A DESULTORY CHAPTER. BY CAMILLA TOULMIN. 66 Many have been the classifications of the genus homo, from those of the physiologist, guided by the shape of his bones and the colour of his skin and the texture of his hair, to the conventional demarcations of gentle and simple," or the moral ones which hedge round a particular pursuit or profession. It would be a broad line to be sure, and somewhat less mystifying than a few of the ists, and ians, and ites, which, in this middle of the nineteenth century, do so obtain and puzzle her Majesty's lieges, simply to consider the animal in question as of two sorts-the sorts (vide Lindley Murray) containing many kinds-those who think and those who do not think, Anything, say we, better than the stagnant waters of the last. So that men can and will think, let them differ as they must, and sputter out their differences in noise and contention as they do. Is it not "The fitful motion Of the ever restless ocean," which even in calm follows the beckoning of its star-encircled queen, and so preserves the mighty waters pure? and even as old Ocean girdles the earth, so are the hearts of those who think begirt with ever restless thought, so saved from inaneness and stagnation. duties, which the thought of another has prearranged, and compared with whose lives we consider that of a horse in a mill as varied and exciting. If accident or circumstance throws one with people of this description, how extraordinary seem the minds which are, as it were bit by bit, unrolled before us! It is a charmed circle charmed into stone; for their ideas are the petrifactions of the impressions of their childhood. The all-pervading Spirit of the Universe, their God is--we write it not irreverently-a gigantic old man with long white hair; Death is a skeleton hung upon wires; a King is a something compounded of flesh and blood, but which wears a crown and royal robes night and day; a soldier, a portly, fierce-looking personage, mounted on a black charger at the Horse Guards; a Poet, some one who can connect, without absolute nonsense, eyes and skies, stand and land. Verily to one of these "A primrose on a river's brim, Not long ago, we chanced to listen to some edifying table-talk. A Thinker had chanced to drop within the charmed and stony circle, and for a while, unconscious of the fact, he flung his gems of thought before the stone-blind multitude. Poetry was the theme, and we remember the thinker said that the great poet must be a great philosopher, for that truth was poetry, and poetry was truth. These words conveyed no meaning to the dull understandings around; but presently the name of SHAKSPERE was mentioned, and a guest feeling sure that at last he could put in a clinching word, exclaimed— "But you don't call Shakspere a poet, surely!" Yet this same capacity for thought, which, according to its kind or sort, we nickname genius, talent, common sense, or what not, would seem (to use another metaphor) a steed to be ridden with the spur. How is it else that the ranks of literature, science, art, are crowded with men who "think to live," whose daily means are won by the sweat of the brain, whose only gold is the earthy payment for their minds' creations? It would seem that to the rough rider, Necessity, the world is greatly indebted. Amateurs seldom, very seldom, step beyond the Reader, this is fact-letter for letter that made threshold of the Temple of Fame; the rare up the sentence, and which, entre nous, suggested exceptions serve but to point the rule. The this present scribbling. Neither was it in the portico is crowded by eager, hardy aspirants; so-called circle of the ignorant or lowly; quite the "gentleman at ease" is crushed and incom- the contrary-among folks who shoot and hunt moded in the melée; he feels that le jeu ne vaut every season, and who can, if it so please them, pas la chandelle. But the pleasures, the great quaff their claret every day. It is to be suppleasures of the dilettanti remain, and the ama-posed that people who do the like, and live in teur, who only wanted that same spur to achieve greatness, becomes an appreciator of greatness in others; a thing quite as necessary, and not a whit more common than active talent of the highest order. But both these classes think; so honour be unto them. The unthinking are a very different set; the drones in the hive, who either possess a little dirty money by lawful inheritance, or procure it by discharging some simple matter-of-fact fine houses, and ride in fine carriages, can read; and those who can read may think. But reve nons. Among all the delusions of the wrong-headed none are more extraordinary than the notions they have of poets and poetry. A poet with them is inexplicably connected with the country; more especially with shepherds and shepherdesses: these being creatures decorated with straw hats and blue ribbons, and bearing a pipe or a crook. What a difference between the Arcadian and fancy ball personage, and the veritable tender of the not-particularly-odoriferous flock-the bumpkin in hob-nailed shoes, who can but articulate in the broad Yorkshire dialect! The wrong-headed people have also, however, a dim and indistinct idea that when poets are denizens of London, they dwell in carpetless garrets, where, by the midnight lamp of a greasy tallow candle, their lucubrations are carried on; a petrifaction clearly attributable to early readings of select biography. To the poetry whose fountains are never dry, and which flows over all created things, and is a baptism of divinity, they are utterly stone-blind. They talk of, and look on, the beauties of Nature, with heart less stirred than the lover of art can think of a fine picture: yet they say that they love the country, and dream that in saying so they pay their homage to poetry; for they have not, like Audry, the grace to "thank the gods"-they are "not poetical." Tell them that London, with its thronging memories, its deathless associations, and its active, soul-stirring present, is so saturated with true poetic inspiration, that the pulse bounds even when a poetphilosopher writes the word, they will stare at you with eyes devoid of "speculation," hinting to you of the wit that is allied to madness; or, what is more likely, assuring you in plain prose that you talk great nonsense. universe of change it is! Change, without And Shining as when the world was young they shone. ye will see outspring each sparkling ray, And Earth looks up with an unwrinkled brow! And shall she thus a Hebe-Mother stand For countless ages still? I only know How much I love to watch the quaint-named band But And meanwhile the arching sky-our atmosphere darkened to what we call Night by the earth's shadow, through which the stars by tiny rents look down upon us-the arching sky, is it the dome and curtain of a sleeping hemisphere? Ay, partly. It curtains some millions "stretched in a horizontal position," and "dreaming the foolishest dreams." the wakeful! Truly there are watchers besides the silent stars. Hark to the sentinel's measured tramp, and the click of the musket as he handles it! Be thankful to God for the last years of humanizing peace; but oh! be thankful too for the brave hearts that are ever ready to defend our sea-girt isle, or redress the wrongs of the oppressed; be thankful, with an admiring How beautiful is the soliloquy in Taylor's "Van Artevelde," when Philip contemplates, from on high, the sleeping city; seeking, with fancy's wand, to fill the void of night with the baseless fabric of the sleepers' airy visions! And how forcibly does Carlyle, in his Germanized, but graphic and heart-reaching prose, embody a similar thought, when he speaks of the city's thousands "dreaming the foolishest dreams." If the dreams of the weary multi-wonder, for the system of discipline that makes tude are worthy of such imaginings, soul-stirring, thought-kindling indeed is the contemplation of their waking activity! the human hearts, each with its own little world, that seems to itself so mighty and important-each with its hopes and fears, its joys and sorrows, remembering the past and planning for the future, rather, for the most part, than enjoying the present. Change, too-the universal law of change-is worthy of a thought. Physically we do know that the fingers, which at this moment guide the grey goose quill, are not in all their parts identical with the fingers that folded the paper yesterday in readiness for our task; but do owe some unimaginably minute particles of their substance to the excellent mutton from which we afterwards dined. Modified, too, by the "crutchlike rod" of circumstance are, from day to day, our hopes and fears, our thoughts and actions; not to name the sudden convulsions, deaths, accidents, which make to some heart or other, each hour of the day, the epoch of a life. Calling these things to mind, the separate "worlds" of the mighty multitude must vary to-day from yesterday at least as widely as do their nightly and fantastic dreams. What a these lion hearts a hundred-fold effective; render a tribute to the military genius of England. And while first and last and always ye are thankful for peace, and pray for its continuance, do not confound the horrors of war with military heroism, making those tarnish this. │The Great Soldier, acting in a righteous cause, is a Great Hero, whom all the maudlin twaddle of those who misinterpret Truth cannot unmake. An army is a dreadful Necessity, contingent on the present state of society, but a necessity still. In the division of labour it is the organized militant power (opposed to the savage state, where every man is a warrior and hunter) which gives leisure to the philosopher to balance and investigate facts, and to delve for Truth in the deep dim abyss of human intellect; dim, surely, save where irradiated by the phosphoric gleams of Thought. It is the organized militant power that, threatening war, keeps peace; which grants the man of science a public to appreciate him, and so benefit themselves. And while the latter points to his railroads and steamboats and water-courses and gas-lights and engines, and says proudly and truly," Are not these worthier triumphs than those of the brutal Swede, or mad Macedonian?" and the poetphilosopher tells of loftier and purer destinies than any the "Hebe-mother" world, with her ensanguined battle-fields, has yet known, whispering hopefully and fondly, "The Reformation was the first-born giant of the printing-press: count up its later glorious births, and know you cannot argue from the history of past empires of the present age;" and while both these see by the clear, beautiful light of truth the horrors of war, and believe that its end will come; yet they know it is the organized militant power which in this twilight morning of a brighter day grants them peace and the leisure to think. It is only they who misinterpret truth that undervalue the Great Soldier. a Behold, too, there are other watchers besides the tramping sentinel. The servants of a power more mighty than our standing army; they are labouring against the coming day, so that the statesman in his study may know betimes what the world thinks of his piloting; that the duchess, in her boudoir, may learn the effect of her last soirée; that the merchant in his dingy counting-house, the tradesman over his hurried breakfast, may know the state of the market; that the favourite danseuse may learn the sensation produced by her last pas; and that the anxiety may be relieved of the young author, whose mental epidermis not being yet hardened by the all-sided buffets of criticism, awaits with trembling the fiat which is to raise him to the seventh heaven of delight, or sink him to the deepest depths of despair. Poor wretch ! if he have not money in his purse, why was he not dancer? Not Parnassus, but the stage-door of the Italian Opera House, is now-a-days the highroad to fame and fortune. But to return. For all these, and what myriads more, the servants of the Daily Press outwatch the twinkling stars; that mighty power, which, binding together the crumbling atoms of Public Opinion, supplies the lever by which IT moves the moral world. For, after all, are not the writers of a country its rulers-more absolutely reigning than ever did crowned despot, more freely chosen of the people than ever was popular demagogue? It is from the great writers of an age that we learn to judge of an epoch; for does not each of them represent the voices of many speaking through one? Believing, as we do, that the seeds of genius are thickly scattered, but requiring, according to their nature, different circumstances for their development (just as the climate which ripens one fruit would rot another), and taking this clue for a guide, it is easy to understand how certain periods fostered-not producedcertain minds. How, in the earnest, prosperous age of Elizabeth, England's BARD arose to fulfil his destiny-to stamp, in his own rich coinage, his own glowing words, the sterling divine truths of humanity; believing that a century later, in a vicious age of falsities, he-even he-might have lived unhonoured, inactive; feeling, perchance, that the "times were out of joint," but haply unconscious of the light within him. Just a kindling fire would die away without a supply of ready oxygen, so does genius require that something kindred, which we call appreciation, ere it can illumine the world. Never talk of Shakspere not being admired in his own day-it was in the period of civil war, when party spirit crushed poetry and philosophy from the hearts of men; and, later still, when vice scarcely paid its "homage to virtue" by masking its face and playing hypocrite, that Shakspere was neglected. Would he have lived by his pen, ay, and grown rich-proving, thereby, that he possessed the common sense inseparable from the highest order of mindsif he had not had the breath of popularity to fan his greatness? Would he have poured out, one after another, his most glorious creations, if they had not drawn crowds to the "Globe," who must have grown (whether they knew it or not) wiser and better from that pleasant teaching? Surely what their orators and philosophers were to the ancients-what the church was to Europe, in the darkest ages of Catholicism-the stage became for awhile after the Reformation; and thus, by a sort of circle, do we come back to the Newspaper Press; which resembles very strongly, in the moral influence it exerts, the power which each of those organs wielded: being, as they were, the "voices of many speaking through one.' THE RIVAL FLOWERS. As mid the garden's fragrant tribes I stray'd, Three lovely flowers, in varied hues array'd, Their charms in beauteous rivalry display'd. 'Twas thus of old, on Ida's topmost height, Three fair competitors divinely bright, Amaz'd the shepherd-prince's dazzled sight. "Ye blooming rivals!" I, admiring, cried, "Who glorious shine like them in beauty's pride, Like him your various claims I will decide. "Thou, towering Lily! in whose form are seen Her graceful bearing, and majestic mien, Art stately Juno, of Olympus queen. "Blue-eyed Strelitzia! thou who dost appear Of glowing hue, and arm'd with pointed spear, Art warlike Pallas, awful and severe. "But thou, sweet Rose! on whom, to grace her bowers, Her choicest gifts indulgent Nature showers, Thee, I salute-Hail, Venus among flowers!" X. Y. Z. The rich as little know the dark and desperate thoughts that grow from utter destitution, as they do the power of a kindly word or deed to turn the wretched from the tempting path of error. THE ARTIST'S DISAPPOINTMENT. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. It was rather late in the evening of a day in autumn, 182--, that two well-dressed persons were seen standing before a small house in one of the principal streets of Milan. They leaned against the railing at the foot of the steps, and were listening with such apparent attention, that their attitude and employment might have excited observation, but that a certain high-bred air indicated them to be above suspicion, and the delicious music heard from the house fully justified them in pausing to listen. The music was low, plaintive, and touching, and accompanied by a clear and melodious male voice. Now and then it swelled into deeper pathos, the voice being evidently interrupted by sobs; and one of the listeners, deeply moved, turned aside to brush a tear from his eyes. After it had continued some time with these alternations of harmonious complaint, it was suddenly broken off, and a dead silence succeeded. "Poor Antonio!" said one of the gentlemen, with a deep sigh; "this affliction will kill him." "Nay," answered his companion, “I have no fear. He has youth, health, ambition, to sustain him; and though I know he feels "But you know not Antonio as I do, Ronza," rejoined the other. "It is the exquisite sensibility of his nature, the deep and passionate feeling hid under his graceful and composed exterior, that, even more than qualities merely professional, has contributed to his fame as the first of modern singers. And this exquisitely toned instrument, that yields such melody to the lightest touch, may be as easily shattered." He loved his mother devotedly; but-cielo -did he expect to survive her?" "Ah! she was more than mother to him; he owed her his intellectual, his spiritual being. She directed his pure soul to the enjoyments alone fitted for him; she led him to the shrine of art. No, Ronza, do not blame his grief." "I do not blame it. I only say that the deepest wound, even in natures like his, may the sooner be healed. But let us go in." The two friends ascended the steps, and knocked. They were admitted, and, as they anticipated, found the person they had come to seek plunged in a grief that defied all consolation-the more to be dreaded, as his outward manner was cold and calm. It was the snow upon the mountain, whose breast was consuming in volcanic fires. "And yet I am grateful for your coming," he said, after every common-place source of consolation had been exhausted in their kind efforts to divert his mind from the contemplation of the calamity that had crushed him. "I cannot now say how grateful, but you will forgive my lack of words. Will you pardon, also, Count Albert, my entreating you to take charge of these papers?" And, opening a drawer, he took out several letters, and handed them to the Count. "How-you do not now think of leaving Milan?" "No; but I retire from the world. Tomorrow I enter the Convent di” Count Albert di Gaëta and the Marchese di Ronza exchanged looks of dismay. "So sudden a project "It is not sudden. My resolution has been formed since the day of my mother's death, and my application was forwarded immediately. I expect a reply to it every hour." You have been imprudent, my friend,” said the Marchese. You will regret the precipitation of this step." "And what have I now to live for?" asked the mourner, bitterly. "For fame," replied di Ronza. "When, at eighteen years of age," he said, "I met with my first triumph at Bologna; when the public far and near were pleased to applaud me, what, think you, was my joy in the enthu siasm I awakened? That she rejoiced in my success; that she encouraged me to persevering effort; that I was earning honour and competence for her enjoyment in old age. Now I have lost my only stimulus to exertion; I have lost my love of art; my faculties are paralyzed." "This is not natural," observed the Marchese, gravely. "But it is truth. The world is a desert to me; I leave it. The church offers me an asylum. I accept it as a refuge where I can bear with me her memory; for whom alone I wished to live." "Your friends," said di Ronza, somewhat haughtily, "may not thank you for your exclusion of them. You have many to whom your success is a part of their daily joy. And yet, gifted with health, beauty, genius, not yet twenty-five, you would hide yourself in the cowl and scapulary from the admiration of men, the love of woman The mourner gave an involuntary and im patient gesture. The Marchese saw that his brow was crimson, and a new light seemed to break on Ronza's mind, for a meaning smile played for an instant on his lip. It was gone before either of his companions perceived it. "Before we part," asked he, "will you sing us this air from the Cenerentola?" and he took up a leaf of music. "Nay," interposed Count Albert, "it is wrong to ask this. How unsuitable this song to the gloom of his feelings!" “The better, that the power of music may for an instant dispel his melancholy thoughts. Come, Antonio, I will join you." Antonio complied, and seated himself at the piano to sing. Ronza accompanied him, watching him closely all the while, and nodded his head with an expression of satisfaction when the air was concluded. There was a knock at the door; Antonio arose from the instrument. The portière entered, and handed him a letter. He begged pardon of his friends, and broke the seal; glanced over the contents, and buried his face in his hands. The friends sat in silent sympathy. At length, in obedience to a sign from the mourner, Count Albert took the letter up and read it. It was an answer from the superiors of the Convent di -. His application was rejected; their doors were closed against 66 an actor." Courteously as the denial was expressed, it was evident that Antonio felt the implied insult to his profession; and indignation for the moment rose above his grief. "The creed is indeed exclusive," he said, bitterly, "that refuses an actor space for repentance and preparation for death." They are right," said the Marchese, somewhat abruptly. What sort of a monk would you make, Antonio mio? Your sorrow is profound, but it must in time abate; you heart will rise from its depression; you will feel once again the impulse of genius and ambition." "Never!" interrupted the artist. "I tell you, you will. I am old in the world, and therefore a true prophet. You will, and the time is not far distant. In the convent your eyes would be opened, only that you might see the gloom surrounding you; your wings would expand, only that you might feel the weight that chained them to earth-for ever! For I know you well enough to know that, once fettered by the vows, you would die ere fling them off! They are right; they foresee the result. Be warned in time!" 66 'My resolution is unalterable," said Antonio. "Milan is not the world. In four days I shall leave it, and seek elsewhere the asylum I cannot obtain here. I am heart-broken and wretched; I cannot live among the scenes and associations of my past life. Better for me the grave of the suicide!" The scene was a handsomely furnished drawing-room in the house of Madame Gioja. This lady-French by birth, celebrated for her many graces and accomplishments-was the daughter of the Count Gaetani, and wedded in early youth to the Marquis de Miriallia. His jealous love for the beautiful creature he had espoused prompted his last will, which made the forfeiture of his fortune the penalty of her second marriage. Surrounded by luxury and admiration, moving in the most exalted circles, the lovely widow cast her eyes upon a young artist, dependent on his profession for support. Love proved stronger than ambition, and she gave up splendour to share the lot of the poor man whom her heart had chosen. Her friends were indignant; she was deprived of her liberty; but being afterwards released from imprisonment, she left her native country to lead a wandering life, consoled for all her sacrifices by the love of her husband and children. Madame Gioja was reading by a small table in the centre of the room. A young girl of exquisite beauty was playing at the piano, sometimes accompanying the music with her voice; and ever and anon the elderly lady would look up from her book with a glance so full of tenderness and pride, that the spectator needed not to have observed the striking resemblance between the two to be certain of their relationship. The looks were such as only beam from a mother's eyes upon a beloved and only daughter. "The Marchese di Ronza," said the portière, throwing open the door. Madame Gioja rose to receive her guest. The visit was unusual from one of rank so high; for the lady, be it remembered, had descended, in marrying, to the condition of her husband, and he was no associate of nobles. But she had in youth been familiar with courts and princes, and in grace and dignity she was not changed; so that, though surprised at the visit, no princess could have received it with greater self-possession and composure. The Marchese paid his respects to the lady, "This must be remedied, and speedily," said then turned to her daughter, who had risen Count Albert to his companion, after they had from the piano, and fixed on her so prolonged a quitted their friend, whose sufferings seemed in gaze, that the mother was startled and someno degree alleviated by their sympathy, "or what offended. She replied very gravely to nature will give way. That wild look of anguish, some casual remark of her guest, and the young that fevered flush, the hurried and abrupt move-girl, who seemed aware that there was an emment, the visible emaciation of his whole frame; all these make me shudder. An organization so susceptible, so delicate, cannot withstand so mighty a shock. Suffer this grief to prey upon him, and in three months he will fall its victim." barrassment, blushed deeply. Ronza saw he had committed an error, and said with a serious air to Madame Gioja — "May I crave the favour, madame, of a few moments' conversation with you on business?" |