughter’s eyes, and then furtively
wiped her own. On entering,
William stood for a few moments at
the door, mournfully contemplating
this touching picture.

“My brother, my good brother,”
cried Annunciata, “speak to my
child! She has forgotten prayer and
obedience; her heart is no longer submissive,
and her tears avail nothing,
for she murmurs and menaces. Ask
her, brother, by whom it was told her
that life is joy? that we live only to be
happy? Talk to her of duty, and
give her strength to accomplish it!”

“Your husband inquires for you,
sister. Go, I will remain with Christine.”

“I go, my brother,” replied Annunciata.
Approaching the little
mirror above the chimney-piece, she
washed the tear-stains from her eyes,
pressed her hand upon her heart to
check its throbbings, and when her
countenance had resumed its expression
of calm composure, she descended
the stairs. Gothon was seated on the
lower steps.

“You spoil her, madame,” said she
roughly to her mistress; “foolish ears
need sharp words. You spoil her.”

Gothon had been in the house before
Annunciata, and had been greatly
displeased by the arrival of her
master’s foreign lady, whose authority
she never acknowledged. But she
had served the Van Ambergs’ mother,
and therefore it was without fear of
dismissal that she oppressed, after her
own fashion, her timid and gentle
mistress.

Annunciata entered the parlour and
remained standing near the door as if
waiting an order. Her husband’s
countenance was graver and more
gloomy than ever.

“Can no one hear us, madam?
Are you sure we are alone?”

“Quite alone, sir,” replied the
astonished Annunciata.

M. Van Amberg recommenced his
walk. For some moments he said
nothing. His wife, her hand resting
on the back of an arm-chair, silently
awaited his pleasure. At last he
again spoke.

“You bring up your daughter
Christine badly; I left her to your
care and guidance, and you do not
watch over her. Do you know where
she goes and what she does?”

“From her childhood, sir,” replied
Annunciata gently, pausing between
each phrase, “Christine has loved to
live in the open air. She is delicate,
and requires sun and liberty to
strengthen her. Till now you have
allowed her to live thus; I saw no
harm in letting her follow her natural
bent. If you disapprove, sir, she
will obey your orders.”

“You bring up your daughter
badly,” coldly repeated M. Van Amberg.
“She will dishonour the name
she bears.”

“Sir!!” exclaimed Annunciata,
her cheeks suffused with the deepest
crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary
but vivid flash.

“Look to it, madam, I will have
my name respected, that you know!
You also know I am informed of whatever
passes in my house. Your
daughter secretly meets a man to
whom I refused her hand; this morning,
at six o’clock, they were together
on the river bank!”

“My daughter! my daughter!”—cried
Annunciata in disconsolate tones.
“Oh! it is impossible! She is innocent!
she shall remain so! I will
place myself between her and evil,
I will save my child! I will take
her in my arms, and close her ears to
dangerous words. My daughter, I
will say, remain innocent, remain
honoured, if you would not see me
die!”

With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg
beheld the mother’s emotion.
Beneath his frozen gaze, Annunciata[682]
felt embarrassed by her own agitation;
she made an effort to calm herself;
then, with clasped hands, and
eyes filled with tears, which she would
not allow to flow, she resumed, in a
constrained voice:

“Is this beyond doubt, sir?”

“It is,” replied M. Van Amberg:
“I never accuse without certainty.”

There was a moment’s silence. M.
Van Amberg again spoke.

“You will lock Christine in her
room, and bring me the key. She
will have time to reflect, and I trust
reflexion will be of service to her; in
a prolonged seclusion she will lose
that love of motion and liberty which
leads her into harm; the silence of
complete solitude will allay the
tumult of her thoughts. None shall
enter her room, save Gothon, who
shall take her her meals, and return
me the key. This is what I have decided
upon as proper.”

Madame Van Amberg’s lips opened
several times to speak, but her
courage failed her. At last she advanced
a pace or two.

“But I, sir, I,” said she in a stifled
voice, “I am to see my child!”

“I said no one,” replied M. Van
Amberg.

“But she will despair, if none
sustain her. I will be severe with
her; you may be assured I will! Let
me see her, if only once a-day.
She may fall ill of grief, and who will
know it? Gothon dislikes her. For
pity’s sake, let me see Christine!
For a minute only, a single minute.”

M. Van Amberg once more stood
still, and fixed upon his wife a look
that made her stagger. “Not another
word!” he said. “I allow no discussion,
madam. No one shall see
Christine; do you hear?”

“I will obey,” replied Annunciata.

“Convey my orders to your
daughter. At dinner bring me the
key of her room. Go.”

Madame Van Amberg found Christine
alone, seated on her bed, and
exhausted by long weeping. Her
beautiful face, at times so energetic,
wore an expression of profound and
touching dejection. Her long hair
fell in disorder on her shoulders, her
figure was bent, as if weighed down
by grief; her rosary had fallen from
her half-open hand; she had tried to
obey her mother and to pray, but had
been able only to weep. Her black
mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon
a table, a few willow sprays peeping
from its silken folds. Christine eyed
them with mingled love and melancholy.
She thought it a century since
she saw the sun rise on the river, on
the old trees, and on Herbert’s skiff.
Her mother slowly approached her.

“My child,” said she, “where were
you at daybreak this morning?”

Christine raised her eyes to her
mother’s face, looked at her, but did
not answer. Annunciata repeated
her question without change of word
or tone. Then Christine let herself
slide from the bed to the ground, and
kneeled before her mother.

“I was seated,” said she, “upon
the trunk of a willow that overhangs
the stream. I was near Herbert’s
boat.”

“Christine!” exclaimed Madame
Van Amberg, “can it be true? Oh,
my child, could you so infringe the
commands laid upon you! Could you
thus forget my lessons and advice!
Christine, you thought not of me when
you committed that fault!”

“Herbert said to me, ‘Come, you
shall be my wife, I will love you eternally,
you shall be free and happy;
all is ready for our marriage and our
flight; come!’ I replied, ‘I will
not leave my mother!’ Mother, you
have been my safeguard; if it be a
crime to follow Herbert, it is the
thought of you alone that prevented
my committing it. I would not leave
my mother!”

A beam of joy illumined Annunciata’s
countenance. Murmuring a
thanksgiving to God, she raised her
kneeling child and seated her by her
side.

“Speak to me, Christine,” she said,
“open your heart, and tell me all your
thoughts. Together we will regret
your faults, and seek hope for the
future. Speak, my daughter; conceal
nothing.”

Christine laid her head upon her
mother’s shoulder, put one of her
little hands in hers, sighed deeply,
as though her heart were too oppressed
for words, and spoke at last with
effort and fatigue.

“Mother,” she said, “I have[683]
nothing to confess that you do not
already know. I love Herbert. He
is but a poor student, intrusted to my
father’s care, but he has a noble heart—like
mine, somewhat sad. He knows
much, and he is gentle to those who
know nothing. Poor, he is proud as
a king: he loves, and he tells it only
to her who knows it. My mother, I
love Herbert! He asked my hand of
my father, whose reply was a smile of
scorn. Then he was kept from me,
and I tried to exist without seeing him.
I could not do it. I made many
neuvaines on the rosary you gave me.
I had seen you weep and pray, mother,
and I said to myself—Now that I
weep as she does, I must also pray
like her. But it happened once, as
day broke, that I saw a small boat
descend the stream, then go up again,
and again descend; from time to time
a white sail fluttered in the air as one
flutters a kerchief to a departing
friend. My thoughts, then as now,
were on Herbert; I ran across the
meadow—I reached the stream.—Mother,
it was he! hoping and waiting
my coming. Long and mournfully we
bewailed our separation; fervently we
vowed to love each other till death.
This morning Herbert, discouraged
and weary of waiting a change in our
position, urged me to fly with him. I
might have fled, mother, but I thought
of you and remained. I have told you
all; if I have done wrong, forgive me,
dearest mother!”

With deep emotion Madame Van
Amberg listened to her daughter,
and remained buried in reflection,
when Christina paused. She felt
that the young girl’s suffering heart
needed gentle lessons, affectionate
advice; and, instead of these, she was
the bearer of a sentence whose severity
must aggravate the evil—she was
compelled to deny her sick child the
remedies that might have saved her.

“You love him very dearly then,”
said she at last, fixing a long melancholy
look on her daughter’s countenance.

“Oh, mother!” exclaimed Christine,
“I love him with all my soul! My life
is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering
him! I could never make you
comprehend how entirely my heart is
his. Often I dream of dying for him,
not to save his life, that were too easy
and natural, but uselessly, at his
command.”

“Hush! Christine, hush! you
frighten me,” cried Annunciata, placing
both hands upon her daughter’s mouth.
By a quick movement Christine disengaged
herself from her mother’s arms.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “you know
not what it is to love as I do! My
father could never let himself be
loved thus!”

“Be silent, my child! be silent!”
repeated Annunciata energetically.
“Oh, my daughter! how to instil
into your heart thoughts of peace and
duty! Almighty Father! bless my
weak words, that they may touch her
soul! Christine, hear me!”

Annunciata took her daughter’s
hands, and compelled her to stand
before her. “My child,” she said,
“you know nothing of life; you walk
at random, and are about to wander
from the right path. All young hearts
have been troubled as yours is now.
The noble ones have struggled and triumphed;
the others have fallen! Life
is no easy and pleasant passage; its
trials are many and painful—its
struggles severe; believe me, for us
women there is no true happiness
without the bounds of duty. And
when happiness is not our destiny,
many great things still remain to us.
Honour, the esteem of others, are not
mere empty words. Hear me, beloved
child! That God, whom from
your infancy I have taught you to love,
do you not fear offending him? Seek
Him, and you will find better consolation
than I can offer. Christine, we
love in God those from whom we are
severed on earth. He, who in his
infinite wisdom imposed so many
fetters on the heart of woman, foresaw
the sacrifices they would entail,
and surely he has kept treasures of
love for hearts that break in obedience
to duty.”

Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears
inundating her fine countenance; then
clasping, Christine’s arm—

“On your knees, my child! on our
knees both of us before the Christ I
gave you! ‘Tis nearly dark, and yet
we still discern Him—his arms seeming
to open for us. Bless and save
and console my child, oh merciful
God! Appease her heart; make it
humble and obedient!”

[684]Her prayer at an end, she rose, and
throwing her arms round Christine,
who had passively allowed herself to
be placed on her knees and lifted up
again, she embraced her tenderly,
pressed her to her heart, and bathed
her hair with tears. “My daughter,”
she murmured between her kisses,
“my daughter, speak to me! Utter
one word that I may take with me as
a hope! My child, will you not speak
to your mother?”

“Mother, I love Herbert!” was
Christine’s reply.

Annunciata looked despairingly at
her child, at the crucifix upon the
wall, at the darkening sky seen through
the open window. The dinner-bell
rang. Madame Van Amberg made a
strong effort to collect and express
her ideas.

“M. Van Amberg,” said she in
broken voice, “orders you to remain
in your room. I am to take him the
key. You are to see no one. The
hour is come, and he expects me.”

“A prisoner!” cried Christine;
“A prisoner,—alone, all day! Death
rather than that!”

“He will have it so,” repeated
Annunciata, mournfully; “I must
obey. He will have it so.” And she
approached the door, casting upon
Christine a look of such ineffable love
and grief, that the young girl, fascinated
by the gaze, let her depart
without opposition. The key turned
in the lock, and Annunciata, supporting
herself by the banister, slowly descended.
She found M. Van Amberg alone
in the parlour.

“You have been a long time up
stairs,” said he. “Have you convinced
yourself that your daughter
saw the student Herbert this morning?”

“She did,” murmured Annunciata.

“You have told her my orders?”

“I have done so.”

“Where is the key?” She gave
it him.

“Now to dinner,” said M. Van
Amberg, walking into the dining-room.
Annunciata endeavoured to follow him,
but her strength failed her, and she
sank upon a chair.

M. Van Amberg sat down alone to
his dinner.

“A prisoner!” repeated Christine
in her solitude; “apart from all!
shut up! Yon meadow was too wide
a range; the house too spacious a
prison. I must have a narrower cell,
with more visible walls—a straiter
captivity! They deprive me of the
little air I breathed—the scanty liberty
I found means to enjoy!”

She opened the window to its
full extent; leaned upon the sill, and
looked at the sky. It was very dark;
heavy clouds hid the stars; no
light fell upon the earth; different
shades of obscurity alone marked the
outlines of objects. The willows, so
beautiful when Herbert and the sun
were there, were now a black and
motionless mass; dead silence reigned
around. In view of nature thus lifeless
and lightless, hopes of happiness
could hardly enter the heart. Christine
was in a fever: she felt oppressed and
crushed by unkindly influences, by the
indifference of friends, by a tyrant’s
will, even by the cold and mournful
night. The young girl’s heart beat
quickly and rebelliously.

“Be it so!” she exclaimed aloud;
“let them have their way! They may
render me unhappy; I will not complain.
They sanctify my love by persecution.
Happy, I should perhaps
have been ashamed to love so much.
But they rob me of air and liberty; I
suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel proud
that my heart still throbs with joy in
the midst of so many evils. My
sufferings will hallow my love, will
compel the respect of those who
scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! dear
Herbert! where are you at this
moment? Do you joyfully anticipate
to-morrow’s dawn: are you busy with
your boat, preparing it for its early
cruise? Or do you sleep, dreaming of
the old willows in the meadow, hearing
the waters murmur through their
branches, and the voice of Christine
promising her return? But no; it
cannot be; our hearts are too united
for their feelings thus to differ! You
are sad, my love, and you know not
why; I am sad with knowledge of
our misfortune—’tis the sole difference
separation can establish between us.
When shall we meet again, Herbert?
Alas! I know not, but meet we assuredly
shall. If God lets me live, he
will let me love you.”

Christine shut the window and[685]
threw herself on her bed without
undressing. It was cold; she wrapped
herself in her mantle, and gradually
her head sank upon her breast. Her
hands, at first pressed against each
other, opened and fell by her sides.
She dropped asleep, like an infant, in
the midst of her tears.

The first sun-rays, feeble though
they were, awoke Christine, who
sprang hastily from her couch. “Herbert
waits for me!” she exclaimed.
At her age memory is better for joy
than for sorrow. For her the dawn
of day was still a rendezvous of love.
The next moment she awoke to the
consciousness of her captivity. She
went to the window, leaned out as
on the previous evening, and looked
mournfully around. In a corner of the
heavens was a glow of light, intercepted
by billows of cloud. The pale
foliage of the willows shivered in the
breeze, which ruffled the leaves without
bending the branches; the long
fine grass of the meadow was seen
through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled
by the sun. The sounds of awakening
nature had not yet begun, when a white
sail stood out upon the surface of the
stream, gliding lightly along like the
open wing of a graceful bird. It passed
to and fro in front of the meadow;
was lowered before the trees, and
then again displayed, bending the
boat’s gunwale to the water’s surface,
hovering continually around a point
of the bank, as though confined within
the circle of an invisible fascination.
At long intervals the wind brought a
faint and scarce perceptible sound,
like the last notes of a song; then the
little bark again manœuvred, and its
sail flapped in the air. The pale tints
of dawn gave way to the warmer
sunbeams; passengers appeared upon
the bank; trading boats ascended the
river; the windows of the red brick
house opened as if to inhale the morning
air. The boat lowered its sail,
and floated slowly away at the will of
the current. Christine looked after it
and wept.

Twice during that day, Gothon
opened the door of the young girl’s
chamber, and brought her a frugal
meal. Twice did Gothon depart
without uttering a word. The
whole day passed in silence and solitude.
Christine knew not how to get
rid of the weary hours. She knelt
before the crucifix, her alabaster
rosary in her hand, her head raised
towards the cross, and prayed. But
her prayer was for Herbert, to see
him again; she never dreamed of
praying to forget him. Then she
took down the guitar, passed round
her neck the faded blue riband, tied
on it at Seville, and which her mother
would never allow to be changed.
She struck a few chords of the songs
she best loved; but her voice was
choked, and her tears flowed more
abundantly when she tried to sing.
She collected the little sprays of willow,
and placed them in a book to
dry and preserve them. But the day
was very long; and the poor child
fluttered in her prison like a caged
bird, with an anguish that each
moment increased. Her head burned,
her bosom throbbed. At last night
came. Seated near the open window,
the cold calmed her a little. They
brought her no light, and time passed
more slowly than ever. She went to
bed, but, deprived of her accustomed
exercise, tormented by a thousand
anxieties, she could not sleep; she
got up, walked about in the darkness,
and again lay down; slumber still
avoided her. This time her eyes, red
with tears and watchfulness, beheld
the sunrise without illusion; she did
not for a moment forget her captivity,
but looked mournfully out at
the little sail which, faithful to its
rendezvous, came each morning with
the sun. Again, none but Gothon
disturbed her solitude. During another
long day, Christine, alternately
desponding and excited, walked,
wept, lamented, and prayed. Night
came again. Nothing broke the
silence; the lights in the red house
were extinguished one after the other.
Profound darkness covered the earth.
Christine remained at her window,
insensible to cold. Suddenly she
started: she heard her name pronounced
in low tones at the foot of
the wall. She listened.

“Christine, my daughter!” repeated
the voice.

“Mother,” exclaimed Christine,
“you out in this dreadful weather!
I conjure you to go in!”

“I have been two days in bed, my
child; I have been unwell; to-night[686]
I am better; I felt it impossible to
remain longer without seeing you,
who are my life, my strength, my
health! Oh! you were right not to
leave me; it would have killed me.
How are you, dear Christine? Have
you all you require? How do you
live, deprived of my caresses?”

“Dearest mother, for heaven’s
sake, go in! The night is damp and
cold; it will be your death!”

“Your voice warms me; it is far
from you that I feel chill and faint.
Dearest child, my heart sends you a
thousand kisses.”

“I receive them on my knees,
mother, my arms extended towards
you. But, when shall I see you
again?”

“When you submit, and promise
to obey; when you no longer seek
him you are forbidden to see, and
whom you must forget. My daughter,
it is your duty.”

“Oh mother, I thought your heart
could better understand what it never
felt. I thought you respected the
true sentiments of the soul, and that
your lips knew not how to utter the
word ‘forget.’ If I forgot, I should
be a mere silly child, capricious,
unruly, unworthy your tenderness.
If my malady is without remedy, I
am a steadfast woman, suffering and
self-sacrificing. Good God! How is
it you do not understand that?”

“I understand,” murmured Annunciata,
but in so low a tone, that
she was sure her daughter could not
hear her.

“Mother,” resumed Christine, “go
to my father! summon up that
courage which fails you when you
alone are concerned; speak boldly
to him, tell him what I have told you;
demand my liberty, my happiness.”

“I!” exclaimed Annunciata in
terror, “I brave M. Van Amberg, and
oppose his will!”

“Not oppose, but supplicate! compel
his heart to understand what
mine experiences; force him to see
and hear and feel that my life may
cease, but not my love. Who can do
it, if you cannot? I am a captive.
My sisters know not love, my uncle
William has never known it. It
needs a woman’s voice to express a
woman’s feelings.”

“Christine, you know not what
you ask. The effort is above my
strength.”

“I ask a proof of my mother’s
love; I am sure she will give it me.”

“I shall die in so doing. M. Van
Amberg can kill me by a word.”

Christine started and trembled.
“Do not go then, dearest mother.
Forgive my egotism; I thought only
of myself. If my father has such
terrible power, avoid his anger. I
will wait, and entreat none but
God.”

There was a brief pause. “Christine,”
said Madame Van Amberg,
“since I am your only hope, your
sole reliance, and you have called me
to your aid, I will speak to him.
Our fate is in the hands of heaven.”

Annunciata interrupted herself by
a cry of terror; a hand rudely grasped
her arm; M. Van Amberg, without
uttering a word, dragged her to the
house door, compelled her to enter,
took out the key, and made her pass
before him into the parlour. A lamp
burned dimly upon the table, its oil
nearly exhausted; at times it emitted
a bright flash, and then suddenly became
nearly extinguished. The corners
of the room were in darkness,
the doors and windows closed, perfect
silence reigned; the only object on
which a strong light fell, was the
countenance of M. Van Amberg. It
was calm, cold, motionless. His
great height, the piercing look of his
pale gray eyes, the austere regularity
of his features, combined to give him
the aspect of an implacable judge.

“You would speak with me,
madam,” said he to Annunciata, “I
am here, speak!”

On entering the parlour, Annunciata
let herself fall into a chair. Her clothes
streamed with water; her hair, heavy
with rain, fell upon her shoulders,
her extreme paleness gave her the
appearance of a corpse rather than of
a living creature. Terror obliterated
memory, even of what had just
occurred, her mind was confused,
she felt only that she suffered horribly.
Her husband’s voice and
words restored the chain of her ideas;
the poor woman thought of her child,
made a violent effort, rallied her
strength, and rose to her feet.

“Now then,” she murmured,
“since it must be so!”

[687]M. Van Amberg waited in silence,
his arms crossed upon his breast, his
eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood
like a statue, assisting neither by
word nor gesture the poor creature
who trembled before him. Annunciata
looked long at him before speaking;
she hoped that at sight of her
tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg
would remember he had loved her.
She threw her whole soul into her
eyes, but not a muscle of her husband’s
countenance moved. He
waited for her to break silence.

“I need your indulgence,” she at
last said; “it costs me a fearful
effort to address you. In general I
do but answer; I am unaccustomed to
speak first, and I am afraid. I dread
your anger; have compassion on a
trembling woman, who would fain be
silent, and who must speak. Christine’s
happiness is in your hands.
The poor child implores me to soften
your rigour…. Did I refuse,
not a creature upon earth would intercede
for her. This is why I venture
to petition you, sir.”

M. Van Amberg continued silent.
Annunciata wiped the tears from her
cheeks, and resumed with more
courage.

“The poor child is much to be
pitied; she has inherited the faults
you blame in me. Believe me, sir,
I have laboured hard to check them
in the bud. I have striven, exhorted,
punished, have spared neither
advice nor prayers, but all
in vain. God has not been pleased
to spare me this new grief. Her
nature is unchangeable; she is to
blame, but she is also much to
be pitied. Christine loves with all
her soul. Women die of such love
as hers, and when they do not die,
they suffer frightfully. For pity’s
sake, sir, let her marry him she
loves!”

Annunciata covered her face with
her hands, and awaited in an agony
of anxiety her husband’s reply.

“Your daughter,” said M. Van
Amberg, “is still a child; she has
inherited, as you say, a character
that needs restraint. I will not
yield to the first caprice that traverses
her silly head. Herbert is
only two-and-twenty; we know
nothing of his character. Your daughter
requires a protector, and a judicious
guide. Herbert has neither
family, fortune, nor position. He
shall never be the husband of a
woman who bears the name of
Mademoiselle Van Amberg!”

“Sir!” cried Annunciata, clasping
her hands and breathless with emotion,
“Sir! the best guidance for a
woman’s life is a union with the man
she loves! It is her best safeguard,
it strengthens her against the cares of
the world. I entreat you, Karl!”
exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, falling
upon her knees, “have compassion
on my daughter! Do not render
duty a torture; do not exact from her
too much courage! We are weak creatures:
we have need both of love and
virtue. Place her not in the terrible
necessity of choosing between them.
Pity, Karl, pity!”

“Madam,” cried M. Van Amberg,
and this time his frame was agitated
by a slight nervous trembling, “Madam,
you are very bold to speak to
me thus! You! you! to dare to hold
such language to me! Silence! and
teach your daughter not to hesitate
in her choice between good and evil.
Do that, instead of weeping uselessly
at my feet.”

“Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to
address you; but I have found courage
in suffering. I am ill,—in pain,—my
life is worthless, save as a sacrifice—let
my child take it, I will speak for
her! Her fate is in your hands, do
not crush her by a cruel decision! An
absolute judge and master should be
guarded in word and deed, for a
reckoning will be asked of him! Be
merciful to my child!”

M. Van Amberg approached his
wife, took her arm, placed his other
hand on her mouth, and said:—

“Silence! I command you; no such
scenes in my house, no noise and
whimpering. Your daughters sleep
within a few yards of you, do not
disturb their repose. Your servants
are above, do not awaken them.
Silence! You had no business to
speak; I was wrong to listen to you.
Never dare again to discuss my orders;
it is I whom your children must obey,
I whom you must obey yourself. Retire
to your apartment, and to-morrow
let me find you what you yesterday
were.”

[688]M. Van Amberg had regained his
usual calmness. He walked slowly
from the room.

“Oh, my daughter!” exclaimed
Annunciata, despairingly, “nothing
have I been able to do for you! Merciful
Father! what will become of me,
placed between him and her, both inflexible
in their resolves!”

The lamp which feebly illuminated
this scene of sorrow, now suddenly
went out and left the unhappy mother
in profound darkness. The rain
beat against the windows,—the wind
howled,—the house clock struck four.

Christine had seen M. Van Amberg
seize Annunciata’s arm, and lead her
away with him; afterwards, she had
distinguished, through the slight partitions
of the house, a faint echo as of
mingled sobs, entreaties, and reproaches.
She understood that her
fate was deciding,—that her poor
mother had devoted herself for her,
and was face to face with the stern
ruler whose look alone she usually
dared not brave. Christine passed
the night in terrible anxiety, abandoning
herself alternately to discouragement
and to joyful hopes. At her
age it is not easy to despair. Fear,
however, predominated over every
other emotion, and she would have
given years of existence to learn what
had passed. But the day went by like
the previous one. She saw none but
Gothon. Her she ventured to question,
but the old servant had orders
not to answer.

Another day elapsed. Christine’s
solitude was still unbroken, no
friendly voice reached her ear, no
kind hand lifted the veil shrouding
her future. The poor girl was exhausted,
she had not even the energy of
grief. She wept without complaint,
almost without a murmur. Night
came, and she fell asleep, exhausted
by her sorrow. She had scarcely slept
an hour when she was awakened by
the opening of the door, and Gothon,
lamp in hand, approached her bed.
“Get up, Mademoiselle,” said the
servant, “and follow me.”

Christine dressed herself as in a
dream, and hastily followed Gothon,
who conducted her to her mother’s
room, opened the door and drew
back to let her pass. A sad spectacle
met the young girl’s eyes. Annunciata,
pale and almost inanimate, lay
in the agonies of death. Her presentiment
had not deceived her; suffering
and agitation had snapped the slender
strings that bound her to the earth.
The light of the lamp fell full upon
her features, whose gentle beauty pain
was impotent to deface. Resignation
and courage were upon her countenance,
over which came a gleam of
joy when Christine appeared. Wilhelmina
and Maria knelt and wept
at the foot of their mother’s bed.
William stood a little apart, holding
a prayer-book, but his eyes had left
the page to look at Annunciata, and
two large tears trembled on their lids.
M. Van Amberg, seated beside his
wife’s pillow, had his face shaded by
his hand, so that none could see its
expression.

With a piercing cry, Christine
rushed to Madame Van Amberg,
who received her in her arms.
“Mother!” she cried, her cheek
against Annunciata’s, “it is I who
have killed you! For love of me
you have exceeded your strength.”

“No, my beloved child, no,” replied
Annunciata, kissing her daughter between
each word, “I die of an old
and incurable malady. But I die
happy, since I once more clasp you in
my arms.”

“And they did not let me
nurse you!” cried Christine, indignantly
raising her head; “they concealed
your illness! They let me
weep for other sorrows than yours,
my mother!”

“Dearest child,” replied Annunciata
gently, “this crisis has been very
sudden; two hours ago they knew not
my danger, and I wished to fulfil my
religious duties before seeing you. I
wished to think only of God. Now I
can abandon myself to the embraces
of my children.” And she clasped
her weeping daughters to her heart.
“Dear children,” said she, “God is
full of mercy to the dying, and sanctifies
a mother’s benediction. I bless
you, my daughters; remember and
pray for me.”

The three young girls bowed their
heads upon their mother’s hand, and
replied by tears alone to this solemn
farewell.

“My good brother,” resumed Annunciata
to William, “My good[689]
brother, we have long lived together,
and to me you have ever been a devoted
friend, indulgent and gentle. I
thank you, brother!”

William averted his head to conceal
his tears, but a deep sob escaped him,
and he turned his venerable face towards
Annunciata.

“Do not thank me, sister,” he said,
“I have done little for you. I loved
you, that is certain, but I could not
enliven your solitude. My sister, you
will still live for the happiness of us
all.”

Annunciata gently shook her head.
Her glance sought her husband as
if she would fain have addressed her
last words to him. But they expired
on her lips. She looked at him timidly,
sadly, and then closed her eyes, to
check the starting tears. She grew
visibly weaker, and as death approached,
a painful anxiety took possession of
her. Resigned, she was not calm. It
was ordained her soul should suffer
and be troubled to the end. The
destiny of one of her daughters disturbed
her last moments; she dared
not pronounce the name of Christine,
she dared not ask compassion for her;
a thousand conflicting doubts and
fears agitated her poor heart. She
died as she had lived, repressing her
tears, concealing her thoughts. From
time to time she turned to her husband,
but his head continued sunk upon his
hand; not one look of encouragement
could she obtain. At last came the
spasm that was to break this frail existence.
“Adieu! Adieu!” she murmured
in unintelligible accents. Her
eyes no longer obeyed her, and none
could tell whom they sought. William
approached his brother, and placed
his hand upon his shoulder. “Karl!”
he whispered in tones audible but to
him he addressed, “she is dying! Have
you nothing to say to a poor creature
who has so long lived with you and
suffered by you? Living, you loved
her not; do not let her die thus!
Fear you not, Karl, lest this woman,
oppressed and slighted by you, should
expire with a leaven of resentment in
her heart? Crave her pardon before she
departs.”

For an instant all was silent. M.
Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata,
her head thrown back, seemed
to have already ceased to exist.
On a sudden, she moved, raised
herself with difficulty, leaned over
towards M. Van Amberg, and groped
for his hand as though she had
been blind. When she found it,
she bowed her face upon it, kissed
it twice, and expired in that last
kiss.

“On your knees!” cried William,
“on your knees, she is in heaven! let
us implore her intercession!” And all
knelt down.

Of all the prayers addressed to God
by man during his life of trial, not
one is more solemn than that which
escapes the desolate heart, when a beloved
soul flies from earth to heaven,
to stand, for the first time, in the
presence of its Creator.

M. Van Amberg rose from his
knees.

“Leave the room!” said he to his
brother and daughters, “I would be
alone with my wife.”

Alone, beside the bed of his dead
wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon
the pale countenance, to which death
had restored all the beauty of youth.
A tear, left there by human suffering,
a tear which none other was to follow,
glittered upon the clay-cold cheek;
one arm still hung out of bed, as
when it held his hand; the head
was in the position in which it
had kissed his fingers. He gazed
at her, and the icy envelope that
bound his heart was at last broken.
“Annunciata!” he exclaimed, “Annunciata!”

For fifteen years that name had not
passed his lips. Throwing himself on
his wife’s corpse, he clasped her in
his arms and kissed her forehead.

“Annunciata!” he cried, “can you
not feel this kiss of peace and love!
Annunciata, we have both suffered
terribly! God did not grant us happiness.
I loved you from the first day
that I saw you, a joyous child in
Spain, till this sad moment that I press
you dead upon my heart. Oh Annunciata,
how great have been our
sufferings!”

Karl Van Amberg wept.

“Repose in peace, poor woman!”
he murmured, “may you find in
heaven the repose denied you upon
earth!” And with trembling hand
he closed Annunciata’s eyes. Then
he knelt down beside her.

[690]“Almighty God!” he said, “I have
been severe. Be thou merciful!”

When, at break of day, M. Van
Amberg left the chamber of death,
his face had resumed its habitual expression;
his inflexible soul, for a
moment bowed, had regained its usual
level. To Annunciata had been given
the last word of love, the last tear of
that heart of adamant. To the eyes
of all he reappeared as the stern
master and father, the man on whose
brow no sorrow left a trace. His
daughters bowed themselves upon his
passage, William spoke not to him,
order and regularity returned to the
house. Annunciata was buried without
pomp or procession. She left, to
revisit it no more, the melancholy
abode where her suffering soul had
worn out its mortal envelope; she
ceased to live, as a sound ceases to be
heard, as a cloud passes, as a flower
fades; nothing stopped or altered
because she went. If any mourned
her, they mourned in silence; if they
thought of her, they proclaimed not
their thoughts; her name was no
more heard; only the interior of the
little red house was rather more
silent, and M. Van Amberg’s countenance
appeared to all more rigid
than before. During the day, Christine’s
profound grief obeyed the iron
will that weighed on each member of
the family. The poor child was silent,
worked, sat at table, lived on as if
her heart had not been crushed; but
at night, when she was alone in the
little room where her mother had so
often wept with her, she gave free
course to grief; she invoked her
mother, spoke to her, extended her
arms to her, and would fain have
left the earth to be with her in heaven.
“Take me to you, dear mother!”
she would exclaim. “Deprived of
you, apart from him, I cannot live!
Since I saw you die, I no longer
fear death.”

Since the death of Annunciata,
Christine was allowed her liberty,
M. Van Amberg doubtless thinking,
and with reason, that she would make
no use of it during her first grief.
Or, perhaps, with his wife’s corpse
scarcely cold, he hesitated to recur to
the severity that had caused her so
many tears. Whatever his motive,
Christine was free, at least to all
appearance. The three sisters, in
deep mourning, never passed the
threshold; they sat all day at work
near the low window of the parlour,
supped with their uncle and father,
then retired to bed. During the long
hours of their silent work, Christine
often thought of her lover. She dared
not attempt to see him; she would have
expected to hear her mother’s voice
murmur in her ear,—”My daughter,
it is too soon to be happy! Mourn me
yet a little, alone and without consolation.”

One morning, after a night of tears,
Christine fell into a tardy slumber,
broken by dreams. Now it was
her mother, who took her in her arms,
and flew with her towards heaven.
“I will not let you live,” said Annunciata,
“for life is sorrow. I have
prayed of God to let you die young,
that you may not weep as I have
wept!”

The next instant she beheld herself
clothed in white, and crowned with
flowers. Herbert was there, love
sparkling in his eyes. “Come, my
betrothed!” he said, “life is joy! My
love shall guard you from all evil;
come, we will be happy!”

She started up, awakened by a sudden
noise in her chamber. The window
was open, and on the floor lay a
pebble with a letter attached. Her
first impulse was to fly to the window;
a bush stirred in the direction of the
river, but she saw no one. She
snatched up the letter, she guessed it
was Herbert’s writing. It seems as if
one never saw for the first time the
writing of him one loves; the heart
recognises as if the eyes had already
seen it. Christine was alone, a beam
of the rising sun tinted the summits of
the willows, and hope and love revived
in the young girl’s heart, as she read
what follows:

“Christine, I can write but a few
lines; a long letter, difficult to conceal,
might never reach you. Hear me with
your heart, and guess what I am unable
to write. As you know, dearest,
my family intrusted me to your father
and gave him all authority over me.
He can employ me at his will, and according
to the convenience of his commercial[691]
establishments. Christine, I
have just received orders to embark in
one of his ships, sailing for Batavia.”

A cry escaped Christine’s lips, and
her eyes, suffused with tears, devoured
the subsequent lines.

“Your father places the immensity
of ocean between us; he separates
us for ever. We are to meet no more!
Christine, has your heart, since I last
saw you, learned to comprehend those
words? No, my adored Christine, we
must live or die together! Your poor
mother is no more; your presence is
no longer essential to the happiness of
any one. Your family is pitiless and
without affection for you. Your future
is gloom and unhappiness. Come,
then, let us fly together. In the Helder
are numerous ships; they will bear
us far from the scene of our sufferings.
All is foreseen and arranged.
Christine, my life depends on your
decision. For ever separated!…
subscribe to that barbarous decree,
and I terminate an existence which
henceforward would be all bitterness!
And you, Christine! will you love
another, or live without love? Oh!
come, I have suffered so much without
you! I summon you, I await you,
Christine! my bride! At midnight—on
the river-bank—I will be there!
and a world of happiness is before
us. Come, dear Christine, come!”

As Christine read, her tears fell fast
on Herbert’s letter. She experienced
a moment of agonising indecision. She
loved passionately, but she was young
and innocent, and love had not yet
imparted to her pure soul the audacity
that braves all things. The wise
counsels heard in her father’s house,
uncle William’s pious exhortations,
the holy prayers she had learned
from her infancy upwards, resounded
in her ears; the Christ upon her
wooden crucifix seemed to look at her;
the beads of her rosary were still
warm with the pressure of her fingers.

“Oh! my dream! my dream!” she exclaimed:
“Herbert who calls his bride!
my mother claiming her daughter!
With him, life and love! With her,
death and heaven!…” And Christine
sobbed aloud. For an instant she
tried calmly to contemplate an existence
in that melancholy house, weeping
for Herbert, growing old without
him, without love, within those gloomy
walls, where no heart sympathised
with hers. The picture was too terrible;
she felt that such a future was
unendurable. She wept bitterly,
kissed her rosary, her prayer book, as
if bidding adieu to all that had witnessed
the innocence of her early
years. Then her heart beat violently.
The fire of her glance dried her tears.
She looked out at the river, at the
white sail which seemed to remind her
of her vows of love; she gave one
last sob, as if breaking irrevocably the
links between her past and future.
The image of her mother was no longer
before her. Christine, abandoned to
herself, followed the impulse of her
passionate nature; she wept, trembled,
hesitated, and at last exclaimed,—

“At midnight, I will be there!”

Then she wiped her tears, and remained
quite still for a few moments,
to calm her violent agitation. A vast
future unrolled itself before her; liberty
would be hers; a new world was revealed
to her eyes; a new life began
for her.

At last night came. A lamp replaced
the fading day-light. The
window was deserted for the table.
William and Karl Van Amberg came
in. The former took a book; his
brother busied himself with commercial
calculations. The lamp gave a
dull light; all was silent, sad, and
monotonous in the apartment. The
clock slowly told the succeeding hours.
When its hammer struck ten, there
was a movement round the table;
books were shut, work was folded.
Karl Van Amberg rose; his two
eldest daughters approached him, and
he kissed their foreheads in silence.
Christine no longer a captive, but
still in disgrace, bowed herself before
her father. Uncle William, grown
drowsy over his book, put up his
spectacles, muttering a “good-night.”
The family left the parlour, and the
three sisters ascended the wooden
staircase. At her chamber door,
Christine felt a tightness at her heart.
She turned and looked after her
sisters. “Good-night, Wilhelmina!
good-night, Maria!”

The sisters turned their heads.
By the faint light of their tapers
Christine saw them smile and kiss
their hands to her. Then they
entered their rooms without speaking.[692]
Christine found herself alone. She
opened her window; the night was
calm; at intervals clouds flitted
across the moon, veiling its brightness.
Christine made no preparations for
departure; she only took her mother’s
rosary, and the blue ribbon so long
attached to the guitar; then she
wrapped herself in her black mantle
and sat down by the window. Her
heart beat quick, but no distinct
thought agitated her mind. She trembled
without terror; her eyes were
tearful, but she felt no regret. For
her, the hour was rather solemn than
sad; the struggle was over, and she
was irrevocably decided.

At last midnight came; each stroke
of the clock thrilled Christine’s heart;
for an instant she stood still, summoning
strength and courage; then,
turning towards the interior of the
room,—

“Adieu, my mother!” she whispered.
Many living creatures dwelt
under that roof. It seemed to Christine
as if she left her only who was
no longer there. “Adieu, my mother!”
she repeated.

Then she stepped out of the window:
a trellis, twined with creepers,
covered the wall. With light foot
and steady hand, Christine descended,
aiding herself by the branches, and
pausing when they cracked under her
tread or grasp. The stillness was so
complete that the slightest sound assumed
importance. Christine’s heart
beat violently; at last she reached
the ground, raised her head, and
looked at the house. Her father’s
window was still lighted. Again she
shuddered with apprehension; then,
feeling more courage for a minute’s
daring than for half an hour’s precautions,
she darted across the meadow
and arrived breathless at the clump
of willows. Before plunging into it,
she again looked round. All was
quiet and deserted; she breathed more
freely and disappeared amongst the
branches. Leaning upon the old tree,
the witness of her former rendezvous,
she whispered, so softly that none but
a lover could hear, “Herbert, are you
there?”

A cautious oar skimmed the water;
a well known voice replied. The boat
approached the willow; the young
student stood up and held out his
arms to Christine, who leaped lightly
into the skiff. In an instant, they were
out of the willow-shaded inlet; in
another, the sail—the signal of their
loves—was hoisted to the breeze;
the bark sped swiftly over the water,
and Herbert, scarce daring to believe
his happiness, was seated at Christine’s
feet. His hand sought hers; he heard
her weep, and he wept for sympathy.
Both were silent, agitated, uneasy,
and happy.

But the night was fine, the moon
shed its softest light, the ripple of the
stream had a harmony of its own, the
light breeze cooled their cheeks, the
sail bent over them like the wing of
an invisible being; they were young,
they loved, it was impossible that joy
should not revive in their hearts.

“Thanks, Christine, thanks!” exclaimed
Herbert, “thanks a thousand
times for so much devotedness, for
such confidence and love! Oh how
beautiful will life now appear! We
are united for ever!”

“For ever!” repeated Christine,
her tears flowing afresh. For the
first time she felt that great happiness,
like great grief, expresses itself
by tears. Her hand in Herbert’s, her
eyes raised to heaven, she gazed upon
bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole
and silent witnesses of her happiness.
Presently she was roused from this
sweet reverie.

“See there, Herbert!” she exclaimed;
“the sail droops along the
mast, the wind has fallen, we do not
advance.”

Herbert took the oars, and the boat
cut rapidly through the water.
Wrapped in her mantle, Christine
sat opposite, and smiled upon him.
Onwards flew the boat, a track of
foam in its wake. Day-light was
still distant; all things favoured the
fugitives. Again Christine broke
silence.

“Herbert, dear Herbert, do you
hear nothing?”

Herbert ceased to row, and listened.
“I hear nothing,” he said,
“save the plash of the river against
its banks.” He resumed the oars;
again the boat moved rapidly forward.
Christine was pale; half risen from her
seat, her head turned back, she strove
to see, but the darkness was too great.

“Be tranquil, best beloved,” said[693]
Herbert with a smile. “Fear creates
sounds. All is still.”

“Herbert,” cried Christine, this
time starting up in the boat, “I am
not mistaken! I hear oars behind
us … pause not to listen …
row, for Heaven’s love, row!”

Her terror was so great, she seemed
so sure of what she said, that Herbert
obeyed in silence, and a sensation of
alarm chilled his heart. Christine
seated herself at his feet.

“We are pursued!” she said; “the
noise of your own oars alone prevented
your hearing. A boat follows us.”

“If it be so,” Herbert cried, “what
matter! That boat does not bear
Christine, is not guided by a man who
defends his life, his happiness, his
love. My arm will weary his, his
bark will not overtake mine.” And
Herbert redoubled his efforts. The
veins of his arms swelled to bursting;
his forehead was covered with
sweat-drops. The skiff clove the
waters as though impelled by wings.
Christine remained crouched at the
young man’s feet, pressing herself
against him, as to seek refuge.

Other oars, wielded by stalwart
arms, now struck the water not far
from Herbert’s boat. The young
student heard the sound; he bent
over his oars and made desperate
efforts. But he felt his strength failing;
as he rowed he looked with
agony at Christine; no one spoke,
only the noise of the two boats interrupted
the silence. Around, all was
calm and serene as when the fugitives
set out. But the soul of the young
girl had passed from life to death; her
eyes, gleaming with a wild fire, followed
with increasing terror each
movement of Herbert’s; she saw by
the suffering expression of his countenance,
that little hope of escape remained.
Still he rowed with the
energy of despair; but the fatal bark
drew nearer, its shadow was seen
upon the water, it followed hard in
the foamy track of Herbert’s boat.
Christine stood up and looked back;
just then the moon shone out, casting
its light full upon the pale, passionless
features of M. Van Amberg.
Christine uttered a piercing cry.

“My father!” she cried, “Herbert,
’tis my father!”

Herbert also had recognised his
pursuer. The youth had lived too
long in Karl Van Amberg’s house,
not to have experienced the strange
kind of fascination which that man
exercised over all around him. Darkness
had passed away to reveal to the
fugitives the father, master, and
judge!

“Stop, Herbert!” cried Christine,
“we are lost, escape is impossible!
Do you not see my father?”

“Let me row!” replied Herbert,
disengaging himself from Christine,
who had seized his arm. He gave so
violent a pull with the oars, that the
little boat bounded out of the water and
seemed to gain a little on its pursuer.

“Herbert,” cried Christine, “I tell
you we are lost! ‘Tis my father,
and resistance is useless! God will
not work a miracle in our favour!
Herbert, I will not return to my
father’s house! Let us die together,
dear Herbert!”

And Christine, threw herself into
her lover’s arms. The oars fell from
the young man’s hands; with a cry
of anguish he pressed Christine convulsively
on his heart. For a single
instant he thought of obeying her,
and of plunging with her into the
dark tide beneath; but Herbert had
a noble heart, and he repelled the
temptation of despair. The next
moment a violent shock made the
boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg
stepped into it. Instinctively, Herbert
clasped Christine more tightly,
and retreated; as if his strength could
withhold her from her father; as if,
in that little boat, he could retreat
far enough not to be overtaken. With
a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg
seized Christine, whose slender form
bent like a reed over his shoulder.

“Have mercy on her!” cried the
despairing Herbert; “I alone am
guilty! Punish her not, and I promise
to depart, to renounce her!
Pity, sir, pity for Christine!”

He spoke to a deaf and silent statue.
Wresting Christine’s hand from the
student’s grasp, M. Van Amberg
stepped back into his boat and pushed
Herbert’s violently with his foot.
Yielding to the impulse, the boats
separated; one was pulled swiftly
up the river, whilst the other, abandoned
to itself, was swept by the
current in a contrary direction. Erect[694]
on the prow of his bark, his head thrown
back, his arms folded on his breast,
M. Van Amberg fixed a terrible look
upon Herbert and then disappeared
in the darkness. All was over. The
father had taken his daughter, and no
human power could henceforward
tear her from his arms.

Within eight days from this fatal
night, the gates of a convent closed
upon Christine Van Amberg.

On the frontier of Belgium, on the
summit of a hill, stands a large white
building of irregular architecture, a
confused mass of walls, roofs, angles,
and platforms. At the foot of the
hill is a village, whose inhabitants
behold with a feeling of respect the
edifice towering above their humble
dwellings. For there is seen the
belfry of a church, and thence is
heard unceasingly the sound of pious
bells, proclaiming afar that on the
mountain’s summit a few devout
souls pray to God for all men. The
building is a convent; the poor and
the sick well know the path leading
to the hospitable threshold of the
Sisters of the Visitation.

To this convent was Christine sent.
To this austere dwelling, the abode of
silence and self-denial, was she, the
young, the beautiful, the loving, pitilessly
consigned. It was as though
a gravestone had suddenly closed over
her head. With her, the superior of the
convent received the following letter:

“Madame la Superieure,—I
send you your niece, Christine Van
Amberg, and beg you to oblige me
by keeping her with you. I intend
her to embrace a religious life; employ
the influence of your wise counsels
to predispose her to it. Her
misconduct compels me to exclude
her my house; she requires restraint
and watching, such as are only to be
found in a convent. Be pleased, dear
and respected kinswoman, to receive
her under your roof; the best wish
that can be formed for her is that
she may make up her mind to
remain there for ever. Should she
inquire concerning a young man
named Herbert, you may inform her
that he has sailed to Batavia, whence
he will proceed to our most remote
establishments.

“I am with respect, Madame la
Supérieure, your kinsman and friend,

“Karl Van Amberg.”

Five years had elapsed since the
date of this letter, when one day the
convent-gate opened to admit a
stranger, who craved to speak with
the superior. The stranger was an old
man; a staff sustained his feeble
steps. Whilst waiting in the parlour,
he looked about him with surprise
and emotion, and several times he
passed his hand across his eyes as if
to brush away a tear. “Poor, poor
child!” he muttered. When the
superior appeared behind the grating,
he advanced quickly towards her.

“I am William Van Amberg,” he
said, “the brother of Karl Van Amberg.
I come, madam, to fetch Christine,
his daughter and my niece.”

“You come very late!” replied the
superior; “sister Martha-Mary is
on the eve of pronouncing her vows.”

“Martha-Mary!—I do not know
the name!”—said William Van Amberg;
“I seek Christine—my niece
Christine.”

“Christine Van Amberg, now sister
Martha-Mary, is about to take the veil.”

“Christine a nun! Oh, impossible!
Madam, they have broken the child’s
heart; from despair only would she
take the veil; they have been cruel,
they have tortured her; but I bring
her liberty and the certainty of
happiness,—permission to marry him
she loves. Let me speak to her, and
she will quickly follow.”

“Speak to her then; and let her
depart if such be her will.”

“Thanks, madam,—a thousand
thanks! Send me my child, send me
my Christine—with joy and impatience
I await her.”

The superior retired. Left alone,
William again contemplated the
melancholy abode in which he found
himself, and the more he gazed, the
sadder his heart became. He would
fain have taken Christine in his arms,
as he did when she was little, and
have fled with her from those chilly
walls and dismal gratings.

“Poor child!” he repeated, “what
a retreat for the bright years of your
youth!… How you must have
suffered! But console thyself, dearest
child, I am here to rescue thee!”

[695]He remembered Christine as a
wild young girl, delighting in liberty,
air, and motion; then as an impassioned
woman, full of love and independence.
And a smile crossed the
old man’s lips as he thought of her
burst of joy, when he should say to
her,—”You are free, and Herbert
waits to lead you to the altar!” His
heart beat as it had never beaten in
the best days of his youth; he counted
the minutes and kept his eyes fixed
upon the little door through which
Christine was to come. He could not
fold her in his arms, the grating prevented
it, but at least he should see
and hear her. Suddenly all his blood
rushed to his heart, for the hinges
creaked and the door opened. A
novice, clothed in white, slowly advanced;
he looked at her, started
back, hesitated, and exclaimed: “Oh
God! is that Christine?”

William had cherished in his heart
the memory of a bright-eyed, sunburnt
girl, alert and lively, quick
and decided in her movements, running
more often than she walked,
like the graceful roe that loves the
mountain steeps. He beheld a tall
young woman, white and colourless
as the robes that shrouded her; her
hair concealed under a thick linen
band, her slender form scarcely to be
distinguished beneath the heavy folds
of her woollen vestments. Her movements
were slow, her black eyes
veiled by an indescribable languor;
a profound calm was the characteristic
of her whole being—a calm so great,
that it resembled absence of life.
One might have thought her eyes
looked without seeing, that her lips
could not open to speak, that her
ears listened without hearing. Sister
Martha-Mary was beautiful, but her
beauty was not of the earth—it was
the beauty of infinite repose,—of a
calm that nothing could disturb.

The old man was touched to the
bottom of his soul; the words expired
on his lips, and he extended
his hands towards Christine. On
beholding her uncle, Martha-Mary
endeavoured to smile, but moved not,
and said nothing.

“Oh my child!” cried William at
last, “how you must suffer here!”

Martha-Mary gently shook her
head, and the tranquil look she fixed
upon her uncle, protested against his
supposition.

“Is it possible that five years have
thus changed my Christine! My
heart recognises you, my child, not
my eyes! They have compelled you
to great austerities, severe privations?”

“No.”

“A cruel bondage has weighed
heavily upon you?

“No.”

“You have been ill then?”

“No.”

“Your poor heart has suffered too
much, and has broken. You have
shed many tears?”

“I remember them no longer.”

“Christine, Christine, do you
live? or has the shade of Annunciata
risen from the grave? Oh my child!
in seeing, you, I seem to see her
corpse, extended on the bed of
death!”

Martha-Mary raised her large eyes
to heaven; she joined her hands, and
murmured, “My mother!”

“Christine, speak to me! weep
with me! you frighten me by your
calm and silence…. Ah! in my
trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained
nothing…. Listen: my
brother Karl, by the failure of a partner,
suddenly found his whole fortune
compromised. To avoid total ruin he
was obliged to embark immediately
for the colonies. He set sail expecting
to return in a few years; but his
affairs prolong his absence, and his
return is indefinitely postponed. His
two eldest daughters are with him.
To me, who am too old to follow him,
too old to remain alone, he has given
Christine. I would not accept the
precious charge, my child, without
the possibility of rendering you happy.
I implored permission to marry you
to Herbert. You are no longer a
rich heiress: your father gone, you
need protection, and that of an old
man cannot long avail you. In
short, your father has agreed to all I
asked; he sends you, as a farewell
gift, your liberty and his consent to
your marriage…. Christine! you
are free, and Herbert awaits his
bride!”

The long drapery of the novice was
slightly agitated, as if the limbs it
covered trembled; she remained some[696]
seconds without speaking, and then
replied, “It is too late! I am the
affianced of the Lord!”

William uttered a cry of grief, and
looked with alarm at the pale calm
girl, who stood immoveable before him.

“Christine!” he cried, “You no
longer love Herbert?”

“I am the affianced of the Lord!”
repeated the novice, her hands crossed
upon her breast, her eyes raised to
heaven.

“Oh my God! my God!” cried
William, weeping bitterly, “my
brother has killed his child! Her
soul has been sad even unto death!
Poor victim of our severity, tell me,
Christine, tell me, what has passed
within you, since your abode here?”

“I saw others pray, and I prayed
also. There was a great stillness,
and I was silent; none wept, and I
dried my tears; a something, at first
cold, then soothing, enveloped my
soul. The voice of God made itself
heard to me, and I listened; I loved
the Lord, and gave myself to him.”

Then, as if fatigued with speaking
so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into
silence, and into that absorbing meditation
which rendered her insensible
to surrounding things. Just then
a bell tolled. The novice started, and
her eyes sparkled.

“God calls me!” she said, “I go
to pray!”

“Christine! my daughter, will you
leave me thus?”

“Hear you not the bell? It is the
hour of prayer.”

“But, Christine, dearest child, I
came to take you hence.”

“I shall never leave these walls!”
said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly
away. As she opened the parlour
door, she turned towards William; her
eyes fixed upon him with a sad and
sweet expression; her lips moved, as
if to send him a kiss; then she disappeared.
William made no attempt
to detain her; his head was pressed
against the grating, and big tears
chased each other down his cheeks.
How long he remained thus plunged
in mournful reflection, he noted not.
He was roused by the voice of the
superior, who seated herself, wrapped
in her black robes, on the other side
of the grating.

“I foresaw your grief,” she said.
“Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to
follow you.”

With a despairing look, William
answered the nun.

“Alas! alas!” he said, “the
child I so dearly loved met me
without joy, and left me without
regret.”

“Listen, my son,” resumed the
superior; “listen to me.—Five years
ago, there came to this convent a
young girl overwhelmed with grief
and sunk in terrible despair; her
entrance here was to her a descent
into the tomb. During one entire
year, none saw her but with tears on
her face. Only God knows how many
tears the eyes must shed, before a
broken spirit regains calm and resignation;
man cannot count them. This
young girl suffered much; in vain we
implored pardon for her, in vain we
summoned her family to her relief.
She might say, as is written in the
psalm,—’I am weary with my groaning:
mine eye is consumed because of grief.‘
What could we do, save pray for
her, since none would receive her
back!…”

“Alas!” cried William, “your
letters never reached us. My brother
was beyond sea; and I, having
then no hope of changing his determination,—I
had quitted his empty
and melancholy house.”

“Man abandoned her,” continued
the superior, “but God looked upon
his servant, and comforted her soul.
If He does not see fit to restore
strength to her body, exhausted by
suffering—His will be done! Perhaps
it would now be wise and generous to
leave her to that love of God which
she has attained after so many tears;
perhaps it would be prudent to spare
her fresh shocks.”

“No! no!” interrupted William, “I
cannot give up, even to God, this last
relic of my family, the sole prop of my
old age. I will try every means to
bring back her heart to its early sentiments.
Give me Christine for a few
days only! Let me conduct her to the
place of her birth, to the scenes where
she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties,
but she will obey an order from you;
bid her return for a while beneath her
father’s roof! Should she still wish
it, after this last attempt, I will restore
her hither.”

[697]“Take her with you, my son,”
replied the superior, “I will bid her
follow. If God has indeed spoken to
her soul, no worldly voice will move
her. If it be otherwise, may she return
no more to the cloister, but be
blessed wherever she goes! Adieu,
my son; the peace of the Lord be with
you!”

Hope revived in the heart of William
Van Amberg; it seemed to him as if—the
convent threshold once passed—Christine
would revert to her former
character, her youth and love. He
believed he was about to remove his beloved
child for ever from these gloomy
walls, and with painful impatience he
awaited her coming. Soon a light
step was heard in the corridor; William
threw open the door, Christine
was there, and no grating now separated
her from her uncle.

“My beloved Christine!” exclaimed
William, “at last, then, you are restored
to me; at last I can press
you to my heart! Come, we will
return to our own country, and
revisit the house where we all dwelt
together.”

Sister Martha-Mary was still paler
than at her first interview with William.
If any expression was discernible
upon that calm countenance, it
was one of sadness. She allowed herself
to be taken by the hand and conducted
to the convent gate; but when
the gate was opened, and, passing
into the open air, she encountered the
broad daylight and the fresh breeze,
she tottered and leaned for support
against the wall. Just then the sun
rent the clouds, and threw its golden
beams on plain and mountain; the
air was clear and transparent, and the
flat and monotonous horizon acquired
beauty from the burst of light.

“See, my daughter!” said William,
“see how lovely the earth
looks! How soft is the air we breathe!
How good it is to be free, and to move
towards that immense horizon!”

“Oh, my dear uncle!” replied the
novice, “how beautiful are the
heavens! See how the sun shines
above our heads! It is in heaven
that his glory should be admired!
His rays are already dim and feeble
when they touch the earth!”

William led Christine to a carriage;
they got in, and the horses set off.
Long did the gaze of the novice remain
fixed on her convent’s walls; when
these were hidden from her by the
windings of the road, she closed her
eyes and seemed to sleep. During
the journey, William endeavoured in
vain to make her converse; she had
forgotten how to express her thoughts.
When compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed
her; her whole existence
was concentrated in her soul, and detached
entirely from the external
world. At intervals, she would say to
herself: “How long the morning is!
Nothing marks the hours; I have not
heard a single bell to-day!”

At last they reached the red house,
and the carriage drove into the court,
where the grass grow between the
stones. Gothon came out to receive
them, and Martha-Mary, leaning on
her uncle’s arm, entered the parlour
where the family of Van Amberg had
so often assembled. The room was
deserted and cold; no books or work
gave it the look of habitation; abandoned
by its last occupants, it awaited
new ones. Christine slowly traversed
this well-known apartment, and sat
down upon a chair near the window.
It was there her mother had sat for
twenty years; there had her childhood
passed at the knees of Annunciata.

William opened the window, showed
her the meadow, the willows, and the
river. Christine looked at them in
silence, her head resting on her hand,
her eyes fixed on the horizon. For
a long while William stood beside her,
then he placed his hand on her
shoulder and pronounced her name.
She rose and followed him. They
ascended the stairs, traversed the
gallery, and William opened a door.
“Your mother’s room,” said he to
Christine. The novice entered and
stood still in the middle of the
chamber; tears flowed from her eyes,
she clasped her hands and prayed.

“My daughter,” said William, “she
ardently desired your happiness.”

“She has obtained it!” replied the
novice.

The old man felt a profound sadness
come over him. It was like
pressing to his heart a corpse to which
his love restored neither breath nor
warmth. Martha-Mary approached
her mother’s bed, knelt down, and[698]
kissed the pillow that had supported
the dying head of Annunciata.

“Mother!” she murmured, “soon
we shall meet again.”

William shuddered. He took
Christine’s hand, and led her to the
room she had formerly occupied. The
little white-curtained bed was still
there, the guitar hung against the
wall, Christine’s favourite volumes
filled the shelves of her modest bookcase;
through the open window were
seen the willows and the river.
Martha-Mary noticed none of these
things: the wooden crucifix was
still upon the wall; she rapidly approached
it, knelt, bowed her head
upon the feet of Christ, closed her
eyes and breathed deeply, like one
finding repose after long fatigue.
Like the exile returning to his native
land, like the storm-tossed mariner regaining
the port, she remained with her
brow resting upon her Saviour’s feet.

Standing by her side, William
looked on in tearful silence. Farther
off, Gothon wiped her eyes with her
apron. Several hours elapsed. The
house-clock struck, the birds sang in
the garden; the wind rustled among
the trees; in the lofty pigeon-house
the doves cooed; the cock crowed in
the poultry-yard. None of these
loved and familiar sounds could divert
Martha-Mary from her devout meditation.
Sick at heart, her uncle descended
to the parlour. He remained
there long, plunged in gloomy reflections.
Suddenly hasty steps were
heard; a young man rushed into the
room and into William’s arms.

“Christine! Christine!” cried Herbert;
“where is Christine? Is it not a
dream? M. Van Amberg gives me
Christine!… Once more in
my native land, and Christine
mine!”

“Karl Van Amberg gives, but God
refuses her to you!” replied William,
mournfully. Then he told Herbert
what had passed at the convent, and
since their arrival at the house: he
gave a thousand details,—he repeated
them a thousand times, but without
convincing Herbert of the melancholy
truth.

“It is impossible!” cried the young
man; “if Christine is alive, if Christine
is here, to the first word uttered by
her lover, Christine will reply.”

“God grant it!” exclaimed William,
“my last hope is in you.”

Herbert sprang up the stairs, his
heart too full of love to have room for
fear. Christine free, was for him
Christine ready to become his wife.
He hastily opened her chamber door;
but then he paused, as if petrified,
upon the threshold. The day was
closing in, and its fading light fell upon
Martha-Mary, whose form stood out
like a white shadow from the gloom
of the room. She was still on her knees,
her head resting on the feet of Christ,
her fragile person lost in the multiplied
folds of her conventual robes. She
heard not the opening of the door, and
Herbert stood gazing at her, till a flood
of tears burst from his eyes. William
took his hand and silently pressed it.

“I am frightened!” said Herbert,
in a low tone. “That is not my
Christine! A phantom risen from
the earth, or an angel descended from
Heaven, has taken her place!”

“No, she is no longer Christine!”
replied William, sadly.

For a few moments more Herbert
stood in mournful contemplation. Then
he exclaimed:—”Christine, dear
Christine!”

At the sound of his voice the novice
started, rose to her feet, and pronounced
his name. As in former days,
when her lover called “Christine!”
Martha-Mary had replied, “Herbert!”

The young man’s heart beat violently;
he stood beside the novice, he
took her hands. “It is I, it is Herbert!”
he said, kneeling down before her.

The novice fixed her large black eyes
upon him with a long inquiring gaze;
a slight flush passed across her brow;
then she became pale as before, and
said gently to Herbert:—”I thought
not to see you again upon earth.”

“Dear Christine! tears and suffering
have long been our portion; but happy
days at last dawn upon us! My love!
my bride! we will never part again!”

Martha-Mary extricated her hands
from those of Herbert, and retreated
towards the image of Christ.

“I am the bride of the Lord” she
said in trembling accents. “He expects
me.”

Herbert uttered a cry of grief.

“Christine! dear Christine! remember
our oft-repeated pledges, our loves,
our tears, our hopes. You left me[699]
vowing to love me always. Christine,
if you would not have me die of
despair, remember the past!”

Martha-Mary’s eyes continued riveted
on the crucifix; her hands, convulsively
clasped, were extended towards
it.

“Gracious Lord!” she prayed,
“speak to his heart as you have spoken
to mine! It is a noble heart, worthy
to love you. Stronger than I, Herbert
may survive, even after much weeping!
Console him, oh Lord!”

“Christine! my first and only love!
sole hope and joy of my life! do
you thus abandon me? That heart,
once entirely mine, is it closed to me
for ever?”

Her gaze upon the crucifix, her
hands still joined, the novice, as if able
to speak only to her God, gently replied:—”Lord!
he suffers as I suffered!
shed upon him the balm wherewith
you healed my wounds! Leaving him
life, take his soul as you have taken
mine. Give him that ineffable peace
which descends upon those thou
lovest!”

“Oh Christine! my beloved!”
cried Herbert, once more taking her
hand, “do but look at me! turn your
eyes upon me and behold my tears!
Dearest treasure of my heart! you
seem to slumber! Awake! Have you
forgotten our tender meetings? the
willows bending over the stream, the
boat in which we sailed a whole night,
dreaming the joy of eternal union?
See! the moon rises as it rose that
night. We were near each other as
now; but then they tore us asunder,
and now we are free to be together!
Christine, have you ceased to love?
Is all forgotten?”

William took her other hand. “Dear
child,” he said, “we entreat you not
to leave us! To you we look for happiness;
remain with us, Christine.”

One hand in the hands of Herbert,
the other in those of William, the
novice slowly and solemnly replied:

“The corpse that reposes in the
tomb does not lift the stone to re-enter
the world. The soul that has seen
Heaven, does not leave it to return
to earth. The creature to whom
God has said, ‘Be thou the spouse of
Christ,’ does not quit Christ to unite
herself to a man; and she who is about
to die should turn her affections from
mortal things!”

“Herbert!” cried William, “be
silent! Not another word! I can
scarcely feel the throbbing of her
pulse! She is paler even than when
I first saw her behind the convent
grating. We give her pain. Enough,
Herbert, enough! Better yield her
to God upon earth, than send her to
him in Heaven!”

The old man placed the almost inanimate
head of Martha-Mary upon
his shoulder, and pressed her to his
heart as a mother embraces her child.
“Recover yourself, my daughter,” he
said; “I will restore you to the house
of God.”

Martha-Mary turned her sad and
gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her
hand feebly pressed his. Then addressing
herself to Herbert:

“You, Herbert,” she said, in a
scarcely audible voice, “you, who
will live, do not abandon him!”

“Christine!” cried Herbert, on his
knees before his betrothed. “Christine!
do we part for ever?”

The novice raised her eyes to heaven.

“Not for ever!” she replied.

Some days afterwards the convent
gates opened to receive sister Martha-Mary.
They closed upon her for the
last time. With feeble and unsteady
step the novice traversed the cloisters
to prostrate herself on the altar-steps.
The superior came to her.

“Oh my mother!” exclaimed
Christine, the fountain of whose tears
was opened, and who wept as in the
days of her childhood, “I have seen
him and left him! To thee I return,
oh Lord! faithful to my vows, I
await the crown that shall consecrate
me thy spouse. Thy voice alone
shall henceforward reach my ears; I
come to sing thy praises, to pray and
serve thee until the end of my life!—Holy
mother, prepare the robe of
serge, the white crown, the silver
cross; I am ready!”

“My daughter,” replied the superior,
“you are very ill, much exhausted
by so many shocks; will you
not delay the ceremony of profession?”

“No, holy mother! no; delay it
not! I would die the bride of the
Lord!… And I have little
time!” replied sister Martha-Mary.

[700]

THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE.

The Massacre of Glencoe is an event which neither can nor ought to be
forgotten. It was one of the earliest fruits of the so-called glorious Revolution
Settlement, and exhibits in their foulest perfidy the true characters of its
authors.

After the battle of Killiecrankie the cause of the Scottish royalists declined,
rather from the want of a competent leader than from any disinclination on
the part of the people to vindicate the right of King James. No person of
adequate talents or authority was found to supply the place of the great and
gallant Lord Dundee, of whom it was truly written,—

General Cannon, who succeeded in command, was not only deficient in military
skill, but did not possess the confidence, nor understand the character
of the Highland chiefs, who, with their clansmen, constituted by far the most
important section of the army. Accordingly no enterprise of any importance
was attempted, and the disastrous issue of the battle of the Boyne led to a
negotiation which terminated in the entire disbanding of the royal forces.
By this treaty, which was expressly sanctioned by William of Orange, a full
and unreserved indemnity and pardon was granted to all of the Highlanders
who had taken arms, with a proviso that they should first subscribe the oath
of allegiance to William and Mary, before the 1st of January 1692, in presence
of the Lords of the Scottish Council, “or of the sheriffs or their deputies
of the respective shires wherein they lived.” The letter of William addressed
to the Privy Council, and ordering proclamation to be made to the above
effect, contained also the following significant passage:—”That ye communicate
our pleasure to the Governor of Inverlochy and other commanders
that they be exact and diligent in their several posts; but that they show no
more zeal against the Highlanders after their submission, than they have ever
done formerly when these were in open rebellion.”

This enigmatical sentence, which in reality was intended, as the sequel
will show, to be interpreted in the most cruel manner, appears to have
caused some perplexity in the Council, as that body deemed it necessary to
apply for more distinct and specific instructions, which, however, were not
then issued. It had been especially stipulated by the chiefs as an indispensable
preliminary to their treaty, that they should have leave to communicate
with King James, then residing at St Germains, for the purpose of obtaining
his permission and warrant previous to submitting themselves to the existing
government. That article had been sanctioned by William before the proclamation
was issued, and a special messenger was despatched to France for
that purpose.

In the mean time, troops were gradually and cautiously advanced to the
confines of the Highlands, and, in some instances, actually quartered on the
inhabitants. The condition of the country was perfectly tranquil. No disturbances
whatever occurred in the north or west of Scotland; Lochiel and
the other chiefs were awaiting the communication from St. Germains, and
held themselves bound in honour to remain inactive; whilst the remainder of
the royalist forces (for whom separate terms had been made) were left unmolested
at Dunkeld.

But rumours, which are too clearly traceable to the emissaries of the new
government, asserting the preparation made for an immediate landing of King
James at the head of a large body of the French, were industriously circulated,
and by many were implicitly believed. The infamous policy which
dictated such a course is now apparent. The term of the amnesty or truce[701]
granted by the proclamation expired with the year 1691, and all who had
not taken the oath of allegiance before that term were to be proceeded against
with the utmost severity. The proclamation was issued upon the 29th of
August, consequently, only four months were allowed for the complete submission
of the Highlands.

Not one of the chiefs subscribed until the mandate from King James
arrived. That document, which is dated from St Germains on the 12th of
December 1691, reached Dunkeld eleven days afterwards, and, consequently,
but a very short time before the indemnity expired. The bearer, Major
Menzies, was so fatigued that he could proceed no farther on his journey, but
forwarded the mandate by an express to the commander of the royal forces,
who was then at Glengarry. It was therefore impossible that the document
could be circulated through the Highlands within the prescribed period.
Lochiel, says Drummond of Balhaldy, did not receive his copy till about
thirty hours before the time was out, and appeared before the sheriff at
Inverara, where he took the oaths upon the very day on which the indemnity
expired.

That a general massacre throughout the Highlands was contemplated by
the Whig government, is a fact established by overwhelming evidence. In
the course of the subsequent investigations before the Scots Parliament,
letters were produced from Sir John Dalrymple, then Master of Stair, one of
the secretaries of state in attendance upon the court, which too clearly indicate
the intentions of William. In one of these, dated 1st December 1691,—a
month, be it observed, before the amnesty expired—and addressed to
Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, there are the following words:—”The winter
is the only season in which we are sure the Highlanders cannot escape us, nor
carry their wives, bairns, and cattle to the mountains.” And in another letter,
written only two days afterwards, he says,—”It is the only time that they
cannot escape you, for human constitution cannot endure to be long out of
houses. This is the proper season to maule them in the cold long nights.”
And in January thereafter, he informed Sir Thomas Livingston that the design
was “to destroy entirely the country of Lochaber, Lochiel’s lands, Keppoch’s,
Glengarry’s, Appin, and Glencoe. I assure you,” he continues, “your power
shall be full enough, and I hope the soldiers will not trouble the Government
with prisoners.”

Lochiel was more fortunate than others of his friends and neighbours.
According to Drummond,—”Major Menzies, who, upon his arrival, had
observed the whole forces of the kingdom ready to invade the Highlands, as
he wrote to General Buchan, foreseeing the unhappy consequences, not only
begged that general to send expresses to all parts with orders immediately to
submit, but also wrote to Sir Thomas Livingston, praying him to supplicate
the Council for a prorogation of the time, in regard that he was so excessively
fatigued, that he was obliged to stop some days to repose a little; and that
though he should send expresses, yet it was impossible they could reach the
distant parts in such time as to allow the several persons concerned the benefit
of the indemnity within the space limited; besides, that some persons having
put the Highlanders in a bad temper, he was confident to persuade them to
submit, if a further time were allowed. Sir Thomas presented this letter to
the Council on the 5th of January 1692, but they refused to give any answer,
and ordered him to transmit the same to court.”

The reply of William of Orange was a letter, countersigned by Dalrymple, in
which, upon the recital that “several of the chieftains and many of their clans
have not taken the benefit of our gracious indemnity,” he gave orders for a
general massacre. “To that end, we have given Sir Thomas Livingston
orders to employ our troops (which we have already conveniently posted,) to
cut off these obstinate rebels by all manner of hostility; and we do require you
to give him your assistance and concurrence in all other things that may
conduce to that service; and because these rebels, to avoid our forces, may
draw themselves, their families, goods, or cattle, to lurk or be concealed[702]
among their neighbours: therefore, we require and authorise you to emit a
proclamation to be published at the market-crosses of these or the adjacent
shires where the rebels reside, discharging upon the highest penalties the law
allows, any reset, correspondence, or intercommuning with these rebels.”
This monstrous mandate, which was in fact the death-warrant of many
thousand innocent people, no distinction being made of age or sex, would, in
all human probability, have been put into execution, but for the remonstrance
of one high-minded nobleman. Lord Carmarthen, afterwards Duke of
Leeds, accidentally became aware of the purposed massacre, and personally
remonstrated with the monarch against a measure which he denounced as
at once cruel and impolitic. After much discussion, William, influenced
rather by an apprehension that so savage and sweeping an act might prove
fatal to his new authority, than by any compunction or impulse of humanity,
agreed to recall the general order, and to limit himself, in the first instance,
to a single deed of butchery, by way of testing the temper of the nation. Some
difficulty seems to have arisen in the selection of the fittest victim. Both
Keppoch and Glencoe were named, but the personal rancour of Secretary
Dalrymple decided the doom of the latter. The Secretary wrote thus:—”Argyle
tells me that Glencoe hath not taken the oath, at which I rejoice. It is a
great work of charity to be exact in rooting out that damnable set.” The
final instructions regarding Glencoe, which were issued on 16th January
1692, are as follows:—

“William R.—As for M’Ian of Glencoe and that tribe, if they can be well
distinguished from the rest of the Highlanders, it will be proper for public justice
to extirpate that set of thieves.”

“W. R.”

This letter is remarkable as being signed and countersigned by William
alone, contrary to the usual practice. The secretary was no doubt desirous to
screen himself from after responsibility, and was further aware that the royal
signature would ensure a rigorous execution of the sentence.

Macdonald, or as he was more commonly designed, M’Ian of Glencoe, was
the head of a considerable sept or branch of the great Clan-Coila, and was
lineally descended from the ancient Lords of the Isles, and from the royal family
of Scotland, the common ancestor of the Macdonalds having espoused a daughter
of Robert II. He was, according to a contemporary testimony, “a person of
great integrity, honour, good nature, and courage, and his loyalty to his old
master, King James, was such, that he continued in arms from Dundee’s
first appearing in the Highlands, till the fatal treaty that brought on his
ruin.” In common with the other chiefs, he had omitted taking the benefit of
the indemnity until he received the sanction of King James; but the copy of
that document which was forwarded to him, unfortunately arrived too late.
The weather was so excessively stormy at the time that there was no possibility
of penetrating from Glencoe to Inverara, the place where the sheriff
resided, before the expiry of the stated period; and M’Ian accordingly
adopted the only practicable mode of signifying his submission, by making
his way with great difficulty to Fort-William, then called Inverlochy, and
tendering his signature to the military governor there. That officer was not
authorised to receive it, but at the earnest entreaty of the chief, he gave him
a certificate of his appearance and tender, and on New-year’s day, 1692,
M’Ian reached Inverara, where he produced that paper as evidence of his intentions,
and prevailed upon the sheriff, Sir James Campbell of Ardkinglass,
to administer the oaths required. After that ceremony, which was immediately
intimated to the Privy Council, had been performed, the unfortunate
gentleman returned home, in the full conviction that he had thereby made
peace with government for himself and for his clan. But his doom was
already sealed.

A company of the Earl of Argyle’s regiment had been previously quartered
in Glencoe. These men, though Campbells, and hereditarily obnoxious to[703]
the Macdonalds, Camerons, and other of the loyal clans, were yet countrymen,
and were kindly and hospitably received. Their captain, Robert Campbell
of Glenlyon, was connected with the family of Glencoe through the
marriage of a niece, and was resident under the roof of the chief. And yet this
was the very troop selected for the horrid service.

Special instructions were sent to the major of the regiment, one Duncanson,
then quartered at Ballachulish, a morose, brutal, and savage man, who
accordingly wrote to Campbell of Glenlyon in the following terms:—

“Ballacholis, 12 February, 1692.

“Sir,—You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, the M’Donalds of
Glencoe, and putt all to the sword under seventy. You are to have special
care that the old fox and his sons doe upon no account escape your hands.
You are to secure all the avenues that no man escape. This you are to put
in execution att five o’clock in the morning precisely, and by that time or
very shortly after it I’ll strive to be att you with a stronger party. If I doe
not come to you at five, you are not to tarry for me but to fall on. This is
by the king’s speciall command, for the good and safety of the country, that
these miscreants be cutt off root and branch. See that this be putt in execution
without feud or favour, else you may expect to be treated as not true to
the king’s government, nor a man fitt to carry a commission in the king’s
service. Expecting you will not faill in the fulfilling hereof as you love yourself,
I subscrive these with my hand.

“Robert Duncanson.

“For their Majesty’s service. To Captain
Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.”

This order was too literally obeyed. At the appointed hour, when the
whole inhabitants of the glen were asleep, the work of murder began. M’Ian
was one of the first who fell. Drummond’s narrative fills up the remainder
of the dreadful story.

“They then served all within the family in the same manner, without distinction
of age or person. In a word, for the horror of that execrable
butchery must give pain to the reader, they left none alive but a young child,
who being frighted with the noise of the guns, and the dismal shrieks and
cries of its dying parents, whom they were a-murdering, got hold of Captain
Campbell’s knees and wrapt itself within his cloak; by which, chancing to
move compassion, the captain inclined to have saved it, but one Drummond,
an officer, arriving about the break of day with more troops, commanded it to
be shot by a file of musqueteers. Nothing could be more shocking and horrible
than the prospect of these houses bestrewed with mangled bodies of the
dead, covered with blood, and resounding with the groans of wretches in the
last agonies of life.

“Two sons of Glencoe’s were the only persons that escaped in that quarter
of the country; for, growing jealous of some ill designs from the behaviour
of the soldiers, they stole from their beds a few minutes before the tragedy
began, and chancing to overhear two of them discoursing plainly of the
matter, they endeavoured to have advertised their father, but finding that
impracticable, they ran to the other end of the country and alarmed the inhabitants.
There was another accident that contributed much to their safety;
for the night was so excessively stormy and tempestuous, that four hundred
soldiers, who were appointed to murder these people, were stopped in their
march from Inverlochy, and could not get up till they had time to save themselves.
To cover the deformity of so dreadful a sight, the soldiers burned all
the houses to the ground, after having rifled them, carried away nine hundred
cows, two hundred horses, numberless herds of sheep and goats, and
every thing else that belonged to these miserable people. Lamentable was
the case of the women and children that escaped the butchery. The mountains[704]
were covered with a deep snow, the rivers impassable, storm and tempest
filled the air, and added to the horrors and darkness of the night, and
there were no houses to shelter them within many miles.”[2]

Such was the awful massacre of Glencoe, an event which has left an indelible
and execrable stain upon the memory of William of Orange. The records of
Indian warfare can hardly afford a parallel instance of atrocity; and this deed,
coupled with his deliberate treachery in the Darien business, whereby Scotland
was for a time absolutely ruined, is sufficient to account for the little
estimation in which the name of the “great Whig deliverer” is still regarded
in the valleys of the North.

[707]

THE PYRENEES.

[3]

Baron Vaerst’s animated account
of his Pyrenean wanderings and observations,
forms one of the pleasantest
books of its class we for some
time have met with. As the issue of
a German pen, one so agreeable was
scarcely to be expected. Whatever
be thought of the present condition of
German literature—and our opinion
of it is far from favourable—all must
admit that the department of voyages
and travels has of late been execrably
provided. Since Tschudi’s Peru, now
eighteen months old, nothing of mark—scarcely
any thing worth a passing
notice—has been produced by
German travellers. There have appeared
a few books of eastern travel,
others of stale description and oft-repeated
criticism from Italy. Prince
Waldemar’s physician gave us a dull
narrative of his journey to and through
India, where he was so injudicious as
to get shot just as his observations
became of interest. It was time something
better should turn up. Germans,
hardy and adventurous travelers
and shrewd observers, are but
moderately successful in describing
what they see. Of course, there are
brilliant exceptions. Tschudi is one
of the most recent, Vaerst, allowing
for the comparative staleness of
his subject, really does not come far
behind him as a lively and expert
writer. Most German tourists either
drivel or dogmatise; are awfully wise,
and ponderous, and somniferous, or
mere trivial verbose gossips, writing
against time and paper, with a torrent
of words and a drought of
ideas, like Kohl, the substance of
any four of whose volumes might,
with perfect ease and great advantage,
be compressed into one. The best
travels, now-a-days, are written by
Englishmen, and our large and daily-increasing
store of admirable books
of that class does honour to the
country. The French are vastly amusing,
but they are too fond of romancing,
and do so artfully and unscrupulously
mix up what they invent at
home with what they see abroad,
that they mislead and impose upon
the simple and unwary. Without
taking for example such an extreme
case as Alexander Dumas—notorious
as a hardened delinquent,
writing travels in countries whose
frontier he has never crossed, and
chuckling when the same is imputed to
him—we find abundance of more
modest offenders, serving up their
actual experiences with a humorous
sauce, in whose composition and distribution
they display much skill and
wit. For instance,—one might
suppose the vast number of books
about Syria, Egypt, Turkey, and
so forth, that have appeared within
the last few years in England,
France, and Germany, would have left
little of interest to tell about those
oriental regions, and that whatever
was at present written would be a
mere rechauffé, without spice or flavour,—an
unpalatable dishing-up of
yesterday’s baked-meats. In his
“Anti-Liban, Scènes de la Vie Orientale,”
M. Gerard de Nerval practically
demonstrates the fallacy of
such an opinion, and shows how
talent and humour will give fresh
zest to a subject already handled
by a host of artists. Of course, we
do not accept all his romantic scenes
and contes dialoguées as literal facts,—they
are the gilding of the pill, the
seductive embellishments of a hackneyed
subject; but an attentive reader
will sift character and information
from them. And after all, when a
whole library of gravity has been
written about a country, it is surely,
allowable, in an age when fun is so
rampant that even history is strained
into burlesque, to write of it gaily,
and place a setting of amusement
round facts that would otherwise
hardly obtain perusal. And we do not
smile the less at M. de Nerval’s facetious[708]
stories about Javanese slaves,
Greek captains and Druse festivals,
at his proposals of marriage to Scheiks’
daughters, recounted by him with
commendable assurance, and at the
smart French repartees he puts into
the mouths of solemn Egyptian
pachas, because we trace without
difficulty the operation of his lively
imagination and decorative pen. On
the other hand, there are French
books of travel as dull and sententious
as those of any Teuton who ever
twaddled. As a specimen, we refer
our readers to the long-winded periods
and inflated emptiness of that wearisome
personage, Monsieur X. Marmier.

Less convenient of access, the Pyrenees
are far less visited than the Alps.
It is on that account, perhaps, that
they are more written about. People
now can go to Switzerland without
rushing madly into print—indeed it
would be ridiculous to write a descriptive
tour in a country thoroughly
well known to nine out of ten of
the probable readers. But it seems
very difficult for any one versed in
orthography, and able to hold a pen,
to approach the Pyrenees without
flying to the ink-bottle. And it is
astounding to behold the confidence
with which, on the strength of a
week or two at Pau, a few pints of
water imbibed at Barèges, or a distant
view of the Maladetta, they
discourse of three hundred miles of
mountain, containing infinite variety
of scenery, and richer perhaps than
any other mountain range in the
world in associations historical, poetical,
and romantic. On no such slender
experience does Baron Vaerst
found his claims as chronicler of this
most splendid of natural partition-walls.
“Thrice,” he tells us, “and
under very various circumstances,
have I visited the Pyrenees, passing
over and through them in all directions,
both on the French and Spanish
side; so that from the Garonne to the
Ebro I am well acquainted with the
country, to which an old predilection
repeatedly drew me. It is now twenty
years since I undertook my first
journey, at the close of a long residence
in France. At leisure, and
with all possible convenience I saw
the different Pyrenean watering-places,
remaining six months amongst
them. I was a sturdy pedestrian and
good climber, and I passed nearly the
whole summer in wandering over the
mountains, accompanied by able
guides, bending my stops whithersoever
accident or the humour of the
moment impelled me, and pausing in
those spots that especially pleased me.
The snug and secret valleys of the
Pyrenees are world-renowned. I know
no region which oftener suggests the
thought,—Here it is good to dwell—here
let us build our house!”