Chapter V (1)

Baïla felt her confidence vanish; a single revelation from the prisoner would be a decree of death to her, and concealing her paleness beneath the redoubled folds of her veil, she awaited the examination with a palpitating heart, fixing her curious gaze upon the prisoner.

“Why did I risk my life to listen to a sermon from this mournful preacher?” she said to herself. “Why did they not kill him when I commanded? Why did he not fall beneath the blow of the guard?”

Seeing him, however, with his body furrowed by bluish stripes, his flesh swollen and bloody, standing in that saloon as if he had never left it to be handed over to executioners, as he did before the arrival of the pacha, with the same air, the same timid look, which he dared not raise toward her, she felt an emotion of pity.

“Christian,” said the pacha, “what motive brought thee hither?”

“Her salvation,” replied the captive, turning his eyes for a moment to the sofa on which the odalisk was seated, and then letting them fall on Djezzar, he added, “and thine, perhaps.”

“What, dog, and son of a dog, as thou art, didst thou think to make a vile Nazarene of me, and to convert me to the sect of the accursed, by taking advantage of my absence?”

“I have said the truth,” replied the young man, “as true as that Jesus Christ is the redeemer of the world.”

“Thou liest,” replied the pacha, “as true that there is no God but God, and that Mahomet is his prophet.”

After this outbreak he appeared to endeavor to restrain his anger. He replaced himself more at his ease upon the knees of his favorite, passed his hand, as a motion of caress, through the mane of his lion, and when he had taken two or three whiffs of his batakie, resumed.

“See that thou art sincere, and do not aggravate thy crime. Thou knowest well that a Mussulman cannot become a Christian, as a Christian cannot become a Jew. The law of Moses paved the way for that of Jesus; that of Jesus was but the precursor to that of Mahomet. On this ladder men never descend—they mount upward.”

“I had hoped, at least,” said the captive, “to render thee more favorable to my brethren.”

“Are, then, all those bands of rascals who gnaw each other—all those races of infidels, who are forgetful of their own law, thy brethren? Of what do they complain? Of some I have made good Christians by martyrdom; of others, good Musselmen by persuasion. Besides, art thou one of their priests? No, far from that. Thou art but one of those frivolous Europeans, who seek to propagate their impious usages among us. Lay aside trick and falsehood. Thou hast heard of the beauty of this slave, (turning his head toward Baïla,) and thou hast desired to satiate thy eyes at the price of thy life. Is it not so?”

The young man made a sign of negation; the pacha heeded it not, and proceeded.

“Well, art thou satisfied? Thou shouldst be, for thou hast seen her. Are your women of Europe so to be disdained, that you must come among us to carry off ours? Until now you have coveted our horses only. How didst thou find means to correspond with her? Who was thy guide? How did she first see thee?”

Like a tiger, which with eye and ear watches for the least cry, the least motion of the prey it is about to seize, Djezzar watched for a word of avowal—a denunciatory sign on the part of him whom he interrogated. He obtained none from him, but he felt the knees of Baïla tremble.

“Christian,” he resumed, “I repeat to thee, be sincere. Tell me what hope thou hast conceived; tell me who introduced thee into this place; name thy accomplice, and whatever may be thy fault I will place in the other scale thy youth and thy consular title, although thy presence in the midst of my harem at night gives me a right to forget it. But I will consider what thou hast already endured, and, like Allah, I will be merciful. Speak; I listen.”

He inhaled again the odorous smoke of his pipe, and appeared to await a reply; but the captive remained silent and motionless.

“Speak, Christian, speak! There is yet time. At this price alone canst thou purchase thy life—by abjuring thy idolatry, of course.”

At this last sentence the young man raised his head—a noble blush mounted to his face.

“To denounce and apostatize,” said he; “is such thy clemency, pacha? Have thy executioners forgotten to tell thee who I am? Art thou, who hast thyself honored me with the title of Christian, ignorant of the duties which this title enjoins? Dost thou think that the disciples of Christ care so much for this mortal life, as to plunge their souls twice into ineffaceable pollution?” and his eye sparkled, and his whole countenance assumed an expression of sublime beauty.

“It is said,” said Djezzar, forming, from his apparent imperturbability, a fine contrast with the exaltation of the young Frank. “Thou wishest to die, and thou shalt die. But dost thou know for what an end I reserve thee?”

“Be it what it may, I am ready,” replied the captive.

“Then thou regrettest nothing of this mortal life?” and the pacha followed his look attentively, which he thought he would fix on Baïla.

“Nothing,” said the young man, with his eyes cast down, “but the not being assisted at my last moments by a priest of my religion.”

Djezzar appeared to reflect; a slight smile then contracted his lips.

“If thy wishes go no farther,” he said, “they shall be gratified.”

The Mangrebian reappeared at his call. A few moments afterward an old man, with a bald head, a long white beard, and a severe countenance, entered. He trembled violently at the sight of the pacha, as if he thought his last hour was come.

He was a poor Maronite monk, sent recently by the patriarch of Mount Libanus to replace the superior of the convent of Perkinik, who was dead. The pacha had, whilst passing on that day through this Catholic village, in the environs of Shivas, wished to make an exaction on this miserable convent, in which a few monks, covered with rags, lived by the labor of their hands, in the midst of a population as miserable as themselves. Djezzar, unable to extort the money which they had not, had carried off their superior with him, to detain him as a hostage until the sum demanded was paid.

“_Kaffer_,” he said to him, “thou hast refused to pay the taxes of _Miri_ and _Karadj_.”

“The Christians of Libanus are exempt from them since the capitulation of the holy King Louis,” replied the unfortunate man, whose voice betrayed a violent emotion. “The Vice Roy Mehemet Ali regarded us as exempt.”

“To hell with the old rascal!”

“But the sultans themselves have recognized this law, your highness.”

“There is no law here but my will,” replied the pacha.

“What can I do to disarm thy severity,” blubbered out the old man, fixing his terrified look upon the lion crouched beside Djezzar, and of which he already considered himself the prey. “I have nothing in the world which thou canst take from me, but my life.”

“Which I will do if thou dost not obey me at once.”

“But, to acquit this impost—”

“By the koran, who is now speaking to thee of imposts? Of _Karadj_ and _Miri_ I hold thee acquitted, thou and thine, forever, and thou art free, and shalt leave here carrying with thee more piastres than I demanded of thee; but before we separate thou must call down the curses of thy God on that dog there.” Then, turning to his other captive, he continued: “Yes, thou art about to die, and die accursed by a priest of thy religion. Inch Allah, wilt thou speak now?”

With an heroic resignation Ferdinand, as his only reply, kneels and bows his head, devoted at once to the sabre and anathema, when he hears the old Cenobite of Libanus, raising his trembling hands above his head, say to him, in a soft voice,

“If thou art a Christian, I bless thee, my son.”

These holy words were scarcely pronounced when the old man fell, shot dead. Baïla fell backward with a movement of horror, and the pacha, with unbounded impassibility, replaced his pistol in his belt. He interrupted this movement suddenly to restrain his lion by the mane, which, animated by the sight of blood, was about to spring with a roar on the body of the Maronite.

“Carry off that corpse,” said Djezzar to the Mangrebian, “and leave us.”

The dead body carried off, the Mangrebian gone, turning to the lion, which, with open mouth and thirsty and trembling lips, was uttering low growls and darting his brilliant glance toward the prey which was carried from him, Djezzar, restraining him by voice and gesture, said:

“Be patient, Haïder; thy part shalt soon come—thou shalt not lose by the exchange.”

He then resumed his first position, and whilst the lion, restrained by him, continued its low roaring, with its eyes fixed on a large spot of blood on the carpet, and addressing Baïla, without appearing to notice the emotions of terror by which she was agitated, said:

“Yes, the giaour is for us three—for each a part. For me, his head; for the lion, his body; and for thee, my beautiful rose of Incour—my faithful, for thee, his heart. Has he not given thee that heart? Well, go take it.”

Baïla, undecided, troubled with horror, knew not what meaning to attach to his words.

“Go, take it,” repeated Djezzar. “look, behold! powerless to defend himself, does he not appear himself to offer it to thee? Go, my soul, and if thy dagger is not enough for the work, use mine.”

The odalisk bent toward him—“Thou art sporting with me, Ali—is it not so?” she murmured in his ear.

“Dost thou not hear me, or art thou unwilling to understand me?” he replied, in a formidable tone. “This man dies—dies at once, by thy hand, or I shall believe thee to be his accomplice, and thy head shall fall before his. I swear it, by Mahomet and the four caliphs.”

Baïla, having to choose between inflicting or receiving death, felt an icy coldness in her veins; her forehead became lividly pale.

“Thou hesitatest!” said the pacha.

She carried a trembling hand to her dagger.

“Take mine,” he said.

The hand of Baïla fell on the shoulder of Djezzar, and remained there as if paralyzed; her troubled eyes were raised furtively toward the young Frank, even on that very evening the object of her reveries of love; toward that young martyr, who by a word could destroy her, and who was about to die—to die for her, for being unwilling to pronounce that word.

“Wilt thou obey?” said the executioner, with a gesture of impatient rage.

The hand of Baïla descended from the shoulder of Djezzar and played inquisitively among the arms which formed an arsenal at his belt.

“Thou tremblest—thou art unwilling to do it? Thou lovest him then!” he exclaimed at last.

“Yes, I love him,” replied the Mingrelian, and bounding suddenly forward she sheathed the blade of the yataghan full in the breast of the pacha. Though mortally wounded he still made an effort to seize his other pistol, but, at a gesture from Baïla, the lion Haïder, excited anew by the sight of the flowing blood, springing on his master did his part.

Whilst Ferdinand, alarmed at what was passing, was closing his eyes, stretching out in terror his bound arms, the Mingrelian, endowed with wonderful presence of mind, gathered quickly into one corner of the saloon the light furniture and stuffs which were in it; she set them on fire, and seizing the young Frank, who was more dead than alive, by his bonds, led him toward a secret outlet, which conducted them to the sleeping chamber of the Abyssinian negress.

The palace of Kizil-Ermak, which was of Turkish construction—that is, built of wood—was almost entirely consumed.

On the next day the news mongers of Shivas endeavored to define the causes of this great event. Some said that the pacha had been strangled by his lion, and that, in the struggle between these two fierce beasts a torch was upset, which was the cause of the fire. Others, reasoning from the usage of the ancient Ottoman regime, and claiming to be better informed, said that a man, wearing the dress of a Frank, after having sojourned in the city long enough to avert suspicion as to the object of his secret mission, had introduced himself into the presence of the pacha in the very interior of his harem; when the latter had ordered his slaves to behead him, the pretended Frank, who was no other than the _capidgé-bechi_ of the sultan, had shown his _katcherif_, and that the head of Djezzar had alone fallen. The fire had broken out in the midst of the disorder, and the _capidgé-bechi_, taking advantage of the great crowd attracted thereby, had escaped, in a new disguise.

Twenty other versions were in circulation, almost all of which were repeated by the journals of Europe.

Whilst in Shivas, Rocata, and other cities of the pachalick, they were thus indulging in explanations more or less truthful, Baïla and Ferdinand, who had been enabled to escape in disguise from the palace, thanks to the confusion and the crowd, concealed themselves at first in the mountains to the south of Shivas, where some Kurdish brigands took them under their protection, exacting a very moderate ransom; they then found an asylum in a convent, then twenty others in the caverns or depths of the woods of Avanes, always, however, continuing their path steadily up the Red River. Having finally entered the dominions of the Shah of Persia, they returned to France in the train of the last embassy.

In these wanderings Ferdinand lost some of his ardor for proselytising. He had traveled across mountains and valleys by day and by night, carrying temptation with him; Baïla had really become to him the demon which he had fancied her.

With the beautiful Mingrelian, his liberator, and the companion of his flight, walking at the same pace, in the same pathway, sleeping under the same shelter, cared for and watched over by her, it had been difficult for him to prevent his heart from beating under other inspirations than those of divine love. Ferdinand was twenty-five years old, and gratitude has great sway over a generous soul.

Still in the first days of their common flight he had converted his schismatic companion, who, from her indifference to matters of religion, was easy to persuade; but it was said that in her turn she had soon converted him. What is positively known about it is, that the young man did not return to France alone, but that when his passport was exhibited at Marseilles, it provided for M. Ferdinand Laperre, consular cadet, traveling _with his sister_.

My friend, the illustrious traveler, had already furnished me with all the details of the history I have recounted; but my curiosity was not yet fully satisfied. I wished to know the fate of the lovers after their arrival in France. I pressed him with questions on this point, and at first uselessly. We were breakfasting in the open air, on the lawn at the Butard, and my botanist, in an exultation difficult to describe, was fully occupied with a godsend he had found beneath the table we had used. It was a small plant with shaggy and lanceolate leaves, with flowers of pale yellow, marked with a violet spot at the base of their five petals.

“_Cistus guttatus! Helianthemum guttatum!_” he exclaimed, with cries and gestures impossible to describe to any one who has not the heart of a botanist. “I thought it only existed in the mountains of Anti-Taurus, from whence I brought away so carefully an unique specimen. It was my finest vegetable conquest, and lo I find it here at the Butard at Luciennes, a suburb of Paris, beneath the table of a tavern. How can this be? Taurus and the Butard rivals in their productions? I am nonplussed! Do you believe in Asia Minor?”

“But of Asia Minor?” said I, interrupting him with tenacity, with obstinacy; “you have related to me a story, the parties to which interest me strongly—I beseech you tell me more of them!”

“They are perfectly well, I thank you,” he replied.

“I do not inquire after their health, but their fate.”

“Ah! what has become of them? Yes, I comprehend;” then looking at me with an air of mockery, and laughing loudly, he continued, “as they have, like us, a habit of chatting much when eating, they breakfast near by.”

“How! What!” I exclaimed, “those people at the fountain of the priest?”

“Truly. You now discover that you are no diviner. The alledged confectioner, the lemonade seller, is no other than my friend, Ferdinand Laperre, our Christian martyr; and his companion, by you so lightly qualified as a chambermaid, or a countess without prejudices, is Baïla, the ex-favorite of Djezzar, the pacha of Shivas; Baïla, the Mingrelian, the rose of Incour, the dove in the talons of the hawk.”

After having inflicted this mockery upon me, which was doubtless well merited, my friend determined finally to finish the story.

“Having arrived in Paris, events of a more vulgar nature than those which had signalized their sojourn in Shivas, proved the young Frenchman and the Mingrelian. Their money gave out. The ornaments, presents from Djezzar, which the odalisk had carried off in her flight, were, most of them, false. Pachas even are no longer to be trusted. Ferdinand must, above every thing, seek for a lucrative employment. He entered the royal printing office as a proof-reader of Oriental works. This resource being insufficient for the wants of the household, Baïla sought also to be useful. Having never handled a needle, she could not become a seamstress or an embroideress, or a dressing-maid, or a female companion. She has a charming voice, and might, at a pinch, challenge all the Italian, French, and other singers, in warbling and trilling; but understanding none of the European languages, she could only sing Arabian _mouals_ or Turkish _gazels_. Fortunately she dances also; and dancing is a language spoken and understood in all countries. She now figures in the ballet corps of the opera, where she is remarkable for her lightness, her mildness, and her modesty.”

As my illustrious friend finished his recital, we saw Ferdinand Laperre and his handsome companion walking arm-in-arm toward the Butard. Now, better informed, I admired the rare beauty of the Mingrelian, and the wonderful and graceful suppleness of her figure. My eyes were directed curiously toward the lower extremities of the ex-consular cadet, to examine the form and dimensions of his feet, so as to verify one of the details of this history. I found them much as usual. He had doubtless confided to Baïla the connection of friendship existing between him and my companion, for when we again met, she made him a slight wave of the hand, saying, “_Bojour mocha_.”

“_Salem-Alai-k_,” replied my illustrious traveler.

I saluted her profoundly.

* * * * *

A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

Ye, who follow to the measure
Where the trump of Fortune leads,
And at inns a-glow with pleasure
Rein your golden-harnessed steeds,
In your hours of lordly leisure
Have ye heard a voice of wo
On the starless wind of midnight
Come and go?

Pilgrim brothers, whose existence
Rides the higher roads of Time,
Hark, how from the troubled distance,
Voices made by wo sublime,
In their sorrow, claim assistance,
Though it come from friend or foe—
Shall they ask and find no answer?
Rise and go.

One there was, who in his sadness
Laid his staff and mantle down,
Where the demons laughed to madness
What the night-winds could not drown—
Never came a voice of gladness
Though the cups should foam and flow,
And the pilgrim thus proclaiming
Rose to go.

“All the night I hear the speaking
Of low voices round my bed,
And the dreary floor a-creaking
Under feet of stealthy tread:—
Like a very demon shrieking
Swings the black sign to and fro,
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
For I go.

“On the hearth the brands are lying
In a black, unseemly show;
Through the roof the winds are sighing
And they will not cease to blow;
Through the house sad hearts replying
Send their answer deep and low—
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
For I go.

“Tell me not of fires relighted
And of chambers glowing warm,
Or of travelers benighted,
Overtaken by the storm.
Urge me not; your hand is blighted
As your heart is—even so!
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper—
For I go.

“Tell me not of goblets teeming
With the antidote of pain,
For its taste and pleasant seeming
Only hide the deadly bane;
Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming,
How they curse thee in their wo!
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
For I go.

“I will leave your dreary tavern
Ere I drink its mandragore:
Like a black and hated cavern
There are reptiles on the floor;
They have overrun your tavern,
They are at your wine below!
Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,
For I go.

“There’s an hostler in your stable
Tends a steed no man may own,
And against your windy gable
How the night-birds scream and moan!
Even the bread upon your table
Is the ashy food of wo;
Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,
For I go.

“Here I will not seek for slumber,
And I will not taste your wine:
All your house the fiends encumber,
And they are no mates of mine;
Nevermore I join your number
Though the tempests rain or snow—
Here’s my staff and here’s my mantle,
And I go.”

Suffering brothers—doubly brothers—
(Pain hath made us more akin)
Trust not to the strength of others,
Trust the arm of strength within;
One good hour of courage smothers
All the ills an age can know;
Take your staff and take your mantle,
Rise and go.

* * * * *

SONNETS:

SUGGESTED BY PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS.

BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE.

I.—THE ERA OF DISCOVERY.

The darkest storm-cloud oft upon its breast
Weareth the bow of promise. In the hour
Of deepest anguish, words of healing power
Are whispered to the spirit—“Peace!” and “Rest!”
Praise to our God! if e’en Death’s shadow lower,
Hope lightens all the gloom, with radiant crest—
Oh! Joy is, oft, in garb of sorrow drest,
And direst grief brings rapture as its dower.
Thus, on the night of ages, flashed a light
Of wondrous power and splendor, Learning came
Forth from the cloisters. Welcome to the sight,
A breath from Heaven relit religion’s flame.
’Twas then, his sail the great Discover furled,
’Twas then, was born, as ’twere, this western world.

II.—THE EARLY LIFE OF COLUMBUS.

Amid a glorious city, woke to light
He who threw back a double radiance pure;
And that blue sea! ’Twas as an angel bright,
Beck’ning the child to fame and fortune sure.
How lovingly its waters kissed his feet!
How graceful yielded, as to lure away
The young enthusiast! Should he fail to meet
The ceaseless chime, forbidding him to stay.
The _man_, the _hour_ were found, and from that time
His soul was girded for its task sublime:
To struggle on, through error’s endless maze;
To bear contempt, and poverty, and pain;
To wait for royal favor’s fickle rays;—
To find a world beyond the western main!

III.—COLUMBUS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF PAVIA.

Here was the manna for his hungry soul;
And here the fount for which he’d thirsted long.
Though yet his years were few, none might control
His mighty yearnings, or his purpose strong.
Ah! it is joy to watch the spark divine,
To feel it struck, as thought encounters thought!
What deep, exulting happiness was thine,
When to thine aid long-hidden lore was brought,
And thou, Columbus! didst believe the skies
Stooped down to nerve thee for thy high emprise!
’Twas well thou hadst the witness in thine heart,
Or thou hadst fainted in thy weary way;
Though hope “deferred,” though anguish were thy part,
Faith shed a halo round thee day by day.

IV.—COLUMBUS ARRIVES IN SPAIN.

What veiléd glory, and what strange disguise,
We meet in by-ways of this wondrous earth!
How oft the “angel” to our scaléd eyes
Seems but a “stranger” guest of mortal birth!
Met with cold words, or, haply, careless mirth,
Known only when he’s passed into the skies.
Columbus asks for bread![2] None see the ties
Which link him to the future home and hearth
Of unborn millions. Thus, the glorious day
Oft dawns in clouds, while the cold, ceaseless rain
Fills up each pause in the wind’s moaning strain,
And forms of evil seem to haunt our way.
The sky seems brightest when the clouds depart!
Earth-woes make heaven still dearer to the heart.

-----

[2] On his first arrival in Spain, Columbus asked for bread and water for his child, at the convent of La Rabida.

V.—COLUMBUS BEFORE THE COUNCIL.[3]

A silver lining to on ebon cloud;[4]
A diamond flashing in Cimmerian cave;
A Lazarus, up-rising from the grave,
Bursting the cerements of the straitened shroud;
To all true men Columbus calls aloud.
He scans the past, with all its priestly lore,
But, Janus-like, beholds the future’s shore.
What glorious scenes, what teeming wonders crowd!
What though the church behold him with a frown!
What though the crosier point toward the rack,
When heresy is near, as to the track
Of precious gold the magic hazel leans?
He heedeth not the mitre, cowl, or gown;
A new creation on his spirit beams.

-----

[3] Irving speaks of the ignorance of this body on all _scientific_ subjects, causing the opinions of Columbus to be regarded as heretical.

[4]

Was I deceived, or did an ebon cloud
Turn forth its silver lining on the night? MILTON.

VI.—COLUMBUS AT COURT.

The crescent wanes within Granada’s walls;
The Moorish standard bows into the dust;
The hour hath come when proud Boabdil must
Yield to Castilian prowess. In the halls
Of the Alhambra hymns of praise and trust
Ascend to Heaven. On the glad ear there falls
A mighty shout of triumph. Each one calls
“Rejoice! the Cross hath conquered—ever just!”
Who cometh ’mid the throng? One who hath learned
To hope, when hope hath died within the breast;
Fainting, to hold right on, though scoffed and spurned—
Amid that jubilation he is blest.
Man’s eyes are holden, but proud Woman’s name
From that good hour shares the Discoverer’s fame.

VII.—THE EMBARKATION.

Oh! sweet as is the voice of one most dear,
And balmy as the welcome breath of heaven
To the sick soul, long “cabined, cribbed, confined,”
Is the blesséd wind, that on his high career
Now wafts the man to whose high trust is given
A world unknown, save to his mighty mind.
The last deep prayer is said—the mystic rite
Hath brought new strength unto his awe-struck heart,
He who long struggled with the diver’s might,
Who oft the waves of error did dispart,
And gasped for breath amid those shades of night,
Now with the aim unerring of a dart
Strikes for the pearl, bright gleaming to his eyes—
What mortal man e’er brought up such a prize!

VIII.—THE DISCOVERY.

The morning dawns, and to th’ enraptured eye
Appears a land, glorious beyond compare,
Save that the dreamer saw in vision fair,
When to the Holy City he drew nigh.
The long-drawn veil e’en now is rent in twain!
Well may he enter in, with grateful prayer,
And bathe, as ’twere in a diviner air.
Well may the tears flow down—a blesséd rain!
And Spain’s broad banner proudly rise on high.
What scenes unknown—what beings from the sky,
May wait his coming, or his glory share,
And sing his praise in a celestial strain?
Methinks his soul might now depart in peace!
Well had it been had he then found release!

IX.—THE RETURN TO SPAIN.

Joy! for the Victor cometh! He hath won
A prouder triumph than the great of eld;
The tempest-tossed, within whose bosom swelled
Bright hopes, that changed to fears, now sees the sun
Shine on the fair and fertile land of Spain,
Which hails his name with proud enraptured strain.
All press to gaze on th’ anointed one,
Whom the Most High within his hand has held—
While peals again the long and loud refrain;
And for “Castile and Leon’s” chosen son,
A full-orbed glory shineth in the West.
Oh! if Life’s sands e’en then had ceased to run,
Bright visions of those “islands of the blest”
Had soothed him to his last and dreamless rest.

X.—COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.

In chains! in chains! homeward once more he came!
Life’s sky is veiled in midnight drear and dark;—
And this is his reward! They leave no mark
Those shameless fetters on his own fair fame.
The shaft may pierce his soul, but yet no shame
Bows that proud head; he is the victor still;
He triumphs in a stern, unconquered will.
His ’scutcheon fair was dimmed by breath of blame;
The stain is washed away by woman’s tears;
His patron-queen forbids his anxious fears—
Her gracious sweetness brings him to the dust.
The pledge of royal favor now he hears.—
But, oh! too long it waited—_to be just_;
While care and grief led on the lingering years.

XI.—COLUMBUS PROPOSES A NEW CRUSADE.

The evening sky is bright with blended hues;
A soft, mild radiance, borrowed from on high,
Seems, to our view, to bring e’en heaven nigh,
And its pure essence in our souls infuse.
Thus, to that noble heart, as from the sky,
There came a presence, in life’s slow decline;
He viewed it as a holy seal and sign—
The Cross must crown the city of the Jews!
Like the pure incense-flame he soars from earth;
In fancy sees the prophet’s page unroll,
And reads therein the presage of his birth,
The mighty mission of his single soul!
Life’s pathway bears for him a healing balm,
Which cheers his heart and nerves his fainting arm.

XII.—THE DEATH OF COLUMBUS.

He cometh to the shore of that vast sea,[5]
Whereon he never yet hath spread his sail;
His last, last voyage. Now every chart must fail,
Save that, our Father! he received of Thee!
With an unwavering trust he meets the wave,
Which bears him onward to the dread unknown;
From man’s injustice to that mighty Throne,
Supreme in power, Omnipotent to save.
Ah! ne’er from that far land shall he return!
His dust shall mingle with his mother-earth
In that fair isle to which his skill gave birth.[6]
That mighty soul! where doth it “breathe and burn?”
What worlds hath it discerned beyond the tomb,
Which to our eyes are all enwrapped in gloom?

-----

[5]

“The shore
Of that vast ocean we must sail so soon.”

[6] The remains of Columbus were deposited in the convent of St. Francisco, but repeatedly removed, and, finally, on the 15th January, 1796, transferred, with almost regal pomp, to the island of Cuba.

* * * * *

TO A FRIEND—WITH A BUNCH OF ROSES.

BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

Go forth in beauty blushing to the one I love so well— Let this dewy fragrance gushing to his spirit softly tell How a secret, sweet revealing from a gentle kindred heart, Far through his bosom stealing, comes to seek its nobler part.

Oh! there’s not a spell so glowing in this lovely world of ours, As when Feeling’s tones are flowing through the voices of the flowers, When Affection’s thoughts are wreathing in a murmured melody Round their dewy petals breathing forth a music-mystery.

There are angel voices given in their delicate perfume, Which will lead us up to Heaven where the fadeless roses bloom, They have come unto us glowing with a beauty from the skies, They are gifts of God’s bestowing, from a blessed Paradise.

Let a bright and lovely vision from our sunny Southern bowers, A dream of joy elysian be awakened by these flowers, For a wealth of bliss is filling all the loveliness they wear, And their tiny leaves are thrilling with the messages they bear.

Where the velvet bud uncloses to the morning’s golden beam Be thy life like summer roses floating o’er a summer stream, And amid its sunny bowers may a gentle heart be thine, To bring thee back the flowers which thou hast thrown o’er mine.

Yes—a gentle heart to bring them—leaves from out the distant past, O’er thy path in life to fling them—all unfading to the last, In itself the sweetest blossom which a “God of love” has given, To be worn within thy bosom—and to bloom for aye in Heaven.

* * * * *

MUSIC.

BY HENRY GILES.

The mere capacity in man of perceiving sound, renders the musical element a necessity in nature and in life. Discord, as a permanent state, is as inconceivable as a permanent state of chaos. The combinations of sounds, therefore, in the audible creation, if not all in detail musical, are pervaded by the musical element: No ear is insensible to the music of the air in the branches of a tree; to the groaning of it in the hollow cave—to its whistle in the grass, or to its spirit-voices in a stormy night around the dwelling. No ear is insensible to the trickling melody of the stream, to the deep song of the river—to the solemn anthem of the torrent, to the eternal harmonies of the ocean. Birds are peculiarly the musicians of the animal world. But how skillful and how rich their music is, we must learn, not from the printed page, but in the sunny grove. Though other creatures have not, as birds, the gift of song, yet are they not unmusical, and have their parts in the mighty orchestra of living nature. Musical sounds are grateful to the sense—and all beings that hear listen to them, enjoy them, and need them. In music man has a common medium of sympathy with his fellow animals. The charger prances to the sounds that swell the heart of his master—for he, too, has a heart which they can enter and dilate. A melody can soothe the lion’s rage. The elephant treads delighted to the measure of the band. The dog bays gladness to the shepherd’s flute. The cow stands in placid rapture while the milk-maid sings. Man is scarcely ever so rude as to be beyond the reach of music. It was a myth, containing as much truth as beauty, that feigned Apollo with his lyre as the early tamer of wild men. If music is the first influence which the race feels, it is also the first which the individual feels. The infant opens its intelligence and love to the mother’s song as much as to the mother’s face. The voice, even more than the look, is the primitive awakener of the intellect and heart. Every mother ought to sing. A song will outlive all sermons in the memory. Let memories that begin life have songs that last for life.

As a mere sensation, music has power. A little maid I have known, who would sit on her cricket by her father’s knee until he had read the whole of Christobel—of which she did not know the meaning of a line. It was melodious to her ear, and merely in its music there was fascination to her infant spirit. The songs which primitive people sing—in which they have their best social interchange, are frequently poor in diction and bald in sentiment. It is the music that gives the words a life; and this life can transfuse energetic inspiration into the meanest words. Early melodies are, of necessity, most simple. They are the instincts seeking to put themselves into measured sound—yet with little to fill the ear, and less to reach the mind. Nevertheless, they are good for the mind and pleasant to the ear. A rude musical sensation is of value; of how much more value is a refined musical sensation. But a musical sensation is of its very nature a refined one. It is among the purest of sensations. It may, indeed, be associated with coarse and base emotions. This, however, is not in itself. It is in the imagination or the word-music simply, as music presents nothing to the sense that is either coarse or base. The conception is from the mind to music, not from music to the mind. Speaking of music as a sensation, I speak relatively—for to man there is no music without soul. In music soul and sense both mingle—and become _one_ in its inspired sound.

Yet the least part of music is the mere sensation. It is not on the ear but on the heart that its finest spirit dwells. _There_ are the living chords which it puts in motion, and in whose vibration it has the echoes of its tones. The heart, after all, is the instrument with which the true musician has to deal. He must understand that from its lowest note to the top of its compass. The true test of music is the amount of feeling it contains. The true criterion of a love for music is the capacity to appreciate feeling in music. Music properly is the language of emotion. It is the language of the heart. Its grammar, its rhetoric, its eloquence, its oratory, is of the heart. The evidence of its power is in the calm or the quivering pulsation. Feeling in music is a memory, a sympathy, or an impulse. Nothing can recall with such vividness as music can a past emotion—a departed state of mind. Words are but the history of a by-gone thought—music is its presence. All our profoundest feelings are in their nature lyrical. Whatever most deeply affects us, we do, in some way, link to tune, or they are by tune awakened. The feelings sing of themselves, and make an orchestra of the brain. Persons utterly incapable of putting the simplest combination of sounds musically together, will make melody in their hearts of the reminiscences that strongly move them. And these will commonly be sad, as all is that is connected with the Past—sad, however, with various degrees of intensity—some, but calm regrets—others, dirges and requiems. Therefore it is that the most affecting melodies belong to the Past—to the past in the life of a man—to the past in the life of a nation. Such melodies come not from prosperity or power. They come from those who have missed a history, or whose history is over. Such melodies are voices of sadness—the yearnings over what might have been but was not—the regret for what has been but will never be again. And thus, too, it is with the most affecting eloquence. That which agitates the breast with force resistless is the word which is fraught with the passions of its sorrow. Life in power is Action—Life in memory is elegy or eloquence. A nation, like a man, dreams its life again—and until life is gone or changed it soliloquizes or sings its dreams. The music of memory lives in every man’s experience; and the excellence of it is, that it binds itself only to our better feelings. It is the excellence of our nature, also, that only such feelings have spontaneous memories. The worst man does not willingly recall his bad feelings: and if he did, he could not wed them to a melody. Hatred, malice—vengeance, envy, have, to be sure, their proper expressions in the lyric drama, but of themselves they are not musical, and by themselves they could not be endured. It is not so with the kind emotions. They are in themselves a music—and memory delights in the sweetness of their intonations. Love, affection, friendship, patriotism, pity, grief, courage—whatever generously swells the heart or tenderly subdues it—or purely elevates it—are, of themselves, of their own attuning and accordant graciousness, of a musical inspiration. With what enchantment will a simple strain pierce the silence of the breast, and in every note break the slumber of a thousand thoughts. It is a positive enchantment. Faces long in the clay bloom as they did in youth. An inward ear is opened through the outward—and voices of other times are speaking—and words which you had heard before come to your soul, and they are pleasant in this illusive echo. Your spirit is lost in the flight of days, and insensible to the interval of distance; it is back in other hours, and dwells in other scenes. Such are the mysterious linkings by which music interlaces itself with our feelings—and so becomes an inseparable portion of our sympathy. But sympathy exists only when music answers to the spirit. Give not a merry carol to a heavy heart; although you may give a grave strain to a light one. Music, as rightly used, is, as some one calls it, “the medicine of an afflicted mind.” Joy is heightened by exultant strains, but grief is eased only by low ones. “A sweet, sad measure” is the balm of a wounded spirit. Music lightens toil. The sailor pulls more cheerily for his song: and even the slave feels in singing that he is a man. But, in other forms of labor, we miss in our country the lyric feeling. Most of our work is done in silence. We hear none of those songs at the milking hour, which renders that hour in Europe so rich in pastoral and poetical associations. We hear no ploughman’s whistle ringing over the field with a buoyant hilarity. We have no chorusses of reapers, and no merry harvest-feasts. But if such things can not be naturally, it is vain to wish for them—and it may be even useless to mention them. Better things, perhaps, are in their place—grave meditation and manly thought—and I merely allude to them as elements that accord pleasingly with certain modes of life in countries to whose habits and history they are native. Music in social intercourse is a fine awakener of sympathies, and a fine uniter of them. A violin or a piano is often not less needed to soothe the ruffled spirit of a company, than the harp of David was to calm down the fiend in the turbulent breast of Saul. Music, as we see in the customs of all nations, is used as an antidote to the sense of danger, as well as a stimulus to the passion of combat. And as embattled hosts move with measured tramp to the field of death, music is the magic that is trusted to charm away fear or to call up courage.

Largely are men indebted even to the music of ballads and of songs. Difficult it would be to measure the good which such music has done to mankind. To multitudes in days of yore songs were the only literature, and by the bards they had all their learning. Songs were their history; their romance; their tragedy; their comedy; their fire-side eloquence, giving utterance and perpetuity to sacred affections, and to noble thoughts—and keeping alive a spirit of humanity in both the vassal and the lord. Men have not yet ceased to need such influences, nor have such influences lost their power. They still add purer brightness to the joys of the young—and are a solace to the memory of age. They are still bonds of a generous communion. They banish strangeness from the rich man’s hall: they add refinement to the rich man’s banquet: they are joy in the poor man’s holyday, they express lovingness in the poor man’s feast. What so aids beneficent nature as such music does, to remove barbarism and to inspire kindness? How dear amidst all the toils of earth are the songs which were music to our infant ears—the songs of our hearth and of our home—the songs which were our childhood’s spells, a blessedness upon our mother’s lips, a rapture and delight! What solaces the exile, while it saddens him? What is it that from the ends of ocean turns him with wistful imagination to the star which overhangs his father-land? What is it that brings the tear to his eye, and the memory of other days, and the vision in the far-off west; that annihilates years and distance, and gives him back his country, and gives him back his youth? Song—inspired song—domestic song—national song—song that carries ideal enthusiasm into rudest places—with many a tale of marvel and magnanimity—of heroism in the soldier, and sanctity in the saint—of constancy in love, and of bravery in war.

Man is a social being. Unselfish society is the harmony of humanity: loving interchange is the music of life; the music which lifts the attuned soul above discordant passions and petty cares—and song is the voice in which that music breathes. These are the strains that have memories in them of all that true souls deem worthy of life or death—the purities of their homes, the sacredness of their altars, the hopes of their posterity—all for which martyrs suffer—all for which patriots bleed—all that give millions a single wish and a single will—all that make the cry of liberty as the trump of judgment, and the swords of freemen as the bolts of heaven. Glorious names, and glorious deeds, and honorable feelings, are always allied to the lyric spirit. The independence of a country may seem to be utterly lost: the ruin of a nation may appear decided: indeed, its external destiny may be accomplished; but the character of a people is never absolutely degraded until the lyric fire is dead upon the altar, and the lyric voice is heard no longer in the temple.

Music is not exhausted in expressing feeling, though some persons are so constituted as not beyond this to understand or to enjoy it. But music of more profound combination is not, on this account, without meaning and without value. The higher forms of music, like the higher forms of poetry, must, of course, if tested by mere instinct, seem remote and complicated. Music, too, is susceptible of more multiplied combinations than poetry; and, without the restraints of arbitrary signs and definite ideas, can expatiate in the region of pure imagination. In the true sense of the word, it is infinite. Not bound to form, not bound to color, not bound to speech, it is as unlimited as the capacity of the soul to exist in undefinable states of emotional being. And into these it can throw the soul with inconceivable rapidity of change. The great master of even a single instrument appears, indeed, a wizard. He seems, in truth, to be the only artist to whom the designation of wizard can with any correctness be applied. Men of other genius may be creators, but the musician is the wizard. His instrument is a talisman. It is full of conjurations—out from it he draws his witchery; he puts his spell upon all around him; he chains them in the slavery of delight; and he is the only despot that rules over willing captives. No other power on the imagination is so complete—so uncontrollable. The fiction or the poem you can lay aside; the picture or statue moves you but calmly; the actor is at the mercy of an accident; the orator may fail, by reason of your opposition to his sentiments or opposition to his person; but the musician draws you from every thing which can counteract his charm, and once within his circle you have no escape from his power. Emotional conceptions—solemn, gay, pathetic, impassioned—are as souls in all his sounds. But in the case of an executive musician, the art seems incarnate in the artist. We associate the personality of the artist with the effects of his art. We are not yet within the limitless domain of imaginative music. The great instrumentalist is, indeed, a wizard—a cunning necromancer; but he is before us while he works his spells, and though we cannot resist the enchanter we _behold_ him. In a great composer there is a higher potency, and it is one that is not seen. The action of his spirit on our spirits, though exercised by means of intermediate agents, is yet that of an invisible incantation. The great composer is an imperial magician—the sovereign of genii and the master of wizards. He is a Prospero, and _Music_ is his _Enchanted Island_. The creative musician, and the region in which he dwells, can have no analogy more correct than that presented to us in Shakspeare’s extraordinary play of “The Tempest.” There we have the loud-resounding sea; at one moment the sun bright in the clear sky, at another hidden by the mist or breaking through the blood-red cloud; now the heavens are full of stars, and in an instant they are thick with gloom; the elements gather into masses, they clash together, and the thunder and the waves fill up the chorus. Then the day dawns softly, and the morning breaks into summer songs. Caves are there and pleasant dells; solitudes are there, dark and lonely; spots beautiful as well as terrible; barren and blasted heaths, where goblins hold their revels; and labyrinthian walks, where sweet-hearts, not unwilling, lose themselves and linger. The earth, the atmosphere, shore, stream, grove, are filled with preternatural movements, with sweet voices and strange sounds. There are Ariel-melodies, there are Caliban groanings; there are the murmurings of manly passions, and the whisperings of maiden-love; there are Bacchanalian jovialities, high and mysterious monologues, fanciful and fairy-ditties, the full swellings of excited hearts, and the choral transports of all nature, made living and made lyrical. But the Prospero who rules in this island, dwells in a lonely cell, and yet commands all the voices of the universe to do his bidding. Have I not, by this analogy, described a grand imaginative composer? Without intending it, I have described Beethoven. I speak, I admit, only as one of the appreciating vulgar—as one of the impressible ignorant; I am able only to express a sensation, not to pronounce a judgment. In listening to Beethoven’s music there is a delight, for which, no doubt, the learned artist can give a reason. I know nothing of art, and with me the listening is an untutored, a wild, an almost savage joy or sorrow, or a mixture of emotions that cannot be defined. The music of Beethoven, if I can judge from the little that I have heard of it, is _unearthly_; but the unearthliness of this music is of a compound nature. Like Spenser’s, Beethoven’s imagination is unearthly; and, like Spenser’s, it is unearthly in the supernaturally grand and beautiful. Like Milton’s imagination, also, Beethoven’s is unearthly; but here it is unearthly in the mysterious and the solemn. The union of these elements in the wholeness of Beethoven’s genius, have given to us that singular, that most original music, which seems to belong to the ideal region, which eastern fancy has peopled with genii and fairies. What a wonderful thing is a symphony of Beethoven’s! But who can describe it, in either its construction or its effects? You might as well attempt to describe, by set phrases, the raptures of St. Paul or the visions of the Apocalypse. It always seems the utterance of a mighty trance, of a mysterious dream, of a solemn ecstacy. The theme, even the most simple—so simple that a child, as it might appear, could have fashioned it, is one, however, that genius of a marvelous peculiarity only could have discovered—a genius that worked and lived amidst the most ideal analogies by which sounds are related to emotions. And this unearthly theme is thrown at once into an ocean of orchestral harmony, and this orchestral harmony is as unearthly as the theme. Thrown upon the orchestra it seems to break, to divide itself, to scatter itself upon the waves of an enchanted sea, in a multitude of melodies. It seems as a tune played by a spirit-minstrel, on a summer night, in the glade of a lonely wood, to which all the genii of music answer, in chorusses of holy, sad, enchanting modulation.