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(Original
Kortlie Southern Literary Gazette.
THRENODY*.
• In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er
hike coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these infold
I. given in outline and no more.”— Tennyson.
I.
Tue restless tides of busy life,
Heave with their wonted ebb and flow,
V ,J ntingle still in peace or strife,
morn and evening come and go,
( j htrill -s of the burning grief,
I ~i which my heart finds no relief,
, v , j,t in sleep’s sweet visions brief.
11.
|he cold, unfeeling world still wears
its calm and heartless look and smile,
(id meets me with its work-day cares,
[\i -taucli my bleeding heart the while :
i n.e drop perchance is nought to thee—
(),ic atom from thy human :*•,
Hu’ thou. O world, art changed to me!
ill.
Mmii hath lost something from its beam.
The evening paleth to my eye ;
Something gone from hill and stream,
And something lacks the starry sky :
green-wood wtid has lost its charm,
The fragrant breezes bring no balm,
And twilight shades no soothing calm.
IT.
flu,.- whom 1 loved, God knows how well,
Lies sleeping, silent, cold and still,
And I, with feelings none can tell,
1,,w sadl) to the Father’s will!
M,,re than a brother e’er can be,
Was he, the loved and lost; to me ;
11. sleeps beyond the swelling sea !
v.
Hssleeps! Life’s battle-strife is o’er;
He won upon the Held repose ;
No war-cry can awake him more—
No triumph shout of friends or foes:
He rests beneath earth’s freshest sod,
V ne, hut ’neath the eye of God,
(ad wild-dowers o’er his grave shall nod.
VI.
wide Pacific’s pulses throb ;
Its surges break in sullen roar,
or die away with moan and sob,
l pon the solemn, sounding shore:
‘dice o'er its waters lay his track,
But they can never bring him back,
Whom lacking here all else I lack.
VII.
Where ope the amber gates of eve,
And sun-set tints the blushing skies,
Dark primal woods their shadows weave,
And high Nevada’s summits rise:
There, in that western land of gold,
The earth a treasure doth enfold,
Von precious than its stores untold.
VIII.
Flow on Americano’s wave;
Ye mountain streams sing sad and low ;
I Bloom fresh, ye wild-flowers, o’er the grave
Os him who loved to see ye grow ;
‘.ng to him warblers of the West,
Build near the spot your mossy nest,
Let music haunt his place of rest.
ix.
if. ne—lost forever from my view !
Yet may it not be all a dream!
1 H God that it might not be true !
Things are not always what they seem :
I press my hand upon my head,
> ill unto mine his soul is wed,
I cannot, will not think him dead!
x.
But ah! in vain I seek to hide
The aching void which death hath left:
And vain is all my manhood’s pride,
#0 wounded am I and bereft;
1 press my throbbing brow in vain :
1 slave to cool my burning brain ;
! ears will not come to quell my pain.
xi.
‘ sec it all—that voice is mute,
So eloquent for Truth and Right,
Bo quick the Error to refute,
In earnestness so great its might:
■'lid all the voices of the sphere,
The sweetest to the listening ear,
as his the world no more shall hear.
XII.
The Apalachian hills which we
I ogether clonib, shall feel no tread
* pon their wooded sides so free,
I ill years on years are fled !
I heir solitudes shall miss his voice,
” hose burden ever was “ rejoice
he gladness made his only choice.
XIII.
‘ a,n bereft, but not alone;
1 he hopes of others too are crushed.
And cherished plans are with him gone,
And many a tone of joy is hushed ;
she stroke which laid our dear one low,
1 lu *ed blood from other hearts to flow.
And made them drink the cup of woe.
Xtv.
Insatiate Death, thy touch has left
In sisters’ hearts a void of pain ;
A brother, of his hope bereft,
Seeks solace for his grief in vain ;
! heir heart-strings thou hast rudely torn.
And all things of their beauty shorn,
,s ' Vm lost to them with him they mourn.
xv.
‘nd there is one of whose young life,
I-ach hope and purpose knew but him
“ho lor her met the fatal strife,
And whose light quenched ail else is dim;
A‘l ufe’s treasure in one barque tost,
freight ot never counted cost,
” in one daring venture lost!
xvt.
and give her strength ! My words are vain,
And seem but mockery of such grief;
” ‘at can I say to sooth her pain
” hose life of love has been so brief?
o< l S‘ v e her strength the stroke to bear,
’ Ogth to live on, to do and dare,
‘•th soaring high above despair.
xvn.
rne hack, O, brother of my soul!
Ami let me fondly trace once more,
’ ,le yielded to decay’s control,
1 hose lineaments so loved of yore ;
• mile as of old and let me hear,
}^ n g out in glee, as bell-tone clear,
accents of that voice so dear.
& tumumukmwm umtma, mm& abb seisms, abb m mmix iiHmiijS
XVIII.
Oh, vain my prayer, my yearnings vain !
E’en thee the envious grave hath won,
And we on earth meet—not—again ;
‘l’hou art forever from me gone;—
Yet moving in the higher sphere
Thou livest still to bless me here—
Still then,o! brother, be thou near!
XIX.
One tie the less binds tne to life,
One more, in him, draws me above ;
Still will I calmly meet the strife,
And still like him my manhood prove :
A few brief, busy years at most,
Upon life’s heaving ocean tost,
And all is gained I’ve counted lost.
xx.
; Now to my daily tasks I’ll turn
Sad, sad at heart, but strong and brave,
And while the fires of life shall burn
I’ll not lie down upon the grave ;
| Oh ! Source of Strength, help me to do,
I Make strong my heart till all is through,
i And then in Death my Life renew.
i* U n 1 John .McCoy, who died oil the
tiaiiksot the Rio Americano, in Alta California, on Mas’
i the 31st 18,j0.
—
(Original ifnlra.
For the Southern Literary Gazette
EVELYN ST. CLAIR;
OK. A HEART’S HISTORY.
It was the deep stillness of midnight,
and 1 sat by the hedsido of Evelyn St.
(lair. Ihe half-shaded taper threw a
sickly “glare over her wasted features,
as she lay so pale and still on her pil
low. One small white hand was qui
-1 etly lying on the counterpane, one of
I h er lingers being encircled by a hair
j *5 the other was placed on her
i heart—that faithful heart, which would
i soon cease beating forever.
There are some people whose inner
! hfe we always feel a wish to peer into,*
whose heart revelations we ever desire
to know, and it is with a feeling of no
ordinary disappointment we see them
sink nto the silence of the tomb, with
the leaves of their heart still closely
folded—sealed for this world but open
ed in the next. And it was thus 1
feared Evelyn St. Clair would die;
leaving the longing we ever felt to know
her heart’s history still unsatisfied.
About Evelyn St. Clair there was
very little of what the world would
call fascination; but to me there lin
gered about her a charm almost im
possible to describe. She was one of
“those people I should think not easily
loved, out once loved, loved torever.
She possessed the mystic charm of en
chanting never again to disenchant, and
once loving her, every day unfolded
some new and beautiful trait in her
character. Although courtqpus and ac
cessible, yet you felt in her society as if
you would never know her; that is,
know her heart to heart. You might
o
glance upon the surface, but very few
ever saw into its depths; the depths of
that heart, oh! who can fathom it.—
Still and silent its streams flowed, but
fervent and deep. *As one said, “I have
two hearts, one for my friends and one
for my company,” so said Evelyn St.
Clair. Blessed privilege, when such
hearts, opening wide their portals and
admitting you into their inmost sanc
tuary, lift the veil, and you behold in
all its beauty, its still holiness, the in
ner life, lie that ‘has seen the sparkle
of even one of the jewels of thought
that lay treasured up in the heart’s
casket, has won for himself imperish
able wealth.
Evelyn St. Clair was not pretty, but
her pale face, when animated in
versation, possessed more than the
fleeting charm of beauty. When silent,
it had a sad expression, and at that
time her dark eyes seemed to be look
ing inward at some hidden grief. It
was many years before 1 passed be
yond the threshold of mere acquaint
anceship; not until accident threw us a
great deal together, and similarity of
tastes, that true bond of friendship,
cemented our union forever. Even
then, though 1 was admitted into her
intellectual life and shared her every
thought, there was still a veil on her
heart which she would not lift. I felt
a desire to know the history of her love,
for 1 well knew no woman of her sen
sibility, and one so richly endowed
with all the finer feelings of the heart
could have reached her age without
loving. But on this one subject she
was impenetrably silent, and though
sympathizing in the loves of others,
“‘she never told” her own. It has been
said, ‘“that in the meanest hut there is
a romance, if you did but know the
hearts in it,” and so in the beating
hearts around us dwells some passion
ate love story, if the lips could but
bring themselves to utter it.
And thus I ever felt with regard to
Evelyn St. Clair, and was-assured if 1
learnt her historv, it would be some
new phase in love; some passionate
soul absorbing affection, never dying,
but, perchance, hopeless. I knew that
though hers would be love in all its po
etical refinements, it would also be a
love in all its practical beauty ; only
deeming itself lovely when scattering
sunshine around the path of the belov
ed one. I asked her one day if she
| had ever loved. I put the question ab
i ruptly, she glanced quickly up from
the book she was reading, and simply
said, “1 have a heart, and am a wo
man,” then gazed at her book again. I
saw the tear-drops forcing themselves
down her cheek, and 1 felt that 1 had
touched the chord of memories strong
and deep. Alas ! how often we possess
the rod,- the stroke of which w ill call
forth the dafk waters of affliction, and
word spoken carelessly may rouse
up the buried ghosts of past sorrows
from their home in the heart. And
now, in the deep stillness of that sick
room, 1 found myself wondering again
about the heart history of her, who
was lying so pale and still, already en
compassed by the shadows of the grave.
VV hile my thoughts were roving to
the past, she called in a faint voice.
‘•Edith, she said, “come here.” I ap
proached her, and stooping down,
kissed her pale brow. She looked up
at me, and pressing my hand in her’s,
said in a low hut earnest voice, “Ah,
you have come to
“ Cheer my spirit, ere its bark
Puts off into the unknown dark.”
“Edith,” she continued, before I had
time to reply, “you have often wished
to know my heart’s history ; you shall
not he disappointed. 1 leave you my
desk and its contents; there you will
learn how I loved and suffered. Do
not. let them remove this ring,” she
said, pointing to the one of hair on her
finger, “it is the last relic 1 have of
him, bury it with me.”
The next morning Evelyn St. Clair,
had forever done with the shadows of
life, and the sunshine of heaven had
broken upon her view. For days 1
was so absorbed in my grief, that I had
forgotten the legacy of her desk. But
it was sent to me ; and a week after
her death, 1 came in possession of the
heart history of Evelyn St. Clair.
THE MANUSCRIPT OF EVELYN ST. CLAIR.
It was a delightful evening, and I
walked the beach with George Lester.
The moon fairly rained down her
beams, filling earth and sea with her
glory. It. was a beautiful sight as the
jewelled waves came dashing to the
shore, then gradually rolled back, like
some disappointed spirit, retiring from
its vain but eager pursuit after ambi
tious dreams, or love’s false vision.
Have you ever heard the music of the
. ~ *• . - ..
song of the waves? If not, you should
have stood on the beach that night,
and your soul might have drank in the
mournful harmony, that swelled from
that billowy and dashing sea. Arm-in
arm with George Lester, I stood on
that beach, whose glittering sands
formed a radiant pathway. We were
both silent, and watching that foaming
and moon-lighted tide, for a time gave
our thoughts no utterance. There are
moments when we grow still with ex
cess of happiness, brief joy, winged mo
ments, too bright to linger long. This
was to me one of those golden hours of
which our calender of time contains so
few. At last he spoke—
“ Evelyn,” he said, “of what are you
thinking ?”
I started from my revery. 1 had
not been thinking at all. 1 was only
enjoying my intense happiness, but I
answered “I was not thinking, 1 was
only dreaming.”
“l suppose,” lie replied, “yours is a
‘love-dream, as yet no object know mg,’
and vet I cannot understand an aim
less revery. Did you see no loved
face in the distance, Evelyn ?”
“George,” I answered, “what would
be very natural to me, w r ould seem
quite the contrary to you; I could
dream, and my visions hover around
no cherished form, but no doubt, more
than one lovely face smiles upon you in
your celestial dr earning
“ Evelyn,” was his reply, “ this from
you, you w hom I have ever loved 1 Is
this a reward for my constancy ?”
I felt myself tremble in every limb.
I could have sunk to the ground with
excess of happiness. I was too much
of a child in all save my deep devotion
for him, to conceal my feelings, and
the pent up love of my childhood’s
years burst from my eager lips, in this
one fervent, burning sentence, “Thank
God, that you love me.”
1 could say no more, but sunk in a
paroxysm of weeping on his bosom.
He pressed me to his heart, astonished
at my display of feeling. I was so
quiet, and to all appearance so cold,
that few imagined the depth of fervor
that lay concealed beneath my calm
exterior.
I had known George Lester from the
time we were children. lie was a
handsome, gay hearted boy, and 1 a
pale, uninteresting child, with deep
feelings, full of poetry and romance,
but too shy to express them. From
the moment we met, he singled me
out from the crowd of lovely girls, that
grew like bright flowers around his
pathway. I, the only pale blossom in
that living wreath of loveliness. My
w hole soul seemed to go out to meet
his, and though still as I ever become
from excess of feeling, and cqMas I
always am, when fearful of bemtying
CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, AUG. 31, 1850.
too much warmth, I felt, child as 1 was,
that love had entered into my whole
being.
Time sped on, and I stiil loved, more
intensely, more enthusiastically, 1
never dreamed of worshipping at any
other shrine, and would have trampled
underfoot any votive offering but his.
But he had never breathed his love un
til this night; and there, beneath that
lovely sky, and amid the music of the
dashing waves, he proferred me the de
votion of a life time, and I vowed to
love on “ unchanged, and unchanging.”
The perfect happiness of that night I
shall never forget, the pale silver moon
light, the dreamy murmurs of the
waves, that fervent love vow lingering
in my ear, all “ lapped me into Elys
sium.” The dream of my life had
been realized, and I laid unhesitatingly j
and with all a woman’s trust, the hoard,
ed treasure of my heart’s deepest, pu
rest love, at the feet of an earthly idob
In the delightful consciousness of
loving and being loved, time sped rap
idly on. Each moment served to draw j
the precious chords of affection still
closer, and my trusting heart saw no
ending to its delightful love.
“There was no music, but his voice to hear,
No . joy, but such as in his steps drew near,
Light was but where he looked, life where he |
moved.
Silently, fervently, thus, thus, I loved.”
But the enchantment was destined
to end, and the rose-coloured hues of
affection to give way to the dark shad
ows of neglect and desertion. I had
tuned my harp of love too high, and
its silver chords had snapped beneath
m\ touch, while I sat despairingly, still
holding its shattering strings.
W ith the keen sightedness of love, 1
had perceived a gradual change in j
George’s manner. There was no lon
ger the same confidence, or the same I
warmth. 1 w-as painfully conscious of
this, and only awaited its further devel
opment to seek out the cause. By de
grees his visits became less frequent,
and at last a week elapsed, and he did
not come at all.
lo believe myself no longer loved j
was agony too great to bear. I could ;
not contemplate for one moment, the i
beautiful fabric ot love, raised by the
work of years, shattered in the dust.
Ibis had been no passing fancy of mine,
“grown w ith my growth, and strength
ened with my years.” That love had j
been the beautiful oasis in the dreary
desert of my childhood’s days. The
love of some hearts is peculiarly con- j
centrative, it asks but few to lavish
its love upon, and it loves the more for j
loving so few-. Such was my affection ;
and to tell me to look calmly upon the
crushing of such love was more than I
could do.
It was the first night of the opera of
Norma, and at the desire of my guar- j
dian, I prepared to accompany him to
the threatre. But it was with a heavy
heart. I felt in no mood for gaiety,
and music almost maddens me when I
am sad. Its plaintive harmony or wild
bursts of melody ever touch the spring ;
of my sorrows; aiid as “I am never j
merry when I hear sweet music,” so 1 !
am doubly sad when listening to it un
der the influence of sorrow. We ar
rived late, and a perfect burst of wild
music greeted us as w-e took our seats.
The theatre was crowded with lovely
women, in glittering gems and costly
robes; the light gave forth a brilliant
blaze ; and altogether, “ the scene was
one of enchantment.”
I was so entranced for some time
with the music, that I merely glanced
around, but upon taking a second look.
I saw seated in a box near me, George
Lester. lie-was so busily engaged in
conversing with a beautiful girl, that at
first he did not perceive me. I seemed
turned to stone. I could not take my
glance away, and l gazed on. He look
ed up suddenly, and our eyes met —
one long, long gaze of love and despair,
and 1 turned away, and never looked
again. Oh, the first dreadful heart
stunning blow of jealousy ! It seemed
as if all the dark spirits had been let
loose from their prison homes, and en
tered my form. It was but for a mo
ment, and it passed away, and I be
came still with despair. Every thing
seemed confused before me, and I lis
tened to the music w ithout hearing it.
and I was only startled from my hor
rible dream, by the voice of my guar
dian. I arose, and drawing my shawl
around me, left the box. In the crowd
ed passage way, I was forced by the
mob outwards, until 1 stood side by
side with George Lester. lie bowed
with confusion, and l said in a low,
calm tone, “ can I see you to-morrow
night ? lie hesitated a moment, and
then said falteringly—“yes.” The
crowd separated us, and we went on
our divided way.
All night I paced my room in agony
of spirit. I had made up my mind
what course to pursue, and was nerving
myself for the morrow’s conflict. Oh,
the agony of that next night. I feel it
even now, as after listening to the de
claration, that he no longer loved me
1 returned him all the tokens of his
| former love.
“Do not blame me,” he said, “for
| constancy is a virtue not under our own
; control.”
“ Fear no reproaches from me,” I re
plied, “ but I agree with you that it is
very difficult to be constant to one
; we have never loved. No, constancy
is a precious jewel worn only in the di
j adem of true love.”
“Say not, Evelyn,” lie said, “that I
have never loved you. Once every
; pulse in this heart throbbed madly for
i you; your slightest word seemed music
to me; I loved you when a child, and 1
i fancied the love of my childhood s
days would last forever; but I did not
know how slight a hold such love takes
upu. the heart—that it was hut a mix
ture of vanity and mexpenence.”
1 arose from my seat, and said
. warmly:
’•George Lester, you have never i
•
loved, or you would not thus talk. 1
feel deep within my inmost soul the
| conviction that 1 shall never know love
again, as true, as pure as the love of j
my girlhood s days. Go, forget me if
you will. 1 shall not offend you by re- |
proaches, but remember that I am j
bound to the past by a chain 1 can
never break. Shatter its links as you !
w ill, they will still he binding. But
go, and though you have taken from i
life its brightest light, thank God this j
I darkness has enabled me t. sec that 1
lavished my love on an unworthy idol.”
As 1 speke. I felt the hair l ing on my
finger, and l remembered 1 had forgot
ten to return it to him. It was his first
gift to me, and made of his hair, and
was therefore more precious than all
the glittering wealth of Peru. 1 fol
lowed him as he left the room, and
handed it to him. lie looked at me
j long and earnestly, and drew back from ;
it, saying:
“Keep it Evelyn;” he hesitated a ,
moment, and continued, “for friend
ship’s ake.”
i 1 felt the blood rush in crimson glow
; over my lace, and said, “No, never; it
I was given once in love’s name, and I
: cannot keep it in friendship’sand 1
! placed in his hand that precious ring
that had never left my finger from the
first time it encircled it. And as I gave
up that last connecting link between
parted for ever; but ! shed no tear; 1
i walked back into the room and threw
myself on a chair. I listened, with j
hands pressed tightly on my aching
; heart, to his receding footsteps, until I
I could hear them no longer. Then did
! every restraining power seem to give
way, and I burst into a fit of agonized
grief. Sob after sob followed*that rent
! my frame with fierce convulsions. My
spirit echoed and re-echoed these sad
words, “He is gone!” It seemed as if
invisible voices breathed it in my ear,
■■He is gone—gone, forever!”
All night I passed in this bewilder
ing grief, and at the first dawn of day,
crept up to my bed, sick and exhaust
ed. Mysterious is the power that al
| lows poor weak hearts to be tossed
I about on such a dreadful sea as this,
i And yet in the darkest hours of my
morning, I saw a higher hand than that
of flesh, in the dispensation; and 1 heard
a voice that said, “ I will shatter thy
idols thou false worshiper.” Ah, I had
idolized, that love was “the religion of
my heart.”
Fierce was the struggle I underwent
before I could become calm; but I
never once ceased to love; the holy
j light that swung like a pious censer in
my heart, never went out. I had once
loved and must therefore love forever.
The forsaken Ariadne, wandering on
the sea-shore of the isle of Naxus,
could not have felt more utterly de
serted than 1 did. With that early
dream of love, too, had vanished all
my confiding trust, 1 felt that hence-
I forth 1 must ever be a doubter.
Years passed and we never met.
George Lester had left the city, but
I ever and anon reports reached me that
was about marrying. But though for
a moment they disturbed the calm wa
ters of life, yet all would roll on peace
fully- again. At last, one day- 1 re
ceived a note from his mother. “Do
come to George,” she said, “he is per
haps dying, and has earnestly desired
to see you.”
I was fearfully agitated, and that mo
ment the current of my love seemed
to run stronger than ever. George
Lester in the city and dying? I must
go to him; all the past was forgotten,
and I felt too truly that I could never
break the chain that bound me to him.
I flew rather than walked, and in a mo
ment was at his bedside.
“Dear Evelyn,” he said, as I sunk
almost fainting on the floor. I looked
up at him and sobbed out with passion
ate energy, “Oh, live —live, my first,
I my only love.”
He took my hand, and pressing it to
his pale lips, said:
“Thank God you’ve come; do not
leave me.”
For weeks I lingered by his side,
until I saw him spring up to health
again. Once more he looked upon me
with “love-lighted eyes,” and once
more re-breathed his early vows. But
it was too late; I could not again trust
where I had been so fearfully deceived.
1 still loved, but it was not with the
I utter reliance of early years. He con
fessed that he had deserted me once for
a passing fancy. What chain had I
strong enough to bind him from doing
so again ! .No!—rob the heart of its
faith and your stronghold upon it has
gone forever. And yet l did not refuse
him in a fit ot pique, or from mistaken
motives of pride, but 1 felt he could
never he again to me what he had been.
I had plucked the hitter fruit of the tree
of knowledge, and that knowledge had
driven me out from Eden. And there
again, on that same beach where I had
listened to his first vows, standing be
neath that same Heaven, tracked by
“the shining footprints” of the moon,
hearing the requiem-like music of these
same waves, and all things the same
but ourselves, 1 heard again his solemn
protestations to love forever and un
changing; but my heart turned away
from the bitter mockery of such vows,
and firmly and unhesitatingly 1 pro
nounced the words that separated us
for ever. Eight years before and I gave
him up freely the love that I had garn
ered through all my childhood’s years.
In the perfect abandonment of young
love, I poured unreservedly out, the
, whole ot the golden treasure at his
I feet, lie prized the gift for a while,
[ then, like a tired child, returned love’s
precious jewels; and once more I lock
ed them up in the casket of my heart,
never to he again taken from thence.
| And thus we parted; he to seek out a
| new love, I to Jive upon the remem
brance of the old. A year after, I re
ceived, in a letter, the hair ring, with
these words: “T he dying gift of George
| Lester.”
He had married a lovely woman, and
I met him in the first dawn of his hap
piness. For happy lie really seemed;
and the cordial greeting with which he
hailed me, and the look of triumph with
which he glanced at his beautiful wife,
proved that the blow had only fallen
upon myself. But the gift of that ring
satisfied me that 1 was not entirely for
gotten, and that though circumstances
may separate the bodies of those that
chain that hinds for ever their invisible
spirits. 1 once read a story of one who,
twenty years before, seen his heart’s
hopes laid prostrate in the dust. He
uttered no complaint; scarcely a sigh
escaped him, and there was nothing
about him to tell he had suffered, save
a certain impatience of manner when
ever love’s name was mentioned. But
the wound was all inward. Twenty
years had elapsed and time had thrown
her silvering on his head, when he was
laid on a bed of death. Never, from
the moment of his last agonized part
ing, had the name of the beloved one
escaped him. Friends looked on and
thought he had forgotten her; they lit
tle remembered, that with some, what
is nearest the heart is furthest from the
lips. And now, on that bed of death,
he called upon the loved name continu
ally. “Give me music, music,” he
would say; “hut ah, I want no other
music than her name.” “ Eda, Eda,”
he murmured, and with that precious
name lingering on his pale lips, his
spirit passed away into eternity. —
Death set free the name that Life had
sealed so close. And thus it was with
me. As the rainbow arches the earth,
yet touches it not, so did that love en
circle my heart, hut never passed my
lips. But it was not without its teach
ings, for I learnt to extend the sphere
of my usefulness. I put forth every
energy that, fanned by Love’s wings,
lay idly sleeping; and I appeared be
fore the world, not as a love-dreamer,
hut as a thinking woman. One for
whom there had been opened anew
page in life, teaching her that not Love
alone is the great object of woman’s
life, but Friendship and Charity are
also bright flowers worth her culture.
And thus ended the manuscript of
Evelyn St. Clair. E. B. C.
Charleston , S. C.
The Calcium Light. —We fear Mr.
Paine has been cast into outer darkness
by the late discovery made by Profes
sor Grant, of Washington, who has
produced a light far more intense and
brilliant than the celebrated Druin
‘ mond Light, and which he exhibited
! in front of the Capitol, on the 4th of
July night. Persons were enabled to
read and tell the hour by gold dial
watches, a mile off! He calls it the
Calcium Light and says it is available
fur all purposes of practical lighting,
being easily managed and far cheaper
than oil or gas light. The National In
telligencer, alluding to it, says —“ We
are informed that the chief merit of this
invention, as far as regards its novelty
as a scientific discovery by Mr. Grant,
consists in his improvements in the
manufacture of oxygen gas from the
nitrate of soda, and in the discovery of
a vein of pure oxide of calcium, which
will stand for forty-eight hours in a
powerful jet of mixed gases, without
decomposition, or abrasion of surface.”
This is an important principle, and en
tirely anew discovery.
THIRD VOLUME—NO. 18 WHOLE NO 118.
I iTljf fesiujist.
From the Literary World.
HAWTHORNE AND HIS MOSSES.
BY A VIRGINIAN SPENDING JULY IN VERMONT.
I A papered chamber in a fine old
! farm house, a mile from any other
dwelling, and dipped to the eaves in
foliage—surrounded by mountains, old
woods, and Indian ponds,—this, surely,
is the place to write of Hawthorne.—
Some charm is in this northern air, for
i Jove and duty seem both impelling to
the task. A man of a deep and noble
nature has seized me in this seclusion.
His wild, witch-voice rings through me;
or, in softer cadences, 1 seem to hear it
in the songs of the hill-side birds that
sing in the larch trees at my window.
\\ ouid that all excellent books were
foundlings, without father or mother,
that so it might be we could glorify
them, without including their ostensi
ble authors! Nor would any true man
take exception to this; leas* of all, he
who writes, “ When the Artist rises
high enough to achieve the Beautiful,
the symbol by which he makes it per
ceptible to mortal senses becomes of
little value in his eyes, while his spirit
possesses itself in the enjoyment of the
reality.”
But more than this. I know not
what would he the right name to put
on the title-page of an excellent hook ;
but this I feel, that the names of all
tine authors are fictitious ones, far more
so than that of Junius ; simply stand
ing. its they do, for the mystical, ever
eluding spirit of all beauty, whi<?h
übiquitously possesses men of genius.
Hu rely imaginative as this fancy may
appear, it nevertheless seems to receive
some warranty from the fact, that on
a personal interview no great author
has ever come up to the idea of his
reader. But that dust of which our
bodies are composed, how can it fitly
express the nobler intelligences among
us ? With reverence he it spoken, that
not even in the case of one deemed
more than man, not even in our Sa
viour, did his visible frame betoken
anything of the augustness of the na
ture within. Else, how could those
Jewish eyewitnesses fail to set* heaven
in his glance!
It is curious how a man may travel
along a country road, and yet miss the
grandest or sweetest of prospects by
reason of an intervening hedge, so like
all other hedges, as in no way to hint
of the wide landscape beyond. So has
it been with me concerning the enchant
ing landscape in the soul of this Haw
thorne, this most excellent Man of
Mosses. Ilis “ Old Manse has been
written now four years, hut I never
read it till a day or two since. I had
seen it in the book-stores —heard of
to me by a tastetul in end, as a rare,
quiet book, perhaps too deserving of
popularity to be popular. But there
are so many books called “excellent,”
and so much unpopular merit, that
amid the thick stir of other things, the
hint of my taseful friend was disre
garded ; and for four years the Mosses
on the Old Manse never refreshed me
with their perennial green. It may be,
however, that all this while the book,
likewise, was only improving in flavor
and body. At any rate, it so chanced
th at this long procrastination eventua- ,
ted in a happy result. At breakfast
the other day, a mountain girl, a cousin
of mine, who for the last two weeks
has every morning helped me to straw
berries and raspberries, which, like the
roses and pearls in the fairy tale, seem
ed to tall into the saucer from those
strawberry-beds, her cheeks—this de
lightful creature, this charming Cherry
says to me —“1 see you spend your
mornings in the hay-mow; and yester
day I found there ‘ Dwight’s Travels in
New England.’ Now I have something
far better than that, something more
congenial to our summer on these hills.
Take these raspberries, and then i will
give you some moss.” “ Moss !” said
1. “\es, and you must take it to
the barn with you, and ijood-bv to
‘ Dwight.”
With that she left me, and soon re
turned with a volume, verdantly bound,
and garnished with a curious frontis-
I piece in green; nothing less than a
fragment of real moss, cunningly press
ed to a fly-leaf. “ Why, this,” said I,
spilling my raspberries, “this is the
‘ Mosses from an Old Manse.’” “Yes,”
said cousin Cherry, “ves, it is that flow
ery Hawthorne.” “ Hawthorne and
Mosses,” said I, “no more: it is morn
ing : it is J uly in the country : and 1
am off for the barn.”
Stretched on that new mown clover,
the hill-side breeze blowing over me
through the wide barn-door, and sooth-
ed by the hum of the bees in the mea
dows around, how magically stole over
me this Mossy Man ! and how amply,
how bountifully, did he redeem that
delicious promise to his guests in the
Old Manse, of whom it is written—
“ Others could give them pleasure, or
amusement, or instruction —these coula
be picked up anywhere—but it was for
me to give rest. Rest, in a life of
trouble! What better could be done
for weary and world-worn spirits ?
What better could be done for any
body, who came within our magic cir
cle, than to throw the spell of a magic
spirit over him So all that day,
half-buried in the new clover, 1 watched
this Hawthorne’s “ Assyrian dawn, and
Raphian sunset and moonrise, from the
summit of our Eastern Hill.
The soft ravishments of the man spun
me round about in a web of dreams,
and when the book was closed, when
the spell was over, this wizard “dis
missed me with but misty reminiscen
ces. as if I had been dreaming of him.”
What a wild moonlight of contem
; plative humour bathes that Old Manse!
—the rich and rare distilment of a spi
cy and slowly-oozing heart. No rol
licking rudeness, no gross fun fed on
fat dinners, and bred in the lees of wine,
but a humour so spiritually gentle, so
high, so deep, and yet so richly relish
able, that it were hardly inappropriate
in au angel. It is the very religion of
mirth; for nothing so human but it
i may be advanced to that. The or
| chard of the Old Manse seems the visi
| ble type of the fine mind that has de
j scribed it—those twisted and contorted
i old trees, “ that stretch out their crook
, ed branches, and take such hold ot the
imagination, that we remember them
.as humourists and odd-fellows.’ And
then, as surrounded by these grotesque
forms, and hushed in the noon-day re
pose of this Hawthorne’s spell, how
aptly might the still fall of his ruddy
thoughts into your soul be symbolized
by “ the thump of a great apple, in the
1 stillest afternoon, tailing without a
j breath of wind, from the mere necessi
ty ot perfect ripeness! Tor no less
| ripe than ruddy are the apples of the
thoughts and fancies in this sweet Man
of Mosses—
“ Buds and Bird-voices"—
\\ hat a delicious thing is that! ‘’Will
the world ever be so decayed, that
i Spring may not renew its greenness ?”
And the “Fire-Worship.” Was ever
the hearth so glorified into an altar be
fore l The mere title of that piece is
better than any common work in fifty
folio volumes. How exquisite is this:
—“ Nor did it lessen-the charm of his
soft, familiar courtesy and helpfulness,
that the mighty spirit, were opportuni
ty offered him, would run riot through
the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in
his terrible'embrace, and leave nothing
of them save their whitened
This of mad destruction on
ly made his domestic kindness the
more beautiful and touching. It was
so sweet of him, being endowed with
such power, to dwell, day after day',
and one long, lonesome night after an
other, on the dusky hearth, only now
; and then betraying his wild nature, by
j thrusting his red tongue out of the
I chimney-top ! True, he had done much
mischief in the world, and was pretty
certain to do more, but his w arm heart
atoned for all ; He was kindly to the
race of man.”
But he has still other apples, not
quite so ruddy, though full as ripe ;
apples, that have been left to wither on
the tree, after the pleasant autumn
gathering is past. The sketch of “The
Old Apple-Dealer” is conceived in the
subtlest spirit of sadness ; he whose
“subdued and nerveless boyhood pre
i figured his abortive prime, w hich, like
wise, contained w ithin itself the proph
ecy and image of his lean and torpid
age. Such touches as are in this piece
j cannot proceed from any common
heart. They argue such a depth of ten
i demess, such a boundless sympathy
with all forms of being, such an omni
present love, that we must needs sav
that this Hawthorne is here almost
alone in his generation,—at least, in
the artistic manifestation of these things.
through his chapters —furnish clues
whereby we enter a little way into the
intricate, profound heart where they
originated. And we see that suffering,
i some time or other and in some shape
or other, —this only can enable any
man to depict it in others. All over
: him, Haw thorne's melancholy rests like
an lndian-summer, which, though bath
j ing a whole country in one softness,
still reveals the distinctive hue of every
: tow ering hill and each far-w inding vale.
But it is the least part of genius that
attracts admiration. Where Haw
thorne is known, he seems t<> be deem
ed a pleasant writer, w ith a pleasant
style,—a sequestered, harmless man,
from whom any deep and weighty
thing would hardly be anticipated—a
man who means no meanings. But
there is no man, in whom humour and
I love, like mountain peaks, soar to such
a rapt height as to receive the irradia
tions of the upper skies ; —there is no
man in w horn humour and love are de
veloped in that high ibrm called genius;
no such man can exist w ithout also pos
sessing, as the indispensable comple
ment of these, a great, deep intellect,
which drops down into the universe
like a plummet. Or, love and humour
are only the eyes through which such
an intellect views this world. The
great beauty in such a mind is but the
product of its strength. What, to all
| readers, can be more charming than the
piece entitled “ Monsieur du Miroir ;”
and to a reader at all capable of fully
j fathoming it, what, at the sarfie time,
can possess more mystical depth of
1 meaning?—yes, there he sits and looks
at me, —this “ shape of mystery,” this
“ identical Monsieur du M iroir.” “Me
thinks 1 should tremble now', were his
wizard power of gliding through all im
pediments in search of me, to place him
suddenly before my eyes.”
flow profound, nay apalling, is the
moral evolved by the Earth’s Holo-
caust; where—beginning with the hol
low follies and affectations of the world,
—all vanities and empty theories and
forms are, one after another, and by
an admirably graduated, growing com
prehensiveness, thrown into the alle
gorical fire, till, at length, nothing is
lett but the all engendering heart of
man; which remaining still uncon
sumed,the great conflagration is naught.
Os a piece with this, is the “ Intelli
gence “Office, a wondrous symbolizing
; of the secret workings in men’s souls.
Thereare other sketchesstill morecharg-
I ed with ponderous import.
“ The Christmas Banquet,” and “The
Bosom Serpent,” would be line subjects
for a curious and elaborate analysis,
touching the conjectural parts of the
mind that produced them. For spite
of all the indian-summer sunlight on
the hither side of Hawthorne’s soul,
the other side—like the dark half of
the physical sphere—is shrouded in a
blackness, ten times black. But this
darkness but gives more effect to the
ever-moving dawn, that for ever ad
vances through it, and circumnavigates
his world. Whether Hawthorne has
simply availed himself of this mysti
cal blackness as a means to the won
drous effects he makes it to produce in
I his lights and shades; or whether there
really lurks in him, perhaps unknown
to himself, a touch of Puritanic gloom,
—this, 1 cannot altogether tell. Cer
