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Love is Best.
j> ( . ..if the rosy Islands of tlie West,
There winds a glen of all the glens most fair,
Where, day and night, the North wind is at rest,
For love lives there.
XUme wandering in the noontide of my life,
A goddess stept from out the shadowy green,
W .th pensive eyes, and lips, by Love’s sweet strife,
Opened between.
y ( j through the dewy coolness of the leaves,
Echoed a voice which taught us how to woo--
Xbe voice of Love, in visionary eyes—
“ Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”
And, cheek to cheek, we lay among the bent,
And through the room we wandered hand in hand,
And all the goodness of the Lord we spent
Upon that Summer land.
Then, stooping down, she whispered in my ear—
“ There is a marvellous fountain in the wood,
And, drinking there, whoever cometh here,
Shall find it good.
“For, drinking there, his name shall grow a name,
Known unto men through all the far abodes,
And, mounting up as iucenae smoke, his fame
Shall reach the gods.”
Then, turning quick, I touched her on the mouth,
And said, “O! sweetest, let this matter be,
I aek not anything of North or South,
But love from thee !
“I never more will lay my lance in rest,
Nor in the storm of battle shall my crest
Break, like the foam, against the foeman’s breast,
For Love is best.
“And I am aweary of all the world,
And roaming o’er the seas with hungry heart;
In this deep bay my tattered sails are furled;
I will not part ',
“from thee and from the tresses of thy hair,
Tangling my sense, and from thy perfect breast,
And from the sweetest lips Love anywhere
Has ever kissed.
“Trample upon me with thy dainty feet,
Upon thy slave, who breaks his captive bow;
But from thy feet, which trample on me, sweet,
I will not go.”
[From the London Herald, July 30.]
PATH
IMMENSE CROWD AT THE R. C. CHAPEL
TOILET OF THE BRIDE AND BRIDESMAIDS
—THE WEDDING BREAKFAST.
The long talked of event in the musical
circles of Europe has at length taken
place. There is no longer an Adelini
Patti ; she is now Madame la Marquise
de* Oaux. The favorite “officier de or
dormance” of the Emperor of the French,
and Aide-de-Camp of the Empress, as
the Director of the Court “cotillion,” has
carried off the prize. The marriage cere
mony in France is both a civil contract
and a religious service, but as it had been
decided the union should be celebrated in
this country, the formalities became more
complicated. Thus the publication of the
harms took place at the Mairie, of the
firs t Arrondissement in Paris. Here is a
copy of the publication thereof:
“M. Louis Sebastien Henri de Roger
de Calruzac, Marquis de Caux, fils°du
Compte et de Dernoisselle Iluguefc de
Varange, actuellement femme du Due de
Yahny, et Mile. Adele Jeanne Marie
Patti, proprietaire, lille de M. Salvatore
Patti et de Catharine Bhirza, rentiers.”
The legal status being thus established
in the French Capital, the domicile of
the Marquis, then came the exigencies of
English and French law with reference to
London. The first instalment of the
forms required was effected last Monday,
at the French Consulate in the city. His
Brace, the Duke of Manchester, and Mr.
Costa, were the witnesses of the contract
tor Adelini Patti, and the Prince de la
Loir d’Auvergne, with M. Mure, the
Secretary of the French Embassy, offi
ciated as “ temoins ” for the Marquis.
Now, so far as regards French law, this
contract is binding, but not so with rela
tion to the Church ; and the religious ser
vice was, therefore, performed yesterday,
at the Roman Catholic Chaphel, Clap
ham, Park Road. Although as much
privacy had been exercised as possible,
the marriage of a popular puma donna
comd not take place without its bein^
\ TI ? rV | n ie c^ia P was > therefore, corn”
plotcly filled, and an immense crowd was
collected at the exterior, unable to pene
trate into the edifice.
‘-hoitly after 11 oclock, the bridal
procession walked up to the Altar. The
Bridesmaids were Mile, de Caudia
0.1 filter of Mano) Kami, Miss Mona
irris, and Mile. Louisa Lau. The
e ' vould have been weir-hed down
with the presents of jewelry she had re
wived, but, with excellent good taste all
ornaments were dispensed with. She
wore a white satin dress, with a very lorn*
tram, trimmed only with a small frill, the
body and sash of the same material
trimmed with Brussels lace. The blonde
veil covering the head, and Orange blos
soms, with the hair simply dressed, com
posed the coiffure. The uniform of the
Bridesmaids was a white muslin dress,
With light blue sashes and trimmin gs
anu a bite tulle bonnets, decorated with
forget-me-not*. Father Plunkett was the
officiating Priest. The marriage cere
monial, with the exchange of the two
rings, the mutual declarations, and the
giving of the small coin concluded, Low
Mass was performed. The marriage cer
tificate was duly signed in the Vestry, by
the same witnesses as at Monday’s con
tract. The ages of the newly-married
couple were given as twenty-five for the
Bride, and forty-two for the Bridegroom
The wedding breakfast was given at
the residence of Mile. Adelini Patti, Pier
pont House, Athens Road, Clapham Park.
About sixty guests were invited. A
large tent was pitched in the garden, and
gaily decorated with the flags of France,
Spain, Italy, England, and the United
States, the countries in which the fame of
the gifted artiste had been established.
The health of the Marquis and Mar
chioness de Caux was proposed by Mr. C.
L. Grunesin, who gave a short sketch of
the career of the prima donna since her
debut at the Royal Italian Opera ; also,
dwelling particularly on the virtues of
the artiste , which had won for her so
many friends in private life. The toast
was received with great enthusiasm.
(From Once a Week.}
SOCIABLE SILENCE.
There is a silence which is felt to be
sociable, when the silent associates are
Jried and trusty friends. Wherever, in
fact, there is implicit confidence, and an
underlying sense of general sympathy, it
is often a relief to be able to hold one’s
peace without any risk of misapprehen
sion. Whereas, with a comparative
stranger, one puts on company’ manners,
and has to keep up the shuttle-cock of
colloquial inanity, with all one’s battle
door might. Everybody who has friends,
must have felt this ; and though—nay,
because the feeling is a common one, it
may be interesting to show by examples
how it has been expressed in* literature.
Horace Walpole tells a story’ cf two
old cronies, who, sitting together one
evening till it was quite dark, without
speaking, one called to the other, “Tom!
Tom! ” “Well,” said his friend, “what
do you say?” “Oh,” said the other,
“areyou there?” “Ay,” said old Tom.
“Why, then, don’t you say humph?”
demanded the first. So that there was
but a felt presence, the silence was enjoy
able between these twain. The mute
companionship was scarcely’ the less com
panionable for being mute. Old friends,
remarks Walpole in another of his letters,
are the great blessing of one’s later years
—half a word conveys one’s meaning. He
makes this remark in reference to the loss
of his intimate friend, Mr. Chute, whom
he used to see ol’tener than any one, and
to whom he had recourse iu every diffi
culty. “And him I loved to have here,
as our friendship was so entire, and we
knew one another so entirely, that he
alone was never 'the least constraint to
me. We passed many hours together
without saying a syllable to caeli other ;
for we were both above ceremony.”
It is the concluding couplet iu the
following lines, that best attests the con
fiding friendship that existed between
Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Skene:
To thee, perchance, this rambling strain
Recalls our summer walks again;
When, doing naught—and, to speak true,
Not anxious to find aught to do—
The wild unbounded hills we ranged,
While oft our talk its topic changed,
And desultory, as our way,
Ranged unconftned from grave to gay ;
E’en when it flagged, as oft will chance,
No effort made to break its trance,
We could right pleasantly pursue
Our sports in social silence too.
Wisely and well La Bruyere says
that, merely to be with those we love is
enough. To indulge iu reverie the while;
to talk to them ; not to talk to them ; to
think about them ; to think oil matters
indifferent and irrelevant to them—but
with themselves beside us—all goes well
on that single condition : tout est egal.
The Abbe Barthelemy speaks happily
of those happy moments between like
minded friends, when the very silence is
a proof of the enjoyment each feels in
the mere presence of the other ; for it is
a silence productive of neither weakness
nor disgust. They say nothing, hut they
are together. On ne dit rien mais on
cst ensemble. Rousseau is even raptu
ruos in his eulogies of sympathetic silence;
he dilates with enthusiasm on the
quantity and quality of good tilings that
are said without ever opening the mouth,
on the ardent sentiments that are com
municated without the frigid medium of
speech. Fenelon expatiates on the charm
of free communion, sans ceremonie, with
a dear friend who don’t tire you, and
whym neither do you tire; you see one an
other; at times one talks; at others, listens;
at others, both keep silence ; for both are
satisfied with being together, even with
nothing to say.
For those who have managed that
things shall run smoothly over the do
mestic rug, says the author of Orley
I arm, there is no happier time of life
than the long candle-light hours of home
and silence. “No spoken content or
©I fEM
uttered satisfaction is necessary. The
fact that is felt is enough for peace.”
This fact is touchingly exemplified in the
American story of The Gayworthys , in
the instance of stolid Jaazaniah Hoogs,
and his leal-hearted wife Wealthy. We
see Jaazaniah in his chair, the three
legged chair tilted up, the man- whittling
a stick, and whistling. Wealthy is busy
chopping, following her own solitary
thoughts, hut feeling a certain habitual
comfort in having him at her elbow.
Standing up for the poor soul, she main
tains in one place that his thoughts come
out in his whistling ; he could never
make such music as that out of nothing.
“You never heard it, nor nobody else,
as I have. Why, when we’re sitting
here all alone .... he’ll go on so,
[whistling,] that I hold my breath for
fear o’ stopping him. It’s like all the
Psalms and Revelations to listen to it.
There’s something between us then that’s
more than talk.” Presently it is beside
his death-bed that she sits, in the same
expressive silence. “She sat by him
for hours; sometimes laying her hand
softly down upon the coverlet, and letting
his seek it, as it always would; and the
spring breath and music in the air spoke
gently for them both, and there was
something between them that was more
than talk.”
One thinks of Dr. Johnson in his last
illness, visited by Malone, and proving
so unusually silent that the visitor rose
to leave, believing him to be in pain, or
incommoded by company. “Pray, sir,
be seated,” Johnson said. “I cannot talk,
hut I like to see you there.” Indeed,
great talker iu every sense as the Doctor
had been in his prime, he was never in
sensible to the value of sympathetic silence
During his tour to the Hebrides, his com
panion, Roswell, took the liberty, one
evening, of remarking to Johnson, that
ho very often sat quite silent for a long
time, even when in company with a single
friend. “It is true, sir,” replied Johnson.
“Tom Tyers described me the best. He
once said to me, “Sir, you are like a ghost;
you never speak till you are spoken to ”
Roswell was apparently incapable of see
ing anything enjoyable in social silence.
Not so his every-way bigger friend.
A delightful essayist of the present
time, discussing the companionship of
books, accounts it no forced paradox to
say that a man may sometimes he far
more profitably employed iu surveying
his book shelves in meditative mood, than
if he were to pull this or this volume
down and take to reading it; “just as
two friends may’ hold sweeter converse
in perfect silence together, than if they
were talking all the time.”
Henry Mackenzie’s Montauban con
gratulates himself on the footing upon
which already he stands with his new
acquaintance, Monsieur do Roubigne :
“He does not think himself under the
necessity of eternally talking to entertain
me; and we sometimes spend a morning
together pleased with each other’s socie
ty, though we do not utter a dozen sen
tences.” It is of Julia de Roubigne, in
the same epistolary novel, that another
letter-writer declares, after adverting to
the sprightliness of a Mademoiselle Dor
ville, —“Oh, Beauvaris! I have laid out
more soul in sitting five minutes with
Julia de Roubigne in silence, than I
should in a year’s conversation with this
little Dorville.”
Elia accounts that to be but an im
perfect solitude which a man enjoys by
himself, and applauds the sense of the
first hermits when they retired into
Egyptian solitudes, not singly, but in
shoals, “to enjoy one another’s want of
conversation. The Carthusian is bound
to his brethren by this agreeing spirit of
incommunicativeness.” In secular oc
casions, Elia adds, what is so pleasant,
as to be reading a book through a long
winter evening with a friend sitting by—
say a wife—he, or she, too (if that be
probable,) reading another, without in
terruption, or oral communication. “Can
there be no without the gabble
of words? .... Give me Master
Zimmermann, a sympathetic solitude.”
Lamb’s reference to the agreeing spirit
of incommunicativeness cultivated in
monastic retreats, may remind us of what
is told of a celebrated meeting between
St. Louis, King ot France, in disguise,
and Egidius of Assisi, a rich citizen,
“famous for many graces,” writes Sir
James Stephen, “andfor not a few mira
cles.” At Perugia, tiie two Saints met,
and long knelt together in silent embrace.
On the departure of the King, Egidius
was rebuked by his bretheren, for his
rudeness in not having uttered a word to
so great a sovereign. “Marvel not,” he
answered, “that we did not speak; a
divine light laid bare to each of us the
heart of the other. No words could
have intelligibly expressed that language
of the soul, or have imparted the same
sacred consolation.”
One of the most popular of French
authors, comments, in his autobiography,
on the analogy he professes to have ob-
served between the two races of sailors, and
forestrangers, and tells, for instance, how
the mariner, or the woodman, will remain
by the side of his best friend, in the one
case on the ocean, in the other, deep in
the forest, without exchanging a single
word. But as the two entertain the same
train of ideas—as their silence has been
no more than a long tacit communion
with Nature, “You will be astonished to
find that, at the proper moment, they
have but to exchange a word, a gesture,
or glance of the eye, and they will have
communicated more to each other by
this word, this gesture, or glance of the
eye, than others could have done in a longi
discourse.” As Scott and Skene, with
their sports, so can these
right pleasantly pursue
Their craft iu social silence too.
Mr. Helps’ three Friends in Council
return home, after one of their outdoor
colloquies, or peripatetic piulosophisings
“not sorry to be mostly silent” as they
go along, and glad that their friendship
is so assured that they can be silent with
out the slightest danger of offence.
Uncle Sol and Mr. Toots, in “Dombey
& Son,” wait patiently in the churchyard,
sittiug on the copingstone of the railings,
until Captain Cuttle and Susan come back.
Neither being at all desirous to speak, or
to be spoken to, they are expressly de
scribed as excellent company, and quite
satisfied. Glance again at the same au
thor’s picture of Mr. Willet and his com
panions, Mr. Cobb, and long Phil Parkes,
enjoying one another’s society at the
Maypole ; and how enjoying it? “For
two mortal hours and a half, none of the
company had pronounced one word.” Yet
were they all firmly of opinion, that they
were very jolly companions—every one,
rather choice spirits than otherwise; and
their look at each other every now and
then, is said to have been as if they’ were
a perpetual interchange of ideas going
on—no man among them considering
himself or his neighbor by any means
silent; and each of them nodding occasion
ally when he caught the eye of another,
as if to say, “You have expressed your
self extremely well, sir, in relation to
that sentiment, and I quite agree with
you.”
Mr. Shirley Brooks, in his last and
best novel, says: “It is a happy time
when a man and a woman can be long
silent together, and love one another the
better, that neither speaks of love. A few
years later, and silence is perhaps
thought to mean cither sorrow or sulks.”
And if this reflection relate to fiction,
here is a sketch from fact, which may go
witli it—a reminiscence by Mary Anne
Schimmelpennick of her early childhoad,
and of happy hours spent alone with her
mother, for whom absolute quiet was in
dispensable during many hours of the
day : “She was generally seated at her
table with her hooks, her plans of land
scape gardening, or ornamental needle
work, whilst I was allowed to sit in the
room, but to be in perfect silence, unless
when my mother called me to fetch any
thing, or addressed to me some little kind
word, which seemed not so much to break
the silence, as to make it more complete
and happy by an united flow of hearts.”
The lovers, in a modern poem on love,
are taken to be a deal more eloquent in
their silence, than in their converse :
Which was most full—our silence or our speech ?
Ah, sure our silence! Though we talked high tilings
Os life and death, and of the soul’s great wings,
And knowledge pure, which only Love can teach ;
And we havo sat beside the lake’s calm beach,
Worldless and still, a long and summer day,
As if we only watch’d the insect-play,
Or rippling wave.
The young lover in Mr. Disraeli’s
Love Story, expressly so called, apologi
zes to Henrietta Temple for a loner term
of significant silence, with the candid
avowal that lie’s afraid lie’s very stupid.
“Because you are silent ?” she asks, “Is
not that a sufficient reason?” lie submits.
“Nay, I think not,” replies Miss Temple;
“I think lam rather fund of silent people
myself; “I cannot bear to live with «,
person who feels compelled to talk,
because be is my companion. The whole
day passes sometime? without Papa and
myself exchanging fifty words; yet I am
very happy; 1 do not feel that we are
dull” So, when the tenant of Wildfell
Hall is* being courted by Markham, the
latter plumes himself on possessing the
faculty of enjoying the company of those
he loves, as well in silence as in conversa
tion. One feels sure that this faculty,
was possessed in a marked degree by all
the Bronte family, to the youngest of
whom we owe the rather grim and
very characteristic story last named.
There is a fragment in print of an un
published play of Leigh Hunt’s, picturing
an ideal home—a heaven this side the
stars, (as happy husband tells his happy
wife): —
By men call’d home, who:? some blest pair are met
As we are now ; sometimes in happy talk,
Sometimes in silence (also a sort of talk,
Where friends are match’d) each at its gentle task
Os book, or household need, or meditation,
To like effect, in all intents and pur
poses, writes the poet of the Angel in
the House , a sufficiently cognate theme ;
where Frederick sends his mother this
suggestive sketch of his wedded life :
For hours the clock upon the shelf
Has ail the talking to itself;
But to and fro her needle runs
Twice, while the clock is ticking once ;
And, where a wife is well in reach,
Not silence separates, but speech ;
And I, contented, read or smoke,
And idly think, or idly stroke
The winking cat, or watch the fire,
In social peace that does not tire.
THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF THE
CELEBRATED FATHER O’LEARY.
A letter from Boston informs us that
the 1 Hot establishment is preparing to
bring out the above work.
There are few Irishmen who have not,
at some time or another, heard of the fa
mous Father Arthur O’Leary, but how
many are familiar with more than his
name? Even in the county of Cork,
where he was born, or in the city of Cork,
where a great portion of lift life was
spent, where he built a Church and es
tablished his fame as a polemic, a philan
thropist, a patriot, a writer, and a wit,
how many are there who could sketch his
history, or delineate his character ? Now’
and then, indeed, we hear his witticisms
repeated, and some striking passages of
his writings quoted, but few can tell how
much he did in the triple cause of coun
try, humanity, and religion ; how, by the
able productions of his pen, he crushed
the hydra of Voltairian infidelity in Ire
laud—what woes he averted from his
fellow-countrymen by exhorting them
against fruitless insurrection—how he
vindicated the character of the “Papists”
from the infamous charges brought against
them by fanatical bigotry and wanton
malevolence, and helped an oppressed
and impoverishsd people into the long
denied privileges of citizens and subjects—
how he “flung open the gates of religious
toleration to all Adam’s children,” and,
at length, by the vigor of his thoughts
and the energy with which he enforced
them, became a power in the State, loved
by the people whom he served, respected
by the statesmen whom he enlightened,
and honored by the ministers of every re
ligious creed, since all beheld in him an
expounder of truths which all alike ac
knowledged and revered. Surely his
character possessed something of the
marvellous, who, though a “ Romish
Priest,' 1 living, speaking, and writing in
Ireland, in the full blaze of penal perse
cution, advocating the rights of the peo
ple, and the cause of the proscribed reli
gion, yet was courted and loved by the
foremost men of the land, became the fa
miliar guest of royalty itself, and was,
during the latter years of his life, the re
cipient of a pension from the very State
which ignored his political existence.
Such is the man, an account of whpse life
and writings will soon be presented to the
public.
“ If I did not know him,” said Grattan,
in the Irish Parliament, “to be a Chris
tian Priest, I should suppose him, by his
writings, to be a philosopher of the Au
gustan age.” Mr. Yelverton “was proud
to call such a man as Father O’Leary his
friend ; his works might be placed on a
footing with those of the first writers of
the day.”
In the meantime, we hope that the
“ notes” in the “ Sham Squire” will do no
damage to the fame of this celebrated
Priest.— Phila. ( Cath .) Universe.
The Power of Music.— There is a
pleasant incident related of Mendelssohn,
who went, one hot summer, to rest his
overtaxed brain in Zurich. There he
was besieged by eager admirers, but
would accept of no invitation until, hear
ing that the blind pupils of the Blind
School were anxious, as they said, to “see
him,” be visited them. He spoke to the
sightless assembly in the kindest words,
and listened to their songs and choruses,
some even of their own composing, with
interest and pleasure. And then, the
great musician asked permission to sit
down at their piano, and wandered away
into one of those wild and tender strains
of speaking melody, for which he was so
famous. His silent, rapt audience listened
so intently to “The Song without Words'
that a pin fall would have broken the
stillness. One by ;one, over the eager
faces, crept the air of deep, quiet joy, un
til, in the midst of the flood of mingling
harmonies, a voice came to them out of
the very chorus they had just been sing
ing. Then their enthusiasm knew no
bounds. The great master had carried
them away at his will, to heights of joy,
and triumphant praise before unknown;
he had whispered to them of sorrow,
and the cloudy ways of life, in words of
soft, unbroken tenderness; and now he
stirred the inmost depths by a strain of
their own weaving, into which he poured
! anew tide of living song, new grace,
and new meaning. No words could tell
what they felt; they could have pressed
him to their very hearts for joy. This
was not long before the great musician’s
death; but he still lives in the Blind
School at Zurich, and there still remains,
as a precious relic, the master’s chair in
which he sat.
5