Loe raamatut: «Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848», lehekülg 9

THE REAL AND THE IDEAL

BY MARION H. RAND

 
Alas, the romances! the beautiful fancies!
We fling round our thoughts of a poet;
How can we believe that the web which we weave
Has no solid basis below it?
 
 
Youth, beauty and grace – a soul-speaking face,
And eyes full of genius and fire;
The softest dark hair, with a curl here and there;
All this, without fail, we require.
 
 
A warm feeling heart, affectation or art
Unknown to its deepest recesses;
A brow fair and high, where her thoughts open lie
To him who admiringly gazes.
 
 
But let this bright thought, this idol, be brought
To nearer and closer inspection —
Alas! 'tis a dream! 'tis a straying sunbeam,
Of far more than human perfection.
 
 
Then turn for awhile from the heavenly smile
That haunts thy fond fancy, young dreamer;
Turn from the ideal to gaze on the real,
And see if she be what you deem her.
 
 
She is young, it is true, her eyes dark and blue,
But sadly deficient in lustre,
While often is seen in one hand a pen,
In the other a mop or a duster.
 
 
Her hair, of a shade inclining to red,
Is tied up and carefully braided;
And the forehead below (not as white the snow)
By no drooping ringlet is shaded.
 
 
Her little hands write, but they're not always white,
With marks of good usage they're speckled,
While the face, once so fair, has been kissed by the air,
Until 'tis considerably freckled.
 
 
She has her full part of a true woman's art,
Her share of a woman's warm feeling!
She knows what to hide, with a true woman's pride,
When the world would but scorn the revealing.
 
 
This earth is no place fancy beauties to trace,
Or seek for perfection uncertain;
Then why mourn our fate, when sooner or late,
Reality peeps through the curtain.
 
 
But if we must cling to the form lingering
And cherished within us so dearly,
We must gaze from afar, as upon some bright star,
And never approach it more nearly.
 

THE HUMAN VOICE

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS

 
We all love the music of sky, earth and sea —
The chirp of the cricket – the hum of the bee —
The wind-harp that swings from the bough of the tree —
The reed of the rude shepherd boy:
All love the bird-carols when day has begun,
When rock-fountains gush into song as they run,
When the stars of the morn sing their hymns to the sun,
And hills clap their hands in their joy.
 
 
All love the invisible lutes of the air —
The chords that vibrate to the hands of the fair —
Whose minstrelsy brightens the midnight of care,
And steals to the heart like a dove:
But even in melody there is a choice,
And, though we in all her sweet numbers rejoice,
There's none thrills the soul like the tones of the voice,
When breathed by the beings we love.
 

VENICE AS IT WAS, AND AS IT IS

[WRITTEN IN 1826.]

BY PROFESSOR GOODRICH, YALE COLLEGE

 
Bright glancing in the sun's last rays,
The Fairy City rose to view:
It seemed to "swim in air" – a blaze
Of parting glory round she threw.
 
 
Midst silent halls and mouldering towers,
And trophies fallen from side to side,
Awe-struck, I saw a few brief hours,
The grave of Venice' ruined pride.
 
 
Light from her native surge she sprung,
The Venus of the Adrian wave;
And o'er the admiring nations flung
The spell of "Beautiful and Brave"
 
 
Her Winged Lion's terror shook
The Sultan's throne: – o'er prostrate piles,
"Breaker of Chains," she proudly spoke
Her mandate to a hundred isles.
 
 
Astonished Europe saw that hour
Her blind old chieftain guide her wars,
And twice, in one brief season, pour
Her fury on Byzantium's towers!
 
 
Saw when in Mark's proud porch,
Abased in dust the eastern crown was laid.
And when, with frantic pride, she placed
Her foot on Barbarosa's head!
 
 
Gone, like a dream! wealth, pomp and power!
And Learning's toils, so nobly urged!
Doomed 'neath a tyrant's lash to cower,
She gnaws the chain she once had forged.
 
 
And still that tyrant bids to stand,
In mockery of her former state,
Those emblems of her wide command,
The three tall Masts where glory sate:
 
 
And high upreared on column proud,
And glancing to the wide-spread sea,
Her Winged Lion stands, aloud
To tell a nation's infamy!
 
 
Oh, how unlike the day, when round
Those Masts and 'neath that Lion's wings,
Exulting thousands thronged the ground,
And spoke the fate of distant kings.
 
 
When brightly in the morning beam
Her galleys, ranged in stern array,
Impatient stood, till Pontiffs came
To bless the parting warrior's way.
 
 
They go beneath the drum's long roll,
The cymbal's clang, the trumpet's breath;
While Beauty's glances fire the soul,
And Honor smooths the road to death.
 
 
Tread now that court! The unbended sail
Flaps idly in the passing wind;
And dark below, each dull canal
Is stagnant as its owner's mind!
 
 
Yet here, how many a burning soul
Has poured at moonlit eve the song,
While conscious Beauty, panting, stole
To hear the strain her praise prolong!
 
 
Hark to that shout! Her nobles come,
In many a galley ranged, and gay
With waving flag and nodding plume,
To grace fair Venice' bridal day.
 
 
See! on the foremost prow, a king
In form – eye – soul! – again
The exulting Doge has cast the ring
That weds him to the Adrian Main!
 
 
Mark now that wretch with downcast eye,
And abject mien, once free, once brave!
It is the People's Doge! and he
Is now an Austrian tyrant's slave.⁴
 
 
And she, the Beautiful One, lies
Fallen to earth; while by her side
Moulder her towers and palaces,
The grave of Venice' ruined pride!
 

SONG. – THOU REIGN'ST SUPREME

 
Thou reign'st supreme, love, in my heart,
O'er every secret thought;
Thou canst not find the smallest part
Where thou abidest not.
All blest emotions, every sense
Are consecrate to thee;
Would that affection so intense,
But filled thy heart for me!
 
 
Thou reign'st supreme, love, eyes that burn
With the soul's restless fire,
Their liquid glances on me turn,
Yet no fond thoughts inspire.
E'en in that hour for thee I long,
Like a wild bird set free;
Ah! would that love so true and strong
But filled thy heart for me!
 
 
Thou reign'st supreme, love, while I live
Thine shall be every breath;
And be thou near me to receive
My last fond sighs in death;
Thus to expire were joy, were bliss,
May such my portion be!
Oh! would that love as deep as this,
But filled thy heart for me!
 

C. E. T.

THE NEW ENGLAND FACTORY GIRL

A SKETCH OF EVERYDAY LIFE

BY MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL

For naught its power to Strength can teach

Like Emulation – and Endeavor. Schiller.

(Concluded from page 292.)

CHAPTER III

THE RETURN – THE LOSS

How vexatious is delay of any kind when one's mind is prepared for a journey, "made up to go," as a good aunt used to say. Mary grew anxious and almost impatient as April passed and found her still an inhabitant of the city of looms and spindles. The more so, that spring was the favorite season, and she longed to watch its coming in the haunts of her childhood; and in the busy, bustling atmosphere by which she was surrounded, none gave heed to the steps of "the light-footed maiden," save that our heroine's companions availed themselves of the balmier air to dress more gayly. In our larger cities the ladies are the only spring blossoms. It is they who tell us by bright tints and fabrics, that the time has come when nature puts on her gay appareling; yet it is in vain that they imitate the lilies of the field, there is a grace, a delicacy in those frail blossoms, that art never can rival.

Mary had so longed for the winter to pass, she had even counted the days that must intervene before she could hope to see her mother, and all the dear ones at home. The little gifts she had prepared for them were looked over again and again; and each time some trifle had been added until she almost began to fear she was growing extravagant. But she worked cheerfully, and most industriously, through the pleasant days, and when evening came, she would dream, in the solitude of her little room, of the meeting so soon to arrive.

"A letter for you, Mary – from home, I imagine," said her gay friend, Lizzie Ellis, bursting into her room one bright May morning. "I called at the post-office for myself and found this, only. It's too bad the people at home don't think enough of their sister to write once a month; but I'm not sorry that your friends are more punctual. There's good news for you, I hope, or you'll be more mopish than ever."

"Mary's lip quivered as she looked up. The instant the sheet was unfolded in her hand, she saw that it bore no common message. There was but a few lines written in a hurried, nervous manner; and as her eye glanced hastily over the page, she found that she was not mistaken.

"Poor little Sue is very ill," said she, in reply to her friend's anxious queries; "mother has written for me to come directly, or I may never see her again" – her tone grew indistinct as she ceased to speak; and leaning her face upon Lizzie's shoulder, a burst of tears and choking sobs relieved her. Poor Sue – and poor Mary! It would not have been so hard could she have watched by her sister's bedside and aided to soothe the pain and the fear of the dear little one who had from the time of her birth been Mary's especial care.

Delay had before been vexatious, but it was now agony. The few hours that elapsed before she was on the way, were as weeks to Mary's impatient spirit; and then the miles seemed so endless, the dreary road most solitary. The night was passed in sleepless tossing, and the afternoon of the second day found her scarcely able to control her restless agitation. She was then rapidly nearing home. Every thing had a familiar aspect; the farm-houses – the huge rocks that lifted their hoary heads by the road-side – the dark, deep woods – the village church – were in turn recognized. Then came the long ascent of the hill, which alone hid her home from view. Even that was at last accomplished, and she caught a glimpse of the dear old homestead, its rambling dark-brown walls, half-hidden by the clump of broad-leaved maples that clustered about it. Could it be reality, that she was once more so near all whom she loved? There was no deception; it was not the delusive phantom of a passing dream; her brother's glad greeting was too earnest; her mother's sobbed blessing too tender. After the hopes and plans of many weeks, even months, such was her "welcome home."

"You are in time to see your sister once more," said Mrs. Gordon, as she released Mary from a fond embrace; and a feeble voice from the adjoining room, a whisper, rather than a call, came softly to her ears.

"Dear Susie – my poor darling!" were all the spoken words, as she clasped the little sufferer in her arms. The child made no sound, not even a murmur of delight escaped her wan lips. She folded her thin, pale hands about her sister's neck, and gently laying her head upon the bosom which had so often pillowed it, lay with her large spiritual eyes fixed upon those regarding her so tenderly, as if she feared a motion might cause the loved vision to vanish. Fast flowing tears fell silently upon her face, but she heeded them not; then came fierce pain, that distorted every feature, but still no moan, no sound.

"Speak to me, Susie, will you not!" whispered Mary, awed by the fixed, intense gaze of those mournful eyes.

"I knew you would come, sister, to see me once more before I go," was the murmured reply. "I knew God would let me meet you here, before he takes me to be an angel in heaven. I am ready now, for I said good-by to mother and Jamie, and all, long ago. I only waited for you, dear Mary. Kiss me, won't you – kiss me again, and call mother – I feel very strangely."

Her mother bent over her, but she was not recognized; her father took one of those emaciated hands within his own, but it was cold, and gave back no pressure. Awe fell upon every heart in that hushed and stricken group; there was no struggle with the dark angel, for the silver chord was gently loosened. The calm gaze of those radiant eyes grew fixed, unchangeable – a faint flutter, and the heart's quick pulsations forever ceased – wings had been given that balmy eve to a pure and guileless spirit.

Mary calmly laid the little form back upon the pillow. Her mother's hand closed the already drooping lids; a sweet smile stole gently round the mouth, and its radiance dwelt upon the marble forehead.

"It is well with the child," said the bereaved parent – and her husband bending beside the bed of death, prayed fervently, while the sobs of his remaining children fell upon his ears, that they might be also ready.

"Oh, mother, how can I bear this! how can you be so calm and resigned!" said Mary, as her mother sat down beside her in the twilight, and spoke of the sorrowful illness of their faded flower. "I had planned so much for Susie; I thought as much of her as of myself, and here are the books, and all these things that I thought would make her so happy; she did not even see them. Why was she taken away, so good, so loving as she always was?"

"And would you wish her back again, my child; has she not more cause to mourn for us, than we for her? Think – she has passed through the greatest suffering that mortal may know; she has entered upon a world the glory of which it 'hath not entered into the heart of man to conceive of;' and would you recall her to this scene of trial and temptation? Rather pray, dear Mary, that we may meet her again in her bright and glorious home. I, her mother, though mourning for my own loneliness and bereavement, thank God that my child is at rest."

"If I could only feel as you do, mother; but I cannot. Poor Susie!" and Mary's tears burst forth afresh.

She begged to be allowed to watch through the night beside the form of the lost one, even though she knew the spirit had departed. But her mother would not allow this – some young friends whom Mary could not greet that night, though she loved them very dearly, claimed the sad duty. And again, after a year of new and strange life, she found herself reposing in her own quiet room, with sighing trees, the voice of the brook, and the low cry of the solitary whippo-wil, to lull her to sweet sleep.

It was Sabbath morning, calm and holy. The bell of the little village church tolled sadly and reverentially, as the funeral train wound through the shaded lane. All the young people for miles around had gathered in the church-yard; and as the coffin was borne beneath the trees that waved over its entrance, they joined in the procession. It passed toward the place of worship, and for the last time the form of their little friend entered the sacred walls.

The simple coffin was placed in the broad central aisle, the choir sung a sweet yet mournful dirge; then the voice of music and of weeping was hushed, for the man of God communed, with faltering voice, with the Father in heaven, who had seen fit in his mercy to take this lamb to his bosom; and when the prayer was ended, and an earnest and impressive address was made to those who had been bereaved, and those who sympathized with them, the friends and playmates of the little one clustered about the coffin to take a farewell glance of those lifeless yet beautiful features.

The pure folds of the snowy shroud were gathered about the throat, and upon it were crossed the slender hands, in which rested a fading sprig of white violets, placed there by some friend, as a fit emblem of the sleeper. Her sunny curls were smoothly bound back beneath the cap, and its border of transparent lace, threw a slight shadow upon the deeply-fringed lids that were never more to be stirred. Oh! the exceeding beauty and holiness of that childish face, in its perfect repose! None shuddered as they gazed; the horror of death had departed; but tears came to the eyes of many, as they bent down to kiss that pure forehead for the last time.

Aye, "the last time!" for the lid was closed as the congregation passed, one by one, once more into the church-yard, shutting out the light of day from that still, pale face forever. The mother gazed no more upon her child – brother and sister must henceforth dwell upon her loveliness but in memory – the father wept – and man's tears are scalding drops of agony.

Many lingered until the simple rites were ended, and then turned away under the shade of sombre pines, to think of the loneliness that must dwell in the hearts of those from whom such a treasure had been taken; and they, as they turned to a home that seemed almost desolate, tried in vain to subdue the bitterness of their anguish. They had seen her grave– and who that has stood beside the little mound of earth that covers the form of some one loved and lost – has forgotten the crushing agony that comes with the first full realization that all is over – that hope – prayer – lamentation – is of no avail, for the "grave giveth not up its dead until such a time as the mortal shall put on immortality."

The dark hearse, with its nodding plumes, bears the rich man from his door, to a grave whose proud monument shall commemorate his life, be its deeds good or evil. Perhaps an almost endless train of costly equipages follow; and there are congregated many who seem to weep, but I question if in all that splendor there lingers half the love, or half the regret which was felt for the little one whose mournful burial we have recorded; or if the grave, with its richly wrought pile of sculptured marble, be as often visited, and wept over, as was the low, grassy mound marked only by a clambering rose-tree, whose pure petals, as they floated from their stems, were symbols of the life and death of the village favorite.

It was many days before the household of Deacon Gordon regained any thing like serenity; but the business of life must go on, come what may, and in the petty detail of domestic cares, the keenness of grief is worn away, and a mournful pleasure mingles with memories of the past. It was in this case as in all others; gradually it became less painful to see everywhere around traces of the child and the sister; they could talk of her with calmness, and recall the many pleasant little traits of character which she had even at so early an age exhibited. The robin that she had fed daily, came still at her brother's call to peck daintily at the grain which he threw toward it. The pet kitten gamboled upon the sunny porch, or peered with curious face over the deep well, as if studying her own reflection, unconscious that the one who had so loved to watch her ceaseless play was gone forever. Even Mary could smile at its saucy ways; and though the memory of her sister was ever present, she could converse without shedding tears, of her gentleness and truth, thanking God she had been taken from evil to come.

Then she felt doubly attached to her mother. She was now the only daughter; and though Mrs. Gordon seemed perfectly resigned, and even cheerful, she knew that many lonely and solitary hours would come when Mary was once more away. And James had so much to tell, for he, too, was home for a few days of the spring vacation, the rest being passed in the poor student's usual employment – school teaching. They would wander away in the pleasant afternoon to the depths of the cool green wood, and sit with the shadows playing about them, and the wind whispering mystic prophecies as it wandered by, recalling for each other the incidents of the past year, and speculating with the hopefulness of eager youth, on the dim and unknown future.

A new friend sometimes joined them in their woodland walks. The young pastor of the village church, who had sorrowed with them at their sister's death, and who, having made Mary's acquaintance in a time of deep affliction, felt more drawn toward her than if he had known her happy and cheerful for many years. Somehow they became less and less restrained in his presence, and at last James confided to him his hopes and prospects. Mary was not by when the disclosure was made, or she would have blushed at her brother's enthusiastic praise of the unwavering self-denial which had led her away from home and friends, and made her youth a season "of toil and endeavor;" and she might have wondered why tears came to the eyes of their friend while he listened; and why he so earnestly besought James to improve to the utmost the advantages thus put before him. Allan Loring was alone in the world, and almost a stranger to the people of his charge, for he had been scarce a twelvemonth among them. Of a proud and somewhat haughty family, and prejudiced by education, he had in early youth looked upon labor of the hands as a kind of degradation; but the meek and humble faith which he taught, and which had chastened his spirit, made him now fully appreciate the loving and faithful heart, which Mary in every act exhibited, and he looked upon her with renewed interest when next they met.

Again the time drew near when Mary was to leave her home. A month had passed of mingled shadow and sunshine within those dear walls. It was hard to part with her mother, who seemed to cling more fondly than ever to her noble-minded daughter; her father and Stephen, each in their blunt, honest way, expressed their sorrow that the time of her departure was so near at hand; but still Mary did not waver in her determination, though a word from her mother would have changed the whole color of her plans. That mother saw that for her children's sake it was best that they should part again for a season – and she stifled the wish to have them remain by her side. So Mary went forth into the world once more with a stronger and bolder spirit, to brave alike the sneers and the temptations which might there beset her pathway; with the blessings of her parents, the thanks of an idolized brother, and "a conscience void of offence," she could but be calmly happy, even though surrounded by circumstances which often jarred upon her pure and delicate nature, and which would have crushed one less conscious of future peace and present rectitude.

Beside, Mr. Loring had seemed, she knew not why, to take a deep interest in all her movements. He had begged permission, at parting, to write to her occasionally; and his letters, full of friendly advice and inquiry, became a great and increasing source of pleasure. There was nothing in them that a kind brother might not have addressed to a young and gentle sister; and Mary's replies were dictated in the same spirit of candor and esteem. So gradually her simple and child-like character was unfolded to her new friend, who encouraged all that was noble, and strove to check each lighter and vainer feeling which sprung up in her heart. At times she wondered why one so wise and so good should seem interested in her welfare; but gradually she ceased to wonder why he wrote, so that his letters did not fail to reach her. Still noisy and fatiguing labor claimed her daily care; but in the long quiet evenings she found time for study and reflection; thus becoming, even in that rude school, "a perfect woman, nobly planned."