Chapter II: Part 2

Just then a great roar came from the hall, and the oldest boy burst into the room. “Mother! mother! Hannah shut me up she did!” A word from his father silenced him, and Lucy took her dirty, ill dressed boy by the hand and left the room. She could not restrain her tears, but her keen sense of right prevented her punishing the child, as she was fully aware, had he been properly dressed, she would not have objected to his presence, and that he was only claiming an accorded privilege. Mr. Eustace very soon left, and as soon as the door closed on him Clifton thought: “I never can hope to see a friend in comfort until I can afford to keep a house-keeper. Was there ever such a curse in a man’s house as a procrastinating spirit?” With such feelings it may be supposed he could not meet his wife with any degree of cordiality. Lucy said, “There was no help for it, she had done her very best.” Clifton answered her contemptuously; wearied and exhausted with the fatigues of the day, she made no reply, but rose up and retired to rest, glad to seek in sleep forgetfulness of the weary life she led. Clifton had been unusually irritated; when the morrow came, it still manifested itself in many ways that bore hard on Lucy; she did not reply to an angry word that fell from his lips, but she felt none the less deeply. Some misconduct in the child induced him to reflect with bitterness on her maternal management. She drew her hand over her eyes to keep back the tears, her lip quivered, and her voice trembled as she uttered:

“Do not speak so harshly Clifton, if the fault is all mine, most certainly the misery is also!”

“Of what avail is it to speak otherwise?” he said sternly, “you deserve wretchedness, and it is only the sure result of your precious system.”

“Did you ever encourage me to reform, or point out the way?” urged Lucy, gently.

“I married a woman for a companion, not a child to instruct her,” he answered bitterly.

“Ay—but I was a child! happy—so happy in that olden time, with all to love, and none to chide me. A child, even in years, when you took me for a wife—too soon a mother, shrinking from my responsibilities, and without courage to meet my trials. I found no sympathy to encourage me—no forbearance that my years were few—no advice when most I needed it—no tenderness when my heart was nearly breaking. It is the first time, Clifton, I have reproached you; but the worm will turn if it is trodden upon,” and Lucy left the room. It was strange, even to herself, that she had spoken so freely, yet it seemed a sort of relief to the anguish of her heart. That he had allowed her to depart without reply did not surprise her; it may be doubted, although her heart pined for it, if ever she expected tenderness from Clifton more. It was perhaps an hour after her conversation with Clifton, Lucy sat alone in the nursery; her baby was asleep in the cradle beside her; they were alone together, and as she gazed on its happy face, she hoped with an humble hope, to rear it up, that it might be enabled to _give_ and receive happiness. There was a slight rap at the door; she opened it, and a glad cry escaped her,—“Uncle Joshua!” she exclaimed. He took her in his arms for a moment,—that kindly and excellent old man, while a tear dimmed his eye as he witnessed her joy at seeing him. She drew a stool towards him, and sat down at his feet as she had often done before in her happy, girlish days; she was glad when his hand rested on her head, even as it had done in another time; she felt a friend had come back to her, who had her interest nearly at heart, who had loved her long and most tenderly. Mr. Tremaine was the brother of Lucy’s mother—he had arrived in town unexpectedly; indeed had come chiefly with a view of discovering the cause of Lucy’s low-spirited letters—he feared all was not right, and as she was the object of almost his sole earthly attachment, he could not rest in peace while he believed her unhappy. He was fast approaching three score years and ten; never was there a warmer heart, a more incorruptible, or sterling nature. Eccentric in many things, possessing some prejudices, which inclined to ridicule in himself, no man had sounder common sense, or a more careful judgment. His hair was white, and fell in long smooth locks over his shoulders; his eye-brows were heavy, and shaded an eye as keen and penetrating as though years had no power to dim its light. The high, open brow, and the quiet tenderness that dwelt in his smile, were the crowning charms of a countenance on which nature had stamped her seal as her “noblest work.” He spoke to Lucy of other days, of the happy home from whence he came, till her tears came down like “summer rain,” with the mingling of sweet and bitter recollections. Of her children next, and her eye lighted, and her color came bright and joyous—the warm feelings of a mother’s heart responded to every word of praise he uttered. Of her husband—and sadly “Uncle Joshua” noticed the change;—her voice was low and desponding, and a look of sorrow and care came back to the youthful face: “Clifton was succeeding in business; she was gratified and proud of his success,” and that was all she said.

“Uncle Joshua’s” visit was of some duration. He saw things as they really were, and the truth pained him deeply. “Lucy,” he said quietly, as one day they were alone together—“I have much to say, and you to hear. Can you bear the truth, my dear girl?” She was by his side in a moment.

“Anything from you, uncle. Tell me freely all you think, and if it is censure of poor Lucy, little doubt but that she will profit by it.”

“You are a good girl!” said “Uncle Joshua,” resting his hand on her head, “and you will be rewarded yet.” He paused for a moment ere he said—“Lucy, you are not a happy wife. You married with bright prospects—who is to blame?”

“I am—but not alone,” said Lucy, in a choking voice, “not alone, there are some faults on both sides.”

“Let us first consider yours; Clifton’s faults will not exonerate you from the performance of your duty. For the love I bear you, Lucy, I will speak the truth: all the misery of your wedded life proceeds from the fatal indulgence of a procrastinating spirit. _One uncorrected fault_ has been the means of alienating your husband’s affections, and bringing discord and misrule into the very heart of your domestic Eden. This must not be. You have strong sense and feeling, and must conquer the defect of character that weighs so heavily on your peace.”

Lucy burst into tears—“I fear I never can—and if I do, Clifton will not thank me, or care.”

“Try, Lucy. You can have little knowledge of the happiness it would bring or you would make the effort. And Clifton will care. Bring order into his household and comfort to his fireside, and he will take you to his heart with a tenderer love than he ever gave to the bride of his youth.”

Lucy drew her breath gaspingly, and for a moment gazed into her uncle’s face with something of his own enthusiasm; but it passed and despondency came with its withering train of tortures to frighten her from exertion.

“You cannot think, dear uncle, how much I have to do; and my children are so troublesome, that I can never systematize time.”

“Let us see first what you can do. What is your first duty in the morning after you have dressed yourself?”

“To wash and dress my children.”

“Do you always do it? Because if you rise early you have time before breakfast. Your children are happy and comfortable, only in your regular management of every thing connected with them.”

“I cannot always do it,” said Lucy, blushing—“sometimes I get up as low-spirited and weary as after the fatigues of the day. I have no heart to go to work; Clifton is cold, and hurries off to business. After breakfast I go through the house and to the kitchen, so that it is often noon before I _can_ manage to dress them.”

“Now instead of all this, if you were to rise early, dress your little ones before breakfast, arrange your work, and go regularly from one work to the other; _never_ putting off one to finish another, you would get through everything, and have time to walk—that each day may have its necessary portion of exercise in the open air. That would dissipate weariness, raise your spirits, and invigorate your frame. Lucy, will you not make the trial for Clifton’s sake? Make his home a well-ordered one, and he will be glad to come into it.”

And Lucy promised to think of it. But her uncle was surprised at her apparent apathy, and not long in divining the true reason. Her heart is not in it, he thought, and if her husband don’t rouse it, never will be. Lucy felt she was an object of indifference, if not dislike to Clifton; there was no end to be accomplished by self-exertion; and as there was nothing to repay her for the wasted love of many years, she would encourage no new hopes to find them as false as the past.

“Uncle Joshua” sat together with Dr. Clifton, in the office of the latter.

“Has it ever struck you, Doctor, how much Lucy is altered of late?”

“I cannot say that I see any particular alteration. It is some time since you saw her;—matrimony is not very favorable to good looks, and may have diminished her beauty.”

“It is not of her beauty I speak. Her character is wholly changed; her spirits depressed, and her energies gone,” and “Uncle Joshua” spoke warmly.

“I never thought her particularly energetic,” said the Doctor, dryly.

“No one would suppose, my good sir, you had ever thought, or cared much about her.” “Uncle Joshua” was angry; but the red spot left his cheek as soon as it came there as he went on:—“Let us speak in kindness of this sad business. I see Lucy was in the right in thinking you had lost all affection for her.”

“Did Lucy say that? I should be sorry she thought so.”

“A man has cause for sorrow, when a wife fully believes his love for her is gone. Nothing can be more disheartening—nothing hardens the heart more fearfully, and sad indeed is the lot of that woman who bears the evils of matrimony without the happiness that often counterbalances them. We, who are of harder natures, have too little sympathy, perhaps too little thought for her peculiar trials.” Gently then, as a father to an only son, the old man related to Clifton all that had passed between Lucy and himself. More than once he saw his eyes moisten and strong emotion manifest itself in his manly countenance. A something of remorseful sorrow filled his heart, and its shadow lay on his face. “Uncle Joshua” read aright the expression, and his honest heart beat with joy at the prospects he thought it opened before them. Always wise-judging he said nothing further, but left him to his own reflections. And Clifton did indeed reflect long and anxiously: he saw indeed how much his own conduct had discouraged his wife, while it had been a source of positive unhappiness to her. He went at length to seek her;—she was alone in the parlor reading, or rather a book was before her, from which her eyes often wandered, until her head sank on the arm of the sofa, and a heavy sigh came sadly on the ear of Clifton. “Lucy, dear Lucy, grieve no more! We have both been wrong, but I have erred the most—having years on my side and experience. Shall we not forgive each other, my sweet wife?” and he lifted her tenderly in his arms, and kissed the tears as they fell on her cheek.

“I have caused you much suffering, Lucy, I greatly fear;—your faults occasioned me only inconvenience. Dry up your tears, and let me hear that you forgive me, Lucy.”

“I have nothing to forgive,” exclaimed Lucy. “Oh, I have been wrong, very wrong!—but if you had only encouraged me to reform, and sustained and aided me in my efforts to do so by your affection, so many of our married days would not have passed in sorrow and suffering.”

“I feel they would not,” said Clifton, moved almost to tears. “Now, Lucy, the self-exertion shall be mutual. I will never rest until I correct the violence of temper, that has caused you so much pain. You have but one fault, procrastination—will you strive also to overcome it?”

“I will,” said Lucy; “but you must be very patient with me, and rather encourage me to new exertions. I have depended too long on your looks not to be influenced by them still—my love, Clifton, stronger than your own, fed on the memory of our early happiness, until my heart grew sick that it would never return. Oh! if you could love me as you did then, could respect me as once you did, I feel I could make any exertion to deserve it.”

“And will you not be more worthy of esteem and love than ever you were, dear Lucy, if you succeed in reforming yourself! I believe you capable of the effort; and if success attends it, the blessing will fall on us both, Lucy, and on our own dear children. Of one thing be assured, that my love will know no further change or diminution. You shall not have cause to complain of me again, Lucy. Now smile on me, dearest, as you once did in a time we will never forget—and tell me you will be happy for my sake.”

Lucy smiled, and gave the assurance—her heart beat lightly in her bosom—the color spread over her face—her eyes sparkled with the new, glad feelings of hope and happiness, and as Clifton clasped her in his arms, he thought her more beautiful than in that early time when he had first won her love.

In that very hour Lucy began her work of reform; it seemed as though new life had been infused into her hitherto drooping frame. She warbled many a sweet note of her youth, long since forgotten, for her spirits seemed running over from very excess of happiness. “Uncle Joshua” was consulted in all her arrangements, and of great use he was:—he planned for her, encouraged her, made all easy by his method and management. She had gone to work with a strong wish to do her duty, and with a husband’s love shining steadily on her path, a husband’s affection for all success, and sympathy with every failure, there was little fear of her not succeeding. ’Tis true, the habit had been long in forming, but every link she broke in the chain that bound her, brought a new comfort to that happy household hearth. Clifton had insisted on hiring a woman to take charge of the children—this was a great relief. And somehow or other, “Uncle Joshua” looked up a good cook.

“Now,” said Lucy, “to fail would be a positive disgrace.”

“No danger of your failing, my sweet wife,” said Clifton, with a glance of affection that might have satisfied even her heart. “You are already beyond the fear of it.”

Lucy shook her head—“I must watch or my old enemy will be back again before I am fully rid of him.”

“It is right to watch ourselves, I know, Lucy; are you satisfied that I have done so, and have, in some measure, corrected myself?” said Clifton.

“I have never seen a frown on your face since you promised me to be patient. You have been, and will continue to be, I am sure,” said Lucy, fondly, as she raised his hand to her lips which had rested on her arm. They were happy both, and whatever trouble was in store for them in their future life, they had strong mutual affection to sustain them under it.

“God bless them both,” murmured “Uncle Joshua,” as he drew his hand hard across his eyes after witnessing this little scene. “I have done good here, but in many a case I might be termed a meddling old fool, and not without reason, perhaps. ’Tis a pity though, that folks, who will get their necks into this matrimonial yoke, would not try to make smooth the uneven places, instead of stumbling all the way, breaking their hearts by way of amusement, as they go.”

“What is that you say, ‘Uncle Joshua?’” said Lucy, turning quickly round, and walking towards him, accompanied by her husband.

“I have a bad habit of talking aloud,” said he, smiling.

“But I thought you were abusing matrimony, uncle—you surely were not?”

“Cannot say exactly what I was thinking aloud. I am an old bachelor, Lucy, and have few objects of affection in the world: you have been to me as a child, always a good child, Lucy, too—and now I think you will make a good wife, and find the happiness you so well deserve. Am I right, love?”

“I hope you are, uncle. If it had not been for your kindness though, I might never have been happy again,” and tears dimmed Lucy’s eyes at the recollection.

“We shall not forget your kindness,” said Clifton as he extended his hand, which “Uncle Joshua” grasped warmly. “I wish every married pair in trouble could find a good genius like yourself to interfere in their favor.”

“Ten to one he would be kicked out of doors!” said the old man, laughing. “This matrimony is a queer thing—those who have their necks in the noose had better make the most of it—and those out of the scrape keep so. Ah! you little reprobate!” he cried as he caught Lucy’s bright eye, and disbelieving shake of the head—“you don’t pretend to contradict me?”

“Yes I do, with my whole heart too. I would not give up my husband for the wide world, nor he his Lucy for the fairest girl in America!”

“Never!” exclaimed Clifton—“you are dearer to me than any other human being!”

“W-h-e-w!!” was “Uncle Joshua’s” reply, in a prolonged sort of whistle, while his eyes opened in the profoundest wonder, and his whole countenance was expressive of the most ludicrous astonishment—“w-h-e-w!!”

* * * * *

PERDITI.[1]

BY WM. WALLACE, ESQ. AUTHOR OF “BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE,” “MARCHES FOR THE
DEAD,” ETC., ETC.

The following poem is respectfully dedicated to the Hon. Elisha
M. Huntington, as a tribute of respect to his head and heart, by
the

Author.

PART FIRST—ITALY.

Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright!
Where the echoless feet of the Hours
Are gliding forever in soft, dreamy light
Through their mazes of sunshine and flow’rs;
Fair clime of the Laurel—the Sword and the Lyre!
There the souls are all genius—the hearts are all fire;
There the Rivers—the Mountains—the lowliest sods
Were hallowed, long since, by the bright feet of Gods;
There Beauty and Grandeur their wonders of old
Like a bridal of star-light and thunder unroll’d;
There the air seems to breathe of a music sent out
From the rose-muffled lips of invisible streams,
Oh! sweet as the harmony whispered about
The Night’s moon-beaming portal of exquisite Dreams.
’Though Beauty and Grandeur, magnificent clime!
Have walked o’er thy Vallies and Mountains sublime,
With a port as majestic—unfading as Time—
A death-pall is on Thee! The funeral glare
Of a grave-torch, Oh! Italy, gleams on the air!
Lo! the crimes of whole ages roll down on thy breast!
Hark! Hark to the fierce thunder-troops of the Storm!
Ah! soon shall they stamp on thy beautiful crest,
And riot unchecked o’er thy loveliest form!

Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright!
’Though the day of thy glory is o’er,
And the time-hallowed mountains are mantled in night
Where thy Liberty flourished before;
’Though the black brow of Bigotry scowls on thy race
Which are kissing the chains of their brutal disgrace;
’Though the torches of Freedom so long hurled about
By thy heroes of old are forever gone out;
Yet! yet shall thy Beauty shine out from the gloom,
Oh! Land of the Harp and the Wreath and the Tomb!
The seal has been set! Immortality beams
Like a time-daring star o’er thy temples and streams;
And still as whole tribes from the weird future dart,
They shall kneel at thine altar, Oh! clime of the Heart!
More splendid art thou, with thy banners all furl’d
And thy brow in the dust, than the rest of the world,
For the MIGHTY—the Dead who have hallowed our earth,
In thee have their rest and from thee took their birth.
Oh! alas that we live—_we_ the boastful who leap
Like mere rills where the sun-pillar’d Truth is enshrined
Where those broad-rolling rivers no longer may sweep
With their billows of light to the Ocean of Mind.

It was a clime where mortal form
Hath never pressed the blasted soil—
Where tempest-fires and surging storm
Are struggling ever in their coil:
A sunless clime, whose dreary night
Gleams dimly with that doubtful light
Which men have seen—when Darkness threw
Around their homes its sombre hue—
The fearful herald of the wrath
That blazes on the Whirlwind’s path
Ere he has tossed his banners out
Like sable draperies o’er the Dead,
And with a wild, delirious shout
Struck his deep thunder-drum of dread;
A clime where e’en the fountains fall
With tone and step funereal:
And ever through the dark, old trees
A melancholy music rolls
Along the faintly-chiming breeze—
Sad as the wail of tortured souls.

There ghastly forms were hurrying past
Like weird clouds through the ether driven,
In fear, before the HUNTER-BLAST,
Whose vengeance purifies the heaven.
And some were pale, as if with woe,
And ever cast their eyes below;
And some were quivering with a fear
In this their dreary sepulchre;
And some, whose awful aspects wore
A look where sat the seal of age,
On their convulsèd foreheads bore
The phrenzied agony of rage;
_On some_ a dreadful beauty shone
Like rays received from fallen stars—
So dim, so mournful and so lone,
Yet brave, despite of all their scars.

Far from the throng two sat apart
Beneath a forest’s darkling plume—
In that communion of the heart
Which but the wretched can assume.
They seemed in earnest converse there,
As if with words to quench despair;
And one, along whose features grew,
A withering, deathly, demon-hue,
Wore that high, dread, defying look
Which but the Lost can dare to brook;
The other milder seemed—but he
Was shrouded, too, in mystery,
And ever threw along the sky
A fearful spiritual eye
Which in its gloomy light sublime—
Seemed half of virtue, half of crime,
Like lightning when you see its glow
Soft as a moonbeam flashed below—
And then in blasting brightness sent
Wild-quivering through the firmament.
So sat they in that dreary light,
Upon the blasted darkling mould—
Fit watchers of such awful night—
As thus the last his story told.

LORRO.
The _many_ only look to _years_;
The _many_ think _they_ only roll
The tides of happiness or tears
Around the human soul:
I know a single hour for me—
_A minute_—was Eternity,
That seemed with its fierce, lidless eye
Fixed—fixed forever in the sky
Which, circling round the Italian shore,
Was only made for bliss before:
But now it darkled like a shroud
By demon-hands in warning shaken,
From their lone, scowling thunder-cloud
Ere yet its elements awaken.

Oh! was it Fancy? or a spell
Hurled o’er me by some dreadful power,—
That I should carry thus a hell,
Within my bosom from that hour?
I know not—nor shall care to know;
For e’en Repentance will not dart
From her pure realm, a light below,
Upon my agony of heart;
Nor hath Remorse—that mad’ning fire—
That final minister of pain
And deadliest offspring of deep ire—
E’er flashed across my tortured brain:
Yet! yet there is a something here
Of hideous vacancy and fear,
(Not fear which cowards merely feel,
Who hear the damnèd’s thunder peal,)
A trembling—which the brave confess
In this their last and worst distress—
Part of the soul it burns a spell,
And like her indestructible—
Which only those who feel _that_ woe,
Brought by an unrepented deed,
Can in its fiercest aching know—
_For only they are doomed to bleed_.

Go thou, whose cunning spirit hears
The mystic music of the spheres—
Who gazest with unquailing eye
Through this star-isled immensity—
Whose soul would feed on brighter flowers
Than earth’s—and sit with pinion furl’d
Where in its lonely grandeur towers
The outside pillar of your world—
Go! go with all thy boasted art—
And read _one_ mystery of the _Heart_.
What! think creation in a _sphere_!
The real universe is here—
_Here! here_ eternally enshrined
Within the secret caves of Mind.

Blood! blood is reddening on these hands!
The blood of more than _one_ is here;
Unfaded too its crimson brands
Despite of many a weary year,
Whose tides of flame and darkness gloom
Amid the spirit’s stagnant air—
More fearful than the damn’d one’s tomb
And withering as despair.

Oh! God why was I chos’n for such?
I who until that fearful hour—
Ah! would not e’en too wildly touch
The summer’s very humblest flower.
The little bird whose rain-bow wing
I saw, in spring time’s roseate eves,
With its own beauty quivering
Amid the golden orange leaves,
I made a friend—as if for me
It held its sinless revelry:
And e’en I’ve watched within the hall
The deadly spider weave his pall,
And smiled in very joy to see
The cunning workman’s tracery.

The minstrel-breeze which struck by hours
Its tender instrument of flowers—
The moon that held her march alone
At midnight ’round th’ Eternal Throne—
The sullen thunder whose red eyes
Flashed angrily within our skies—
All! all to me were but the chain
Along whose wond’rous links there came
Unceasingly to head and brain
Love’s own electric flame.
Yes! when the Harp of Nature roll’d
Its midnight hymn from chords of gold,
And awful silence seemed to own,
Throughout the world, its wizard tone,
I’ve stood and wildly wished to float
Into that music’s liquid strain—
Oh! heavenly as its sweetest note—
Nor ever walk the earth again.

What change is this? Hate, fiercest Hate,
Where once these angel-yearnings burned
Like torches set by Heaven’s bright gate,
Hath all to deadly poison turned.

The Best can only feel the fire,
But once, which flashes from the clime
Where love sits beaming o’er the lyre
That strikes the mystic march of Time.
The tree of most luxuriant stem
Whose every leaflet glows a gem
Beneath its oriental sky,
When once its emerald diadem
Hath felt the simoon sweeping by.
Can never more in southern bowers
Renew its fragrant idol-flowers.
So with the great in soul—whose bloom
Of Heart hath felt the thunder-doom
Which mankind, trusted, may bestow
On him who little dreamed the blow—
Theirs be the joy!—But ours the woe!

I was my father’s only child—
(The cherished scion of a race
Whose monuments of fame are piled
On glory’s mighty dwelling-place)
I need not tell how oft he smiled
When counting o’er to me each deed,
In gallant barque, on champing steed,
Of ancestors in battle wild;
Nor how he gazed upon my face
And there by hours would fondly trace
The lines which as they manlier grew,
He deemed the signs of Glory, too.

I saw at last the sable pall
Gloom in our lordly castle’s hall,
And heard the Friar’s burial rite
Keeping the watches of the night.
Another noble form was laid
Where Lorro’s dead together meet—
And I, in ducal robes arrayed,
Took Lorro’s castled seat.

I need not tell how passed the days,
I need not tell of pleasure’s ways—
Where bright-eyed mirth flung dewy flowers
Beneath the silver-feet of hours,
While Time himself o’er music’s strings
Lean’d panting on his weary wings.

At last there came unto our gate
One looking worn and desolate,
Who asked compassion for his fate.
He said he was an orphan lad;
In sooth my lonely heart was glad—
For I was weary of my state
Where only courtiers crowded round;
I wished some fair and gentle mate,
And such I fondly hoped I found.

Months rolled away and still he grew,
Beneath my care a lovely boy
And day by day I found anew
In him a very father’s joy.—

And eighteen summers now have died
Since thou cam’st here my own heart’s pride:
And still thy voice of silver seems
Sweet as sweet music heard in dreams;
And still thy softly radiant eye
Looks innocent as yonder sky,
And all as fair—when rainbows rest
Like angel-plumes upon its breast;
And still thy soul seems richly set
Within its form, like some bright gem
Which might by worshippers be met
In Purity’s own diadem.

In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutes
And harp is wafted through the air,
Such as the glad most fitly suits
When mirth and rosy wine are there.
In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in light
And flowers, I ween a holy rite,
Most cherished with the young and bright,
By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night.

And who art thou around whose brow
The bridal chaplet sparkled now?
That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it she
Thus standing there so radiantly?—
With bright curls floating on the air
And glorious as the cherubs wear;
An eye where love and virtue beam
Like spirits of an Angel’s dream!

Away! away! thou maddening sight!
Away! what dost thou, Laura, here?
Thus standing by my side to-night,
And long since in thy sepulchre?

What! will the grave its events tell?
The iron tomb dissolve its spell?
It has! it has! And there she stands
Mocking me with her outstretched hands;
And oft her icy fingers press
My hot brow through the long, long night;
And voices as of deep distress,
Like prisoned wind, whose wailing sound
Seems madly struggling under ground,
Peal dirge-like on my ear: away!
Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for day
Such as these gloomy realms display—
E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.—

And we were wed! I need not say
How heavenly came and went each day,
Enough! our souls together beat
Like two sweet tunes that wandering meet,
Then so harmoniously they run
The hearer deems they are but one.

There are mailed forms in Lorro’s halls,
And rustling banners on its walls,
And nodding plumes o’er many a brow,
That moulders on the red field now.

The wave of battle swells around!
Shall Lorro’s chieftain thus be found
In revelry or idlesse bound,
When Glory hangs her blood-red sign
Above the castellated Rhine?

Away! away, I flew in pride
With those who mustered by my side:
But not, I ween, did Lorro miss
The ruler from its ducal throne,
’Till many a wild and burning kiss
Of woman’s sweet lips warmed his own.

And Julio, too, (for such the name
I gave the orphan boy,) with tears
And choking sob, and trembling came
To whisper me his rising fears.

That I his father—I whose love
Had sheltered long his feeble form
E’en as some stronger bird the dove
All mateless wandering in the storm,—
That I borne down amid the stern
And bloody shapes of battle wild,
Would never from its wreck return
To sooth his lonely orphan child;
And then on bended knees he prayed—
(God! why availed not his prayer?)
That I would give him steed and blade,
So he might in my dangers share.
I left him for I could not bare
That tender brow to war’s wild air.

Away! away on foaming steed,
For two long years my sword was out;
And I had learned (a soldier’s need,)
—Almost without a groan to bleed—
Aye! gloried in the battle’s shout;
For it gave presage of a fame
Such as the brave alone may claim.

For two long years, as I have told,
The storm of war around me roll’d;
But never more, by day or night
In sunshine or in shower,
Did I forget my castle’s light—
Love’s only idol-flower!

There is a deeper passion known
For those in love, when left alone;
Then busy fancy ponders o’er
Some kindness never prized before:
And we can almost turn with tears
And deep upbraiding (as distress
Comes with the holy light of years)
And kneeling ask forgiveness.

And so I felt—and Laura beamed
Still lovelier than she ever seemed,
E’en when the dew of childhood’s hours
Along her heart’s first blossoms clung,
And I amid my native bowers
In sinless worship o’er them hung.

Oh! are not feelings such as these
Like splendid rainbow-glories caught
(To cheer our voyage o’er life’s seas)
From Heaven’s own holy Land of Thought?

And yet, oh, God! how soon may they
Like those bright glories flee away,
And leave the heart an unlit sea,
Where piloted by dark despair
The spirit-wreck rolls fearfully
Within the night of sullen air?

At last the eye of battle closed—
Its lurid fires no longer burned—
The warrior on his wreath reposed,
And I unto my halls returned.

Oh! who can tell the joys that start
Like angel-wings within the heart,
When wearied with war’s toil, the chief
In home’s dear light would seek relief!

Not he who has no loved one there
Left in his absence lonely—
Whose heart he fondly hopes shall beat
For him and for him only.

And such my Laura’s heart I deemed;
For me alone I thought she beamed
Like some pure lamp on hermit’s shrine,
Which only glows for him, divine
And beauteous as the spirit-eyes
That light the bow’rs of Paradise.

It was a lovely eve, but known
Unto the South’s voluptuous zone;
An eve whose shining vesture hung
Like Heaven’s own rosy flags unfurl’d,
And by some star-eyed cherub flung
In sport around our gloomy world;
An eve in which the coldest frame
And heart must feel a warming flame,
When light and soul no longer single,
But in a bridal glory mingle:
Then think how I whose spirit bowed
Whene’er the dimmest light was sent
From twinkling star or rosy cloud
In God’s blue, glorious firmament—
How I in that ethereal time,
Standing beside my native rill
And shadowed by such hues sublime,
Felt unseen lightning through me thrill.

I stood within my own domain—
Once more upon my birth-right soil,
Free’d from the gory battle-plain
And weary with its toil.

“Laura!” my step is in the hall!
My sword suspended on the wall!
My standard-sheet once more uprolled
Where it has lain for years untold!
“Laura!”—In vain I stood for her
To meet the long-lost worshipper.
“Ho, Julio!” What? No answer yet?
It rung from base to parapet!
I mounted up the marble stair!—
I rushed into the olden room!
It shone beneath the evening’s glare
As silent as the tomb,—
Save that a slave with wond’ring eye
Looked from the dreary vacancy.
“Your Lady, Serf?”
“She’s in the bower.”
“In sooth I should have sought her there!”
For oft we passed the twilight hour
In its delicious air.

I rushed with lightning steps—Oh, God!
Why flashed not then thy blasting flame—
That it might wither from the sod
The one who madly called Thy name?

My poniard grasped, left not its sheath—
I had nor hope—nor life—nor breath;
I only felt the ice of death
Slowly congealing o’er my heart—
And on my eye a dizzy cloud
Swam round and round, a sickening part
Of that which seemed a closing shroud
The one might feel whom burial gave
All prematurely to the grave.

But soon that deadly trance was o’er;
The foliage hid as yet; and I
Retraced the path I trod before
With such a heart-wild ecstasy.

For as I gazed upon their guilt,
A thought flashed out of demon-hue;
And I resigned my dagger’s hilt
As deadlier then my vengeance grew.

Small torture satisfies the _weak_—
For they but slightly feel a wrong;
I would by hours my vengeance wreak!
The deep revenge is for the _strong_.

In Lorro’s castle is a cell
(Where Cruelty has sat in state,
I ween that some have known it well,)
Which is divided by a grate.

No sunbeam ever pierced its night;
Nor aught save lamp there shed its light;
No sound save sound of wild despair
Hath ever vexed its heavy air.
Upon its walls so grim and old
Have gathered centuries of mould.
It seems that with the birth of time
That cell was hollowed out by crime,
And there, her hateful labor o’er,
She took her first sweet draught of gore.

Ha! Ha! I see them! See them now—
The cold damp dripping from each brow,
With hands oustretched they mercy sue—
(Ye know not how my vengeance grew,)
While I stood by with sullen smile—
The only answer to their grief—
For wearied in that dungeon aisle,
In smiles _I_ even found relief.

I watched them in that dreary gloom,
(To me a heaven—to them a tomb,)
For hours—for days—and joyed to hear
Their pleadings fill that sepulchre.
At first they tried to lull their state
By cheering each thro’ that dull grate,
(For this they lingered separate;
I could not bear e’en then to see
Them closer in their agony.)
And this they did for days! at last
A change upon them came—
For each to each reproaches cast,
In which I heard my name.

I spake no word—their dread replies
Were only read within my eyes,
Which as they glared upon the pair,
Like scorpions writhing in their pain
When wounded in the loathsome lair,
Seemed burning to my very brain.
I shall not tell how hunger grew
In that dread time upon the two—
When each would vainly try to break
The bars an earthquake scarce could shake.
Nor how they gnawed, in their great pain,
Their dungeon’s rusted iron chain;
Nor how their curses, deep and oft,
From parching lips were rung aloft;
Nor how like babbling fiends they would
Together vex the solitude;
Nor how the wasting crimson tide
Of withered life their wants supplied;
Nor how—enough! enough they died
Aye! and I saw the red worm creep
Upon their slumbers, dark and deep,
And felt with more of joy than dread
The grim eyes of the fleshless dead.

Long years have passed away, since then
And I have mixed with fellow men;
On land and wave my flag unfurl’d
Streamed like a storm above the world;
For Lorro was a soldier born;
His music was the battle-horn.
E’en when a boy—his playthings were
Such deadly toys as sword and spear.
I did not pant for fame or blood,
But thus in agony I sought
To strangle in their birth the brood
Of serpents cradled in my thought.
I’ve tried to pray: In vain! In vain!
The very words seem brands of fire
By demons hurled into my brain—
The burning ministers of ire.

How Spirit, mid such fearful strife
I left the hated mortal life,
I need not say; it matters not
How we may break that earthly spell;
Enough! enough! I knew my lot
And feel its agony too well.

My frame beside its father rests—
The same old banner o’er their breasts
Which they with all their serfs, of yore,
To battle and to triumph bore.
No chieftain sways the castle’s wall,
No chieftain revels in its hall.
And on each bastion’s leaning stone
Grim desolation sits alone,
While organ winds their masses roll
Around each lonely turret’s head,
And seem to chant, “Rest troubled soul!
Mercy! Oh! mercy for the dead!”

The spirit bent his brow—and tears
The first which he had shed for years,
Fell burning from his eyes, for THOUGHT
Had oped their overflowing cells,
Like wakened lightning which has sought
The cloud with all its liquid spells.

He wept—as he had wept of old—
When sudden through the gloomy air
A glorious gush of music roll’d
Around those wretched spirits there;—
They started up with frantic eyes
Wild-glancing to their sullen skies:
And still the angel-anthem went
Rejoicing ’round that firmament;
And shining harps were sparkling through
The cloud-rifts—held by seraph-forms
Oh! lovely as the loveliest hue
Of rainbows curled on buried storms.

Faint and more faint the music grows—
Yet how entrancing in its close—
Sweeter! oh sweeter than the hymn
Of an enthusiast who has given
His anthem forth, at twilight dim,
And hopes with it to float to heaven.

And see, where yonder tempests meet,
The rapid glance of silver feet—
The last of that refulgent train
Who leave this desolated sphere;
Oh! not for them such realms of Pain
Where Crime stands tremblingly by Fear:—
They’re gone, AND ALL IS DARK AGAIN.

[End of Part First.]

-----

[1] The tale of Lorro is founded on an actual occurrence: one of the incidents has already been turned to advantage by a prose writer. This poem will be followed by another, in which I have attempted to show the rewards of virtue.

* * * * *

THE CHEVALIER GLUCK.

BY W. W. STORY.

During the latter part of the autumn in Berlin there are usually some fine days. The cloudless sun shines pleasantly out and evaporates the moisture from the warm air which blows through the streets. Mingling together in motley groups, you may see a long row of fashionables, citizens with their wives, little children in Sunday clothes, priests, Jewesses, young counsellors, professors, milliners, dancers, officers, &c. walking among the lindens in the Park. All the seats in Klaus & Weber’s coffee-house are soon occupied; the coffee throws off its steam. The fashionables light their cigars; everywhere persons are talking; here an argument is going on about war and peace, there about Madame Bethman’s shoes, whether the last ones she wore were green or gray, or about the state of the market and the bad money, &c., until all is hushed by an Aria from “Tanchon,” with which an untuned harp, a pair of ill-tuned violins, a wheezing flute, and a spasmodic bassoon torment themselves and their audience. Upon the balustrade which separates Weber’s place from the high-way, several little round tables and garden chairs are placed; here one can breathe in the free air and observe the comers and goers, at a distance from the monotonous noises of the accursed orchestra. There I sat down, and, abandoning myself to the light play of my fancy, conversed with the imaginary forms of friends who came around me, upon science and art, and all that is dearest to man. The mass of promenaders passing by me grows more and more motley, but nothing disturbs me, nothing can drive away my imaginary company. Now the execrable Trio of an intolerable waltz draws me out of my world of dreams. The high, squeaking tones of the violins and flutes, and the growling ground bass of the bassoon are all that I can hear; they follow each other up and down in octaves, which tear the ear, until, at last, like one who is seized with a burning pain, I cry out involuntarily,

“What mad music! Those detestable octaves!”—Near me some one mutters.

“Cursed Fate! Here is another octave-hunter!” I look up and perceive now for the first time that imperceptibly to me a man has taken a place at the same table, who is looking intently at me, and from whom I cannot take my eyes away again. Never did I see any head or figure which made so sudden and powerful an impression upon me. A slightly crooked nose was joined to a broad open brow, with remarkable prominences over the bushy, half-gray eyebrows, under which the eyes glanced forth with an almost wild, youthful fire, (the age of the man might be about fifty;) the white and well-formed chin presented a singular contrast to the compressed mouth, and a satirical smile breaking out in the curious play of muscles in the hollow cheeks, seemed to contradict the deep melancholy earnestness which rested upon the brow; a few gray locks of hair lay behind the ears, which were large and prominent; over the tall, slender figure was wrapped a large modern overcoat. As soon as I looked at the man he cast down his eyes and gave his whole attention to the occupation from which my outcry had probably aroused him. He was shaking, with apparent delight, some snuff from several little paper horns into a large box which stood before him, and moistening it with red wine from a quarter-flask. The music had ceased and I felt an irresistible desire to address him.

“I am glad that the music is over,” said I, “it was really intolerable.”

The old man threw a hasty glance at me and shook out the contents from the last paper horn.

“It would be better not to play at all,” I began again, “Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t think at all about it,” said he, “you are a musician and connoisseur by profession”—

“You are wrong, I am neither. I once took lessons upon the harpsichord and in thorough-bass, because I considered it something which was necessary to a good education, and among other things I was told that nothing produced a more disagreeable effect than when the bass follows the upper notes in octaves. At first I took this upon authority, and have ever since found it to be a fact.”

“Really?” interrupted he, and stood up and strode thoughtfully towards the musicians, often casting his eyes upwards and striking upon his brow with the palm of his hand, as if he wished to awaken some particular remembrance. I saw him speak to the musicians whom he treated with a dignified air of command—He returned and scarcely had he regained his seat, before they began to play the overture to “Iphigenia in Aulis.”

With his eyes half-closed and his folded arms resting on the table he listened to the Andante; all the while slightly moving his foot to indicate the falling in of the different parts; now he reversed his head—threw a swift glance about him—the left hand, with fingers apart, resting upon the table, as though he were striking a chord upon the Piano Forte, and the right raised in the air; he was certainly the conductor who was indicating to the orchestra the entrance of the various Tempos—The right hand falls and the Allegro begins—a burning blush flew over his pale cheeks; his eyebrows were raised and drawn together; upon his wrinkled brow an inward rage flashed through his bold eyes, with a fire, which by degrees changed into a smile that gathered about his half-open mouth. Now he leaned back again, his eyebrows were drawn up, the play of muscles again swept over his face, his eyes glanced, the deep internal pain was dissolved in a delight which seized and vehemently agitated every fibre of his frame—he heaved a deep sigh, and drops stood upon his brow. He now indicated the entrance of the Tutti and the other principal parts; his right hand never ceased beating the time, and with his left he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his face—Thus he animated with flesh and color the skeleton of the Overture, formed by the two violins. I heard the soft plaintive lament breathed out by the flutes, after the storm of the violins and basses died away, and the thunder of the kettle drums had ceased; I heard the lightly touched tones of the violoncello and the bassoon, which fill the heart with irrepressible yearning—again the Tutti enters treading along the unison like a towering huge giant and the hollow lamenting expires beneath his crushing footsteps.

The overture was finished; the man suffered both his arms to drop, and sat with closed eyes, like one who was exhausted by excessive exertion. This bottle was empty; I filled his glass with the Burgundy, which in the meantime I had procured. He heaved a deep sigh, and seemed to awaken out of his dream. I motioned him to drink; he did so without hesitation, and swallowing the contents of the glass at one draught, exclaimed,

“I am well pleased with the performance! The orchestra did bravely!”

“And yet,” added I, “yet it was only a feeble outline of a master-piece finished in living colors.”

“Am I right? You are not a Berliner.”

“Perfectly right; I only reside here occasionally.”

“The Burgundy is good; but it is growing cold here.”

“Let us go into the house and finish the flask.”

“A good proposal—I do not know you; neither do you know me. We will not ask each other’s names. Names are sometimes in the way. Here am I drinking Burgundy without it costing me anything. Our companionship is agreeable to both, and so far so good.”

All this he said with good-humored frankness. We entered the house together. As soon as he sat down and threw open his overcoat, I perceived with astonishment, that under it he wore an embroidered vest with long lappels, black velvet breeches, and a very small silver-hilted dagger. He again buttoned up his coat carefully.

“Why did you ask me if I was a Berliner?” I resumed.

“Because in such a case it would be necessary for me to leave you.”

“That sounds like a riddle.”

“Not in the least, when I tell you that I—that I am a composer.”

“I have no idea of your meaning.”

“Well then excuse me for my exclamation just now. I see that you understand yourself thoroughly and nothing of Berlin and Berliners.”

He rose and walked once hastily up and down; then went to the window, and in a scarcely audible voice hummed the chorus of Priestesses from the Iphigenia in Tauris, while at intervals he struck upon the window at the entrance of the Tutti. To my great astonishment I observed that he made several modifications of the melody, which struck me with their power and originality. I let him go on without interruption. He finished and returned to his seat. Surprised by the extraordinary bearing of the man, and by this fantastic expression of his singular musical talent—I remained silent. After some time he began—

“Have you never composed?”

“Yes, I have made some attempts in the art; only I found that all which seemed to me to have been written at inspired moments, became afterwards flat and tedious; so that I let it alone.”

“You have done wrong: for the mere fact of your having made the attempt is no small proof of your talent. We learn music when we are children, because papa and mamma will have it so; now you go to work jingling and fiddling, but imperceptibly the mind becomes susceptible to music. Perhaps the half-forgotten theme of the little song, which you formerly sang, was the first original thought, and from this embryo, nourished laboriously by foreign powers, grows a giant, who consumes all within his reach, and changes all into his own flesh and blood! Ah, how is it possible to point out the innumerable influences which lead a man to compose. There is a broad high-way, where all are hurrying round and shouting and screaming; we are the initiated! we are at the goal! Only through the ivory door is there entrance to the land of dreams; few ever see the door and still fewer pass through it. All seems strange here. Wild forms move hither and thither and each has a certain character—one more than the others. They are never seen in the high-way; they only can be found behind the ivory door. It is difficult to come out of this kingdom. Monsters besiege the way as before the Castle of Alsinens—they twirl—they twist. Many dream their dream in the Kingdom of Dreams,—they dissolve in dreams,—they cast no more shadows—otherwise by means of their shadows they would perceive the rays which pass through this realm; only a few awakened out of this dream, walk about and stride through the Kingdom of Dreams—they come to Truth. This is the highest moment;—the union with the eternal and unspeakable! It is the triple tone, from which the accords, like stars, shoot down and spin around you with threads of fire. You lie there like a chrysalis in the fire, until the Psyche soars up to the sun.”

As he spoke these last words, he sprang up, and raised his eyes, and threw up his hand. Then he seated himself and quickly emptied the full glass. A silence ensued, which I would not break, through a fear of leading this extraordinary man out of his track. At last he continued in a calmer manner—