The day was brilliantly bright, and the air so pure and bracing that it did the lungs good to breathe. So I made my way out of counting-house and street for a walk. I ascended the dry, crumbling hills which with long, deep gullies and breaks in them, and friable soil, looked as if they were ready to tumble into pieces at the first shake of one of those earthquakes so frequent in the country. On the road, chained gangs of surly convicts were at work, and some smart-looking soldiers, in blue and white, came marching along! Caravans of mules, laden with goods, produce and water casks, trotted on, and here and there rode a dashing Chilian cavalier on his prancing steed, or a dapper citizen on his steady cob. In a ravine between the dry hills there trickled the smallest possible stream. Above, some water carriers were slowly filling their casks, while the mules patiently waited for their burdens; below, was a throng of washerwomen, beating their clothes upon the stones, just moistened by the scant water which flowed over them, and interchanging Spanish Billingsgate with each other and a gang of man-of-war sailors.

Frightened away by the stony stare of the English occupant from an imposing-looking residence on the top of the hill, I crossed the road and entered the private hospital. Around a quadrangle, laid out in gardens beds there was a range of low two story buildings. Some bleached sailors, in duck trowsers and blue jackets, were about; one was reading a song-book, another his Bible, and a third was busily making a marine swab out of ropes' ends. Among the convalescents, out on the balconies to catch a breath of the pure air, was a naval officer in a gilt cap, reading a novel; and all looked snug and encouraging. On entering, I asked the attendant, a gaunt-looking Englishman, who in his musty black suit, was not unlike a carrion crow or a turkey buzzard, whether there was any serious case of illness in the hospital. "There are two consumptives," said he, "who've been a deceiving us for the last two weeks." He seemed to think it a very base fraud that these two consumptives had not died when he and the doctor thought it was their duty to do so, some fortnight before.

Coming from the one hill to another, I reached a miserable quarter of the town, called by the sailors the "foretop." It was composed of rude mud hovels, stuffed with a population of half-breeds, a half-naked gipsy-looking people, grovelling in the dirt, and breathing an atmosphere reeking with the stench of filth, garlic and frying fat. I was glad to escape, and get to the "Star Hotel," where, refreshing myself with a chop and brown stout, I could fancy myself, with hardly an effort of the imagination, taking my dinner at an ordinary in the Strand.



TRANSLATIONS.

BY THE REV. THEODORE PARKER.

I.

TWO LOVERS.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF MOHRIKE.)

A light skiff swam on Danube's tide, Where sat a bridegroom and his bride, He this side and she that side.

Quoth she, "Heart's dearest, tell to me, What wedding-gift shall I give thee?"

Upward her little sleeve she strips, And in the water briskly dips.

The young man did the same straightway, And played with her and laughed so gay.

"Ah, give to me, Dame Danube fair, Some pretty toy for my love to wear!"

She drew therefrom a shining blade, For which the youth so long had prayed.

The bridegroom, what holds he in hand? Of milk-white pearls a precious band.

He twines it round her raven hair; She looked how like a princess there!

"Oh, give to me, Dame Danube fair, Some pretty toy for my love to wear!"

A second time her arm dips in, A glittering helm of steel to win.

The youth, o'erjoyed the prize to view, Brings her a golden comb thereto.

A third time she in the water dips. Ah woe! from out the skiff she slips.

He leaps for her and grasps straightway— Dame Danube tears them both away.

The dame began her gifts to rue— The youth must die, the maiden too!

The little skiff floats down alone, Behind the hills soon sinks the sun.

And when the moon was overhead, To land the lovers floated dead, He this side and she that side!

II.

THE FISHER-MAIDEN.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.)

Thou handsome fisher-maiden, Push thy canoe to land; Come and sit down beside me— We'll talk, love, hand in hand.

Thy head lay on my bosom, Be not afraid of me, For careless thou confidest Each day in the wild sea.

My heart is like the ocean, Has storm, and ebb, and flow; And many pearls so handsome Rest in its deeps below.

III.

MY CHILD WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINE.)

My child when we were children, Two children small and gay, We crept into the hen-house And hid us under the hay.

We crowed, as do the cockerels, When people passed the road, "Kikeriki!" and they fancied It was the cock that crowed.

The chests which lay in the court-yard, We papered them so fair, Making a house right famous, And dwelt together there.

The old cat of our neighbor, Came oft to make a call; We made her bows and courtesies, And compliments and all.

We asked with friendly question, How her health was getting on: To many an ancient pussy The same we since have done.

In sensible discoursing We sat like aged men, And told how in our young days All things had better been.

That Truth, Love and Religion From the earth are vanished quite— And now so dear is coffee, And money is so tight!

But gone are childish gambols, And all things fleeting prove— Money, the world, our young days, Religion, Truth and Love.



PAID FOR BY THE PAGE.

BY EDWARD S. GOULD.

The labourer is worthy of his hire. A man who produces an available "article" for a newspaper or a periodical, is as properly entitled to a pecuniary recompense, as a doctor, or a lawyer, or a clergy-man, for professional services; or, as a merchant or a mechanic for his transferable property. This is a simple proposition, which nobody disputes. The rate of such compensation must be a matter of agreement. As between author and publisher, custom seems to have fixed on what an arithmetician would call "square measure," as the basis of the bargain; and the question of adjustment is simplified down to "how much by the column, or the page?"

This system has its advantages in a business point of view; because, when the price, or rate, is agreed on, nothing remains but to count the pages. Whether the publisher or the writer is benefited by this plan of computation, in a literary point of view, may, however, be doubted.

A man who is paid by the page for his literary labour, has every inducement but one to expand lines into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into extravagant dimensions. An idea, to him, is a thing to be manufactured into words, each of which has a money value; and if he can, by that simplest of all processes—a verbal dilution—give to one idea the expansive power of twelve; if he can manage to spread over six pages what would be much better said in half a page, he gains twelve prices for his commodity, instead of one; and he sacrifices nothing but the quality of his commodity—and that is no sacrifice, so long as his publisher and his readers do not detect it.

When a man writes for reputation, he has a very different task before him; for no one will gain high and permanent rank as an author, unless his ideas bear some tolerable proportion to his words. He who aims to write well, will avoid diffuseness. Multum in parvo will be his first consideration; and if he achieves that, he will have secured one of the prime requisites of literary fame.

In the earlier days of our republic, a discussion was held by several of the prominent statesmen of the period, on the expediency of extending the right of suffrage to others than freeholders. Some of the debaters made long speeches; others made short ones. At length, Mr. JAY was called on for his views of the matter. His brief response was: "Gentlemen, in my opinion, those who own the country ought to rule it." If that distinguished patriot had been writing for the bleeding Kansas Quarterly, at the rate of a dollar a page, he would probably have expanded this remark. He might have written thus:

"Every man is born free and independent; or, if he is not, he ought to be. E pluribus unum. He is, moreover, the natural proprietor of the soil; for the soil, without him, is nothing worth. He came from the soil; he lives on the soil; and he must return to the soil. De gustibus, non est disputandum. So much for man in his natural state, breathing his natural air, surrounded by his natural horizon, and luxuriating in his natural prerogatives. But this is a very limited view of the question. Man is expansive, aggressive, acquisitive. Vox populi, vox Dei. Having acquired, he wills to acquire. Acquisition suggests acquisition. Conquest promotes conquest. And, speaking of conquests, the greatest of all conquests is that which a man obtains over himself—provided always that he does obtain it. This secured, he may consider himself up to anything. Arma virumque cano. Owning the soil by right of possession; owning himself by right of conquest; and, being about to establish a form of government conformable to his own views of right and wrong; let him protect the right, confound the wrong, and make his own selection of subordinate officers. Mus cucurrit plenum sed."

This, by way of illustration. The Jay style sounds the best: the dollar-a-page style pays the best. But the dollar-a-page system is a very bad one for the well-being of our newspaper and periodical literature, simply because the chief inducement is on the wrong side. If an author receives twice as much pay for a page as for half a page, he will write a page as a matter of course; and, as a matter of course, the quality of what he writes will be depreciated in geometrical proportion. For the same thing, said in few words, is ten times more effectual than when said in many words.

No doubt, different subjects require different handling, and more space is needed for some than for others. An essay is not necessarily too long because it fills five columns, or fifty pages; but periodical and newspaper writing demands compactness, conciseness, concentration; and the fact of being paid by measurement, is a writer's ever-present temptation to disregard this demand.

The conceit of estimating the value of an article by its length and rating the longest at the highest price, is about as wise as to estimate a man by his inches instead of his intellect.

Certain names there are in the literary world, which carry great weight in a reader's regard, independently of the quality of the contributions. If a Sir Walter Scott were to write for the North American Review, he would temporarily elevate the reputation of the Review, however carelessly he might throw his sentences together. But, theoretically, the articles in our periodical literature are anonymous; and, practically, they stand on their intrinsic merits. And it is out of the question that a system which offers a money premium for the worst fault in periodical writing—to wit, prolixity—should not deteriorate the character of such writing.

Much more might be said on this subject; but, to the wise, a word is sufficient. And it would ill become one who is endeavouring to recommend conciseness, to disfigure that very endeavour by diffuseness.



WORDS FOR MUSIC.

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

I.

I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye, Who was born in the shade The witch-hazel-tree made, Where the brook sang a song All the summer-day long, And the moments, like birdlings went by,— Like the birdlings the moments flew by.

II.

I knew a fair maid, soul enchanting in grace, Who replied to my vow, Neath the hazel-tree bough: "Like the brook to the sea, Oh, I yearn, love, for thee." And she hid in my bosom her face— In my bosom her beautiful face.

III.

I have a dear wife, who is ever my guide; Wooed and won in the shade The witch-hazel tree made, Where the brook sings its song All the summer day long, And the moments in harmony glide, Like our lives they in harmony glide.



"THE CHRISTIAN GREATNESS."

(PASSAGES FROM A MANUSCRIPT SERMON.)

BY THE REV. ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.

THE OFFERING OF CONTRITION.

That deepest lowliness of all—the prostration before God, the prostration in penitence—is the highest honor that humanity can achieve. It is the first great cardinal requisition in the Gospel; and it is not meant to degrade, but to exalt us. Self-condemnation is the loftiest testimony that can be given to virtue. It is a testimony paid at the expense of all our pride. It is no ordinary offering. A man may sacrifice his life to what he calls honor, or conceives to be patriotism, who never paid the homage of an honest tear for his own faults. That was a beautiful idea of the poet, who made the boon that was to restore a wandering shade to the bliss of humanity—a boon sought through all the realm of nature and existence—to consist, not in wealth or splendor, not in regal mercy or canonized glory, but in a tear of penitence. Temple and altar, charity and pity, and martyrdom, sunk before that.

I have seen the magnificence of all ceremonial in worship; and this was the thought that struck me then. Permit me to describe the scene, and to express the thought that rose in my mind, as I gazed upon it. It was in the great cathedral church of the world; and it brings a kind of religious impression over my mind to recall its awfulness and majesty. Above, far above me, rose a dome, gilded and covered with mosaic pictures, and vast as the pantheon of old Rome; the four pillars which supported it, each of them as large as many of our churches; and the entire mass, lifted to five times the height of this building—its own height swelling far beyond; no dome so sublime but that of heaven was ever spread above mortal eye. And beyond this dome, beneath which I stood, stretched away into dimness and obscurity the mighty roofing of this stupendous temple—arches behind arches, fretted with gold, and touched with the rays of the morning sun. Around me, a wilderness of marble; with colors, as variegated and rich as our autumnal woods; columns, pillars, altars, tombs, statues, pictures set in ever-during stone; objects to strike the beholder with neverceasing wonder. And on this mighty pavement, stood a multitude of many thousands; and through bright lines of soldiery, stretching far down the majestic nave, slowly advanced a solemn and stately procession, clothed with purple, and crimson, and white, and blazing with rubies and diamonds; slowly it advanced amidst kneeling crowds and strains of heavenly music; and so it compassed about the altar of God, to perform the great commemorative rite of Christ's resurrection. Expect from me no sectarian deprecation; it was a goodly rite, and fitly performed. But, amidst solemn utterances, and lowly prostrations, and pealing anthems, and rising incense, and all the surrounding magnificence of the scene, shall I tell you what was my thought? One sigh of contrition, one tear of repentance, one humble prayer to God, though breathed in a crypt of the darkest catacomb, is worth all the splendors of this gorgeous ceremonial and this glorious temple.

VIRTUE IN OBSCURITY.

And let me add, that upon many a lowly bosom, the gem of virtue shines more bright and beautiful than it is ever likely to shine in any court of royalty or crown of empire: and this, for the very reason that it shines in loneliness and obscurity, and is surrounded with no circlet of gazing and flattering eyes. There are positions in life, in society, where all loveliness is seen and noted; chronicled in men's admiring comments, and perhaps celebrated in adulatory sonnets and songs. And well, perhaps, that it is so. I would not repress the admiration of society toward the lovely and good. But there is many a lowly cottage, many a lowly bedside of sickness and pain, to which genius brings no offering; to which the footsteps of the enthusiastic and admiring never come; to which there is no cheering visitation—but the visitation of angels! There is humble toil—there is patient assiduity—there is noble disinterestedness—there is heroic sacrifice and unshaken truth. The great world passes by, and it toils on in silence; to its gentle footstep, there are no echoing praises; around its modest beauty, gathers no circle of admirers. It never thought of honor; it never asked to be known. Unsung, unrecorded, is the labor of its life, and shall be, till the heavens be no more; till the great day of revelation comes; till the great promise of Jesus is fulfilled; till the last shall be first, and the lowliest shall be loftiest; and the poverty of the world shall be the riches and glory of heaven.



THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN.

BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

A cherub in its mother's arms, Look'd from a casement high— And pleasure o'er the features stray'd, As on his simple organ play'd A boy of Italy.

So, day by day, his skill he plied, With still increasing zeal, For well the glittering coin he knew, Those fairy fingers gladly threw, Would buy his frugal meal.

But then! alas, there came a change Unheeded was his song, And in his upraised, earnest eye There dwelt a silent wonder, why The baby slept so long.

That polished brow, those lips of Rose Beneath the flowers were laid— But where the music never tires, Amid the white-robed angel choir The happy spirit stray'd.

Yet lingering at the accustom'd place That minstrel ply'd his art, Though its soft symphony of words Convulsed with pain the broken chords Within a mother's heart.

They told him that the babe was dead And could return no more, Dead! Dead!—to his bewildered ear, A foreign language train'd to hear— The sound no import bore.

At length, by slow degrees, the truth O'er his young being stole, And with sad step he went his way No more for that blest babe to play, The tear-drop in his soul.

City of Washington, May 24, 1858.



THE ERL-KING.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.)

BY MRS. E.F. ELLET.

By night through the forest who rideth so fast, While the chill sleet is driving, and fierce roars the blast? 'Tis the father, who beareth his child through the storm, And safe in his mantle has wrapped him from harm.

"My son, why hid'st thy face, as in fear?" "Oh, father! see, father! the Erl-king is near! The Erl-king it is, with his crown and his shroud!" "My boy! it is naught but a wreath of the cloud."

"Oh, pretty child! come—wilt thou go with me! With many gay sports will I gambol with thee; There are flowers of all hues on our fairy strand— My mother shall weave thee robes golden and grand."

"Oh, father! my father! and dost thou not hear What the Erl-king is whispering low in mine ear?" "Be quiet, my darling! thy hearing deceives; 'Tis but the wind whistling among the crisp leaves."

"Oh, beautiful boy! wilt thou come with me!—say! My daughters are waiting to join thee at play! In their arms they shall bear thee through all the dark night— They shall dance, they shall sing thee to slumber so light?"

"My father! oh, father! and dost thou not see Where the Erl-king's daughters are waiting for me?" "My child! 'tis no phantom! I see it now plain; 'Tis but the grey willow that waves in the rain."

"Thy sweet face hath charmed me! I love thee, my joy! And com'st thou not willing, I'll seize thee, fair boy!" "Oh, father! dear father! his touch is so cold! He grasps me! I cannot escape from his hold!"

Sore trembled the father, he spurs through the wild, And folds yet more closely his terrified child; He reaches his own gate in darkness and dread— Alas! in his arms lay the fair child—dead!



THOUGHTS UPON FENELON.

BY THE REV. SAMUEL OSGOOD, D.D.

Fenelon died at Cambray, January 7, 1715, aged 64, some years after the death of Bossuet, his antagonist, and shortly before the death of his royal patron and persecutor, Louis XIV. The conscience of Christendom has already judged between the two parties. Never was the spirit of the good archbishop more powerful than now. Whilst ambitious ecclesiastics may honor more the name of Bossuet, the heart of France has embalmed in its affections the name of his victim, and our common humanity has incorporated him into its body. When Fenelon's remains were discovered in 1804, the French people shouted with joy that Jacobinism had not scattered his ashes, and a monument to his memory was forthwith decreed by Napoleon. In 1826, his statue was erected in Cambray, and three years after, a memorial more eloquent than any statue, a selection from his works, exhibiting the leading features of his mind, bore witness of his power and goodness to this western world. The graceful monument which the wife of Follen thus reared to his memory was crowned by the hand of Channing with a garland that as yet has shown no trace of decay.

To any conversant with that little work, or with the larger productions of Fenelon's mind, need I say a single word of tribute to his character or gifts? Yet something must be said to show the compass of his character, for common eulogium is too indiscriminate in praise, exaggerating certain amiable graces at the expense of more commanding virtues.

He was remarkable for the harmony of his various qualities. In his intellect, reason, understanding, fancy, imagination, were balanced in an almost unexampled degree. The equilibrium of his character showed itself alike in the exquisite propriety of his writings and the careful and generous economy of his substance. He died without property and without debt. Some critics have denied him the praise of philosophical depth. They should rather say, that his love of prying analytically into the secret principles of things was counterbalanced by the desire to exhibit principles in practical combination, and by his preference of truth and virtue in its living portraiture to moral anatomizing or metaphysical dissection. He could grapple wisely with the fatalism of Malebranche and the pantheism of Spinosa, as his controversial works show; he could hold an even argument with the terrible Bossuet on the essence of Christianity. He preferred, however, to exhibit under forms far more winning than controversy, his views of human agency, divine power, and Christian love. The beautiful structure of his narratives, dialogues, and letters, is not the graceful cloak that hides a poverty of philosophical ideas. It is like the covering which the Creator has thrown around the human frame, not to disguise its emptiness, but to incase its energies, and to ease and beautify its action. With this reservation, we will allow it to be said that his mind was more graceful than strong.

His heart was equally balanced with his intellect. Piety and humanity, dignity and humility, justice and mercy, blended in the happiest equilibrium. His gentleness never led him to forget due self-respect, or forego any opportunity of speaking unwelcome truths. Bossuet and Louis, in their pride, as well as young Burgundy, in his confiding attachment, had more than one occasion to recognize the singular truthfulness of this gentle spirit. Measured by prevalent standards, his character may be said to lack one element—fear. His life was love. The text that the beloved disciple drew from his Master's bosom was the constant lesson of his soul: "He that loveth not knoweth not God, for God is love."

His active powers were great, for he filled with efficiency posts of duty so various as to call for different orders of ability. Priest, preceptor, prelate, as well as statesman, poet, orator, theologian, he was eminent in every capacity, and in each sphere took something from his distinction by being rival of himself in other spheres. Take him for all in all—allowing to other men superior excellence in single departments—where can we find a man on the whole so perfect as he was?

I am well aware that he has not escaped disparagement, and that the animadversions of his contemporary, St. Simon, have been more than repeated in the suspicions of the over-skeptical historian Michelet. True, that the courtesy that won the hearts alike of master and servant, the high-born lady who sought his society and the broken-spirited widow who asked his Christian counsel, has been ascribed to a love of praise that rejoiced in every person's homage, or a far-sighted policy that desired every person's suffrage. True, that his self-denial has been called a deep self-interest that would win high honors by refusing to accept the less rewards. True, that his piety has sometimes been called sentimentalism, and an alloy of baser emotion has been hinted at as running through some of his letters to enthusiastic devotees. True, that he has been called very politic and ambitious. We claim for him no superhuman perfection. Nor do we deny that he was a Frenchman, whilst we maintain that he was every inch a man.

But let him be judged not by a skeptical suspicion that doubts from the habit of doubting of virtue, but by the spirit of his whole life. That life, from beginning to end, was an example of the virtue commended by our Lord in his charge to his apostles. Sent forth like a lamb in the midst of wolves, he blended the wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove. Whatever failings he may have had he conquered. His course was ever onward to the mark whither he deemed himself called of God.

We probably have often felt, on reading Fenelon, as if his sweetness of temper were sometimes at the expense of his manliness, and we could easily spare some of his honeyed words for an occasional flow of hearty, even if bitter, indignation. To his credit, however, be it said, that with him gentle speech was often but the smooth edge of faithful counsel most resolutely pointed and sharpened at the consciences of the great whom rudeness would offend and inelegance disgust. Recent discoveries have given ample proof of his unflinching boldness to the French Court. During his banishment (1694-97) he wrote that masterly and fearless letter to Louis XIV., which was not discovered until 1825, and which the most earnest of his eulogists, not even Channing, we believe, seems to have noted. Than these intrepid words, Christian heroism cannot further go.

Would that there were time to speak of his works in their various departments, especially those in the departments of education, social morals, and religion.

No name stands above his among the leaders in the great cause of education. None surpass him in the power with which he defended the mind of woman from the impoverishing and distorting systems prevalent in his day, and by his example and pen taught parents to educate their daughters in a manner that should rebuke vanity and deceit, and blend grace with utility. None went before him in knowledge of the art of taming obstinate boyhood into tenderness, and with all modern improvements our best teachers may find in his works a mine of knowledge and incentive both in their tasks of instruction and discipline.

In social morals he was a great reformer; not, indeed, so remarkable for being engrossed with some favorite innovation, as for urging the constant need of applying Christian truth and duty to every social institution. He rebuked the passion for war, by his own demeanor disarmed the hostility of combatants, and by his instructions struck at the root of warfare in the councils of princes. We may well be amazed at his political wisdom, and taught more emphatically than ever that we are to look for this not to the hack-politicians who think only of the cabals of the moment, but to the sage men who interpret the future from the high ground of reason and right. His political papers embody the lessons that France has since learned by a baptism of blood. Hardly a single principle now deemed necessary for the peace and prosperity of nations, can be named, that cannot be found expressed or implied in Fenelon's various advice to the royal youth under his charge. Well may the better minds of France and Christendom honor his name for the noble liberality with which he qualified the mild conservatism so congenial with his temperament, creed and position.

As a theologian, he constantly breathes one engrossing sentiment. With him, Christianity was the love of God and its morality was the love of the neighbor. Judged by occasional expressions, his piety might seem too ascetic and mystical—too urgent of penance and self-crucifixion—too enthusiastic in emotion, perilling the sobriety of reason in the impassioned fervors of devotion—sometimes bordering upon that overstrained spiritualism, which, in its impulsive flights, is so apt to lose its just balance and sink to the earth and the empire of the senses. He has written some things that prudence, nay, wisdom, might wish to erase. But, qualified by other statements, and above all, interpreted by his own life, his religion appears in its true proportion—without gloom, without extravagance. To his honor be it spoken, that in an age when priests and prelates eminent for saintly piety sanctioned the scourging and death of heretics, and enforced the Gospel chiefly by the fears of perdition, Fenelon was censured for dwelling too much on the power of love, that perfect charity that casteth out fear. It may, perhaps, be a failing with him that he had too little sympathy with the fears and passions of men, and appreciated too little the more sublime and terrible aspects of Divine Providence. His mind was tuned too gently to answer to all of the grandest music of our humanity, and we must abate something of our admiration of him for his want of loyalty to the new ages of Christian thought and heroism. He evidently loved Virgil more than Dante, Cicero more than Chrysostom, and thought the Greek Parthenon, in its horizontal lines and sensuous beauty, a grander and more perfect structure, alike in plan and execution, than Notre Dame or Strasbourg Cathedral, with its uplifting points and spiritual sublimity. He was a Christianized Greek, who had exchanged the philosopher's robe for the archbishop's surplice.

Viewing him now on the whole, considering at once his gifts and graces of mind, and heart, and will; his offerings upon the altar of learning, humanity and religion, we sum up our judgment in a single saying. He worshipped God in the beauty of holiness. His whole being, with all its graces and powers so harmoniously combined, was an offering to God that men cannot but admire and the Most High will not despise.

We may not take leave of Fenelon without applying to our times the teachings of his spirit, the lesson of his life. However rich the topic in occasion for controversial argument, we defer all strife to the inspiration of his gentle and loving wisdom. Let an incident connected with the tomb of Fenelon furnish us an emblem of the spirit in which we shall look upon his name. His remains were deposited in the vault beneath the main altar at which he had so often ministered. It would seem as if some guardian-angel shielded them from desecration. Eighty years passed and the Reign of Terror came upon France in retribution for her falsity to her best advisers. The allied armies were marshalling their hosts against the new republic. Every means must be used to add to the public resources, and the decree went forth that even the tombs should be robbed of their coffins. The republican administrator of the District of Cambray, Bernard Cannonne, in company with a butcher and two artillery-men, entered the cathedral and went down into the vault which held the ashes of so many prelates. The leaden coffins with their contents were carried away and placed upon the cars; but when they came to the inclosure whose tablet bore the name of Fenelon, and lifted it from its bed, it appeared that the lead had become unsoldered and they could take away the coffin and leave the sacred dust it had contained. Years passed, and the reign of Napoleon bringing a better day, rebuked the Vandalism that would dishonor all greatness and spoil even its grave. The facts regarding the acts of desecration were legally ascertained and the bones of the good archbishop triumphantly reserved for a nobler than the ancient sepulchre. There was a poetical justice in the preservation of them from violence. It was well that the bloody revolutionists who went to the tombs for metal to furnish their arsenals, were made, in spite of themselves, to respect the ashes of one whose counsels of duty heeded would have averted that revolution by a system of timely concessions and benignant legislation.

Now that we virtually draw near the resting-place of this good man, let it not be to furnish material for bullets of lead or paper to hurl against theological antagonists. Appreciating the beauty of his spirit, let us learn and apply the rebuke and encouragement it affords. A genius so rare we may not hope to approach or imitate. Graces still more precious and imitable are associated with that genius and create its highest charm. Our time has been worse than thrown away, and our study of his works and his biographies has been in vain, if we are not better, more wise, and earnest, and gentle for the page of history, the illustration of divine providence that has now come before us. Placed in the most perplexing relations, he never lost hold of the calm wisdom that was his chosen guide. Exposed to the most irritating provocations, he never gave up the gentle peacefulness of his spirit.

Our age is not peculiarly ecclesiastical, yet we have not done with the church and its teachers. Many a time of late we have had cause to think with regret of the persuasive eloquence of the Archbishop of Cambray, of the sacred Art that could make truth lovely to wayward youth, and religion beautiful to hard and skeptical manhood. Has it not sometimes seemed as if ambitious prelacy had forgotten the purer example for the baser, and copied Bossuet's pride instead of Fenelon's charity? Nay, has not priestly assumption coveted the talons and forgotten the wings of the Eagle of Meaux and lost sight wholly of the Dove of Cambray? What government or ruler in Christendom would not be the better for a counsellor as eloquent and fearless as he who dared rebuke without reserve the great Louis of France in words like these:

"You do not love God; you do not even fear him but with a slave's fear; it is hell and not God whom you fear. Your religion consists but in superstitions, in petty superficialities. You are like the Jews, of whom God said: 'Whilst they honor me with their lips, their hearts are far from me.' You are scrupulous upon trifles and hardened upon terrible evils. You love only your own glory and comfort. You refer everything to yourself as if you were the God of the earth, and everything else here created only to be sacrificed to you. It is you, on the contrary, whom God has put into the world only for your people."



POEMS.

BY MRS. GEORGE P. MARSH.

I.

EXCELSIOR.

The earnest traveller, who would feed his eye To fullness of content on Nature's charms, Must not forever pace the easy plain. No! he must climb the rugged mountain's side, Scale its steep rocks, cling to its crumbling crags, Nor fear to plunge in it's eternal snows. And yet, if he be wise, he will not choose To find the doubtful way alone, lest night O'ertake him wandering, and her icy breath Chill him to marble; not alone will risk His foot unwonted on the glassy bed Of rifted glacier, lest a step amiss Should hurl him headlong down some fissure dark, That yawns unseen—thence to arise no more. But, furnished with a trusty guide, he mounts From peak to peak in safety, though with toil. Once on the lofty summit, he beholds A glory in earth's kingdom all undreamed Till now. The heavy curtains are withdrawn, That shut the old horizon down so close; And, lo! a world is lying at his feet! A world without a flaw! What late he held But as discordant fragments, now show forth, From this high vantage ground, the perfect parts Of a harmonious whole! He would not dare To change one line in all that picture marvellous Of hill and vale, bright stream and rolling sea, O'erhung by the great sun that gildeth all.

And thou! If thou would'st truly feast thy soul Upon the things invisible of Him Who made the visible, fear not to tread The awful heights of Thought! not to thyself Sole trusting, lest thou perish in thy pride; But following where Faith enlightened leads, Thou shalt not miss or fall. The way is rough, But never toil did win reward so rich As that she findeth here. At every step New prospects open, and new wonders shine! Mount higher still, and whatsoe'er thy pains, Thou'lt envy not the sleeper at thy feet! Visions of truth and beauty shall arise So multiplied, so glorified, so vast, That thy enraptured soul amazed shall cry, "No longer Earth, but the new Heavens I see Lighted forever by the throne of God."

II.

FABLE.

A widow, feeble, old and lonely, Whose flock once numbered many a score, Had now remaining to her only One little lamb, and nothing more.

And every morning forced to send it To scanty pastures far away, With prayers and tears did she commend it To the good saint that named the day.

Nor so in vain; each kindly patron, George, Agnes, Nicolas, Genevieve, Still mindful of the helpless matron, Brought home her lambkin safe at eve.

All-Saints' day dawned; with faith yet stronger, On the whole hallowed choir the dame Doth call—to one she prays no longer,— That day the wolf devoured the lamb!



A STORY OF VENICE.

BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

I.

When I was in Venice I knew the Marchesa Negropontini. Many strangers knew her twenty and thirty years ago. In my time she was old and somewhat withdrawn from society; but as I had been a fellow-student and friend of her grand-nephew in Vienna, I was admitted into her house familiarly, until the old lady felt as kindly toward me, as if I, too, had been a nephew.

Italian life and character are different enough from ours. They are traditionally romantic. But we are apt to disbelieve in the romance which we hear from those concerned. I cannot disbelieve, since I knew this sad, stern Italian woman. Can you disbelieve, who have seen Titian's, and Tintoretto's, and Paolo Veronese's portraits of Venetian women? You, who have floated about the canals of Venice?

I was an American boy; and my very utter strangeness probably made it easier for the Marchesa Negropontini to tell me the story, which I now relate. She told it to me as we sat one evening in the balcony of her house, the palazzo Orfeo, on the Grand Canal.

II.

The Marchesa sat for a long time silent, and we watched the phantom life of the city around us. Presently she sighed deeply and said:

"Ah, me! it is the eve of the Purification. My son, seventy years ago to-day the woman was born whose connection with the house of Negropontini has shrouded it in gloom, like the portrait you have seen in the saloon. Seventy years ago to-day my father's neighbor, the Count Balbo, saw for the first time the face of the first daughter his wife had given him. The countess lay motionless—the flame of existence flickered between life and death.

"'Adorable Mother of God!' said the count, as he knelt by her bedside, 'if thou restorest my wife, my daughter shall be consecrated to thy service.'

"The slow hours dragged heavily by. The mother lived.

"My brother Camillo and I were but two and four years older than our little neighbor. We were children together, and each other's playmates. When the little neighbor, Sulpizia Balbo, was fourteen, Camillo was eighteen. My son, the sky of Venice never shone on a more beautiful girl, on a youth more grave and tender. He loved her with his whole soul. Gran' Dio! 'tis the old, old story!

"She was proud, wayward, passionate, with a splendor of wit and unusual intelligence. He was calm, sweet, wise; with a depthless tenderness of passion. But Sulpizia inherited her will from her father, and at fourteen she was sacrificed to the vow he had made. She was buried alive in the convent of our Lady of the Isle, and my brother's heart with her.

III.

"Sulpizia's powerful nature chafed in the narrow bounds of the convent discipline. But her religious education assured her that that discipline was so much the more necessary, and she struggled with the sirens of worldly desire. The other sisters were shocked and surprised, at one moment by her surpassing fervor, at another by her bold and startling protests against their miserable bondage.

"Often, at vespers, in the dim twilight of the chapel, she flung back her cape and hood, with the tears raining from her eyes and her voice gushing and throbbing with the melancholy music, while the nuns paused in their singing, appalled by the religious ecstasy of Sulpizia. She was so sweet and gentle in her daily intercourse that all of them loved her, bending to her caresses like grain to the breeze; but they trembled in the power of her denunciation, which shook their faith to the centre, for it seemed to be the voice of a faith so much profounder.

"While she was yet young she was elected abbess of the convent. It was a day of triumph for her powerful family. Perhaps the Count Balbo may have sometimes regretted that solemn vow, but he never betrayed repentance. Perhaps he would have been more secretly satisfied by the triumphant worldly career of a woman like his daughter, but he never said so.

"Sulpizia knew that my brother loved her. I think she loved him—at least I thought so.

"The nuns were not jealous of her rule, for the superior genius which commanded them also consoled and counselled; and her protests becoming less frequent, her persuasive affection won all their hearts. They saw that the first fire of youth slowly saddened in her eyes. Her mien became even more lofty; her voice less salient; and a shadow fell gently over her life. The sisters thought it was age; but Sulpizia was young. Others thought it was care; but her duties could not harass such a spirit. Others thought it was repentance; but natures like hers do not early repent.

"It was resolved that the portrait of the abbess should be painted, and the nuns applied to her parents to select the artist. They, in turn, consulted my brother Camillo, who was the friend of the family, and for whom the Count Balbo would, I believe, have willingly unvowed his vow. Camillo had left Venice as the great door of the convent closed behind his life and love. He fled over the globe. He lost himself in new scenes, in new employments. He took the wings of the morning, and flew to the uttermost parts of the earth,[A] and there he found—himself. So he returned an older and a colder man. His love, which had been a passion, seemed to settle into a principle. His life was consecrated to one remembrance. It did not dare to have a hope.

[Footnote A: I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa's.]

"He brought with him a friend whom he had met in the East. Together upon the summit of the great pyramid they had seen the day break over Cairo, and on the plain of Thebes had listened for Memnon to gush with music as the sun struck him with his rod of light. Together they had travelled over the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence only with words that did not profane it. My brother conversing with wise sadness—his friend Luigi with hope and enthusiasm.

"Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother was proud, but real grief prunes the foolish side of pride, while it fosters the nobler. It was a rare and noble friendship. Rare, because pride often interferes with friendships among men, where all conditions are not equal. Noble, because the two men were so, although only one had the name and the means of a nobleman. But he shared these with his friend, as naturally as his friend shared his thoughts with him. Neither spoke much of the past. My brother had rolled a stone over the mouth of that tomb, and his friend was occupied with the suggestions and the richness of the life around him. If some stray leaf or blossom fell forward upon their path from the past, it served to Luigi only as a stimulating mystery.

"'This is my memory,' he would say, touching his portfolio, which was full of eastern sketches. 'These are the hieroglyphics Egypt has herself written, and we can decipher them at leisure upon your languid lagunes.'

"It was not difficult for my brother to persuade Luigi to return with him to Venice. I shall not forget the night they came, as long as I remember anything."

The Marchesa paused a moment, dreamily.

"It was the eve of the Purification," she said, at length, pausing again. After a little, she resumed:

"We were ignorant of the probable time of Camillo's return; and about sunset my mother, my younger sister Fiora, and I, were rowing along the Guidecca, when I saw a gondola approaching, containing two persons only beside the rowers, followed by another with trunks and servants. I have always watched curiously new arrivals in Venice, for no other city in the world can be entered with such peculiar emotion. I had scarcely looked at the new comers before I recognized my brother, and was fascinated by the appearance of his companion, who lay in a trance of delight with the beauty of the place and the hour.

"His long hair flowed from under his slouched hat, hanging about a face that I cannot describe; and his negligent travelling dress did not conceal the springing grace of his figure. But to me, educated in Venice, associated only with its silent, stately nobles; a child, early solemnized by the society of decay and of elders whose hearts were never young, to me the magnetic charm of the young man was his youth, and I gazed at him with the same admiring earnestness with which he looked at the city and the scene.

"The gondolas constantly approached. My brother lay lost in thoughts which were visible in the shadow they cast upon his features. His head rested upon his hand, and he looked fixedly toward the island on which the convent stands. A light summer cloak was drawn around him, and hid his figure entirely, except his arm and hand. His cap was drawn down over his eyes. He was not conscious of any being in the world but Sulpizia.

"Suddenly from the convent tower the sound of the vesper bell trembled in throbbing music over the water. It seemed to ring every soul to prayer. My brother did not move. He still gazed intently at the island, and the tears stole from his eyes. Luigi crossed himself. We did the same, and murmured an Ave Maria.

"'Heavens! Camillo!' cried my mother, suddenly. He started, and was so near that there was a mutual recognition. In a moment the gondolas were side by side, and the greetings of a brother and sisters and mother long parted, followed. Meanwhile, Camillo's companion remained silent, having respectfully removed his hat, and looking as if he felt his presence to be profane at such a moment. But my brother turned, and taking him by the hand, said:

"'Dear mother, I might well have stayed away from you twice as long, could I have hoped to find a friend like this.'

"His companion smiled at the generosity of his introduction. He greeted us all cordially and cheerfully, and the light fading rapidly, we rowed on in the early starlight. The gondolas slid side by side, and there was a constant hum of talk.

"I alone was silent. I felt a sympathy with Camillo which I had never known before. The tears came into my eyes as I watched him gently conversing with my mother, turning now and then in some conversation with Luigi and my younger sister. How I watched Luigi! How I caught the words that were not addressed to me! How my heart throbbed at his sweet, humorous laugh, in which my sister joined, while his eyes wandered wonderingly toward mine, as if to ask why I was so silent. I tried to see that they fastened upon me with special interest. I could not do it. Gracious and gentle to all, I could not perceive that his manner toward me was different, and I felt a new sorrow.

"So we glided over the Lagune into the canal, and beneath the balconied palaces, until we reached our own. The gondolas stopped. Luigi leaped out instantly upon the broad marble pavement, and assisted my mother to alight, then my sister. Then I placed my hand in his, and my heart stood still. It was a moment, but it was also an age. The next instant I stood free upon the step. Free—but bound forever.

"We were passing up the staircase into the palace, Luigi plucked an orange bud and handed it to me. I was infinitely happy!

"A few steps further, and he broke an acacia for my sister: ah! I was miserable!

"We ascended into the great saloon, and a cheerful evening followed. Fascinated by these first impressions of Venice, Luigi abandoned himself to his abundant genius, and left us at midnight, mutually enchanted. Youth and sympathy had overcome all other considerations. We had planned endless days of enjoyment. He had promised to show us his sketches. It was not until our mother asked of my brother who he was, that all the human facts appeared.

"'Heavens!' shouted my younger sister, Fiora, laughing with delight, 'think of the noble Marchese Cicada, who simpers, per Bacco, that the day is warm, and, per dieci, that I am lovelier than ever. Viva Luigi! Viva O il pittore.'

"'My daughter,' said my grave, cautious mother, 'you are very young yet—you do not understand these things. Good night, my child!'

"Fiora kissed her on the brow, and darted out of the room as if she were really alive.

"When she had gone, Camillo smiled in his cold, calm way, and turning to me, asked how I liked Luigi. I answered calmly, for I was of the same blood as my brother. I did not disguise how much superior I thought him to the youth I knew. I was very glad he had found such a friend, and hoped the young man would come often to see us, and be very successful in his profession.

"Then I was silent. I did not say that I had never lived until that evening. I did not say how my heart was chilled, because, in leaving the room, Luigi's last glance had not been for me, but for Fiora.

"Camillo did not praise him much. It was not his way; but I felt how deeply he honored and loved him, and was rejoiced to think that necessity would often bring us together; only my mother seemed serious, and I knew what her gravity meant.

"'Do not be alarmed, dear mother,' I said to her, as I was leaving the room.

"'My daughter,' she answered, with infinite pride, 'it is not possible. I do not understand you. And you, my daughter, you do not understand yourself nor the world."

"She was mistaken. Myself I did understand; the world I did not."

Again the Marchesa was silent and tears stood in her eyes. She was seventy years old. Yes, but in love's calendar there is no December.

"The days passed, and we saw Luigi constantly. He was very busy, but found plenty of time to be with us. His paintings were full of the same kind of power I felt in his character. He never wearied of the gorgeous atmospheric effects of which Titian and Paul, Giorgione and Tintoretto were the old worshippers. They touched him sometimes with a voluptuous melancholy in which he found a deeper inspiration.

"Every day I loved him more and more, and nobody suspected it. He did not, because he was only glad to be in my society when he wanted criticism. He liked me as an intelligent woman. He loved Fiora as a bewitching child.

"My mother watched us all, and soon saw there was nothing to fear. I sought to be lively—to frequent society; for I knew if my health failed I should be sent away from Venice and Luigi. He had given me a drawing—a scene composed from our first meeting upon the Lagune. The very soul of evening repose brooded upon the picture. It had even an indefinable tone of sadness, as if he had incorporated into it the sound of the vesper bell. It had been simply a melancholy sound to him. To the rest of us, who loved Camillo, it was something more than that. In his heart the mere remembrance of the island rang melancholy vespers forever.

"This drawing I kept in a private drawer. At night, when I went to my chamber, I opened the drawer and looked at it. It lay so that I did not need to touch it; and as I gazed at it, I saw all his own character, and all that I had felt and lived since that evening.

"At length the day came, on which the parents of Sulpizia came to my brother to speak of her portrait. Camillo listened to them quietly, and mentioned his friend Luigi as a man who could understand Sulpizia, and therefore paint her portrait. The parents were satisfied. It was an unusual thing; but at that time, as at all times, a great many unusual things could be done in convents, especially if one had a brother, who was Cardinal Balbo.

IV.

"It was a bright morning that Camillo carried Luigi in his gondola to the convent. He had merely said to him that there was a beautiful abbess to paint, an old friend of his; and Luigi replied that he would always willingly desert beautiful waters and skies for beautiful eyes. They reached the island"—

The Marchesa beat the floor slowly with her foot, and controlled herself, as if a spasm of mortal agony had seized her.

"They reached the island, and stepped ashore into the convent garden. They went into the little parlor, and presently the abbess entered veiled. My brother, who had not seen her since she was his playmate, could not pierce the veil; and as calmly as ever told her briefly the name of his friend, said a few generous words of him, and, rising, promised to call at sunset for Luigi, and departed."

The Marchesa now spoke very rapidly.

"I do not well know—nobody knows—but Sulpizia raised her veil, and Luigi adjusted his easel. He painted—they conversed—the day fled away. Sunset came. Camillo arrived in his gondola, and Luigi came out without smiling. The gondoliers pulled toward the city.

"'Is she beautiful?' asked Camillo.

"'Wonderful,' responded his friend, and said no more. He trailed his hands in the water, and then wiped them across his brow. He took off his hat and faced the evening breeze from the sea. He cried to the gondoliers that they were lazy—that the gondola did not move. It was darting like a wind over the water.

"The next day they returned to the island—and the next. But at sunset, Luigi did not come to the gondola. Camillo waited, and sat until it was quite dark. Then he went through the garden of the convent, and inquired for the painter. They sought him in the parlor. He was not there. The abbess was not there. Upon the easel stood her portrait partly finished—strangely beautiful. Camillo had followed into the room, and stood suddenly before the picture. He had not seen Sulpizia since she was a child. Even his fancy had scarcely dreamed of a face so beautiful. His knees trembled as he stood, and he fell before it in the attitude of prayer. The last red flash of daylight fell upon the picture. The eyes smiled—the lips were slightly parted—a glow of awakening life trembled all through the features.

"The strong man's heart was melted, and the nuns beheld him kneeling and weeping before the portrait of their abbess.

"But where was she?

"Nobody knew. There was no clue—except that the gondola of the convent was gone.

"Camillo took the portrait and stepped into his gondola. He returned to the city, to the palace of Sulpizia's parents. Slowly he went up the great staircase, dark and silent, up which his eager steps had followed the flying feet of Sulpizia. He entered the saloon slowly, like a man who carries a heavy burden—but rather in his heart than in his hands.

"'It is all that remains to you of your daughter,' said he in a low voice, throwing back his cloak, and revealing the marvellous beauty of their child's portrait to the amazed parents. Then came the agony—a child lost—a friend false.

"Camillo returned to us and told the tale. I felt my heart wither and grow old. My mother was grieved in her heart for her son's sorrow—in her pride for its kind and method. Fiora did not smile any more. Her step was no longer bounding upon the floor and the stairs, and the year afterward she married the Marchese Cicada.

"The next day, Camillo returned to the island. The abbess had not returned, nor had any tidings been received. Only the gondola had been found in the morning in its usual place. The days passed. A new abbess was chosen. The church did not dare to curse the fugitive, for there was no proof that she had willingly gone away. It might be supposed—it could not be proved. Camillo hung in his chamber the unfinished portrait, and a black veil shrouded it from chance and curious eyes. He did not seem altered. He was still calm and grave—still cold and sweet in his general intercourse.

"My friendship with him became more intimate. He saw that I was much changed—for although pride can do much, the heart is stronger than the head. But he had no suspicion of the truth. People who suffer intensely often forget that there are other sufferers in the world, you know. Camillo was very tender toward me, for he thought that I was paying the penalty of too warm a sympathy with him, and often begged me not to wear away my health and youth in commiseration for what was past and hopeless. I cultivated my consciousness of his suffering as a defence against my own. We never mentioned the names of either of those of whom we were always thinking; but once in many months he would call me into his chamber and remove the veil from the portrait, while we stood before it as silent as devotees in a church before the picture of the Madonna. Camillo pursued his affairs—the cares of his estate—the duties of society. He assembled all the strangers of distinction at his table. Yes, it was a rare and great triumph.

"For myself, I was mistress of my secret, and I reveal it to you for the first time. Why not? I am seventy years old. You know none of the persons—you hear it as you would read a romance. My heart was broken—my faith was lost—and I have never met since any one who could restore it. I distrust the sweetest smile if it move me deeply, and although men may sometimes be sincere, yet sorrow is so sure that we must steer by memory, not by hope. In this world we must not play that we are happy. That play has a frightful forfeit. Society is wise. It eats its own children, whose consolation is that after this world there is another—and a better, say the priests. Of course—for it could not be a worse.

V.

"Suddenly Sulpizia returned. My brother was in his library when a messenger came for him from her parents. He ran breathless and pale to his gondola. The man was conquered in that moment and the wild passion of the boy flamed up again. When he reached the Balbo palace he paused a moment, despite himself, upon the stairs, and the calmness of the man returned to him. Nature is kind in that to her noble children. Their regrets, their despairs, their lightning flashes of hope, she does not reveal to those who cause them. Every man is weak, but the weakness of the strong man is hidden. He entered the saloon. There stood Sulpizia with her parents.

"Death and victory were in her eyes. They were fearfully hollow; and the strongly-carved features, from which the flesh had fallen during the long struggles of the soul, were pure and pale as marble. It seemed as if she must fall from weakness, but not a muscle moved.

"Nothing was said. Camillo stood before the woman who had always ruled his soul, to whom it was still loyal. The parents stood appalled behind their daughter. It was a wintry noon in Venice—cold and still.

"'Camillo,' said Sulpizia at length, in a tone not to be described, but seemingly destitute of emotion—as the ocean might seem when a gale calmed it—'he has left me.'

"Child, I have not fathomed the human heart; but after a long, long silence my brother answered only, I know not from what feeling of duty and of sacrifice:

"'Sulpizia, will you marry me?'

* * * * *

"Cardinal Balbo arranged the matter at Rome, and after a short time they were married. I was the only one present with the parents of Sulpizia, who were glad enough so to cover what they called their daughter's shame. My mother would not come, but left Venice that very day and died abroad. The circumstances of the marriage were not comprehended; but the old friends of the family came occasionally to make solemn, stately visits, which my brother scrupulously returned.

"You may believe that we enjoyed a kind of mournful peace after the dark days of the last few years. I loved Sulpizia, but her cheerfulness without smiling was the awful serenity of wintry sunlight. She faded day by day. It was clear to us that the end was not far away.

"Two years after the marriage, Sulpizia was lying upon a couch in the room behind us, where you have seen the veiled portrait which hung in my brother's chamber. All the long windows and doors were open and we sat by her side, talking gently in whispers. I knew that death was at hand, but I rejoiced to think that much as he had suffered, there was one bitter drop that had been spared him.

"Sulpizia's voice was scarcely audible, and the deadly pallor deepened every moment upon her face. Camillo bent over her without speaking, and bowed his head. I stood apart. In a little while she seemed to be unconscious of our presence. Her eyes were open and her glance was toward the window, but her few words showed her mind to be wandering. Still a few moments, and her lips moved inaudibly, she lifted her hands to Camillo's face and drew it toward her own with infinite tenderness. His listening soul heard one word only—the glimmering phantom of sound—it was 'Luigi.'

"His head bowed more profoundly. Sulpizia's eyes were closed. I crossed her hands upon her breast. I touched my brother—he started a moment—looked at me, at his wife, and sunk slowly, senseless by the couch."

VI.

Think of it! The birds sing—the sun shines—the leaves rustle—the flowers bud and bloom—children shout—young hearts are happy—the world wheels on—and such tragedies are, and always have been!

I sat with the old Marchesa upon her balcony, and listened to this terrible tale. She tells it no more, for she is gone now. The Marchesa tells it no more, but Venice tells it still; and as you glide in your black gondola along the canal, under the balconies, in the full moonlight of summer nights, listen and listen; and vaguely in your heart or in your fancy you will hear the tragic strain.



THE TORTURE CHAMBER.

BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

Down the broad, imperial Danube, As its wandering waters guide, Past the mountains and the meadows, Winding with the stream, we glide.

RATISBON we leave behind us, Where the spires and gables throng, And the huge cathedral rises, Like a fortress, vast and strong.

Close beside it, stands the Town-Hall, With its massive tower, alone, Brooding o'er the dismal secret, Hidden in its heart of stone.

There, beneath the old foundations, Lay the prisons of the State, Like the last abodes of vengeance, In the fabled realms of Fate.

And the tides of life above them, Drifted ever, near and wide, As at Venice, round the prisons, Sweeps the sea's incessant tide.

Never, like the far-off dashing, Or the nearer rush of waves, Came the tread or murmur downward, To those dim, unechoing caves.

There the dungeon clasped its victim, And a stupor chained his breath. Till the torture woke his senses, With a sharper touch than death.

Now, through all the vacant silence, Reign the darkness and the damp, Broken only when the traveller Comes to gaze, with guide and lamp.

All about him, black and shattered, Eaten with the rust of Time, Lie the fearful signs and tokens Of an age when Law was Crime.

And the guide, with grim precision, Tells the dismal tale once more, Tells to living men the tortures Living men have borne before.

Well that speechless things, unconscious, Furnish forth that place of dread, Guiltless of the crimes they witnessed, Guiltless of the blood they shed;

Else what direful lamentations, And what revelations dire, Ceaseless from their lips would echo, Tossed in memory's penal fire.

Even as we gaze, the fancy With a sudden life-gush warms, And, once more, the Torture Chamber, With its murderous tenants swarms.

Yonder, through the narrow archway, Comes the culprit in the gloom, Falters on the fatal threshold— Totters to the bloody doom.

Here the executioner, lurking, Waits, with brutal thirst, his hour, Tool of bloodier men and bolder, Drunken with the dregs of power.

There the careful leech sits patient, Watching pulse, and hue, and breath, Weighing life's remaining scruples With the heavier chance of death.

Eking out the little remnant, Lest the victim die too soon, And the torture of the morning Spare the torture of the noon.

Here, behind the heavy grating, Sits the scribe, with pen and scroll, Waiting till the giant terror Bursts the secrets of the soul;

Till the fearful tale of treason From the shrinking lips is wrung, Or the final, false confession Quivers from the trembling tongue;

When the spirit, torn and tempted, Tried beyond its utmost scope, By an anguish past endurance, Madly cancels all its hope;

From the pointed cliffs of torture, With its shrieks upon the air, Suicidal, plunging blindly, In the frenzy of despair!

* * * * *

But the grey old tower is fading, Fades, in sunshine, from the eye, Like some evil bird whose pinion Dimly blots the distant sky.

So the ancient gloom and terror Of the ages fade away, In the sunlight of the present, Of our better, purer day!



THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE.

A PASSAGE FROM A DIARY.

BY W. FRANCIS WILLIAMS.

"Such shrines as these are pilgrim shrines— Shrines to no code or creed confined; The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind."

HALLECK.

The date is September 5, 1857. I am at Haworth, whither I had walked from the Bradford Station, some ten or twelve miles distant. This Haworth—a place but a few years since quite unknown to any but the few residing in its immediate vicinity—is built upon the side of a hill, and, with its long line of grey houses creeping up the slope, seems like a huge saurian monster, sprawling along the hill-side, his head near the top and his tail reaching nearly to the vale below. At the summit, in the very head of our saurian, stands Haworth Parsonage, and the church near by, with the square old tower rising above the houses that cluster about it. I well remember my first view of this place. It was an autumn afternoon, and near sunset. The sky had been cloudy, but as I stopped to take my first long look at the little village, so hallowed by the memory of the Bronte sisters, the declining sun sent through a breach in the clouds a few spears of dazzling light, that played about the old church and parsonage with an ineffable glory. It lasted but a few moments, the sun went down, and darkness and night gradually settled over the scene. The little incident seemed almost like a type of the life of the gifted woman chiefly to whom Haworth owes its fame; for her life, like this very day, had been dark and wearisome, overshadowed by clouds of cares, tears falling like rain-drops upon new-made graves, until near its close, when there came a sweet season of bright domestic happiness, that lasted too shortly, and then gave place to the darkness and night of death.

Strolling through the village, after my quiet meal at the Black Bull Inn, which poor Branwell Bronte had so often frequented, I stopped to make some trifling purchases at a stationery store, and casually asked the proprietor—a small, delicate-looking man, with a bright eye and a highly intellectual countenance—if he remembered the Bronte sisters. It was a fortunate question, for he knew them well, and was a personal friend of the authoress of Jane Eyre, to whose handsomely-framed portrait he proudly pointed. He had provided her, as he said, with joyful delight, with the paper on which she wrote the manuscripts of most of her novels; he is referred to in one of Miss Bronte's letters to Mrs. Gaskell, as her "one friend in Haworth," and is the "working-man" mentioned in her memoirs, who wrote a little critique on Jane Eyre, that came to the notice of the authoress and afforded her great pleasure. To talk of the Bronte girls—to express his admiration of them to one who had come from America to visit their home and grave, was to him a great gratification. He told me how he used to meet them on the moors—how they were accustomed to stroll all three together, and talk and gather flowers; then how Emily died, and Anne and Charlotte were left to pace the familiar path arm-in-arm; then how they took Anne away to the sea-side, whence she never returned, while Charlotte would take her lonely moorland walk, rapt in sad contemplation. Sometimes he would meet her on these occasions, and if he passed by without attracting her attention, she would chide him when told of it afterward. She was always so kind, so good-hearted, and with those she knew, so really sociable.

Sunday, with my new friend, I attended the church. The storm of the day before had cleared away, and even the place of graves looked bright and cheerful. The churchyard was crowded with country people from miles around, who sat carelessly on the long, flat stones that so thickly covered the ground, waiting for the opening services, while the parish bell kept up a merry peal. Everything seemed simple and happy, and I do not wonder that the Brontes loved their home, with its little garden of lilac bushes, the old church in front, and the sweeping moors stretching far behind. On many a Sunday morning like this they had trodden the very path I then was treading, and had entered the church-door; but how few of these simple villagers knew the treasures of genius showered on these quiet, reserved sisters!

The church inside is old, and quaint, and simple; it can neither be called elegant, comfortable, spacious nor antique. Old Mr. Bronte was to preach, and the Rev. Mr. Nicholls read the service. As a compliment to a stranger, I had been invited by the organist of the church to play the organ—a neat little instrument of some eight or ten stops; and it was while "giving out" the familiar tune of Antioch that I noticed, in the reflection of a little mirror placed above the keyboard, that Mr. Bronte had entered the church, and was passing up the aisle. He wore the customary black gown, and the lower part of his face was quite buried in an enormous white neckcloth—the most monstrous article of the kind I had ever beheld. The reflection in that little mirror I shall never forget. The old man, walking feebly up the aisle, shading his eyes with his right hand, and supporting himself with a cane, the quiet congregation, and the singular dress and venerable bald head of the old preacher, all formed a character-picture, that is not often seen. His sermon was extempore, and consisted of a series of running paraphrases and simple and touching explanations upon a few verses selected from the Lamentations of Jeremiah.

* * * * *

After church, my friend the stationer walked with me on the moors. Charlotte Bronte's experience of the world was so very limited, that in drawing the characters in her novels, she had to select the real, living people in the vicinity. Thus, my friend pointed out one house and another to me as being the residence of many of the originals of many of the characters in her works, especially in "Shirley." Soon, however, our path across the moors took us out of human habitations, and among the moorland solitudes the Bronte sisters so fondly loved. Cold and desolate as they appear from a distance, a nearer examination proves them to be replete with exquisite beauty. Delicate heather-blooms carpet the immense slope, and bend like nodding plumes, in graceful waves, to the breezes that play heedlessly down the hill-side. Gay yellow buttercups, bright purple heath-flowers, and dark bilberries, vary the general violet tint, while the tiny stems of these gentle plants spring from rich tufts of emerald moss, and are pushed aside by the spray-like leaves of the wild fern. The hum of bees imparts a half busy, half drowsy sound to the scene, while far down the long easy slopes are little valleys, through which trickle talkative brooks, that sometimes peep between the low foliage on their margins, and are the next moment lost to sight behind the crowding bushes. It is no wonder that Charlotte and her sisters loved their quiet walks along the moors.

The next day I bade farewell to Haworth. It is now frequently included in the route of American tourists, by many of whom the memory of Charlotte Bronte is as fondly cherished as by her own countrymen and women; and Haworth is no longer the quiet, unknown Yorkshire hamlet that it was a few years ago.



THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST.

BY THE REV. E.A. WASHBURN.

Silent stood the youthful sculptor Gazing on the breathing stone From the chaos of the marble Into godlike being grown. But a gloom was on his forehead, In his eye a drooping glance, And at length the heavy sorrow From the lip found utterance:

"Holy Art! thy shapes of beauty Have I carved, but ne'er before Reached my thought a faultless image, Still unbodied would it soar; Still the pure unfound Ideal Would ensoul a fairer shrine; In my victory I perish, And no loftier aim is mine."

Noble artist! thine the yearning, Thine the great inspiring word, By the sleepless mind forever In its silent watches heard; For the earthly it is pleasure Only earthly ends to gain; For the seeker of the perfect, To be satisfied is pain.

Visions of an untold glory Milton saw in his eclipse, Paradise to outward gazers Lost, with no apocalypse; Holier Christ and veiled Madonnas, Painted were on Raphael's soul; Melodies he could not utter O'er Bethoven's ear would roll.

Ever floats the dim Ideal Far before the longing eyes; Ever, as we travel onward, Boundless the horizon flies; Not the brimming cups of wisdom Can the thirsty spirit slake, And the molten gold in pouring Will the mould in pieces break.

Voice within our inmost being, Calling deep to answering deep, Midst the life of weary labor Thou shalt waken us from sleep! All our joy is in our Future And our motion is our rest, Still the True reveals the Truer, Still the good foretells the Best.



JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE.

BY CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND.

To talk about the weather is the natural English and American mode of beginning an acquaintance.

This day—the one that glares upon us at our present writing—is eminently able to melt away what is called the frost of ceremony, and to induce the primmest of us to throw off all disguises that can possibly be dispensed with. It is a day to bring the most sophisticated back to first principles. The very thought of wrapping anything up in mystery, to-day, brings a thrill like the involuntary protest of the soul against cruelty. We are not even as anxious as usual to cover up our faults. We hesitate at enveloping a letter.

The shimmer that lives and moves over yonder dry fallow, as if ten thousand million fairies were fanning themselves with midges' wings, fatigues the eye with a notion of unnecessary exertion. Wiser seems yon glassy pool, moveless, under heavy, not melancholy, boughs. That is reflecting—keeping one pleasant thought all the time—satisfying itself with one picture for a whole morning, as we all did while the "Heart of the Andes" was laid open to our longing gaze. The pool has the advantage of us, too; for it receives into its waveless bosom the loveliness of sky and tree without emotion, while we, gazing on the wondrous transcript made by mortal man of these measureless glories, felt our souls stirred, even to pain, with a sense of the artist's power, and of the amount of his precious life that must have gone into such a creation.

By the way, if we had energy enough to-day to wish anything, it would be to find ourselves far away amid flashing seas and wild winds, hunting icebergs, with Church for our Columbus, his banner of Excelsior streaming over us, his wondrous eye piercing the distant wreaths of spray, in search of domes and pinnacles of opal and lapis lazuli, turned, now to diamonds, now to marble, by sun and shade. One whose good fortune it was to be with the young discoverer at Niagara, came away with the feeling of having acquired a new sense, by the potent magic of genius.

But to-day, Art is nothing—genius is nothing—but no! that is blasphemous. It is we that are nothing—if not stupid. Dullness is the universe. The grasshoppers are too faint to sing, the birds sit still on the boughs, waiting for the leaves to fan them. Children are wilted into silence and slumberous nonentity; boys do not bathe to-day—they welter, hour after hour, in the dark water near the shaded rock. Even they and the tadpoles can hardly be seen to wriggle. The cow has found a shade, and, preferring repose to munching, lies contented under the one great elm mercifully left in the middle of her pasture.

A hot day in June is hotter than any other hot day. It finds us cruelly unguarded. After we have been gently baked awhile, the crust thus acquired makes us somewhat tortoise-like and quiescent. If we were condemned to suffer thirty-nine stripes, or even only as many as belong to our flag, would it or would it not be a privilege to take them by degrees, say one on the first day, two on the second, four on the third, etc., in the celebrated progression style, until the whole were accomplished? Or were it better to have the whole at once, and so be done with it? In either case, or in present case, what a blessing to be made pachydermatous! (a learned word lately acquired by ladies, though doubtless long familiar to lords).

But words beginning with the sound of ice, are more agreeable for to-day—such as icicle, isolation, Islip.

Some unhappy critic has said that the "icicle that hangs on Diana's temple" is not colder than other icicles. We pity him, and would like to try the comparison to-day. We have already tried "thinking on the frosty Caucasus," and quite agree with Claudio—was it, or Romeo, or who?—that this is of no service in case of fire.

Delicious music for to-day—the tinkling of ice in the pitcher, as Susan, slowly and carefully, brings up-stairs the water we wait for. It were really a loss to have the way shorter, or the servant a harum-scarum thing who would dash in with her precious burden before one knew it was coming.

We might try, to-day, the latest novelty in cookery, a ball of solid ice wrapped in puff-paste, and baked so adroitly that the paste shall be brown while the ice remains unmelted.

Akin to this, is an antique achievement culinary, as old as Mrs. Glasse, at least—the roasting of a pound of butter, an operation not unlike the very work we are engaged in at this moment—indeed so like it, that the remembrance has occurred several times. Your pound of butter is to be thoroughly crusted in bread-crumbs to begin with, and then put upon the spit and turned before a very hot fire; the unhappy cook standing by to dredge on crumbs continually, to prevent the slippery article from running away. When the crumbs (and cook) are quite roasted, the thing is done.

And so should we be, but that here comes a thunder storm, fit conclusion for an intense day, and very like the sudden and terrific blowings up which terminate the most ferocious kind of friendships. Thick clouds, shaped like piles of cannon balls, have slowly peered up from behind the horizon, and rolled themselves hither and thither, spreading and gathering as they went. Now and then a thunder-whisper is heard, so faint, that if we were conversing, we should not notice it; and an occasional flash of lightning seems, in the sun's glare, like the waving of a curtain by the fitful breeze that begins to touch the pool here and there. The cloud masses gather fresh and fresh accession as they move on, like revolutionary armies marching up to battle. Looking overhead, there seems a field-day in heaven; great bodies of artillery in motion, forming themselves into solid phalanx, and giving more and more dreadful notes of preparation. Volleys tell when divisions join, and the light that announces them is as if the adamantine arch were riven, disclosing dread splendors unspeakable Most grand, most beautiful storm! New music—that of the delicious rain, and in such abundance that it washes away the very memory of the parched and burning day. No wild commotion, no terror! Sublime order and an awe which is like peace. One more proof of the unfailing, tender love of our heavenly Father.



NO SONGS IN WINTER.

BY T. B. ALDRICH.

I

The robin and the oriole, The linnet and the wren— When shall I see their fairyships, And hear their songs again?

II.

The wind among the poplar trees, At midnight, makes its moan; The slim red cardinal flowers are dead, And all sweet things are flown!

III.

A great white face looks down from heaven, The great white face of Snow; I cannot sing or morn or even, The demon haunts me so!

IV.

It strikes me dumb, it freezes me, I sing a broken strain— Wait till the robins and the wrens And the linnets come again!



THE BENI-ISRAEL.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Crammed—lobbies, galleries, boxes, floor; Heads piled on heads at every door. The actors were a painted group, Of statue shapes, a "model" troupe, With figures not severely Greek, And drapery more or less antique; The play, if one might call it so, A Hebrew tale, in silent show.

And with the throng the pageant drew There mingled Hebrews, not a few, Coarse, swarthy, bearded—at their side Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed. If scarce a Christian hope for grace, That crowds one in his narrow place, What will the savage victim do, Whose ribs are kneaded by a JEW?

Close on my left, a breathing form Sat wedged against me, soft and warm; The vulture-beaked and dark-browned face Betrays the mould of Abraham's race; That coal-black hair—and bistred hue— Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew! I started, shuddering to the right, And squeezed—a second Israelite!

Then rose the nameless words that slip From darkening soul to whitening lip. The snaky usurer,—him that crawls, And cheats beneath the golden balls, The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes— I stabbed them deep with muttered oaths: Spawn of the rebel wandering horde That stoned the saints, and slew their Lord!

Up came their murderous deeds of old— The grisly story Chaucer told, And many an ugly tale beside, Of children caught and crucified. I heard the ducat-sweating thieves Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves, And thrust beyond the tented green, The leper's cry, "Unclean, unclean!"

The show went on, but, ill at ease, My sullen eye it could not please; In vain the haggard outcast knelt, The white-haired patriarch's heart to melt; I thought of Judas and his bribe, And steeled my soul against his tribe. My neighbors stirred; I looked again, Full on the younger of the twain.

A soft young cheek of olive brown, A lip just flushed with youthful down, Locks dark as midnight, that divide And shade the neck on either side; An eye that wears a moistened gleam, Like starlight in a hidden stream; So looked that other child of Shem, The maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!

And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood That flows untainted from the Flood! Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes! Scum of the nations! In thy pride Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side, And, lo! the very semblance there The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!

I see that radiant image rise,— The midnight hair, the starlit eyes; The faintly-crimsoned cheek that shows The stain of Judah's dusky rose. Thy hands would clasp His hallowed feet Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat; Thy lips would press His garment's hem, That curl in scornful wrath for them!

A sudden mist, a watery screen, Dropped like a veil before the scene; I strove the glistening film to stay, The wilful tear would have its way. The shadow floated from my soul, And to my lips a whisper stole, Soft murmuring, as the curtain fell, "Peace to the Beni-Israel!"



BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET.

From the Portuguese of Manoel de Barbosa do Bocage.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

I've seen my life, without a noble aim, In the mad strife of passions waste away. Fool that I was! to live as if decay Would spare the vital essence in my frame! And Hope, whose flattering dreams are now my shame, Showed years to come, a long and bright array, Yet all too soon my nature sinks a prey To the great evil that with being came. Pleasures, my tyrants! now your reign is past: My soul, recoiling, casts you off to lie In that abyss where all deceits are cast. Oh God! may life's last moments, as they fly, Win back what years have lost, that he, at last, Who knew not how to live, may learn to die.

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THE END