Newspaper Page Text
'''. ' ' ' ' *
VOL. 1.
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
Cliilde Harold—Byron—Troubles
of Poetical Women, &c.
11V “tOl ISR MANHIEM.”
Augusta, Ga.. Jan. 4th, 1860..
Mr. Editor: —lt was with some reluctance—
half in smiles, half in tears, that I drew forth
from its hiding-place with others of its kind, the
enclosed, to prepare it for your inspection and
sentence: —an emotion, however, which vanish
ed when I reflected that the beloved Master, for I
whom it was originally written in French, were
he not now “ sleeping his last sleep ’’ with oth
er high-hearted braves on the battlefield of , j
would smilo as gladly and kindly to read the ef
forts of his old pupil in your columns, as he did i
the day he praised while he corrected the imper
fect French into which I had thrown my thoughts.
I hope it will not appear that I have presumed
in the selection—or in accepting my subject.—
The humblest may adore the highest—and very
humbly and lovingly do I repeat the praises of
the— almost —greatest of Poets and Poems. And
it may be that among your readers are many—
old gentlemen—“ men of business " —and ladies
with “ overwhelming domestic cares/’ who find
time for the perusal of your columns, but hardly
for the study of “ the Poets," whose memories
these selections, so acceptable to all, and once
so familiar —may agreeably refresh.
Respectfully,
“ Louise Maxhiem.”
“ Tell you my opinion ofChilde Harold? Non
sense!”
“ Yes, I do like it dearly —yes, and I am very
familiar with it—but then,”
“ Give you ray opinions, ‘clearly and method
ically expressed’! You surely are not in earnest?
What. I!”
“ Oh yes, I know all about the mouse who
gnawed the net covering the lion—yes—and lit
tle ‘ labors of love' sometimes afford more satisfac
tion than more dignified and elaborate attempts
—yes, certainly, that’s all very well,but then—
t)h, you have no idea what you are asking! j
Give you my reasons for liking Childe Harold!
Mon Dieu ! but that involves a knowledge of
Logic, even tho’ it boa poetical subject. Logic
and Philosophy are pretty nearly the same
things, are they not? Well, I told you Lkuew
nothing about either. Besides, did yowL,ever
know a woman give her reasons for anything ?
but yes—there are women who can talk logic,
and practice philosophy too. But these are the
brilliant exceptions belonging to a species too
high to be ranged with ordinary women—weak
women, with us, women of instinct. One meets
a greater number of these reasoning women in
France than elsewhere. There are those, par
ticularly at Paris, who can explain with a clear
ness and decision astonishing, why they love and
why they don’t. And how consistent and united
they are in their tastes! They like, nearly all,
but one and the same thing: (money or its pos
sessor) and naturally, in spite of their incessant
toil to attain their desires, it frequently happens
there is full occasion for the exercise of their
philosophy. Out of France this species of reas
oning women is more rare. In America, thank
Heaven, the number is so small that they can no
longer be distinguished as a species:—They
have rather the right to be called feminine phe
nomena*
But if I am unequal to the task of writing you
an essay on the merits of tho chef-d 'euvre of one
of the greatest of Poets, I can at least tell you
when lam fondest of reading it, and with that
your masculine intelligence can doubtless con
sider and deduce for itself—can gather and put
into something like order, the crude, and floating
particles of reason which may be found in the
mind of a “ very woman ’’ —a labor utterly im
possible to herself.
You say you like to read Childo Harold when
you are ‘content’ with yourself (which no doubt is
very often). I only read it when mortally sad,
which is
You permit yourself to read it when you are
seeking recreation as a sort of recompense (for
your self-contentment possibly). I am driven to
it by. a force stronger than my own will. I have
quitted a ball often two hours sooner than my
young friends—(and in those far off days, how I
did love to dance 1) because some lines of Childe
Harold kept running through my mind, destroy
ing, completely, all the splendor and gayety of
the fete; and it has better pleased me to follow
the Childe in his wondrous, sad and grand pil
grimage, than to listen to compliments (of cour
tesy) and to waltz.
I have often, on the point of setting out on a
longjourney, unpacked a trunk at midnight to
find Childo Harold; the silence and solitude of
a chamber stripped of loved and familiar objects
♦The writer's opinions as regards the disinterestedness
of American women hav<jfound reason for a change lat
terly. Americans are a wonderfully progressive people;
and the ladies certainly do not lag. Their attainments
in logic or philosophy are most startling. There are
amon» them a vast number who can express with a
frightful distinctness, why they" love or hate” and their
predilections singularly resemble those of French wo
men.
t JAMES GARDNER, i
I Proprietor. I
AUGUSTA. GA., SATURDAY, JANUARY 14, 1860.
having awakened emotions that demanded im
peratively the expression, which, of myself, I
could not give them. Once the search com
menced, I always find the book and I read—
•• Hut there are wanderers o'er eternity.
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er
shall be," Ac.. Ac.
'Tis night, when meditation makes us feel
We once have loved, tho' love is at an end.
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled real.
Tho' friendless now, will dream it had a friend.
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend.
When youth survives young Love ami Joy ?
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend.
Death hath but little left him to destroy,” Aq. Ac.
*■ There is a very life in our despair,
Vitality of poison—a quick root
Which’feeds these deadly branches: for it were
As nothing did we die; but lift will suit
Itself to sorrow's most detested fruit,
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste;” Ac.. Ac.
i Or—
“ What deep wounds ever healed without a scar!'
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it; and they who war
With their own hopes, and have been vanquished,
bear
Silence, but not submission” Ac., Ac. *
“ But ever and anon of grief subdued,
There comes a token like a scorpion's st ing;
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back to the heart, the weight which it would fling
Aside forever,” Ac., Ac.
- And how andwhy we know not, nor can trace
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind.
But feel the shock renewed, nor can efface
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind,
Which outof things familiar, undesigned.
When least wo deem of such, calls up to view
The spectres whicli no exorcism can bind.
The cold—the changed—jierchanqe the dead —anew.
The mourned—the hived—the lost—too many!—yet
how few!”
I have a great passion for looking at the stars
at night, in consequence of which I found it ab
solutely necessary to learn by heart the follow
ing exquisite lines:
u Ye stars, which are the |e>etry of heaven.
If in your bright leaves we could read the fate
Os men and empires, 'tis to be forgiven
If. in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state.
And claim a kindred with ye; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, arid create
In us, such longings from afar.
That fortune, fame, power, lite have named them
selves a star."
But this penchant for star-gazing aud apostro
phizing entails ennuis and mortifications ex
treme. It so happens, sometimes, that one
finds one’s self in one of those assemblages of
houses called a town, not so extensive as to
preveut nearly all the inhabitants from knowing
you'almost personally, and your affairs quite in
timately; at the same time, you may find therein
some of those very agreeable streets in which
your opposite neighbor can easily distinguish
the color of your eyes.
In such a situation, you find yourself a prey
to this celestial emotion, you abandon yourself to
it, and if by chance one of the neighbors oppo
site, more nocturnal than the rest, happens to
see you at the window at midnight star-gazing,
tranquilly, perchance mournfully, she rises a full
hour earlier next morning, hurries through her
domestic duties, takes her embroidery, and goes
round to tell all the other the extraor
dinary occurrence; whereupon they make their
comments and form their conclusions that “no
doubt you are a little unsettled in your mind—
you never did behave like other people,” “ per
haps a love disappointment;” or, perhaps its
“ them queer books your ‘ pa’ allows you to read
—works on Astrology which have turned your
young head, poor thing!”
Now, it happens that, despite your poetical
temperament, you like a little gossip occasional
ly, as well as any one, and towards evening,
fatigued with the day’s occupations, whatever
they may be, you throw on your bonnet, and go
out*to make a few social visits to the old ladies
around, with whom you fancy you are a favorite.
In the street, to your extreme annoyance and
surprise, you find j-ourself more than usually an
object of attention and interest. The little chil
dren, who listen to everything and do not en
tirely comprehend anything, on seeing you, col
lect in a group on the walk, and regard you
with innocent, wido-open eyes of fear, as if they
imagined you a sorceress. You approach them,
smiling as usual, aud say ‘ good evening’ in your
way which children like generally, but instead
of replying, they dash off at full speed, and
tumble headlong one over the other, into the
first open door which appears, in a tumultuous
terror, which resembles the whirring of a flock
of partridges, which ODe surprises, sometimes,
under a bush in the woods. This circumstance
shocks and bewilders you inexpressibly at first,
but the air and exercise somewhat dissipate your
painful emotions; you regain your good humor
and enter gaily the house of Mrs. —. She salutes
you with a mournful and constrained air, in re
ply to your cheery greeting, giving you, at the
same time, a glance of anxious curiosity. You
imagine something ails her, are distraite in spite
of your efforts not to seem so, and shorten your
visit considerably, But your first elasticity of
step and spirit is gone, and your smiling face
graver, as you enter the door of Mrs. —. Strange!
you find her cold also—constrained in her man
ners, usually so free and gossipy. After the or
dinary compliments of the day, she asks you:
“When is the next comet expected? Is there any
talk of an approaching astronomical phenome-
non?” “Are the Millerites again creating an
excitement ?” As you know absolutely nothing
of Astronomy, not even to tell Jupiter from
Venus, except by the beatings of your heart;
i and as you do not take the least interest in the
j scientific journals of the day, which cumber
l Papa's table, except to wish them to the mischief,
! when a whole pile of the ‘‘horrid things” hide
away the ‘Blackwoods’ and ‘Living Ages’, in
which that “darling story” is continued, you are
overwhelmed with mortification at your igno
rance, and endeavor to exci , elf. Bu.
you find yourself arrested in ybfir first sentence
by a dolorous shake of the head, and a look,
which says as plain as a look can say, “ Ah,
poor child, don't deny it, it’s useless : I know,
alas, I know I”
As you are not a philosopher, you begin to
lose your patience, and you ask her, with the
least touch of asperity in your manner:
“ What do you mean ?’’
But in spite of your persistence you can get
nothing from her but sighs of commiseration
and ominously wise shakes of her head. You
bid good evening brusquely, and resolve to go
home, in the street, however, you stand unde
cided. You iiad counted on making three vis
its—you have little philosophy in your composi
tion, but great force of will. Notwithstanding
that you are almost crying from vexation, you
turn with an air of determination towards Mrs.
in no wise soothed, for almost the first thing she
remarks, is, “How badly you are looking!”
“ Are you sure you are quite well 2"—if you are
not “troubled with extreme nervousness and
sleeplessness?”—and insists on putting intoyour
reticule a recipe for a very calming tea, and a
parcel of dried rose leaves and violets. As be
fore leaving homo you remarked, with a slight
blush of satisfaction, whilst tying on your bon
net, that you were looking fresher than ordinary,
you gaze at her in perfect bewilderment; then,
as all the incidents of the past hour rush to
; mind, they begin to wear a ridiculous aspect,
and in spite of your indignation at so much unde
| sired and needless sympathy, you burst out
laughing.
This gayety, mal-a-propos. makes matters worse.
You receive another glance of intense commi
seration, and a sigh so profound that you shud
der in spite of yourself. It is clear you don’t
stay “to tea.” As you turn homeward, your
step is unequal, your gait irregular—now slow,
now rapid—sometimes you stop altogether, as
you ask yourself in trouble and amaze.—
“ But what in the world can all this meau ?”
You reach home in a horrible humor, go
straight to your room aud look at yourself in the
■ glass. Deeidedlv you are pale and looking ill.
So, the consequence of this agreeable promenade
is, that you have an intense longing to look at v
“ the stars" again that night—a most unusual
occurrence that, of being sentimental two suc
ceeding nights. But as in these narrow streets
the sky is visible only immediately overhead,
and it is impossible to look long without break
ing your neck, moments of repose are neces
sary. There is certainly but “one step from the
sublime to the ridiculous.” During one of these
resting spells your attention is vividly attracted
to the houses opposite by a most singular ap
pearance. At several of the windows the cur
tains are pulled lightly aside by an invisible
hand, and iu the aperture appears a human
head, ornamented with the coiffure which la
dies, in small towns, usually wear after ten
o’clock at night. At first sight you are stupe
fied,—then, you recoil!—the mystery of the af
ternoon is revealed! Your first impulse is to
dash yourself headlong from the window,* but I
as there are very few persons gifted with firm
ness of head and will to execute this extrava
gant desire, it is soon superseded by that of
throwing a book at the window opposite. A
third reflection, however, shows the inexpedi
ency of this proceeding also. Even should you
succeed in breaking the window, (and, by good
luck, the head thereat visible,) there are plenty
others besides —and — to-morrow will certainly
come. This thought makes you shudder! It
is worse than being dashed to pieces on the
pavements. Oh misery! At last your only re
sort is to close your window, and as you are not
a philosopher, you shut it with a little, noise.
Then your rage,*(as is the case with many an
other in this world,) not having the opportunity
of venting itself on the true malefactors, breaks
forth on the first object (often the most innocent
and best loved) that finds itself in your path.
To-night, it is possibly “Childe Harold,” which
happens to be on the window border, and which
you send whirling to the other end of the room.
Or you go and waken your maid, —who, ignorant
of the miseries and delights of the “poetical
temperament,” is sleeping tranquilly—to ask
her for something you could very well find your
self. or to repeat some trivial order for to-mor
row.
Whenever I happen to find myself in similar cir
cumstances, I am really most unhappy. And now,
in choosing my own room, I sacrifice every oth
* The person for whom this was written, at the early
age of six years dashed himself in a fit of passion from
a window on the third story, but was fortunately caught
in a tree anil uninjured,
er comfort to that of having no window with a
vis-a-vis.
There are many other occasions when I feel it
a necessity to quote or to pore over Childe Har
old. Whenever, from ignorance, or carelessness,
or vanity, I have said or done something silly,
and I feel, with poetical acuteness, the coups
d'epingles, which 1 have well merited, and some
one has had the moral courage, or the ill-na
tured malice to inflict, I stay at home studiously,
shut myself up in my root “ith my mak
ing the fiercest determinate.,, “ never, no never
again to go into society; it's so stupid and dis
agreeable,” and in my solitude I console myself
with—
“ But soon he found himself the most unfit
Os men to herd with men; with whom he held
Little in common” • * * *
Or —
“To fly from, need not be to hate mankind.
All are not fit with them to stir and toil,
Nor Is it discontent to keep the mind
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil
Os our infection." * * * *
But being really of a social and lenient dispo
sition towards others as well as myself, this bad
humor soon evaporates, and I excuse my world
liness, weakness and inconstancy with—
“lt is in vain that we would coldly gaze
On such as smile on us—the heart must
Leap kindly back to kindness—tho’ disgust
Hath weaned us from all worldlings.”
But soon again the inconstancy, or rather
some repulsing defects, ingratitude, cruelty and
selfishness, discovered in some admired friend,
or those around me. I find myself repeating
with intense bitterness —
“Ido believe,
Tho’ I have found them not, that there may be
Words which are things, hopes which will not deceive,
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave
Snares for the failing. I would also deem
O’er other’s griefs, that some sincerely grieve.
That two —or one—are almost what they seem.
That goodness is no name, nor happiness no dream."
When we arrived at Geneva, —yes, I will say
it, though it requires some courage—l was dis
appointed! There now! I had read and heard
so much about the mountains reachingthe skies,
the wild and sad beauty of the eternal snows,
that my imagination, always morbid, had pic
tured them ten times higher—ten times whiter
—altogether grander than they appeared to me
at first sight.
But I took care to keep a profound silence on
the subject of my disappointment at the house,
for every one around me was in ecstacies of
enthusiasm; so I quietly and seriously set my
self to work to learn the French, of which I felt
daily need, and very soon in the pleasures of
study I became insensible as to whether I was j
in Africa, Lapland, or La Suisse. My ardor, j
however, caused me to neglect my health, and j
at the end of a few months I found myself, as- j
11 ter six weeks of intense suffering, recovered from
| an attack of fever and rheumatism, and in
capable of any sort of application. The conse
quence was, a round of visits, rides, drives,
walks with my Genevese friends, refined, intel
ligent, comprehensive admirers of the true beau
ties of their beloved Switzerland, not fussy
“tourists” or “ Mr. Murray," or those wretched
commissionaires whose inappropriate and cease
less chatter drives one distracted. At the end
of a month I found myself drawn towards this
grand and sublime aspect of Nature, as a naughty
child, who, having brusquely repulsed a
new friend whom it had not understood, —after
having regarded his face attentively for a few
moments, and finding therein that which in
spires love and invites confidence, allows itself
to approach timidly—then climbs the friendly
knee—then throws itself into the extended arms
with an ardor of passionate love.
But I kept silence still at the Pension on the
subject of this new love that I had found. There
are so few to wbom we would willingly expose
our dearer and more refined emotions. It seemed
to me a sort of blasphemy to express what I
felt at times by the words I heard so constantly
employed around me, by other “enthusiastic
travelers—” “ Splendid!” “ Exquisite 1” “ Mag
nificent!” accompanied with most extravagant
gesticulations. I refused all invitations to join
“ excursions” in the mountains and contented
myself with taking a book and straying off alone,
or with the two children only, every evening about
sunset, to a spot from which I could have a lovely
view of the surrounding country. This was an im
mense field where the laborers were making hay.
I did not know the proprietor personally; but the
gate was left open to allow the hay-loaded char- <
iots to pass and repass, and tempted by the
beauty of the aspect, with my American audac
ity I entered and seated myself on a little hil
lock. Several peasant women were there
usually gathering small pink flowers which bloom
ed abundantly and brightly around, to'dry them
for medicinal purposes doubtless; and several
laborers, some tending the oxen yoked to the
wagons, others gathering hay. This field which
was somewhat elevated at the point where I
was accustomed to sit, declined gradually, and
at last spread itself into a plain below, covered
with the brightest verdure, even at this season;
whence rose a large and handsome residence, sur
rounded with magnificent chestnut trees, which
already wore the first light touches from the
brush of autumn. This house and these trees
) Two Dollar* Per Annum, 1
I Always In Advance. I
were relieved by the Jura, which at this spot
descended precipitately, and at this hour was
partially veiled by mists of tho profoundest blue,
which contrasted agreeably with the opposite
Alps, sloping hero gracefully five miles, and
which, lighted by the rays of the setting sun,
showed occasional oases of the most brilliant
verdure, broken here and there by some ine
quality, or gaping cleft, the ruggedness of which
was concealed or softened by vapors of violet
and rose color. In the west the sun still gilded
some graceful clouds, whence one could distin
guish the rushing sound of the Arve, which,
swollen by some mountain storm, hurried its
chilly and turbid waters headlong to join and
sully the beautifully blue and limpid Rhone.
From the distance came the joyous cries of dogs
returning from the hunt, or celebrating the en
trance of their beloved masters to the house.
I felt no reluctance to show my intense enjoy
ment of all this grandeur and loveliness before
these beings, rude and ignorant, who worked so
tranquilly around me. - Possibly they compre
hended little better, this love of Nature, than
the other people at the house (the young men,
married women and girls who made excursions
in the mountains with slippers or “cloth gait
ers,*’ muslin flounces, and round hats trimmed
with lace and bugles, and who returned at night,
very much torn, soiled, tired, and in a horrible
humor,) but at least, these respected this senti
ment in another, let you alone, and neither de
sired you to make, or made themselves, grima
ces, gestures and exclamations, to persuade
themselves that they felt it.
Ah, at that dear time how invaluable “ Childe
Harold" to me. I should have stifled I think,
with my emotions, had I not possessed this
means of giving them vent; repeating over and
over again softly those exquisite and expressive
lines, whose music accorded so harmoniously
with the grand and sublime Nature whose
praises it expressed.
One day, towards evening, the skies gave
signs of an approaching storm. I threw my
books aside, put on my round hat (which was
not trimmed with lace and bugles) and ran to my
favorite spot, where I could see the storm gather
on the mountains, before descending to the val
ley. It was a scene but how dare I attempt
its description, when I have heard “ Childe Har
old’s” so often. I remained an hour, till the clouds
directly overhead, and several large drops on my
hand, warned me to return. I wished much in
my enthusiasm to remain where I was and
brave the storm, but some little souvenirs of
rheumatism inclined me to abandon this idea
and run rapidly down the road towards home.
Scarcely had I entered, when the storm broke
j forth in its full fury.
I found every one assembled in the salon anx
! iously awaiting gouter, and conld not help re
garding them with a sort of mingled disgust and
indignation, and leaned out of the open window,
repeating inaudibly those splendid lines of
Childe Harold:
“Oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are Wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength as is the light
Os a dark eye in woman! Far along
From peak to ]>eak the rattling crags among.
Leaps the live thunder. Not from one lone cloud.
But every mountain now hath found a tongue
And Jura answers through her misty shroud
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud.”
But very soon one of the ladies, (one of those
who made “excursions”) began a scries of little
squeaks of terror every time it thundered or
lightened,'and courtesy obliged mo .to abandon
my post and shut the window, although the
heat was suffocating. The bell soon after ring
ing, I followed the rest in to supper, where I
partook of bread, butter and meat, with a relish
which would have surprised one who had seen
me an hour previous; for really the heat, air and
exercise had given me an appetite.
After an hour in the salon, spent in social chat, I
went up to my room. Alone, I recalled all I had
seen, and felt myself again prey to the rav
ishing sadness of poesy, (possibly I had eaten
too much supper.) I looked out of my window—
thank Heaven it had no vis-a-vis —naught but
the sky beyond, above —to the right, the Alps
—the Jura on the left. The storm had not yet
ceased. The clouds moved in an inextricable
confusion and haste, that awakened almost a
sensation of fear; and the moon, dim and wild
looking, struggling with pale beams thro’them,
reminded me of a beautiful and half-mad wo
man, battling ’gainst the horrid spectres that
threaten to extinguish the brightness of her in
telligence. I passed nearly the whole night
reading Childe Harold, Canto 111., verses 92, 3,
4, 5,6, 7,8, Ac., Ac.
Oh! that night! Can I ever forget it? It
seemed that I had entered a new epoch of ray
life —youth appeared forever past, but its bril
liant and feverish force was replaced by a
strength far more beautiful and valuable to me
—the clear and steady flame of an intelligence!
“ Conld I have kept my spirit to that height,
I had been happy: but clay will sink
Its spark immortal, envying it the light
To which it mounts, as if to break the link
That keeps us from the heaven which woos us to its
brink.”
“ Childe Harold!” Ah, it is the history of
life—of every human heart, those hearts
somewhat cultivated —not very bad—not very
NO. 34.