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              WRTH CAROLINA STATE LIBRARY
RALEIGH
THE LAND WE LOYE.
No. I. NOVEMBER, 1868. YoL. VI.
BATTLE OF EUTAW.
We must return to the main
battle. "We have seen Sum-ner,
with his brigade, taking the
place vacated by the militia. He,
at length, yielded to the superior
force and fire of the enemy. As
his brigade wavered, shrank, and
finally yielded, the hopes of the
British '^rew sanguine. With a
wild yell of victory, they rushed
forward to complete their sup-posed
triumph, and , in doing so
,
their line became disordered.
—
This afforded an opportunity of
which Greene promptly availed
himself. He had anticipated this
probability, and had waited anx-iously
for it. He was now ready
to take advantage of it, and gave
his order—to Otho Williams, in
command of the Marylanders
"Let Williams advance, and
sweep the field with his bayonets ! '
'
And Williams, heading two
brigades—those of Maryland and
Virginia—swept forward with a
shout. When within forty yards
of the British, . the Virginians
poured in a destructive fire, under
which their columns reeled and
shivered as if struck by lightning
;
and then the whole second line,
the three brigades, with trailed
arms, and almost at a trot, darted
on to the savage issue of naked
steel, hand to hand, with the
desperate bayonet. The terrible
fire of the Virginians, followed up
by the charge of the second line,
and seconded, at this lucky junct-ure,
by the legion infantry,
which suddenly poured in a most
destructive fire upon the now ex-posed
flank of the British left,
threw the whole line into irre-trievable
disorder. But the bay-onets
of certain sections were
crossed, though for a moment
only; men were transfixed by one
another, and the contending offi-cers
sprang at each other with
their swords!
The left of the British centre
at this vital moment, pressed
* Extract from Eutaw, a tale of the Kevolutiou, liy W. Gilmore Simms, Esq.
VOL. VI.—NO. I. 1
Battle of Eataw. [Nov.,
upon by their own fugitives, yield-ed
under the pressure, and the
Marylanders now delivering their
fire, hitherto reserved, completed
the disaster! Along the whole
front, the enemy's ranks wavered,
gave way finally, and retired sul-lenly,
closely pressed by the
shouting Americans.
The victory was won!—so far,
a victory was won ; and all that
was necessary was to keep and
confirm the triumph. But the
battle was not over. The battle
of Eutaw was a ii«o-act, we
might say a i/iree-act,drama—such
were its vicissitudes.
At the moment when the
British line gave way, had it been
pressed without reserve by the
legion cavalry, the disaster must
have been irretrievable. But this
seems not to have been done.
—
Why, can not now be well ex-plained,
nor is it exactly within
our province to undertake the ex-planation.
Lee himself was at
this moment with his infantry,
and they had just done excellent
service. It is probable that Cof-fin's
cavalry was too much for
that of the legion; and this body,
sustained by a select corps of
bayonets, protected the British in
the quarter which w^as first to
yield. It now remained for the
Americans to follow up their suc-cesses.
The British had been
driven from their first field. It
was the necessity of the Ameri-cans
that they should have no
time to rally upon other ground,
especially upon the ground so
well covered by the brick-house,
and the dense thicket along the
creek which was occupied by
Marjoribanks.
But a pursuing army, where
the cavalry fails in its appointed
duty, can never overtake a fugi-tive
force, unless , emulating their
speed, it breaks its own order.
This, if it does, it becomes fugi-tive
also, and is liable to the worst
dangers from the smallest reverse.
This is, in truth, the very error
which the Americans committed,
and all their subsequent misfor-tunes
sprang entirely from this
one source.
The British yielding slowly
from left to right—the right very
reluctant to retire — and the
Americans pressing upon them
just in the degree in which the
two sections yielded, both armies
performed together a half-wheel,
which brought them into the open
grounds in front of the house.
In this position the Marylanders
were brought suddenly under the
fire of the covered party of
Marjoribanks, in the thicket.
—
This promised to be galling and
destructive. Greene saw that
Marjoribanks must be dislodged,
or that the whole force of the
enemy would rally; and Colonel
Washington was commanded to
charge the thicket. He did so
very gallantly; was received by a
terrible fire, which swept away
scores of men and horses. Dead-ly
as was this result, and absurd
as was the attempt, the gallant
trooper thrice essayed to pene-trate
the thickets, and each time
paid the terrible penalty of his
audacity in the blood of his best
soldiers. The field, at one mo-ment,
was covered with his
wounded, plunging, riderless
horses, maddened by their hurts.
All but two of his officers were
1868.] Battle of Eutaw.
brought to the ground. He him-self
fell beneath his horse, wound-ed;
and, while such was his situa-tion,
Marjoribanks emerged with
his bayonets from his thickets,
and completed the defeat of the
squadron. Washington himself
was narrowly saved from a British
bayonet, and was made a prisoner.
It was left to Hampton, one of
his surviving officers, who was
fortunately unhurt, to rescue and
rally the scattered survivors of
his gallant division, and bring
them on again to the fruitless
charge upon Marjoribanks.
—
Hampton was supported in this
charge by Kirkwood's Delawares;
but the result was as fruitless as
before. The very attempt was
suicidal. The British major was
too well posted, too strongly
covered, too strong himself in
numbers and the quality of his
troops, to be driven from his
ground, even by shocks so de-cided
and frequently repeated, of
the sort of force sent against him.
Up to this moment, nothing
had seemed more certain than the
victory of the Americans, The
consternation in the British camp
was complete. Everything was
given up for lost, by a consider-able
portion of the army. The
commissaries destroyed their
stores, the loyalists and American
deserters, dreading the rope,
seizing every horse which they
could command, lied incontinent-ly
for Charleston, whither they
carried such an alarm, that the
stores along the road were de-stroyed,
and trees felled across
it for the obstruction of the vic-torious
Americans, who were sup-posed
to be pressing down upon
the city with all their might.
Equally deceived were the
conquerors. Flushed with suc-cess,
the infantry scattered them-selves
about the British camp,
which, as all the tents had been
left standing, presented a thousand
objects to tempt the appetites of a
half- starved and half-naked sol-diery.
Insubordination followed
disorder ; and they were only
made aware of the danger of hav-ing
victory changed into a most
shameful defeat, by -finding them-selves
suddenly brought under a
vindictive fire from the windows
of the brick house, into which
Major Sheridan had succeeded in
forcing his way, with a strong
body of sharp-shooters.
The field now presented an
appearance of indescribable terror
and confusion. Small squads
were busy in separate strifes, here
and there; the American officers
vainly seeking to rally the scatter-ed
regulars ; the mounted parti-zans,
seeking to cover the fugi-tives;
while, from the house, the
command of Sheridan was blaz-ing
away with incessant musket-ry,
telling fearfully upon all who
came within their range. Mean-while,
watchful of every chance,
Marjoribanks changed his ground,
keeping still in cover, but nearer
now to the scene of action, and
with a portion of his command
concealed behind the picketed
garden. In this position he sub-jected
the American cavalry to
another severe handling, as they
approached the garden, deliver-ing
a fire so destructive, that, ac-cording
to one of the colonels on
Hampton's left : " He thought
every man killed but himself!"
Battle of Eutav). [Xov.,
The two six-pounders of the
Americans, which had accompa-nied
their second line, were
brought up to batter the house.
But, in the stupid ardor of those
having them in charge, they had
been run up within fifty yards of
the building, and the cannoniers
were picked olf by Sheridan's
marksmen as fast as they ap-proached
the guns. The whole
fire from the windows was con-centrated
upon the artillerists,
and they were either all killed or
driven away. This done, Mar-joribanks
promptly sallied forth
from his cover into the field,
seized upon the abandoned pieces
and hurried them under cover of
the house before any effort could
be made to save them. He next
charged the scattered parties of
Americans among the tents, or
upon the field, and drove them
before him. Covered, finally, by
the mounted men of Marion and
Hampton, the infantry found
safety in the wood, and were
rallied. The British were too much
crippled to follow, and dared not
advance from the immediate
cover of their fortress.
No more could be done. The
laurels won in the first act of this
exciting drama were all withered
in the second. Both parties
claimed a victory. It belonged to
neither. The British were beaten
from the field at the point of the
bayonet; sought shelter in a for-tress,
and repulsed their assailants
from that fortress. It is to the
shame and discredit of the Ameri-cans
that they were repulsed.
The victory was in their hands.
Bad conduct in the men, and bad
generalship, sufficed to rob them
deservedly of the honors of the
field. But most of the advanta-ges
remained in their hands.
—
They had lost, it is true, severely
;
twenty-one of our officers perish-ed
on the field: and the aggre-gate
of killed, wounded and miss-ing,
exceeded one-fourth of the
number with which they had gone
into battle. Henderson, Pickens,
Howard, and many other officers
of distinction, were among the
wounded. They had also lost
two of their field-pieces, and had
taken one of the enemy; and all
these losses, and the events which
distinguished them, were quite
sufficient to rob them of the tri-umph
of the day. But, on the
other hand, the losses of the Brit-ish
were still greater. The
Americans had chased them from
the field at the point of the bayo-net;
this was a moral loss; plun-dered
their camp ; and at the close
held possession of the field.
Stewart fled the next day, his
retreat covered by Major M'Ar-thur,
with a fresh brigade from
Fairlawn, which had been called
up for his succor. Marion and
Lee made a fruitless attempt to
intercept this reinforcement. But
the simultaneous movement of
Stewart and M'Arthur enabled
them to effect a junction, and thus
outnumber the force of Marion.
Stewart fled, leaving seventy of
his wounded to the care of his
enemies. He destroyed his stores,
broke up a thousand stand of
arms, and, shorn of all unneces-sary
baggage, succeeded in get-ting
safely to Fairlawn. His
slain, wounded, and missing, num-bered
more than half the force
with which he had gone into bat-
1868.] Nameless 1 6
tie. The Americans carried off losses occurred after the battle, ia
four hundred and thirty prison- the death of Marjoribanks, who
ers, which, added to the seventy had unquestionably saved the
taken in the morning, made an whole British army. He died,
aggregate of five hundred. One not long a,fter, on the road to
•of the heaviest of the British Charleston.
nameless!
BY. H. T. STANTON,
There were great lights from the palace
,
Streaming on the outer trees.
That with fleckings thro' the trellis,
Play'd a-tremor at his knees,
As a nainstrel, stranger, friendless
Underneath the walls of Fame,
Sat in silence, while the endless
Kotes of glory-music came.
Paths to him were tangled—aimless.
As he leaned within the shade
Telling o'er the wonders, nameless.
That his poet-heart had made:
—
" Could he pass the amber portal,
" And the jasper halls along,
" Where the poet-souls immortal,
" Held their revelry of song?"
" Could he strike a chord of sorrow,
" In the upper, choral spheres,
"Where, to-morrow and to-morrow,
" It would echo down the years?
" Could he grasp the ivy clinging
" At the marble casement now,
" And, amid the spirits-singing,
"Wear it, deathless, on his brow?"
Nameless
!
. [Kov.,
Once he thought to climb the terrace,
To the open, opal gate.
Where, beyond the sweeping arras,
Swelled the voices of the great;
Where the stricken harp-strings, golden,
Gave their notes in high accord.
To the music-stories olden.
To the glory of the Lord
!
But his soul, a-fear, and simple,
Shrinking outward, turned away,
While the great lights from the temple
Drove the night time from the day:
'
' I shall seek the shadow yonder,
" Underneath the sombre pine;
"These are harp-notes, higher, grander,
" Than may ever be from mine."
Soft he touched the strings , like summer
Touching o'er the barren trees,
And the night bore out their murmurs,
Thro' its alleys to the seas,
—
Softer, sweeter passed the cadence,
Thro' the branches and above,
As come visions unto maidens.
In the budding time of love.
Thro' the gates of opal splendor,
And along the jasper wall.
Float the notes of music tender
Down the corridor and hall;
And his tones swell in the chamber
From the shadow and the gloom.
And their liquid echoes clamber
Up the arras to the dome.
And they rise and fall as billows,
In the alcoves of the air;
Passing in and out the willows,
And across, beyond the mere.
High, and grand, and godly power.
Sweeps along the palace eaves.
Till the ivy-vine in tlower.
Trembles music from its leaves.
1868.] Battle of Pleasant Hill
And the poet-souls may listen,
To the outer harp to-night,
And the great lamps, gleam and glisten
.
In their ecstasy of light;—
,
These are music tones undying,
—
These are worthy highest name,
From the poet-spirit lying
Underneath the walls of Fame.
SKETCHES OF THE CAMPAIGN OF 1864.
Walker's Division—Battle of Pleasant Hill.
SKETCH NO. 2.
BY COLONEL T. R. BONNER, ISTH TEXAS INFANTRY.
"Fierce
The conflict grew; the din of arms—the yell
Of savage rage —the shriek of agony
—
The groan of death, commingled in one sound
Of undistinguished horror; while the sun
Eetiring slow beneath the plain's far verge.
Shed o'er the quiet hills his fading light."
[ SoutJiey''s 3Iadoc
The dawn of the morning of about us, were the lifeless forms
ihe 9th April disclosed to our of friends and foes, mingled to-view
the reality of the Federal re- gether in one common death.
—
treat. Before us, in the light of In almost every conceivable atti-day,
and stripped of the pomp tude could be seen the dead bodies
and pageantry of "glorious war," of men, mutilated by the missiles
lay the closing scene of the pre- of destruction, some still bearing
vious night's battle. Around and the horrible impress of the death
Battle of Pleasant Hill. [Xov.,
agony—some with stern, unre-laxed
features, still showing the
fierce passions which animated
them at the moment of their fall
—and others with mild, placid
lineaments as though they had
just sunk to gentle slumber. All
who saw him will remember the
appearance of one dead Federal
soldier, who had fallen in the edge
of the field. His death shot must
have done its work in a moment,
for as he lay there, stark and stifi",
he still held in his left hand his En-field
rifle, while between the thumb
and forefinger of his right, he
grasped a cartridge, the end of
which he had apparently just bit-ten
ofl", as it was still clenched be-tween
his teeth. But the stirring
events before us forbade our long
indulgence in the sad reflections
necessarily incident to such scenes.
With a hasty tear for our dead
comrades, and a sigh for the
wounded, we were called away to
to the stern duties of the soldier.
The night and day before had
been passed by our troops with-out
food; but at^7 o'clock that
morning , we received an insufla-cient
quantity of beef and bread
—
the usual variety of a Confederate
soldier's bill of fare. During our
hasty repast, the Missouri and
Arkansas infantry, under Gen.
Churchill, which had been march-ing
all night, filed past us , mov-ing
on in the direction of Pleasant
Hill. Had they arrived the day
before, there can be no doubt the
victory of Mansfield would hav.e
been far more decisive. Their
presence now, however, invigora-ted
our little army, and we greet-ed
them with shouts of welcome.
This body of troops numbered
about 4,000 men, and were in fine
spirits, and anxious to share in
our glories.
Our cavalry and some artillery
had been sent forward at the
early dawn, and the distant firing
of cannon indicated that even the
rear of the enemy's retreating
columns were already many miles
away. After leaving a detach-ment
to bury our dead, the wound-ed
having previously been cared
for, we took up the line of march,
following immediately in the rear
of Gen. Churchill's division.
—
Soon we began to see indications
of the rapid and disorderly retreat
of the Federals. All along the
road were evidences of great de-moralization.
Dead horses, burn-ing
wagons, and broken ambu-lances
were visible at almost every
turn of the road. In one ambu-lance
we saw an unclosed coffin,
containing a dead body, said to
be that of a distinguished Federal
officer. After marching a short
distance, we began to meet squads
of Federal prisoners, who, unable
to keep up with the Federal army
in its hasty retreat, were picked
up by our eagerly pursuing cav-alry.
A large proportion of these
prisoners were Zouaves ; and their
red, uncouth, unmanly looking
uniform excited much laughter
among our men, and many jokes
were created at the expense of
these "Joabs," as they were
called.
It was expected that our caval-ry
would check the Federal army
before it reached Pleasant Hill,
some sixteen miles from the battle
ground of the Sth. But in this
they failed, and the enemy having
been joined by heavy reinforce-
1868.] Battle of Pleasant Hill.
merits, resolved to make a stand
at that place. Having marched
to "within three miles of Pleaeant
Hill, we could plainly hear the
sharp firing of our cavalry, who
were skirmishing with the enemy.
Occasionally the report of a field-piece
would call forth from our
boys the exclamation, "Battalion
lie down." This was a command
of their own making, and from a
little incident which occurred in
the early part of the war, it, by a
common understanding, bore the
signification that there was "dan-ger
ahead." Here our division
halted to permit the main portion
of our artillery to pass, which
soon came rattling along the road
in a sweeping trot. It was about
4 o'clock, p. m., that preparation
was made for the approaching
battle. The enemy numbering
28,000 men, were posted behind
temporary breastworks, within
one mile of Pleasant Hill, their
line extending Xorth and West of
the town, and on both sides of
the road leading to Mansfield. Im-mediately
in front of that part of
their position, opposed by "Walk-er's
division, was a large open
field, nearly half a mile in width.
Opposed to this large force, we
had not exceeding 13,000 men.
Churchill's division, and Scurry's
brigade, (of Walker's division,)
which had been detached for the
occasion and ordered to report to
Gen. Churchill, constituted the
right of our line. Walker's di-vision,
the centre, with its left
resting on the Mansfield road, and
Mouton's division, then command-ed
by Gen. Polignac, with the
cavalry of Gen. Greene, the left.
Several batteries of artillery were
planted on the road to the left of
Walker's division, and on the
Mansfield road.
Soon the tremendous firing of
our splendid artillery presaged
the commencement of the battle.
We 'had about 30 pieces , which
were opposed by at least an equal
number from the enemy's line,
and for half an hour their rude
throats did seem to "counterfeit
the immortal Jove's dread clam-ors."
Owing to the intervention
of a skirt of timber land, covered
with thick undergrowth, we could
not see the position of the Federal
lines. But passing through the
timber, we entered the open field,
on the opposite side of which,
and in the timber, the enemy
were posted. Here we halted
to reform our ranks, which
had become partially broken in
passing through the timber.
—
Churchill had already commenced
the attack upon the right. Far
away to the right and left stretch-ed
the field which was so soon to
be the scene of human slaughter.
Loud and long came the echo of
small arms from the right of the
line, and louder still resounded
the thunder of the batteries upon
our left.
While we were reforming our
ranks, Randall's brigade separa-ted
from ours (Waul's) by a large
ravine, emerged from the timber,
and entered the field. The ar-tillery
then ceased firing, and,
without halting, this noble brig-ade
marched in fine order to the at-tack.
It was indeed sublime to
see them led by Gen. Ptandall, in
person, with banners proudly fly-ing,
and their bright guns glitter-ing
in the sunlight. But we were
10 Battle of Pleasant Hill. [Xov.
not long permitted to remain idle
spectators of this animating scene.
In a few moments our brigade
was ordered forward. Arriving
to within 400 yards of the enemy,
we were commanded to " change
direction to the left," with inten-tion
to support Gren. Eandall in
his attack. But scarcely had this
movement commenced before the
enemy, still concealed from our
view by the temporary breast-works
in the timber, opened fire
upon us from our original front.
Gen. EandalPs brigade was now
hotly engaged, and soon, along
the whole line, from right to left,
the action became general. With-out
further direct command, and
acting from the impulse of the
moment alone, the men of our
brigade rushed towards that por-tion
of the enemy's line which had
fired upon us. Then indeed came
the " tug of war." We advanced,
not with that steady step which
characterized our movements at
Mansfield, but with a wild, reck-less
impetuosity. Though it sa-vors
not of good discipline, yet it
is true, that every soldier became
his own leader—every man gave
his own command—" charge !
charge 1^^ The enemy poured a
violent and destructive fire into
the breasts of our advancing men,
and they fell by scores. Yet on
they rushed, all seemingly actua-ted
with the same impulse. Our
only hope of success seemed to be
to drive the enemy, but to accom-plish
this looked almost like rush-ing
to certain death. But there
was no time for reflection. Re-gardless
of discipline, and with no
other guide than the smoke of the
enemy's guns, we still pressed on.
Eeaching a point within about
125 yards of the enemy's line, we
unexpectedly came upon a gully,
which had been washed out about
three feet deep, and ran parallel
with their line. Involuntarily we
sought protection in this timely
shelter from the storm of bullets
hurled against us. Many of our
men had already been killed or
wounded, and our line having be-came
totally disorganized by rea-son
of this, and the impetuosity
of the charge, to have continued
the onset without reforming our
broken ranks, would probably
have caused the destruction of the
entire brigade. The protection
thus aftbrded, placed us someAvhat
upon an equality in point of posi-tion
with the enemy, and for an
hour we replied, with efi"ect, to
their incessant firing. Observa-tions
next day upon this part of
the field proved the truth of this
assertion, for large numbers of
the Federals were found dead op-posite
the line of our brigade, the
greater portion of them being shot
in the head.
During the hour which passed
while these things were trans-piring.
Gen. Randall's brigade
was engaged in a desperate con-flict.
ISTever was more bravery
evinced, or a greater determina-tion
to succeed, than was here
manifested by Gen. Randall and
the daring men of his brigade.
—
They would charge almost to the
enemy's line, and being driven
back, would reform and again
rush to the attack. At one time
they broke the enemy's line, and
captured a number of prisoners;
but not being sufficiently support-ed,
were again compelled to re-
1868.] Battle of Pleasant Hill. 11
tire. All around us could be
heard the horrid din of battle,
and the air was filled with the
savage yell of contending thou-sands.
It was now nearly sunset. A
momentary pause in the battle
was regarded as a prelude to a
charge upon us by the enemy.
—
Preparation was quickly made to
resist it. After waiting a few
moments, and finding that this
was not their intention, but rath-er
suspecting that they were pre-paring
to leave the field, we re-solved
to make an efibrt to rout
them. Leaping from our shelter,
we rushed to the attack. But a
fearful and murderous fire, from
both our front and right oblique,
compelled us to fall back to the
gully again. At this propitious
moment, our artillery, which had
been silent during the struggle of
the infantry, once more belched
forth its thunders, and its wel-come
notes fell like sweet music
upon our ears. The famous Yal-verde
battery, captured from the
enemy in Arizonia, posted to our
left and rear, began to throw its
shells, which, passing just over
our line, fell in the enemy's ranks.
Gen. Kandairs brigade, which
had been so often repulsed, was
again ready to charge, and our
brigade prepared for a simulta-neous
movement. As soon as the
Yalverde battery ceased its firing,
both brigades rushed upon the
enemy, and this time with com-plete
success. Thrown into con-fusion
by the firing of the artillery,
followed by our rapid charge,
they fied in disorder from the
field, leaving their dead, wounded
and some prisoners in our hands.
Night alone prevented the pur-suit
of the routed Federals by our
division.
I am unable to give details of
the battle on any part of the line
except that occupied by "Walker's
division, and can only state that
on the left the troops of Generals
Green and Polignac were success-ful.
Xot so on the right. Gen.
Churchill's command, including
Gen. Scurry's brigade, were op-posed
by a double line of the ene-my.
The first line was driv-en
almost into the town, but
the attack upon the second line
was signally repulsed, and Gen.
Churchill compelled to retire with
a loss of over 400 men and officers
captured, a large portion of whom
belonged to Gen. Scurry's brigade.
The whole force of the enemy re-treated
under cover of the night,
in great disorder, towards Natchi-toches,
on Bed Eiver.
Leaving our cavalry in i^osses-sion
of the field, the entire infan-try
force was unexpectedly with-drawn
to a large Steam Mill,
eight miles from the battle ground,
on the road to Mansfield. This
was said to be done because of the
impracticability of procuring sup-plies
for our hungry troops if we
remained at Pleasant Hill. It is
true that we had tasted food only
once in forty-eight hours, and
then only an inadequate supply;
we had also marched 15 miles
since 8 o'clock that morning, and
had been engaged in the battle of
the evening; to compel us, after
this, to march back eight miles
after night, under pretence of ob-taining
supplies, was not favorably
received. It appeared too much
like a retreat; we believed then,
12 Battle of Pleasant Bill. [Nov.
,
and still think we had gained a
victory. It would not certainly
have been a very dilficult matter
to bring the wagons, laden with
the supplies captured at Mans-field,
to the front, and thus saved
us that long, weary night-march.
Had this been done we would
have been prepared to pursue the
retreating enemy next day, and
thus followed up the hard earned
victories of the 8th and 9th. But
whatever may have been the mo-tives
which prompted this move-ment,
the sequel will show that
but a small portion of the infant-ry
engaged at Pleasant Hill par-ticipated
in the remainder of the
Red River campaign.
The loss of our little army at
the battles of Mansfield and Pleas-ant
Hill, will give some idea of
the fierceness of these two days
struggles. Following each other
in such quick succession, it would
be difficult to enumerate separate-ly
the loss in each. Our loss in
both battles amounted to not less
than 2500 men killed, wounded
and missing. Of this number
Walker's division lost 1200, in-cluding
over 300 captured from
Scurry's brigade on the last day.
Heavy as was the loss of the
Confederate troops, that of the
Federals far exceeded it. Their
killed and wounded was estimated
to be double that of the Confed-erates
at Mansfield, and equally
as large at Pleasant Hill, while
their loss in prisoners was over
2500. Beside this we captured
250 wagons, loaded with quarter-master,
commissary and medical
stores, and camp equipage, a
large number of fine ambulances,
21 pieces of artillery, and Enfield
Rifles enough to supply all the
troops engaged.
I believe it is generally conceded
that the Enfield Rifle is a supe-rior
war gun to the old musket,
and I shall not gainsay it, yet,
from some cause, which modesty
forbids the unfortunate Confed-erates
to mention, we used these
inferior muskets until, upon the
open field, we boldly won the rifle.
Gen. Banks also confirmed his
unquestionable reputation as a
good Confederate commissary.
But it is sad to think of the
brave men who were killed and
wounded. Generals Walker and
Scurry were both wounded at
Pleasant Hill. Many other offi-cers
of less military note, yet
some of them formerly distin-guished
in civil life in Texas, and
very many private soldiers were
either killed or wounded. The
troops from the four difierent
States which constituted our little
army on this occasion, are entitled
to equal praise and equal com-mendation
for the gallantry dis-played
in the engagement of
Pleasant Hill. The hardy sons
of Missouri rushed side by side
with the bold Arkansians in the
fierce conflict, while the fearless
men of Texas raised their voices
in the same deafening shout of
triumph with the tried veterans of
Louisiana. Together they fought
for the same loved cause! to-gether
they died upon the same
gory field! and together they sleep
in the same common arave.
1868.] Tlie Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 13
THE VANITY AND THE GLORY OF LITERATURE.
BY CHAS. S. DOD, JR.
This is a book-making age.
—
We doubt -whether it could prop-erly
be characterized as preemi-nently
literary ; but it is certainly
more of a hook-mciking age than
any of its predecessors. Thou-sands
of presses throughout the
civilized world are working night
and day to scatter the teeming
sheets that shall carry intelligence
to the million. Every gentleman
of wealth possesses his library;
every considerable city of Chris-tendom
has its public reading
rooms, where the well-filled shelves
attest the ease with which books
are accumulated in this day of
rapid authorship, rapid printing,
and rapid reading. Let the
thoughtful man stand in the midst
of such gigantic collections of
books as greet his eye in the As-tor
or Bodleian library, and what
a curious train of reflection must
run through his mind as he thinks
on the myriads of busy brains and
industrious pens and swift-work-ing
presses, whose combined la-bors
have presented him this in-tellectual
feast! The sage, whose
dust has been mingled with the
earth for two thousand years
—
the epic singer, whose stirring
lines, echoing the din of battle,
are no longer wafted by the breeze
over his native hills, or answered
by the deep-voiced responses of
the far-resoundinar sea, whose
shores have for ages forgotten the
impress of his wandering feet
—
the vehement orator, whose roll-ing
periods bore along the excited
and tumultuous throng of listen-ers
as the mountain-torrent does
the dry leaves of autumn, but
whose voice has long been dumb
as the grave—these have their
place in the mausoleums of litera-ture,
side by side with the gilt-edged
volume of sonnets or the
more substantial scientific treatise,
whose authors are still alive and
sensitive to the opinions of their
fellow-men. And let the observer
reflect, as he gazes upon the mass
of reading here stored away, and
for the mastering of which no one
human life is sufiiciently long
let him reflect how unremittingly
the Briarean and sleepless presses
of our day are adding fresh accu-mulations
to the already groaning
shelves, and he cannot refrain
from speculating on the probable
consequences.
Many at first will probably be
inclined to predict that man-kind
will, in the end, be oppress-ed
by the very excess of their in-tellectual
wealth—as Spain was
by the abundance of silver that
flowed into her lap from Mexico
and Peru—and that a superabun-dance
of books, like a superabun-dance
of the precious metals, will
lead to the impoverishment and
14 The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Nov.
decay of the countries so equivo-cally
blest. The diligent and con-centrated
study of a few books,
they will tell you, is better than
the careless, diffusive, and desul-tory
reading of whole libraries;
and a habit of reading in this
way is too apt to be engendered
by the multifarious stores of lit-erature
and learning now spread
out invitingly before the student.
Perpetual access to a large library
is undoubtedly often more of an
impediment than a help to the
thorough digestion of knowledge.
Most readers have been aware of
the fastidious mood with which,
in moments-, of leisure, they have
stood before a goodly array of at-tractive
books, and instead of
making a substantial repast, as
they would have done with less to
distract their choice, have humor-ed
the vagaries of a delicate ap-petite—
toyed with this rich dainty
and that—and after all have felt
like a school boy who has dined
upon tarts; they have spoiled
their digestion without satisfying
their hunger!
It by no means follows, then,
as a matter of inevitable necessity,
that knowledge will increase in
the same ratio as books are mul-tiplied.
If the result of the mul-tiplication
of books should be
that superficial and llimsy knowl-edge
which is gained by reading a
little on an infinity of subjects
without prolonged and systematic
attention to any, the effect will be
almost or fully as disastrous as an
invasion of barbarism, like that of
the Goths, which swept the liter-ature
of the ancients into the
monasteries of the middle ages,
leaving all other parts of the field
flooded with ignorance. A mill
will not go if there be no water;
it will be as effectually stopped if
there be too much. In short, it
may seem, with regard to the
quantity of literature accumulated
on the hands of this generation,
that this is one of those cases to
which the old paradoxical maxim
applied, " the half is greater than
the whole."
The disastrous result, at which
we have hinted, would certainly
be realized if men were to attempt
to make their studies at all com-mensurate
with the increase of
books around them. Compelled
to read something of everything,
they would really know nothing
of anything. And, in fact, we
see this tendency more or less
fully exemplified in the case of
vast numbers, who, without defi-nite
purpose or judicious selec-tion
of subjects, spend such time
as they can spare for mental culti-vation,
in little less than the
casual perusal of fragments of all
sorts of books; who live on the
scraps of an infinite variety of
broken meats which they have
stufled into their beggar's wallet;
scraps, which, after all, just keep
them from absolute starvation.
—
There are not a few men who
would have been learned, if not
wise, had the paragraphs and pa-ges
they have read been on well-defined
and mutually-connected
topics; but who, as it is, possess
nothing beyond fragments of un-certain,
inaccurate, iil-remem-bered,
unsj-stematized informa-tion,
resembling the vague, con-fused
images of a sick man's
dreams, rather than the clear
thinkings of a healthy and vigor-ous
brain.
1868.] Hie Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 15
Fortunately, this tendency to
diffusive and careless reading
"which must accompany the un-limited
increase of books, is not
"without a corrective tendency on
the other side. The majority of
men "will, as heretofore, read only
"what answers their purpose on
the particular subjects "which ne-cessity
or inclination prompts them
to cultivate. Men no longer pant
in ambitious but ill-judged at-tempts
after encyclopaedic infor-mation;
the field of knowledge,ex-panded
as it now is, in every di-rection,
does not admit of uni-versal
conquerors; students must
select their speciality and lend the
whole of their energies upon it,
leaving other parts of the field to be
worked by other laborers. It is not
variety and extent of knowledge
so much as habits of close and pa-tient
thought which the student
should seek to acquire; and the
thorough investigation of a limi-ted
class of subjects is a severer
and more profitable mental dis-cipline
than the vain attempt to
range, like a freebooter, over the
whole wide ocean of knowledge.
As books increase , efforts more
and more strenuous will be made,
from time to time, to digest and
systematize the ever-growing ac-cumulations
of literature, and to
provide the best possible clues
through this immense and bewil-dering
labyrinth, or rather
through the several parts of it.
A very useful book (if we could
have a Leibnitz or a Gibbon for
its author) might be written on
the art of reading in the most
profitable manner, so as to attain
the greatest results at the smallest
outlay of time. True, we have
several "Student's Hand-books,"
and things of that sort; but they
give us, for the most part, only
hints, many of them quite wise
and valuable, but not mapping
out the domains of knowledge,
and setting up guide-posts to di-rect
us in the shortest roads to
the various points we may desire
to reach. In the meantime, let
the student adhere to the maxim
so warmly approved by the great
historian just mentioned, "m«Z-tum
legere, potius quam mitZia."
Instead of idly taking up a book
and following the author with
only the effort necessary to com-prehend
him, let the student ex-amine
the scope and context of
the works referred to, which aided
the author in his composition; let
him bring into juxtaposition with
his subject, whatever cognate or
illustrative knowledge his own
previous reading may have sup-plied
him with; and, above all,
let him incorporate his author's
thoughts into his own mind by
mingling with them original re-fiections
or deductions of his own,
suggested by what he has read.
In this way a much deeper and
better compacted knowledge will
be obtained, and at the same time
much more under the command
of the memory, than if he had
skimmed over the surface of the
subject, taking no pains to fish up
the pearls lying at the bottom.
These collateral aids, drawn from
the comparison of different au-thors
on the same subject, are
like reflectors which increase in-definitely
the intensity of light,
and render a subject luminous
which would otherwise be ob-scure.
How instructive are the
16 Tae Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Nov.,
following words of Gibbon—him-self
a conspicuous example of
what even a post-diluvian life, in-dustriously
employed, may ac-complisb:
"We ought to attend
not so much to the order of our
books as of our thoughts. The
perusal of a particular work gives
birth perhaps, to ideas uncon-nected
with the subject it treats;
I pursue these ideas, and quit my
proposed plan of reading." ....
" I suspended my perusal of any
new books on a subject, till I
had reviewed all that I knew, or
believed, or had thought on it,
that I might be qualified to dis-cern
how much the authors added
to my original stock."
After all, it is the thinking
which we do that educates us,
and not the reading. Our safe-guard
against the formation of
the pernicious habit of desultory
reading, lies in the formation of
sound habits of mind—the dis-cipline
of the faculties—a thing of
infinitely more importance than
the variety of the information ac-quired.
"Without stopping any longer to
examine this paradox-whether the
multiplication of books is to pro-duce
a diminution of knowledge,
or not—there are other conse-quences
of the prodigious activity
of the modern press, far more
certain to arise, and which well
deserve a little consideration.
One of the most obvious of
these consequences will be the dis-appearance
from the world of
that always rare animal, the so-called
"universal scholar." Even
of that ill-defined creature called
a " well-informed man," and
" general student," it will be per-petually
harder, as time goes on,
to find examples; and assuredly
the Scaligers and the Leibnitzes
must become as extinct as the
ichthyosaurus or the megatherium.
The remark is common that it is
impossible for the human mind to
prosecute, with thoroughness and
accuracy, researches in all, or
even in many, of the difierent
branches of learning; that what
is gained in surface, is lost in
depth; that the principle of the
" division of labor " applies here
as strictly as in the arts and man-ufactures,
and that each mind
must restrict itself to a few limited
subjects, if any are to be actually
mastered. All this is very true.
Yet it is equally true that in
the pursuit of knowledge, the
principle of the " division of
labor " finds limits to the pro-priety
of its application much
sooner than in handicrafts. A
certain amount of knowledge of
several subjects, often of many ^ is-necessary
to render an acquaint-ance
with any one of them service-able
; and without it, the most
minute knowledge of any one
alone would be like half a pair of
scissors, or a hand with but one
finger. Wliat that amount is,
must be determined by the cir-cumstances
of the individual and
the object for which he wants it.
There are opposite dangers.
—
The knowledge of each particular
thing that a man can study will
always be imperfect. The most
minute philosopher cannot pre-tend
perfection of knowledge even
in his small domain. No subject
can be mentioned which is not
inexhaustible to the spirit of man.
Whether he looks at nature
1868.] The Vanity and the Olory of Literature. 17
through the microscope or the
telescope, he sees wonders dis-closed
on every side which expand
into infinity—and he can set no
limits to the approximate perfec-tion
with which he may study
them. It is the same with lan-guages
and with any branch of
moral or metaphysical science. A
man may, if he choose, be all his
life employed upon a single lan-guage
and never absolutely master
its vocabulary, much less its
idioms.
The limits, therefore, within
which any subject is to be pur-sued,
must be determined by its
utility, meantime it is certain
that one cannot be profitably pur-sued
alone. Such is the strict
connection and interdependence of
all branches of science, that the
best way of obtaining a useful
knowledge of any one is to com-bine
it with more. The true limit
between too minute and too Avide
a survey may often be difficult to
find ; yet such a limit always ex-ists;
and he who should pause
over any one subject till he had
absolutely mastered it, would be
as far from that limit, with re-gard
to all the practical ends of
knowledge, as if he had suflered
his mind to dissipate itself in a
vague attempt at encycloptedic
attainments. "While cautioning
the student, therefore, against the
error of undertaking to conquer
more ground than he can hold
firmly under his intellectual sway,
we would also advise him to avoid
the opposite error of making the
field of his researches too narrow;
for, in spite of the proverb, we be-lieve
that the " man of one book"
will genemlly be found to be a
very shallow fellow.
VOL. yi. NO. I.
Minuteness of knowledge, in
fact, frequently dwarfs the mind.
The engraver becomes nearsight-ed
by bending over his minute
work. The minute antiquary, if
he finds you ignorant of the shape
of an old buckle of some remote
date, tells you that " you know
nothing of antiquities!" The
minute geographer, if he discov-ers
that you have never heard of
some obscure town at the anti-podes,
will tell you, "you know
nothing of geography!" The mi-nute
historian, if he finds that you
never knew,or perhaps have known
twenty times and never cared
to remember, some event utter-ly
insignificant to all the real pur-poses
of history, will tell you that
" you know nothing of history!"
And yet, discerning the limits
within which the several branches
of knowledge may be wisely and
profitably pursued, you may, after
all, for every important object,
have obtained a more serviceable
and prompt command over those
very branches in which your com-placent
censor flatters himself that
he excels.
The '
' man of one book" is too
frequently nothing but a narrow-minded
bigot. His eye, like that
of the bee or the ant, may indus-triously
analyze the minute ob-jects
lying within its narrow range
of vision, but it is incapable of
taking in the larger features of
the landscape. But there have
been men who, soaring in eagle
flight, have beheld the whole
world of knowledge beneath them
—not that they attempted to
count the blades of grass or weigh
the sands of the seashore,—but,
content with a general panoramic
2
18 The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Xov.,
view, their glance has rested upon
every mountain-peak of knowl-edge
rising in superiority above
the plain; and from their lofty
point of observation, they have
been able to see how these indi-vidual
peaks form a continuous
and connected chain. The litera-ry
ant, toiling below, has no idea
of the magnificence of such a
view.
But to return to the prospects
of our "universal scholar," There
have been, from time to time,
men who, gifted with gigantic
powers, prodigious memory, and
peculiar modes of arranging and
retaining knowledge, have aspir-ed
to a comprehensive acquaint-ance
with all the chief produc-tions
of the human intellect—who
have made extensive excursions
into every branch of human learn-ing—
and whose knowledge, though
not really universal, has borne
something like an appreciable ra-tio
to the sum total of literature
and science—who, as was said of
Leibnitz, have managed " to
drive all the sciences abreast."
—
Such minds have always been
rare, and must soon become ex-tinct.
For what is to become of
them, in after ages, as the domain
of human knowledge indefinitely
widens, and the creations of hu-man
genius indefinitely multiply?
Kot that there will not be men
who will then know absolutely
more, and with far greater accu-racy,
than their less favored pred-ecessors;
nevertheles their knowl-edge
must bear a continually
dimiminishing ratio to the sum
of human science and literature;
they must traverse a smaller
and smaller segment of the
ever-widening circle. Since hu-man
life remains as brief as
ever, while its task is daily en-larging,
there is no alternative
but that the " general scholar" of
each succeeding age must be con-tent
with possessing a less and
less fraction of the entire products
of the human mind. In Germany
alone, it has been computed, there
are ten million volumes printed
annually, and there are at the pres-ent
moment living in that coun-try
about fifty thousand men who
have written one or more books;
and should the number increase
at the rate it has hitherto done, a
catalogue of ancient and mod-ern
German authors will soon
contain more names than there
are living readers. The literary
activity of France and England,
though not so great, have been
prodigious, and our own America
has entered the lists with the ea-gerness
of youth and the industry
of democracy. Well may the
student be tempted to fold his
hands in despair before this im-mense
and ever-growing pyramid
of books! " Happy men," we are
half inclined to exclaim, "who
lived when a library consisted,
like that of a mediaeval monastery,
of some thirty or forty volumes,
and who thought they knew every-thing
when they had read these!
Happy our fathers, who were not
tormented with the sight of un-numbered
creations of intellect
which we must sigh to think we
can never make our own!"
The final disposal of all this
mass of literature is, in the opin-ion
of some, easily managed. The
bad, they say, will perish, and the
good remain. The former state-
1868.] The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 19
ment is correct enough; the latter
not so clearly and undeniably-true.
"We cannot disguise from
ourselves the fact that it is not
the bad writer alone who is for-gotten.
It is but too evident that
immense treasures of thought—of
beautiful poetry, splendid oratory,
vivacious wit, ingenious argu-ment,
subtle speculation—which
men would not sufier to die if
they could help it—must perish
too. The great spoiler here acts
with his accustomed impartiality;
" .Equo pulsat pecle pauperum tabernas
Regumciue turres;"
for the truth is that the creations
of the human mind transcend its
capacity to collect and preserve
them. Like the seeds of life in
the vegetable world, the intellect-ual
powers of man are so prolific
that they run to waste. Some
readers, doubtless, as a bright
throng of splendid names in lit-erature
rushes on their recollec-tions,
will cry " avaunt" to these
melancholy forebodings. They
stand in the temple of Neptune
and see the walls hung round
with votive tablets recording es-cape
from shipwreck, but let
them reflect how many men have
suffered shipwreck, and whose
tablets, therefore, are not to be
found! Others may think it im-possible
that the great writers,
with whom their own generation
is so familiar, and who occupy
such a space in its eye, should
ever dwindle into insignificance.
This illusion vanishes the mo-ment
we take them to catalogues
and indexes and show them the
names of authors who once made
as loud a noise in the world, and
yet of whose works they have
never read a line!
It is with no cynical, but with
simply mournful feelings that we
thus dwell on the mortality of
productions even of genius. The
bulk of the literature of each gen-eration,
the bulk of even that
most highly prized, perishes with
the generation; and as time ma ke
fresh accumulations, those of pre-ceding
ages pass for the most part
into quiet oblivion. The process
which has taken effect on the past
will be repeated on the iDresent
age and on every subsequent one;
so that the period will assuredly
come when even the great writers
of our day, who seem to have
such enduring claims upon our
gratitude and admiration, will be
as little remembered as others of
equal talent who have gone be-fore
them ; when , if not wholly for-gotten
or superseded, they will
exist only in fragments and spec-imens—
these fragments and spec-imens
themselves shrinking into
narrower compass as time advan-ces.
In this way time is perpet-ually
compiling a vast index ex-
•purgatorius ; and though the press
more than repairs his ravages on
the mere matter of books, the im-mense
masses it heaps up ensure
the purpose of oblivion just as ef-fectually.
Not that time's effacing
fingers have ceased altogether
their material waste. Probably
scarce a day passes but sees the
last leaf, the last tattered remnant
of the last copy of some work per-ish
either by violence or accident
—by fire or flood, or the crumb-ling
of mere decay. It is surely
an impressive thought— this si-lent
unnoticed extinction of an-
20 The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [^^Tov.,
other product of some once busy
and aspiring mindl
The chief cause, however, of the
virtual oblivion of books is no
longer their extinction, but (par-adoxical
as it may seem) the fond
care with which they are preserv-ed,
and their immensely rapid
multiplication. The press is more
than a match for the moth and
the worm, or the mouldering hand
of time; but the great destroyer
equally performs his commission
by burying books under the pyr-amid
formed by their accumula-tion.
It is a striking example of
the impotence with which man
struggles with the destiny await-ing
him and his works, that the
very means which he takes to en-sure
immortality destroys it; that
the very activity of the press—of
the instrument by which he seem-ed
to have taken pledges against
time and fortune—is that which
will make him the spoil of both.
The books may not die; but they
cease to be read, which amounts
to a living death. Piled away on
upper shelves, the spider spins
her web from cover to cover, se-cure
that it will not be snapped
by the opening of the lids which
time has closed.
But while thus administering
consolation to the " general
scholar," by showing that time
has certainly been limiting, as
well as extending his task, there
is another class of persons who
will find no comfort in the
thought—and that is the class of
authors. There is no help for it,
however; humbling as it may ap-pear
to represent the higher prod-ucts
of man's mind as destined
to decay like his body—it is still
true, in the vast majority of in-stances.
And even in those in-stances
where a different fate
seems to have attended the works
of departed genius, the greater
number of cases are but apparent
exceptions to the well-nigh uni-versal
rule; the authors do not
live—they are merely embalmed
and made mummies of. Their
works are deposited in libraries
and museums, like the bodies of
Egyptian kings in their pyramids,
retaining only a grim semblance
of life, amidst neglect, darkness,
and decay. Of the thousands of
laborious and ambitious men who
have devoted their lives to litera-ture,
how few there are who still
retain a hold on the popular mind
!
A somewhat larger fraction may
be known to the professed stu-dent—
but even he must own that
there are hundreds of whom he
has never read a page, and many
of whose very names he is igno-rant.
It is really curious to look
into the index of such learned
authors as Cudworth or Jeremy
Taylor, and to see the havoc which
has been made on the memory of
most of the authors they cite, and
whose productions still exist, but
no longer to be quoted. Of scarcely
one in ten of these grave authori-ties
has the best informed student
of our day read ten paragraphs
;
and yet their cotemporaries quoted
them as we quote Macaulay and
Irving. Let the popular author,
then, chastise his conceit with the
reflection that the plaudits of a
generation are not immortality.
Of all the forms of celebrity
which promise to gratify man's
natural longing for immortality,
there is none, it has been affirmed,
1868.] The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 21
which looks so plausible as literary-fame.
The statesman and war-rior,
it is said, are known only by-report,
and for even that are in-debted
to the historian or the
poet. A book, on the other hand,
is fondly presumed to be an au-thor's
second self ; by it he comes
into personal contact and com-munion
with his readers. It is a
pleasant illusion, no doubt; and
in the very few instances in which
the author does attain this per-manent
popularity, and becomes
a " house-hold word " with pos-terity,
the illusion ceases to be
such, and the hopes of ambition
are indeed splendidly realized.
—
But not only must we remember
that very few can attain this
eminence; we must keep in mind
a fact that has not been sufficient-ly
noticed—namely, that as the
world grows older, a still smaller
and smaller portion of those who
seevi to have attained it, will hold
their position. The great mass of
the writers whom posterity "would
not willingly let die," must share
the fate of those other great men
over whom the favorites of to- day
are supposed to have an advan-tage;
they, themselves, will live
only by the historian's pen. The
empty titles of their works will be
recorded in catalogues, and a few
lines be granted to them in bio-graphical
dictionaries, with what
may truly be callled a post mortem
examination of criticism—a space
which, as these church-yards of
intellect become more and more
crowded, necessarily becomes
smaller and smaller, till for thou-sands
not even room for a sepul-chral
stone will be found.
Nor is it easy to say how far
this oblivion will reach, or what
luminaries will, in time, be eclip-sed.
Supposing only the best
products of the genius of each
age—its richest and ripest fruits
—
to be garnered away for posterity,
the collection will gradually rise
into a prodigious pile, defying the
appetite of the most voracious
reader. The time must come
when not only mediocrity, which
has always been the case,—not
only excellence, which has fre-quently
been the case,—but when
even superior genius will stand a
chance of being rejected; when
even gold and diamonds will be
cast into the sieve! Hardy must
he be then who shall venture to
hope for the permanent attention
of mankind! For it will be found
that the majority of authors have
bought, not, as they fondly im-agined,
a copyhold of inheritance,
but that their interest for life, or
for years soon runs out, and every
year diminishes the value of the
estate.
"With the exception, then, of
the very few who shine on from
age to age with undimished lustre,
like lights in the firmament—the
Homers, the Miltons, the Shaks-peares,
the Bacons, enshrined,
like the heroes of old, among the
constellations—the great bulk of
writers must be contented, after
having shone for a while, to be
wholly or nearly lost to the world.
Entering our system like comets,
they may strike their immediate
generation with a sudden splendor
;
but receding gradually into the
depth of space, they will twinkle
with a fainter and fainter lustre
,
till they fade away forever.
But while the past is thus receiv-
•2-2 The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Xov.,
iog into its tranquil depths such
huge masses of literature, it is, by a
contrary process, yielding us, per-haps,
nearly bulk for bulk, mate-rials
which it had long concealed.
While work after work of science
and history is daily passing away,
pushed aside, beyond all chance
of republication, by superior works
of a similar kind, containing the
last discoveries and most accurate
results, it is curious to see with
what eagerness the literary anti-quary
is ransacking the past for
every fragment of unpublished
manuscript. Many of these, if
they had been published when
they were written, would have
been utterly worthless. They de-rive
their whole value from the
rust of age. It may with truth be
said of them that they never
would have lived if they had not
been buried. Our readers will re-member
the sly way in which
Irving satirizes these literary del-vers
among the rubbish of antiqui-ty,
when, after describing the an-tiquarian
parson's raptures over
the old drinking song, he says:
'* It was with difficulty the squire
was made to comprehend that
though a jovial song of the pres-ent
day was but a foolish sound
in the ears of wisdom, and be-neath
the notice of a learned
man, yet a trowl written by a
toss-pot several hundred years
since was a matter worthy of the
greatest research, and enough to
set whole colleges together by the
ears."
But we do not complain of this.
The laborious trifling of the
merest drudge in antiquities may
supply the historian with some
collateral lights, and furnish ma-terials
for more vivid descriptions-of
the past; or, coming into con-tact
with highly creative minds,
like that of Sir Walter Scott, they
may contribute the rude elements
of the most beautiful fictions.
—
K'o one can read his novels and
despise the study of the most
trivial details of antiquities, when
it is seen for what beautiful text-ures
they may supply the threads.
It is the privilege of genius such
as his to extract their gold dust
out of the most worthless books
books which to others would be
to the last degree tedious and un-attractive,—
and the felicity with
which he did this was one of his
most striking characteristics. It
is wonderful to see how a snatch
of an old border song, an antique
phrase, used as he uses it, a story
or fragment of a story from some
obscure author, shall suddenly be
invested with a force or a beauty
which the original never would
have suggested to an ordinary
reader, and which in fact is de-rived
solely from the light of ge-nius
which he brought to play
upon them. His genius vivified
whatever he hung over in those
dusty parchments; and patient
antiquarianism, long brooding
and meditating, became glorious-ly
transmuted into the winged
spirit of poetrj^ and romance.
In this way minute portions of
the past are constantly entering,
by new combinations, into fresh
forms of life; and out of these old
materials, continually decomposed
but continually recombined, scope
is afforded for an everlasting suc-cession
of imaginative literature.
In the same way every work of
genius, by coming, as it were, into
1868.] TJie Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 23
mesmeric rapport with the affini-ties
of kindred genius, and stimu-lating
its latent energies, is itself
the parent of many others, and
furnishes the materials and rudi-ments
of ever new combinations.
In Shakspeare, no less than in
Scott, we see both how much and
how little a great genius derives
from sources without himself.
—
Byron, too, as Moore tells us, was
in the habit of exciting his vein
of composition by the perusal of
other authors on the same sub-ject,
from whom the slightest
hint, caught by his imagination
as he read, was sufficient to kindle
there such a train of thought as,
but for that spark, had never
been awakened, and of which he
himself soon forgot the source.
It is in this way that thought
never dies. The books may be-come
mouldy and Avorm-eaten, or
may be buried beneath the un-noticed
and useless lumber of
public libraries, but during the
time that those books were popu-larly
circulated, some seeds of
thought were, doubtless, dropped
from them into minds where they
took root and produced fresh fruit
for another generation. Let the
author, then, take heart; for al-though
the chance is small that
his shall be "one of those few,
immortal names that were not
born to die," yet, if his thoughts
be noble, they will not perish.
Posterity will take care of them,
though they may forget to whom
they owe the legacy. The thought,
in the original form in which it
was first given to the world, may
no longer exist; but the proba-bility
is, that it has given rise to
other thoughts in other men, and,
like the hidden spring among the.
mountains, is the source of a per-petually
enlarging stream that
shall flow on to the end of time.
The reader will call to mind the
death-bed scene of the brilliant,
but dissipated Burley,in Bulwer's
" My Novel." He is a man who,
with parts that might have en-abled
him to place himself in a
proud and firm literary position,
has yet turned his talents to little
account—employing his energies
only in such wayward and fitful
efforts as necessity roused him to
perform. Consequently he leaves
nothing permanent behind him.
But others have profited by the
labors from which he derived no
profit himself. And now, as his
life is waning, he mourns over his
wasted powers, but consoles him-self
with the reflection that even
the little he has done will not be
actually lost; and he illustrates
this belief, by exclaiming to his
companion, Leonard, " Extin-guish
that candle! Fool, you can-not!"
and then goes on to explain,
that though the flame may be
quenched with a breath, yet the
waves of light which it has oc-casioned
will continue to vibrate
through space forever; and so,
although the lamp of his intellect
was flickering in the socket, the
thoughts which it had put in
motion would continue to travel
through the world long after men
had forgotten there ever was such
a man as poor Burley.
Bat we are encroaching, prema-turely,
on another branch of our
subject.
In that deluge of books with
which the world is inundated, the
lamentations with which the bib-
24 The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Xov.,
liomaniac bemoans the waste of
time and the barbarous ravages
of bigotry and ignorance, appear
at first sight somewhat fantastic-al.
Yet it is not without reason
that we mourn over many of these
losses, especially in the depart-ment
of history; and this, not
merely because they have involved
important facts in obscurity, but
for a reason more nearly related
to our subject. Paradoxical as it
may seem, it is probably the truth
that the very multiplicity of books
with which we are now perplexed,
is in part owing to the loss of
some, and that if we had had a
few volumes more we should have
had a great many less. The in-numerable
speculations, conject-ures,
and criticisms on those am-ple
fields of doubt which the rav-ages
of time have left open to in-terminable
discussion, would then
have been spared us.
On the other hand, it is doubt-ful
whether—except in the case of
history—the treasures of litera-ture,
of which time has deprived
us, and the loss of which literary
enthusiasts so bitterly deplore,
have been so inestimable. We
are disposed to think with Gibbon
in his remarks on the burning of
the Alexandrian library, that by
far the greater part of the master-pieces
of antiquity have been se-cured
to us. The lost works, even
of the greatest masters, were
most probably inferior to those
which have come down to us.
—
Their best must have been those
most admired, most frequentl}^
copied, most faithfully preserved,
and therefore on all these accounts
the most likely to elude the hand
of violence and the casualties of
time. The great cause which
consigns so many modern works
to oblivion—namely, the super-abundance
of the products of the
press—did not then operate. And
even since printing was invented,
we do not think we have occasion
to lament the extinguishment of
any great ideas; for, as we have
shown, thought by a perpetual
transmigration descends from gen-eration
to generation. The books
containing those thoughts may be
left to moulder in the dusty ar-chives
of literary depositories, but
the thoughts are abroad in the
world. Books are merely the
outer shell or cocoon that inwraps
the chrysalis idea; and after a
certain period the idea comes
forth in a new and more beautiful
form, and on active wing ascends
to lofty regions, leaving its worth-less
shell of paper and binding to
rot into oblivion.
One great cause which has en-abled
the master- pieces of Grecian
and Roman literature to outlive
all the shocks of time, the calami-ties
of war and the waste of igno-rance
attendant upon that mighty
disruption of the Western Em-pire,
when civilization seemed
broken loose from its moorings,
and the wrecks of the social fabric
clashed against each other on the
wild tossing waves of that bar-barous
inundation that overflowed
all Europe—was the condensed
and sententious style in which
their thoughts were expressed.
—
Our modern authors should pi'ofit
by their example. If they would
extend their posthumous fame to
its utmost limits, let them study
brevity. Our voluminous fore-fathers
of the seventeenth cen-
1868.] The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 25
tury seemed never to have at-tempted
condensation, but to
have committed all their thoughts
to writing in all the redundance
of the forms first suggested. They
acted as though we, their posteri-ty,
should have nothing to do but
to sit down and read what they
had written. They were much
mistaken; and the consequence is
that their ambitious folios remain
for the most part unread ; while
those great productions of classic-al
antiquity, whose severe terse-ness
they would have done well
to imitate, have triumphed over
time— a victory due principally
no doubt to their moderate bulk.
The light skiff will shoot the cata-racts
of time when a heavier ves-sel
will assuredly go down.
Considering the vastness of the
accumulations of literature and
the impossibility of mastering
them all, we are not surprised
that the idea should sometimes
have suggested itself that it might
be possible, in a series of brief
publications, to distil as it were
the quintessence of books, and
condense folios into pamphlets.
—
The works of an age might thus
be contained on a few shelves. We
cannot think, however, that such a
plan, if put into general execution,
would prove useful to the cause of
literature. We will not say that
all abridgments are foolish and
wrong; but the truth is that the
mind cannot profitably digest in-tellectual
food in too condensed a
shape,—and every work worth
reading at all bears upon it the
impress of the mind that gave it
birth and ceases to attract and
impress when reduced to a sylla-bus;
its faults and its excellencies
alike vanish in the process. But
if authors would escape this mu-tilation
they must study concise-ness
of expression, and take care
to leave their thoughts in such a
form that men will not consent to
have them altered. Signal gen-ius,
even in modern times, has
occasionally effected this—and
that, too, in departments where
the progress of knowledge soon
renders these works very imper-fect
as to their matter. Such for
instance is Paley's " ISTatural
Theology," a book treating of a
subject which now might be much
more amply and correctly illus-trated
by the new lights afforded
by improved science; and yet
such is the simple and forcible
beauty with which Paley has man-aged
his argument, that the pop-ularity
of his work is not likely to
yield to any future aspirant, what-ever
stores of better knowledge he
may have at his command.
—
Hume's "History of England"
promises to be a still stronger in-stance,
in spite not only of its nu-merous
deficiencies but of its
enormous errors.
It is indeed a great triumph of
genius when it is capable of so
impressing itself upon its produc-tions,
so moulding and shaping
them to beauty, as to make men
unwilling to return the gold into
the melting pot and work it up
afresh ; when it is felt that from
the less accurate work we after
all learn more, and receive more
vivid impressions than from the
more correct but less effective pro-ductions
of an inferior artist. To
attain this species of longevity,
genius must not content itself with
being a mere mason—it must as-
26 The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Xov.
pire to be an architect, it must
seek to give preciousness to the
gold and silver by the beauty of
the cup or vase into which they
are moulded, and to make them
as valuable for their form as for
their matter.
The old Greek and Koman
classics, which are the best ex-amples
of this power of genius,
have had indeed a remarkable
destiny. Those ancient authors
seem to have possessed in perfec-tion
the art of embalming thought.
Time leaves their works untouch-ed.
The severe taste which sur-rounds
them has operated like the
pure air of Egypt in preserving
the sculptures and paintings of
that country, where travelers tell
us that the traces of the chisel are
as sharp and the colors of the
paintings as bright as if the
artists had quitted their work but
yesterday.
In turning over the pages of
catalogues, one is struck, amidst
all the mutations of literature,
with the fixed and unchanging in-fluence
of two portions of it—the
ancient Classics and the Bible,
Much of the literature produced
by both partakes, no doubt, of the
fate that attends other kinds; the
books they elicit, whether critical
or theological, pass away, but
they themselves retain their hold
on the human mind, become en-grafted
into the literature of every
civilized nation, and continue to
evoke a never-ending series of
volumes in their defence, illustra-tion
or explication. On a very
moderate computation, it may be
safely affirmed, we think, that at
least one-third of the books pub-lished
since the invention ofprint-ing,
were the consequences, more
or less direct, of the two portions
of literature to which we have
referred—in the shape of new
editions, translations, commen-taries,
grammars, dictionaries, or
historical, chronological, and
geographical illustrations.
There is one aspect in which
even the most utilitarian despiser
of the classics can hardly sneer at
them. From being selected by
the unanimous suffrage of all
civilized nations as an integral
element in all liberal education,
these venerable authors play a
very important part in the com-mercial
transactions of mankind.
It is curious to think of these an-cient
spirits furnishing no incon-siderable
portion of the modern
world with their daily bread, and
in the employment they give to
so many thousands of teachers,
editors, commentators, authors,
printers, and publishers, consti-tuting
a very positive item in the
industrial activity of nations. A
political economist, thinking only
of his own science, should look
with respect on the strains of
Homer and Yirgil, when he con-siders
that, directly or indirectly,
they have probably produced
more material wealth than half
the mines which human cupidity
has opened, or half the inventions
of human ingenuity.
And turning to the Bible we
find that it presents us with a
still more singular phenomenon in
the space which it occupies
throughout the continued history
of literature. We see nothing
like it; and supposing it to be
other than it pretends to be, it
may well puzzle infidel sagacity
18G8.] The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 27
to account for its wonderful and
lasting influence over the thoughts
and feelings of mankind. It has
not been given to any other book
of religion thus to triumph over
national prejudices, and lodge it-self
securely in the hearts of great
communities—communities vary-ing
by every conceivable diversity
of race, language, manners and
customs, and indeed agreeing in
nothing but a veneration for it-self.
It adapts itself to the revo-lutions
of thought and feeling that
shake to pieces all things else,
and accommodates itself to the
progress of society and the chan-ges
of civilization. Even conquests
—the disorganization of old na-tions—
the formation of new—do
not affect the continuity of its em-pire.
It lays hold of the new as
the old, and transmigrates with,
the spirit of humanity—attracting
to itself, by its own moral power,
in all the communities it enters,
a ceaseless intensity of effort for
its propagation, illustration and
defence. Other systems of reli-gion
are usually delicate exotics,
and will not bear transplanting.
The gods of the nations are local
deities, and reluctantly quit their
native soil; at all events, they
patronize only their favorite ra-ces,
and perish at once when the
tribe or nation of their worship-pers
become extinct, often long
before. The Koran of Mahomet
has, it is true, been propagated by
the sword; but it has been
propagated by nothing else; and
its dominion has been limited to
those nations who could not re-ply
to that stern logic. But if
the Bible be false, the facility
with which it overleaps the other-wise
impassable boundaries of
race and clime, and domiciliates
itself among so many diflerent na-tions,
would be a far more strik-ing
and wonderful proof of human
ignorance and stupidity than is
afforded in the limited prevalence
of even the most abject supersti-tion;
or, if it really has merits
which, though it be a fable, have
enabled it to impose so compre-hensively
on mankind, wonder-ful
indeed must have been the
skill in its composition— so won-derful
that even the infidel ought
never to regard it but with the
profoundest reverence, as far too
successful and sublime a fabrica-tion
to permit a thought of scoff
or ridicule.
^Xe have endeavored to show
how large a portion of merely hu-man
literature is inscribed with
"vanity,"—that word of doom
which all things human bear.
—
But literature has its "glory"
too. The writer has enough to
make him contented with his vo-cation,
if not proud of it. The
value of books does not depend
upon their durability; nor in truth
is there any reason why the phi-losopher
should be more solicitous
about these wasted and wasting
treasures of mind than about the
death of men, or the decay of the
cities they have built, or of the
empires they have founded. They
but follow the law which is im-posed
on all terrestrial things.
Geologists tell us of vast inter-vals
of time—myriads of years
passed in the tardy revolutions by
which the earth was prepared for
our habitations, and during which
successive tribes of animals and
plants flourished and became
28
~ The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Nov.,
extinct;—the term of life allotted
to each species, and its place in
the system, being exactly appro-priate
to the stage reached by
the world in the progress of de-velopment,
and linked, in a law
of subserviency, to the successive
parts and various phases of one
vast continuous process. Though
permitted and organized to enjoy
their brief term of life, they were
chiefly important as stepping
stones to the future, and as in-fluencing
that future, not by
forming part of it, but by having
been a necessary condition of its
arrival. The same law which
seems to have been that of the
whole history of the geological
eras, appears also to character-ize
our own; the present passes
away, but is made subservient to
a glorious future. As those geo-logical
periods were preparatory
to the introduction of the human
economy, so the various eras of
that economy itself are subordi-nated
to its ultimate and perfect
development. Individuals and
nations perish, but the progress
of humanity continues. Persuad-ed
of this truth, let the author
awake from his idle dream of im-mortality—
awake to a more ra-tional
but not less pleasing hope.
Let him but conscientiously labor
to serve his generation, and he
will find his reward in the reflec-tion
that, though his books may
not outlive himself, yet in further-ing
the interests of one generation
he has furthered the interests of
all coming time. Each genera-tion
must make its own books ; but
lohat sort of books these are to be
depends greatly on the books that
went before. If, then, the author
has made any contribution, how-ever
small, to the general stock of
human knowledge, he may rest
assured that that contribution
will be preserved, in other forms,
for succeeding ages, even after the
book itself, like its author, has
become food for worms. The
book, which none now read, tend-ed,
in its day, to mould and influ-ence
some cotemporary mind des-tined
to act with greater power on
distant generations. The current
novels of Shakspeare's day, which
are now no longer to be found in
public libraries, and the names of
whose authors have completely
vanished from the memory of
men, were the foundation for
many of those glorious dramas
which the superior genius of
Avon's Bard has stamped with
immortality. In this way the
weak live in the strong, and the
perishable products of inferior
minds are transmuted into the
eternal adamant of some rare
genius. The whole gigantic growth
of human knowledge and litera-ture
may be compared to those
deposits which geologists describe,
full of the remains of animal and
vegetable life that once moved in
vigor or bloomed in beauty, and
which are beneficial still. The
luxuriant foliage and forest growth
of literature and science that now
overshadow us, are rooted in the
strata of decaying or decayed
mind, and derive their nourish-ment
from them. The very soil
we turn is the loose detritus of
thought washed down to us
through long ages. Although the
world of intellect, like the world
of matter, is under the dominion
of decay, yet it is sublimely true
1868.] The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 29
that, in both alike, Death is itself
the germ and parent of life; and
new forms of glory and beauty-spring
from the very dust of des-olation.
A fanciful mind might pursue
still further the comparison we
have instituted between those
animal and vegetable remains, on
which our living world flourishes,
and those vast relics of decayed
and mouldering literature, in
which our modern literature
fastens its roots, and over which
it waves its proud luxuriance.
A resemblance may be discerned
between the mutations and revo-lutions
of literature and those in-comparably
greater changes which
have swept over the surface of the
material world. Geology tells us
of the successive submersion and
elevation of vast tracts of land
—
now rich in animal and vegetable
life—then buried for unnumbered
ages in oblivion—then reappear-ing
to the light of day, and bear-ing,
dank and dripping from the
ocean bed, the memorial of their
former glories. It is much the
same with the treasures of buried
literature. Long whelmed be-neath
the inundations of barba-rism,
or buried by the volcanic
eruptions of war and conquest, we
see them, after centuries of ob-livious
trance, coming once more
to light—the fossil remains of an-cient
life, characterized indeed by
many analogies to the present
species of organized life, but also
by many diflferences.
The revival of classical litera-ture
after the dark ages, was the
most splendid and noteworthy of
these recoveries of the past; but
even now there frequently takes
place, on a smaller scale, a simi-lar
process of restoration. Dis-cussions
and controversies that
had been hushed for ages, break
out again, like long, silent vol-canoes;
men turn with renewed
interest to the opinions of per-sons
who had apparently been
forgotten forever ; and names
which had not been heard for
centuries, once more fill men's
mouths and are trumpeted to the
four winds. Let the author re-member
this for his comfort. la
the indefatigable grubbings and
gropings of the literary antiquary,
scarcely any writer need despair
of an occasional remembrance, or
of producing some curiosities for
those cabinets where the most
precious and the most worthless
of relics are preserved with im-partial
veneration. It is hard to
say what the spade and the mat-tock
may not bring up. Who
could have hoped, a few years
back, to witness the reappearance
of so much early English litera-ture
as has recently been passed
through the press again? Who
could have anticipated the wide
and wayward range which the
transient, but while they last,
most active fashions of literary
research would take? Kow it is
Saxon, Danish, or Norman an-tiquity
;—now local traditions and
old songs and ballads;—now the
old dramatists have their turn,
now the old divines. True, not a
little of this exhumed literature
is immediately recommitted to
the dust;—its resurrection is but
for the second celebration of its
obsequies. Still, these spasmodic
revivals of a dead literature gal-vanized
into a semblance of life
30 The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Nov.
by antiquarian zeal, are better
than the unbroken forgetfulness
of tombs that are sealed forever I
This alternate resurrection and
entombment may not be immor-tality,
but it bears a close resem-blance
to transmigration.
In this connection, observe how
singular has been the destiny of
Aristotle! After having been lost
to the world for ages, we see him,
during the era of the schoolmen,
making a second and wider con-quest,
and founding the most du-rable
and absolute despotism of
mind over mind that the world
has ever seen. After a subsequent
dethronement by the Baconian
philosophy, he is now fighting his
way back to no mean empire—an
empire promising to be all the
more permanent because it is
founded in a juster estimate of
his real claims on the gratitude
and reverence of mankind, and
because he is invited to wield the
sceptre, not of a despot, but of a
constitutional monarch. It is as
if Napoleon's dust should quit its
sarcophagus in the Cathedral of
Notre Dame, and once more shake
Europe with the thunder of his
victorious artillery! Like the
great French conqueror, the Gre-cian
philosopher has had his Elba
and his St, Helena; and like him,
too, his dynasty is now restored,
if not in his own person , in the
person of those who owe what
they are to him.
If the considerations thus far
presented fail to establish the
"glory" of literature as a coun-terpoise
to its "vanity," let the
author, in those moments of de-spondency,
when he realizes how
perversely and persistently the
shadow of fame eludes his eager
grasp, console himself with the
reflection that there is a little cir-cle
of which each man is the cen-tre,
and that this narrow theatre
is generally enough for the hopes
and aspirations of the human
heart. Indeed, even when the
loftiest ambition whispers to itself
some folly about distant regions
and remote ages whose plaudits,
however loud, can never reach its
ear, it is really of a nearer and
more limited admiration that the
aspirant thinks. It is, after all,
the applause of the familiar
friends, among whom he daily
lives, that he craves and loves.
Can sculptured urn or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting
breatli
!
Can lionor's voice provoke the silent
dust,
Or flattery sooth the dull cold ear of
death
'
No! for the love and praise of
the living, we will be content to
give up all reversionary claims
upon the admiration of unborn
generations!
Let the author reflect, moreover,
that, as time rolls on, not only
will the number of books be in-creased,
but the number of read-ers
also; and consequently the
greater Avill be the chance of his
obtaining somewhere a foothold
in the memory of at least a part
of the human race. If he be
worthy to live at all , he will find
—
not indeed temples thronged with
admiring worshippers and altars
steaming Avith sacrifices—but at
all events a little chapel here and
there where some solitary devotee
will be paying his homage. He
cannot hope to be a Jupiter Cap-itolinus,
but he may become the
1868. The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. 31
household god of some quiet
hearth, and receive there his mod-est
oblation and his pinch of daily-incense.
The destiny of the honest writ-er,
then even though but moder-ately
successful, is surely glorious
and enviable. It may be true that
he is to die; for we do not count
the record of a name, when the
works are no longer read, as any-thing
more than an epitaph, and
even that may vanish. Yet, to
come into contact with other
minds, though but for limited
periods—to move them by an in-fluence
silent as the dew, invisi-ble
as the mind—to co-operate in
the construction of character—to
mould habits of thought—to pro-mote
the reign of truth and virtue
—to exercise a spell over those we
have never seen and never can
see, in other climes, at the ex-tremity
of the globe, and when the
hand that wrote is still forever
—
is surely a most wonderful, not to
say awful, prerogative. It comes
nearer to the idea of the immediate
influence of spirit on spirit than
anything else with which this
world presents us. In no way
can we form an adequate concep-tion
of such an influence, except
by imagining ourselves, under the
privilege of the ring of Gyges, to
gaze invisible, upon the solitary
reader as he pores over a favorite
author, and to watch in his coun-tenance,
as in a mirror, the reflec-tion
of the page that holds him
captive; now knitting his brow
over a diflicult argument, and de-riving
both discipline and knowl-edge
from the eflbrt—now relax-ing
into smiles at wit and humor
—now dwelling with a glistening
eye on tenderness and pathos
—
now yielding up some fond error
to the force of truth, and anon be-trayed
into another by the force of
sophistry— now rebuked for some
vice or folly, and binding himself
with fresh vows to the service of
virtue,—and now, also, sympa-thizing
with the too faithful de-lineation
of depraved passions and
vicious pleasures, and strengthen-ing,
by one more rivet, the domin-ion
of evil over the soul! Surely,
to be able to wield such a power as
this, even in the smallest degree
and within narrow boundaries of
time and space, is a stupendous
attribute, and one which, if se-riously
pondered, would oftentimes
cause a writer to pause and trem-ble
as though his pen were the
rod of an enchanter! Happy
those who have wielded it well,
and who
"Dying, leave no line they wish to
blot."
Melancholy indeed is the lot of
all whose high endowments have
been worse than wasted—who
have left to that world which they
were born to bless, only a legacy
of shame and sorrow—whose vi-ces
and follies, unlike those of
other men, are not permitted to
die with them, but continue act-ive
for evil after the men them-selves
have become dust. Let
every aspirant for the honors of
authorship remember this. The
ill which other men do, for the
most part dies with them. Xot
that this is literally true, even of
the obscurest individual. We are
all but links in a vast chain which
stretches from the dawn of time
32 The Vanity and the Glory of Literature. [Xov.,
to the final consummation of all
things; and unconsciously we re-ceive
and transmit a noble influ-ence
which time has no power to
destroy. As we are, in a great
measure, what our forefathers
made us, so our posterity will be
what we make them; and it is a
thought which may well make us
at once proud and afraid of our
influence and our destiny.
But such truths, though uni-versally
applicable, are more wor-thy
of being pondered by great
authors than by any other class
of men. These outlive their age
—
if not for an eternity, at least for
considerable periods; and their
thoughts continue to operate im-mediately
on the spirit of their
race. How sad it is for such to
abuse their high trust I If Ave
could imagine for a moment that
departed spirits are allowed to re-visit
the scenes of their earthly
life and trace the good or evil con-sequences
of their actions, what
more deplorable condition can be
conceived than that of a great but
misguided genius, convinced at
last of the folly of his course, and
condemned to witness its ef-fects,
without the power of arrest-ing
them? The spell for evil has
been spoken, and he cannot unsay
it; the poisoned shaft has left the
bow and cannot be recalled ! How
would he sigh for that day which
should cover his fame with a wel-come
cloud, and bury him in the
once dreaded oblivion! How
would he covet, as the highest
boon, the loss of that immortality
for which he toiled so much and
so long!
Let not the influence of books
over men's character and actions
be despised. Socrates was accus-tomed
to argue for the superiority
of oral over written instruction,
by representing books as silent.
The inferiority of the written word
to the living voice is in many re-spects
undeniable, but surely it is
more than compensated by the
advantage of its more difl'usive and
permanent character. Great as
has been the influence of Socrates,
he owes it almost entirely to books
which he refused to write; audit
might have been greater still, had
he condescended to write some of
his own.
The chief glory of literature
taking it collectively—is that it is
our pledge and security against
the retrogression of humanity
—
the eflectual break-water against
barbarism—the ratchet in the
great wheel of the world, which,
even if it stands still, prevents it
from slipping back. Ephemeral
as man's books are, they are not
so ephemeral as himself; and they
consign to posterity what would
otherwise never reach them. A
good book is the Methuselah of
these latter as:es.
1868.] Evening Fancies. 33^
EVENING FANCIES.
Ev^ening's spell comes round me,
And all the ties which bound me
To this bright earth, my spirit rends in twain.
And roams in joy and gladness,
Free from the heart's deep sadness,
And revels in that bliss which yields no pain,
Save only the deep yearning
Which, in my bosom burning,
Tells me that Heaven lies far, far beyond
My own wild aspirations,
My fancy's bright creations.
Then my crushed heart will ache, but not despond.
My spirit seeks the shore,
"Where booms the ceaseless roar
Of Ocean, in his wild and sullen play.
It bounds upon the waves.
Seeks the most hidden caves,
Where sleep the mermaids, and where rich gems stray.
It leaps o'er dancing rivers
Where the rich sunset quivers
In ever-varying tints upon the stream,
Visits the silent dell
Where fancy loves to dwell,
And gilds imagination's richest dream.
Yisits the far- off Heaven,
Where, earth's weak ties all riven,
Angelic music breaks upon the ear.
The jasper gates unfold.
And gorgeousness untold
Dazzles the vision in that glorious sphere.
But a low-plaintive moan
Upon the breeze is borne
;
It has been wafted from the battle-plain.
VOL. VI.—NO. I.
34 The VaJhorgsmas Tryst. [ISTov.,
Oh! that sad, mournful strain
Tells of the lowly slain,
And calls my spirit back to earth again.
And now those hues so glorious
The setting sun sheds o'er us,
Pour their latest, lingering rays around;
And the low, tender greeting,
When in the wild woods meeting.
Of the sad night-bird, is the only sound.
Then sweet, and low, and tender,
'ISTeath Luna's dawning splendor,
I hear the music of a voice I love.
Farewell, thou glowing vision,
Thou flower from fields Elysian,
My blissful, happy heart must cease to rove.
Hamburg, Ark., 1S6S. mart thacker.
THE VALBORGSMAS TRYST.
A deep hush through the long, in jaunty jackets and gay holy-broad,
raftered hall. So deep, day aprons, with fair hair braided
that the soughing of far-pines under the three-cornered maiden-crept
sobbing through the night, cap. The fresh round faces were
and brought the moan of Silja all turned one way, and many a
Lake, upon whose breast the glance stole under drooping lashes
flames upon the hearth-stone here toward the upper end of the apart-flung
out from time to time a fit- ment. For there, at a table
ful glow. An April snow was strewn with papers, sat the aged
scurrying to and fro without. Squire, and confronted a young
Within, a short half-hour since, man in mien and dress somewhat
the dance, the frolic game, the superior to his fellow-peasants,
song and story, in the midst of Those sturdy Dalmen, bred up on
rustic peace made mockery of the Squire's estate, now dropped
storm. Bat now the murkiness of their gaze, shame-faced for their
the storm was entered in. class, upon the pine-twig covered
The nickel harp had lapsed to floor; as the master, resting his
silence, and the hum of all those right hand in very heaviness of
spinning-wheels had ceased. L"p- sorrow on the table, resumed his
on them now, the maidens leaned speech.
1868.] Tlie Valborgsmas Tryst. 35
"Go then, Erik Orn—free to re-trieve
the past with the future—to
prove thyself not all unworthy of
the forbearance I now show thee."
Each measured accent, solemn,
clear, and stern, resounded where
the stillness was but broken by
their utterance—by not one mur-mur
or one movement among the
twenty or thirty men and women
there assembled. A tribunal
without appeal, whose silence
ratified the conviction and the
sentence of this man, one of them-selves,
yet long set above them.
Dismay, compassion, and in some
few envious countenances, a cer-tain
self complacent triumph, an-swered
to the disappointment in
the master's face. He rose up
weariedly, his hand upon the
heavy purse of gold, the finding of
which among Erik Orn's posses-sions,
had with other inexplicable
circumstances, convicted Erik, or
so it seemed, of an unfaithful
stewardship.
But he who fronted, met his
judge, unfalteringly. Upon his
brow there rested not one shade
of shame, and the deep eyes, ear-nest
and shining with an anguish
passing tears, had nevertheless no
shrinking, no remorse. There
was no wavering in the firm- set
mouth, and when he spoke at
once, the musical Dalarna tones
sang true as ever.
"The memory of my master's
justice through the years since I,
a friendless peasant-lad, was first
received into his service—the
memory of kindness which has
raised me up until I stood high in
his confidence—nay, almost as his
counsellor and friend—these mem-ories
rise now between me and
that wrongful sentence, and thus
shut out wrath. That do they,
though that sentence, that for-bearance,
sends me forth, untried
and yet condemned; a branded
out- cast from among these honest
men who were, and in the sight of
my Great Judge above still are,
my fellows. My word against
strong damning evidence of crime.
It is truly feeble as a breath—yet
which of these men here has ever
found it false? I go. But though
you never hear of me again, my
master—when sight shall fall into
this dark, and point out the now
doubly guilty criminal—" he turn-ed
here his glance wandering cold-ly
on from watching face to face
—
"it may in that hour soothe you
to remember, he to whom till now
you have been a most noble bene-factor,
pardons your forbearance,
and—so help me God!—will never
suffer it to crush him down to
shame."
He bowed low to the stern un-moved
old man, and set his proud
face toward the door, vouchsafing
not so much as one brief sign to
the companions of that past so
wholly gone and blotted out from
memory forever.
Kot so much a stifled murmur,
as a thrill, went through those
hearers. More than one friendly
grasp might have sought his, but
that the master stood there cold
as changeless marble; waiting till
the recreant should be gone, in
order to speak further with his
faithful household. Beneath that
impassive observation , no eyes, no
hands, were raised to his.
iSTot one?
A slender girl, who the entire
evening had remained shyly
36 The Valhorgsmas Tryst. [Xov.
apart, and, fenced in by her spin-ning-
wheel, had as shyly shaken
her head at Erik's attempts to
draw her into the circling coun-tr5'-
dance or polka—this girl's eyes
had never left him from the first.
And when his tones rang out,
clear and solemn as far echoes of
Dalarna's church-bells, tears not
wholly full of pain, welled up, and
plashed down on her wheel.
He passed her, passed all by,
until he nearly reached the thres-hold.
He would not have lingered
there, nor looked one instant back
on scenes now lost; but that as
swift as thought Elin has risen
up, had crossed the hall, and
stood before him.
"Erik Orn—" she spoke— as
distinctly, that every ear within
the hall must hear—" Heed them
not, thou!—the dastards who dare
not so much as stretch a parting
hand to thee. Thou knowest the
Lord God Himself shall hold thee
up with His right hand."
He bent upon her a long, full,
wondering gaze, made but more
tender by a cloud of anguish inex-pressible.
And then he grasped
her hands, and bowed his head
until his eyes were hid upon them.
She saw the strong frame shake
with terrible though voiceless
sobs, and felt the hot tears stream-ing
through her fingers.
The moment passed. He lifted
himself resolutely. And without
a word—without one backward
glance—amid the awe- struck hush
of that tribunal where he stood
condemned, with only one girl-voice
raised for him—he went on
his way. The door shut to, with
dull and hopeless clang, behind
him.
It was a cloudless, moonless'
starry night, that eve of May-day
in Dalarna. Black heights merg-ed
into blacker skies, with but an
edge of snow along the woodland
fringes. Beneath there, in the
valleys, in the shadow of those
heights, gleamed out a lingering
white patch amid the green which
carpeted the path for Spring's
triumphal entry. Like snow-patches,
too, a cottage here and
there, in dell or on the mountain-side,
flashed forth from clumps of
newly budding birch, or dusky
pines with peaks of burnished red.
Far down upon a sheltered slope
the village church, all hid in ever-greens,
uplifted a gold cross,
which, as the tower was invisible,
seemed held aloft by unseen, angel
hands. A star-beam trembled
greetingly upon it, as though it
alone could draw down heaven to
earth. The broad lake lying at
its foot, was ruffled into sweeping
shadows by the crisp night-breeze^
and silence, darkness, melancholy,
brooded yet one moment over all,
One moment. "With the next,
from height to height resounded,
loud and clear and merrily, the
"lurar- voices," sweet-toned shep-herd
pipers; and at their sum-mons,
upon every dark-browed
hill was set a crown of flame.
Ere long those bonfires of the
Valborgsmas lit up the earth and
heavens from far and wide, until
they were shut out by higher and
more distant peaks, which yet left
all the skies in wavering, mellow
glowings as of sunset- tide.
In every hill, that glow flashed
into view a knot of peasantry in
holiday attire. The varying
costumes of Dalarna parishes
—
1868.] Tlie Valborgsmas Tryst. 37
the red and yellow, or more som-bre,
yet not less picturesque, black
and white— contrasted prettily as
strongly, while the peasants join-ed
hands with the gentry met to-gether
there to form the Yalborg
ring, and dance around the fire
roused to ruddier burning. For
by that dance, those fires in their
honors, Dalarna has been wont,
from far back into heathendom,
to win over to good will the elves
and spirits of the air, who, buried
under ground all winter long,
steal up to their blithe, summer
frolics hidden in the bosom of the
opening flowers. On their release,
so wild with joy and mischief are
they, that unless propitiated, they
are prone to play all sorts of
pranks with dairy, orchard, gar-den-
close, and field.
But suddenly one young girl
started from the merry round in
breathless haste. Her eyes, dilat-ed
with horror, were following the
heavy flight of a great owl which
had that instant, unobserved by
any other of those May-eve pil-grims,
brushed with solemn wing
her half averted cheek; and now
betook its ill-omened self to a
more distant pine-tree whence it
might continue unmolested to
blink round at the dark. Elin
well knew what a sure sign of
danger looming in the future, any
evil shape of beast or bird foretold,
by stealing thus within the charm-ed
circle of the Valborg dance.
Heart- sick, she drew apart un-seen.
What could it bode, that
bird, which, from its covert, hoot-ed
forth a sharp, wild cry, as if in
answer to her thoughts? "What
could it bode, but—woe to Eiick
Orn? The only evil which had
power to touch her near, with
burning blushes and fast-beating
heart, she now acknowledged to
herself. She wandered from the
spot where bursts of song accom-panying
the dance, or merriment
round some provision-basket be-ing
unpacked in the clear glow,
struck on her hearing like a
taunt.
And where was Erick? Three
unending days had ended since
that night, and she had heard no
word of him. That he should re-member
her—no, that assuredly
was not to be imagined. Yet if
she but knew—. How noble, and
how true and brave he looked
that night, confronting all! With
not one friend to stand by him
—
the traitor souls!
Such thoughts were whirling
through her mind, as she paused
upon a cliff which overleaned far
Silja. And the tears came fast.
Hot rushing tears, and sobs, broke
from the heart which beat so chill
and heavy underneath the fur-cloak
over which she wrung her
hands. And one Avord would re-peat
itself amid those sobs— an
" Erik, Erik!"—almost lower than
the rustle in the pine-boughs clos-ing
round.
Among those pines, those crags,
dwelt there a something like an
Irish echo, which gave back an
answer to her cry! Eor surel}',
"Elin! Elin!" was breathed near;
but in a tone as thrillingly glad
as hers was sorrowful.
She turned herself about.
Down through the tree behind,
fell ruddy flickerings from the
fires above. Against the trunk,
there leaned a man ; and while
the stalwart figure in dark blue
38 Tlie Valborgsmas Tryst. [Nov.,
was left in shade, the noble head,
with wavy masses of fair hair, and
the deep eyes fixed earnestly upon
the maiden, flashed out in relief.
Well might those eyes fix on
the lovely picture, framed in by
the setting of the lake, now gleam-ing
in reflected burnishing. A
right fair Norse picture—the
slight form in graceful garb of
black and white, while the Broka-cap,
which in her hurried move-ment
she had thrown back, left
uncovered glittering braids of gold
interwoven with a scarlet ribbon,
thus resembling a scattered red-bud
garland wound again and
again around the pretty head.
But not long did he gaze in
well-pleased, criticising silence,
while the sweet eyes drooped from
his, the rosy mouth just quivered
in a smile. He called her
—
"Elin!"—once again, and she
sank into his extended arms.
" Thou lovest me, Elin? Heav-en
be praised! Then shall I bat-tle
with my fate so bravely! But
—ah, is it for a ruined man—dis-graced
in all men's sight—to
speak of love to thee?"
The chord of bitterness within
his voice, touched her to the
quick. She hid her face upon his
shoulder, but she said in tones
where mirth was mixed with
tears:
''Art thou then rightly satis-fied
that thou didst speak of love
to me? Or was it I who told thee
—told thee—"
Confessions and counter-con-fessions—
that grim bird was com-pelled
to listen to them all—being,
as the bird of wisdom, loth to dis-turb
herself with seeking out an-other
pine with sheltering hollow
in its blasted trunk. But the
grey attendant of the heavenly
maid could not certainly in pa-tience
bear to hear the follies shy-ly
whispered by this earthly maid.
And so, intending to break in up-on
them with a scornful 'Humph!'
she stretched her solemn visage,
and gave voice to a something
partaking of the nature of both a
scream and a stifled chuckle.
Elin raised a face aghast.
" Erik! Didst thou hear?"—she
whispered—"Was it not the gob-lin
laugh which haunts the moun-tain-
wood, and jeers when ill is to
betide? Thou saidst, we shall
tryst a blither tryst upon another
Valborgsmas, when thou mayst
proudly claim this bride, and none
will wish to say thee nay. That
laugh—it mocked at this, per-haps—
"
" Nay, little Elin, it was but a
warning that the moon is rising
over yonder mountain, and I must
begone. The promised pledge,
thou dear one, ere I heed the
warning:
"
She had loosed one heavy tress
from its sister- coronals, and silent-ly
for answer severed it, and with
soft wavering flush as silently per-mitted
him to lift it and her hand
together, forcing her to place the
tress upon his breast.
"There, for life and for death,
Elin—" he said.
A faint smile stole across her
lips.
'
' They say thou hast all maid-en's
hearts, best Erik. May it not
then happen that some brighter
braid—"
She stopped. She had forgot-ten
how the day was darkly set,
wherein any heart would give it-
1868.] The Valhorgsmas Tryst. 39
self into his keeping. He remem-bered.
The swift loosing of her
hand reminded her. Keminded,
only that two firm small hands
should straightway nestle to his
hold.
"Ah, wouldst thou let me go
with thee—" began she in a blush-ful
murmur,
Euk he interrupted.
"Nay—rather this gold sun-shine
of thine shall keep my heart
warm even in the darkest depths
of Fahlun's mines. I will not
take thee to a ruined life; but,
Elin, thou dear, faithful one upon
some better Yalborgsmas the gra-cious
Lord God shall roll away
the darkness from between us.
Then, unscorned by any, thou
shalt—thus—lie on my breast."
He held her closely there one
moment—then as suddenly re-leased
her. And through blind-ing
tears she watched him spring
down from the cliff, and fling
himself from bough to bough, from
crag to crag. Till presently a
skiff shot from a cove across the
lake, and one within, resting an
instant on his oars, turned round
to wave a last—a last farewell.
Those flames of Yalborgsmas
had quenched themselves in ashes
fifty years ago; when just before
the fires blazed forth once on sum-mit
far and wide in calm Dalarna,
miles away from Silja Lake a soli-tary
vroman journeyed where the
town of Fahlun rose through
smoke-wreaths of its copper- mines.
With feeble steps and slow, sup-ported
by her staff, the aged wan-derer
neared the smoke which
drifted upward from the earth,
and rolled in mist-cascades along
the cliffs and steeps of slag; or
burst forth like the blaze of battle
beating murkily where peak and
crag in wild similitude of tower
and battlement, hung threaten-ingly
above the narrowed way.
The woman moved like those
who walk in dreams. She never
lifted up her sunken head to look
to right or left, as she passed oth-er
roads which opened from the
main one, into other black and
straightened ways and streets of
the half-burnt metal. Only once
she faltered, paused, and stood
there listening; bowed lower yet,
as if in fear; her shaking hands
clasping the staff, while a moan
struck her quivering lips apart:
"The Laugh! the Laugh! It
mocks me again, as on that Yal-borgsmas.
Was it but one Yal-borgsmas
ago? Ah, I am now so
weary, and the days were long,
long! Erik, shall we keep the
tryst together here? That laugh
on Silja—I have fled from it, best
Erik, lest it should mock thee and
keep thee away."
It was the tinkling fall of cop-per-
stained waters dropping
through a cliff against the town.
And as she listened for the phan-tom-
voice again in vain, she
went once more mechanically on.
Before her, sulphurous tongues
of fire lapped against the city
looming in a mist through which
the brilliant sunset wove a thous-and
threads and bands of rose and
gold. Eair sheltering hills on one
side stretch toward Silja, and
conceal a maze of lovely vales and
lakes. Green fields break into
stony districts, and long-lingering
glittering snow-slopes smooth
away, as with a soft white hand,
the ruggedness. But beyond the
40 Tlie Valborgsmas Tryst. [i^ov.,
tawD, mine-fumes have parched
both wood and slope, and left a
naked desolation, willi discolor-ed
springs dripping and oozing
through the scant, seared herbage
and the stones—grave stones of
the blossoms which died centuries
ago, all draped in pall of black
funereal lichens.
A grim desolated ruin, not-withstanding
all the wealth of ore
hid deep within its bosom, was
this neighborhood ; and ever had
been, far beyond the memory of
man through generations after
generations back. But not more
•desolate, not more a ruin, hardly
farther passed away from memory
in its beauty and its youth than
this lorn creature tottering on
her way amidst the barrenness.
The subterranean fires breathed
their sharp and poisonous breath
upon the blooming forests and the
verdant hills, and sapped their
very life. And no less had they
withered up her life long years
ago, when Erik vanished in their
mists, and never more emerged,
though May-day Eve had come
and gone, and come and gone
again. Beneath the pine had
Elin trysted, first with hope, then
disappointment, doubt, and at
the last despair and madness.
But this Spring, a roving impulse
seized and forced her to retrace
the steps to Eahlun, which she
once had taken when the lagging
feet were swift with hopes and
fears, the dim eyes bright with ex-pectation
and anxiety, the weary
lips^ager and quick with ques-tions.
Questions none could
solve. One answering to Erik
Orn's description, it is true, had
laboured with his fellow miners
from one May- day till its eve drew
near again. But after that, he
had been seen no more. Where
he was gone, or why, none could
reply; and few had cared to ask,
since he had lived among them
solitary, distant, and unknown.
She had wandered back toward
Silja that same night, as haggard,
and the self-same ruin in heart and
brain, as now she wandered here
again.
Through the well-ordered streets,
and by the comfortable houses,
she passed on. In balconies, and
round the doorways, were gay
groups, and sounds of laughter
and glad greetings, as the neigh-bors
met together for the May-
Eve pilgrimage to wood-crowned
heights without the reach of the
smoke's blasting touch. Some
careless eyes, some soft with pity,
rested on the lonely passer-by;
and more than once the light
laugh checked itself, as overawed
unconsciously, in presence of a
sorrow mightier than all moan.
But Elin went her way without a
glance.
The mining district rose to
view in huts and hills against the
lurid flickering of flames which
tossed up showers of stars to fill
the skies where milder, heaven-lier
stars were not yet ready to
appear. As Elin reached the
mine-house, its clock was chiming
the hour of release to workmen
who were not to labor in the
night. The dying cadence of the
bell, the sinking of the calm, soft
sunset wind, brought somewhat
of their own lull to her restless
spirit. She paused there, leaning
on the railing which fenced round
the opening of the great shaft.
—
1868. Tlie Valborgsmas Tryst. 41
Across that opening stood a build-ing
through which was the descent
into the shaft, scores of fathoms
deep. From this small open
house a flood of firelight stream-ed—
a flood which through ages
following ages, ever since the cop-per
was first worked, has never
been permitted to die down. For
tradition has it, that Thor's ham-mer
first rang in the mighty
vaults and endless labyrinth of
red, and gold, and emerald halls
below; and that he kindled the
first flames upon the brink, to
melt away the broken chains of
the cairn-people so long bound be-neath
there, by the giant mount-ain-
king.
Through Elin's darkened mind,
as she gazed into the black vacu-um,
came a remembrance of
those tales. She listened to the
distant, hollow echo of the blast-ing,
and could feel the heaving of
earth's bosom, as with a faint sob.
The past rushed back upon her,
almost clearly. She remember-ed
her long -forgotten doubt of
Erik's faithfulness. The space
elapsed since then, she knew not;
for the second trysting hour seem-ed
just arrived. But a heart-rending
terror smote her for the
first time. TVas he true, and
could not come to keep the tryst?
Had the great mountain-king at
last burst his own fetters, and
heaped them on those who had
dared intrude into his palace?
—
Did the stifled groans, the mo-tions,
which she heard and felt,
break from those captives in the
struggle to wrench ofi" the chains
which bound them to the subter-ranean
rocks? And Erik
—
Dizzy with the sudden fear, she
stared down into the dense dark-ness.
But it was not now so
dense as to be uuillumined by a
gleam. Torches were flashing
there, at first as faint and dim as
glow-worms; and at that great
depth appearing to creep as slow-ly
up the shaft's walls, which the
flaring made apparent.
Up the stairs cut in those walls,
two men who were foremost,
seemed to bear some burthen un-der
which they lifted themselves
cautiously, with frequent pause
for rest. No shout, no cheer pass-ed
up or down from laborer to
laborer. All the sounds which
reached the awakened ear of Elin,
were but far ofli" echoings, or the
flash and rush of waterfalls
through the now empty streets.
She watched the torches steadily
—as if the years and years of wa-vering
were at an end—when sud-denly
they vanished beneath her
very eyes.
This vanishing was nothing so
mysterious, as it appeared to her,
still never stiring from the spot,
and brushing a wan hand across
her brow, as if to clear her wist-ful
vision. For the workmen had
but disappeared through one of
the doors opening from the shaft
to a hidden stairway, which led
up into that same small building
whence the fire- glow flashed on
Elin's worn and grief-bowed fig-ure.
A moment, and that fire-glow
was dimmed by persons passing
it within the building. When it
flashed out once again, it stream-ed
upon a knot of miners in black
blouses, and dark, broad-brimmed
hats which cast a deeper shadow
over grimy features. Elin saw
42 The YaTborgsmas Tryst. [Nov.
,
/ them come out slowly, slowly
—
and lay something down upon the
great shaft's brink, amid the wav-ing,
agitated mass of women,
children, workmen, and officials,
that now gathered round. Some-thing—
the burthen they had borne
up from that awful, dim, myste-rious
deep. Something—the stal-wart,
hardened men, begrimed
with more than the mine's con-tact,
bent over it, their bold eyes
softened strangely as they laid it
down with tender, reverential
touch.
It may be in each mind there
stirred the thought, that upon
him one day the portals of the
earth might close, and comrades
have to bear him up and stretch
him silent in the sun-glow, where
perchance the mother or the sis-ter,
bride, or child, would recog-nize,
and stooping drop a tear
or kiss upon the death- sealed lips.
Ko kiss, no tear, was given
now. Women whose counte-nances
mirrored the arid bloomless
life on hill-sides round, stared
down; and from their bosoms, in-fants
wan and pallid and unchild-like
in their stillness— day-dawn
clouded by the foul breath of the
mines—hung forward, stretching
forth their puny arms, and point-ing,
with a weird and startling
earnestness in the wee faces, to
that rigid, unmoved figure. Awe
there was, and curiosity, and some
compassion—not one tear—no
mourner's sigh—no wail for a
heart's life outstretched there
stark and cold.
iSTone recognized him as a com-rade,
and a murmur of amaze-ment
went from group to group.
He must have perish&d in the
ruined shaft long jears ago, one
said—else would his face have
been familiar.
A movement in the crowd—
a
swaying to and fro, as swayed the
fading sunbeams and the flicker-ing
flames. The solitary wander-er
had drawn near; and with one
consent, as if by instinct, did the
men and women there make way
for her, until the dying light with-in
her eyes fell where the dying
glances of the day yet shone.
As if in slumber he reposed ; one
arm beneath his head with all its
sunny waves of hair undimmed
—
and in his right hand clenched,
the mattock wherewith he had
dug his grave. And yet it could
not be that this was death! The
strong, brave face lay under
heaven with a smile upon the lips
—a smile brilliant and pure as the
reflection of a golden gleam from
the opening gates of Paradise.
The dark eyes shone beneath their
half-closed lids, as though he were
just sinking down to sleep in glad-some
dreams.
The wayfarer, who had paused
to gaze one moment, tottered for-ward,
and sank down, her head
upon his breast.
"Erik! Oh Erik! dost thou keep
the tryst at last?—" she cried out,
with a thrill of joy unutterable in
her broken, quavering tones.
The withered cheek pressed to
the bronzed and ruddy one—the
thin, grey locks entwining with
those shining waves—the white,
worn lips touching those crimson-red
as if with life—the pale eyes
dropping rushing tears of joy up-on
the lowered lashes which now
glittered as though he himself
were weeping—. And the wrink-led,
palsied hand
—
1868.] Baby Power. 43
The wrinkled, palsied hand was
resting on the brawny breast,
where crossed a scarlet riband in-tertwining
a gold braid.
The withered cheek pressed to
that fresh with youth—the grey
hairs mingling with those Time
had never touched—the white lips,
ever whiter, breathing low and
soft the last, faint breath of life
across that smiling mouth—the
faded eyes, their long watch at an
end, their latest tear wept out,
now gazing on the self-same
dream that stole into his half-shut
lids, from Heaven.
Calumny no more hence-forth
may wrench apart the hands now
clasping in eternal troth-plight
underneath the palms, upon the
strand of the bright, glorious sea
of glass.
And as a miner silently advanc-ed,
and reverently covered the
two faces to which death should
render back alike immortal youth,
no dread laugh mocked them from
the naked hills around. Nor
were tears wanting. For with
one accord the multitude sank
down upon their knees, awe-stricken
in the presence of death.
And of a stronger than death
—
whose faithfulness had broken
down the barrier of the grave, and
kept the tryst at last.
At last. Just as the sunset
faded out, and crimson fires of
Yalborgsmas shot uj) the gloam-infj
skies.
BABY POWER.
BY ROSA VBRTNER JEFFREY.
Six little feet to cover,
Six little hands to fill.
Tumbling out in the clover.
Stumbling over the sill.
Six little stockings ripping.
Six little shoes half worn.
Spite of that promised whipping,
Skirts, shirts, and aprons torn!
Bugs and bumble-bees catching,
Heedless of bites and stings,
"Walls and furniture scratching,
Twisting ofi" buttons and strings.
Into the sugar and flour,
44 Bahy Power. Kov.,
Into the salt and meal,
Their royal, baby power,
All through the house we feel!
Behind the big stove creeping.
To steal the kindling wood;
Into the cupboard peeping,
To hunt for " somesin dood."
The dogs they tease to snarling,
The chickens know no rest,
Yet—the old cook calls them "darling,"
And loves each one " the best."
Smearing each other's faces.
With smut or blacking-brush.
To forbidden things and places,
Always making a rush.
Over a chair, or table,
They'll fight, and kiss again
"When told of slaughtered Abel,
Or cruel, wicked Cain.
All sorts of mischief trying,
\jl On sunny days—in doors
—
And then perversely crying
To rush out when it pours.
A raid on Grand-ma making,
—In si^ite her nice new cap,
—
Its strings for bridles taking.
While riding on her lap.
Three rose-bud mouths beguiling.
Prattling the live-long day,
Six sweet eyes on me smiling,
Hazle, and blue, and gray.
—
Hazle—with heart-light sparkling.
Too happy, we trust, to fade
—
Blue—'neath long lashes darkling,
Like violets in the shade.
Gray—full of earnest meaning,
A dawning light so fair,
Of woman's life beginning,
We dread the noon-tide glare
Of earthly strife, and passion,
May spoil its tender glow,
'^
1868.] Windsor Castle. 45
Change its celestial fashion,
As earth-stains change the snow!
Three little heads, all sunny,
To pillow and bless at night.
Riotous Alick and Dunnie,
Jinnie, so bonnie and bright!
Three souls immortal slumber.
Crowned by that golden hair,
TVhen Christ his flock shall number,
Will all my lambs be there?
Xow with the stillness round me,
I bow my head and pray,
" Since this faint heart has found thee,
Suifer them not to stray."
Up to the shining portals.
Over life's stormy tide,
Treasures I bring—immortal.
Saviour be thou my guide.
Lexington, Ky., 1868.
WINDSOR CASTLE.
This stately j)ile is situated in a
westerly direction from London,
at a distance of about twenty
miles. Founded by William the
Conqueror, first as a military for-tress,
and afterwards converted
into a palace, it has been enlarged
and improved by different sover-eigns,
but received the last, mag-nificent
alterations in the time of
George lY., portions of the work
being only completed since the
reign of Queen Victoria.
The Castle itself, on a lofty emi-nence,
has an imposing grandeur,
from its great extent, its beautiful
church, its circular towers; the
great Central Tower being over
three hundred feet in circumfer-ence,
and near three hundred feet
in height above the level of the
Home Park. The first view of the
State apartments however, was a
disappointing one. They were
far less spacious and magnificent
than I anticipated, a feeling which
would perhaps be experienced by
any one who had had the misfor-tune
to have first seen the Paris-ian
palaces. And yet doubtless,
a visit to Windsor and its en-virons
leaves a much more agreea-ble
impression on the mind.
Perhaps some slight allusions to
46 Windsor Castle. [Nov,
the principal apartments would
not be devoid of interest to those
who have never seen them.
We ascended the " Grand Stair-case
" of marble, an appropriate
entrance to the noble edifice, and
passing through the vestibule,
where hangs the portrait of Sir
Jeffrey Wyattville, the architect
who planned the last, elegant im-provements
in the palace, we en-tered
the Queen's Audience
chamber. This, though small, is
rather pleasing, its ceiling, paint-ed
by Verrio, represents Queen
Catherine in a triumphal car, and
attended by the Goddesses of
flowers, grain and fruits, an em-blem
of Great Britain. The
Gobelin Tapestry decorating the
walls, represents portions of the
history of Queen Esther and Mor-decai.
There were also a few por-traits,
the most interesting, those
of William III, and his amiable
Queen Mary.
'Next is the Yandyck room, so
called, from its containing numer-ous
portraits, chiefly of English
royalty, by that favorite artist of
the 17th century. The State-ante-room,
very small, has a ceiling
also painted by Verrio, a banquet
of the Gods. Here are seen some
specimens of carving by Gibbons,
which are very beautiful, and a
portrait in stained glass of George
the Third. The Waterloo cham-ber
has more than ordinary archi-tectural
beauty, and contains
many portraits by different art-ists,
chiefly of illustrious charac-ters,
kings and others, of the
various continental nations.
Among the English portraits, is
one of the Hon. George Canning,
once Prime Minister, and a very
fine one of the Duke of AVelling-ton
as he appeared on the day of
thanksgiving after the battle of
Waterloo. The Queen's State
drawing room called the Zucca-relli
room, from its containing
some fine paintings by that artist,
embracing Scripture scenes, land-scapes,
and the portraits of the
three Kings George, is very
elegantly fitted up, from some
glimpses we obtained of the par-tially
covered furniture. The
grand reception room is the first
which commends itself to the eye
as palatial in its proportions. It
is ninety feet in length, thirty-three
in height, and thirty-four in
breadth, and with the profusion of
rich gilding and carving, the mag-nificent
chandeliers, the numer-ous
elegant mirrors, and the
Gobelin tapestry, representing
scenes from heathen mythology,
is really brilliant and imposing.
St. George's Hall, the grand ban-queting
room, in which is the
throne, is still more spacious, be-ing
two hundred feet in length, the
breadth and height about the
same as the preceding. The ceil-ing
is decorated with a confusing
number and variety of armorial
bearings of the Knights of the
Garter from its origin to the pres-ent
time. On the walls