Newspaper Page Text
90
growing lata, and the time for slumber at hand- 1
Old Major Stockton rose, and, approaching i
Father Ignatius, begged, in his blandest and i
most hospitable tones, that he would not suffer
the tittle incident which had pained them all so
much to dwell in his mind; —and receiving from
the gentle and bumble father an assurance that
it was a tritie which he had already forgotten,
the old cavalier, with a pleasant -smile, inclined
his head, and summoned a servant to bring
lights
In a quarter of an hour, all the inmates of
Falling-Water had retired to their chambers,
and an hour afterwards ail the lights had, one
by one, gone out, leaving the ''solemn radiance
of the great moon to pour through the window
undisturbed.
Amy and Isabel rest aide by side in the snowy
couch which they had occupied on the afternoon
when they spoke of the young hunter, and cried
silently in each other's arms.
It is nearly midnight, and the moon has Blow
ly sunk toward the horizon —the mellow beams
reposing in a brilliant flood upon the white bed,'
and its occupants.
The two fair faces rest, almost* touching, on
one pillow; and the contrast is as noticeable as
it is charming.
The bright auburn curia of Isabel, falling, as
usual, in profuse soft masses on her neck, are
mingled with the ringlets, black as a raven’s
wing, of Amy and the round white arm of
the former, from which the night dress has slip
ped back, is thrown around the tittle maiden’s
neck, in clear relief agaihst the ebon curls.
In the chaste light of the full-orbed moon
bathing the delicate cheeks, the shining locks,
the careless arm outside the cover, and the
snowy counterpane rising and falling with the
gentle breathing of the sleepers,—the young
girls present a picture full of modesty and grace,
which Raphael, had he looked upon them with
his girlish eyes, would certainly have essayed to
place on canvas.
Isabel smiles in her sleep* for she is dream
ing of old days, and listening to the voice of
him who had loved her with such tender devo
tion. In her dream she wanders with him
through the great woods again,and sees his dark,
frank eyes, the simple smile upon the Arm lip of
the youth—the swarthy cheeks, the long black
hair, all the traits which she has treasured in
her memory, and will never forget.
As she sees him thus in her happy dream —
no longer tom from him by envious death, but
real, breathing, as in other hours—the cheeks of
the young lady colour even in sleep, and a tran
quil smile, full of peaceful happiness, comes to
the innocent lips, phe utters a deep sigh, not
of grief, but joy, and some lovely murmured
words, which are not distinguishable, die away
in the quiet moonlit chamber.
At the game moment the window of the
apartment is stealthily raised, and a dark face,
with glowing eyes, appears in the opening.
This face belongs to a man who has, apparent
ly, reached the roof by climbing along a limb of
the groat oak, whose heavy foliago almost
brushes against the dormer window of the
young lady's chamber.
His tread has been so silent, his hand upon
the sash so light, that no sound has invaded the
bright dreams of the girl, or disturbed her
slumber. »
Another moment, and Loup Noir—for the
figure is that of the Indian—is crouching on the
broad sill.
He listens for an instant, with a deeper glo w
upon the swarthy face, and a light mere fiery in
the sparkling eyes. Noj^uad,the
" Imnn' wl tiieMumfuicry of a melancho
ly whip-poor-will, from the direction of the
stream.
Loup Noir places one foot stealthily upon the
floor, and hla body follows silently. He is
standing in the chamber by the bedside of the
sleeping friends, who betray no consciousness
,of the vicinity of their wily and dangerous foe.
• For some moments the savage gazes with in
tense ardour upon the beautiful face before him
—upon the auburn curls, the delicate cheeks,
the long Bilken lashes drooping over the closed
eyes, and the lips, half parted, with a tranquil
happy smile. That spectacle excites a wild and
crazy passion in his bosom, and yet awes him
strangely. The broad breast, naked with its
brawny muscles, but for the narrow blanket
thrown acrosß the shoulders, heaves tumultu
ously, and a tremour runs through the stalwart
frame, from head to foot.
It is plain that, in presence of the weak and
unprotected girl, Loup Noir has lost that feroci
ty and reckless Audacity which marks his char
acter. He shrinks from approaching her, almost;
and remains for many minutes motionless, with
out approaching toward the bed.
Whet passed through that wild and fiery soul,
as he thus Btood by the sleeping figure of the
woman whom he had conceived so mad a pas
sion for, and would have given everything but
life to bear away in triumph ? Were his emo
tions different from those which would, have
chased each other through the bosom of a man
of civilization, equally infatuated, and in a simi
lar situation ? We cannot penetrate the bosom
of the savage, nor describe his feelings further
than to say that they appeared intense and un
controllable.
All at once his awe and agitation yielded to
the passionate attraction which the girl exerted,
and crouching, listening keenly, with his glow
ing eyes fixed on the tranquil face, he crept to
ward her.
ißabel stirred in her sleep, and drew a long,
deep breath, which raised the snowy fringe of
the counterpane, then suffered it to fall back in its
place. The Indian retreated into the deep sha
dow, and remained as silent as death. The girl
stirred again. Did those burning eyes, fixed on
her, exert a magnetic influence—warning her of
lurking danger, even in her deep sleep? The
long breath came again, and then, as though
relieved from her unconscious fears, the young
lady slumbered onoe more tranquilly.
Then Loup Noir issued forth cautiously from
his concealment He approached quickly but’
stealthily, carried away by a rush of passion.
He bent over her—his hot breath was on her
cheek —and, unable to resist ttie immense temp
tation, he pressed a wild impassioned kiss upon
the delicate forehead.
The young girl's dream and her sleep ended
together. The contact of those burning lips,
sent a shudder through her frame; and with a
sudden scream she opened her eyes, to see fixed
'upon her, within a footof her face, the flashing
glow of the infatuated Indian.
Amy started from sleep, only half awake,
however; and looked dreamily around. No fig
ure inet her eyes—for Loup Noir, with a bound
as vigorous as a wild cat’s, had passed through
the window, lowered it silently, and disappear
ed in the heavy foliage of the oak.
As he did ao, Isabel, trembling with fright,
uttered another scream more piercing than the
first, which rang through 'the mansion and
aroused every sleeper.
Amy, now fully awake, was asking, in terri
fied accents, the origin of her companion’s agi.
TME BOWTMEEM WIEEE &WE WtEMBtEE.
tation, when hurried feet were heard in the pas
sage without, and Major Stockton, with a dress
ing gown wrapped around him, and followed by
the young men, appeared at the door, which he
had quickly opened.
To his demand wbat had caused the cry, Isa
bel, for some moments, could make no reply.
She motioned her father to bid the young men
retire, and to enter, which the old gentleman
quickly complied with—Mias Amy being so much
terrified that she bad half risen in ber night
dress, which made ber a conspicuous object in
the bright moonlight
The old gentleman drew his dressing gown
around him, and, without ceremony, approached
his trembling daughter, repeating his question as
to the origin of her distress. *
Isabel’s reply was a burst of tears, as she
threw her arms around the old cavalier’s neck,
and hid her face in his breast.
In a few minutes she had recovered from her
agitation,and explained how she had been waked
by a burning kias upon hor forehead ; and
had seen a dusky figure bending over her, which
had disappeared through the window when sne
screamed. It had frightened her nearly to death,
and she could never sleep in that room again.
“A dusky figure!—a kiss!—through the
window I" said the old Major, caressing the agi
tated girl, with a smile upon his lips; “ why, my
daughter, you did dream in jour sleep, and wake
terrified 1” *
« Oh, no, sir I it was not a dream at all! ex
claimed the girl; and she repeated her story,
witli great agitation, and with the utmost truth
of detail. . , _
Another smile appeared upon the Major s lips.
But he went to the window, lookod forth upon
the steep roof, and listened for any sound. There
was none but the rustling of the oak, and the
cries of the whippoorwill. He returned, with
a still more incredulous expression upon his lips.
“ My child,” he said, “ you certainly dreamed
all this, aud the proof is that your window is
fast closed, no one to bo seen, and there is no
means of reaching the roof except from the tree,
Which is next to impossible. Undoubtedly your
terror is all the result of fancy;—you had bad
dreams —and you awoke screaming. Bucb cases
are not uncommon, and only prove the possession
of a vivid imagination. Nevertheless, as you
are afraid to sleep hero, I will beg Miss Patty to
take charge of you and Amy for the future; —
you may spend the remainder of the night with
her if you choose.”
To this Isabel quickly assented; and, still
trembling, she repaired, in ber dressing wrapper,
accompanied by Amy, to the chamber of Misa
, Patty.
She did not close her eyes during the rest of the
night—but her father went to sleeo immediate
ly, smiling at his daughter’s fancy,
i Meanwhile Loup Noir had descended the great
oak and disappeared, like a shadow, in the
darkness.
[to be continued in our next.]
i
[For tho Southern Field »nd Fireside.]
' TRAVELSJN- PARIS.
! CHAPTER O.
i ALONG THE QUAIS.
• Whatever might have been the case former
ly, of late years the Frenoh have shown no dia
r inclination to foreign literature, if w«M| iudff
t-t hunlVvtft me ItliitfeAnd from the other side of
* the British ChannelAnto the French tongue.
' To begin, where we left off the other day, with
Shakspeare. One hundred years ago William
’ Shakspeare's works were less known in France
than are the masterpieces of Sanscrit literature
' to-day ; equally foreign to the taste their barba
-1 risms were tho more striking from tho geographi
’ cal and,ao to speak,cbrouological andsocial neigh
-1 bourhood of the people with whom his works
were household words. An Otaheitian ward
robe in a museum of foreign marvels, is an
1 attractive curiosity; if worn by the neighbour
| over the way it is a scandal. Voltaire was
' among the first to introduce, with apologies,
! Shakspearo to his countrymen. But to secure
anything like a favourable reception, he treated
1 him as one might a Feejee Islander wiiom one
j purposed to introduce into Mrs. Grundy’s par
' lour. He forced a French dress, I might say, a
French straight jackr . upon him,washed off his
’ colour, hampered l.is free gait; and after all
that, lost his appearance should create an un
pleasant shock, announced him, apologetically,
as a barbarian. Voltaire’s Shakspeare’s Julius
Ciesar provokes recollection of witty Father
Prout’s lines on one of Bulwer’s novels:
“E. Aram murdered Daniel Clark,
E. Ilulwer murdered hitn."
Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth, the Moor of Venice,
1 Romeo and Juliet were hardly better, in some
respects not so well, treated by Ducis. This
1 was not the fault of Ducis. He, like Voltaire,
was a revolutionist; on the literary side, as fur
as form was concerned, ready to be a bold one—
withal an honester, purer man than Voltaire, as
incidents in his life nobly prove. He imitated
rather than translated and was guilty of addi
tions to as well as subtractions from his author.
He had to consider the taste of his time. That
he should have got some of these travesties on
the French stage and had them acted there with
applause, was a groat conquest and a triumph
that do him infinite honour. But were Ito pun
ish an enemy, I would ask no more satisfac
tion for vengeance than that he should be con
demned to read Ducis, his Shakspeare. If; how
ever, the case were a capital one, then would I
confino him to Letourneur's Shakspeare and wa
ter—the first translation (so called) of the com
plete works of our great poet. That would
. surely drive the criminal to suicide as a happy
release.
Meantime, even through these tortuous, tur
bid channels, Shakspeare was entering into the
French mind. Tho revolution of 1789 broke
down the dikes. It was not simply a political
, revolution. The Aristotelian rules' suffered as
much thereby, though not so immediately as the
droits de Seigneur, As, in the political order,
the “days of July” wore its legitimate offspring
—tho Restoration of legitimacy being purely
a forced accident—so, in the literary order, was
“Romanticism” its consequent result. For
there is no more profoundly stupid error than
that which assumes an independence of the
closet and writing table on the tribune and gov
ernment cabinet. In the world’s historic march,
thinkers have invariably opened the path for
actors, and penmen pioneered pikemen. One
cannot get on without the other. But when
the pens begin, the pikes cannot stop them.
Meditate the infinite meaning of the inspired
phrase: “In the beginning was the word."
To descend from dangerous heights —French
Romanticism did finally break away from the
despotism of the ancient classical regime—and
with a violence,not to be entirely approved oi; but
to be palliated, if not altogether pardonable.
The viotonce of the outbreak was proportioned
to the severity of the past restraint Some of
the red republicans of letters have been guilty
of such excesses as aright he expected from
slaves in insurrection.' They have not only
mocked tbe sacred of Aristotle—they i
have violated the first proprieties of nature; es
caped, at last, from «jrv;ti4e to the classical ]
rules, they have fejectjed all authority, even
the authority s os oopponest common sense .
mad rioters and debauches in the Bepublic of
Letters; Phryne is their false, tricked Goddess
of Reason, Lorettes are their muses.
The next complete edition of Shakspeare s
works in translation appeared about 1822-23.
The fact that such edmoi. was called for, and,
though voluminous snl costly, paid for by the
public, shows what oar poet was mak
ing. It was Letournear s revised and greatly
improved by Amedea Pich tt and Guizot In
the Introduction, by GuixoL the relations of
dramatic poetry in general pad of Shakspeare’s
dramas in particular to the cfeilization of nations,
are treated with the profoiludness, acuteness,
and reach of view and- deailess of expression
so characteristic of it. aimnebt author. It is an
admirable specimen of tl>» philosophy of histo
ry applied to literature, aad m interesting as in
structive to every scholar” who
would extend the Haptfbf h 4 studiea beyond the
narrow limits of mere vert# and archeological
commentary. Os more resent date and much
closer resemblance inariafds and in general lit
erary tone to the oridMfl. are the translations
of Benjamin LarodSand >'rancisque MicheL
The last named of these writers is more inti
mately acquainted with the English tongue than
many, perhaps I should say than most, well ed
ucated persons to whom it is maternal. What
is specially noticeable, from our present point of
view, is that a second edition of Laroche's trans
lation was issued four or five years in livraixmt
in the cheapest and most popular forme close
printed, double-columned, “illustrated” with
wood cuts, at six sous apiece: And that has
sold well, is already dfltost "out of print.” We
now come to still another complete translation,
that of Francis Victor Hugo, a son of the great
est of French living poets, the sometime bril
liant hero of the famous war between romanti
cists and classicists, out of which he came tri
umphant, and oonquere4 his place in the very
stronghold of theenemj, among the “immor
tals ” of the Academy/"
Os the quite remarkable literary merits of this
work, not yet completed, I will not here stop to
speak. As minority reporter, I beg to direct
your attention, however! to certain of its literary
forms. No French wAer, still more, no French
publisher, would hsv* ventured upon them, I
will not say before ’83, .n0r yet before 1830.
Even to-day they are priof of hardihood in young
Hugo; and in the remunerative sale of big first
four octavo volumes (including some tea or
twelve pUys), lies the peculiarly striking proof
of the revolutionisad taste, the emancipated and
largely liberalized facuUy of appreciation of the
French mind. Hugo strives to bring over into
French prose every ouq of Shakspeare’s thoughts,
adding so much of the-poetical form as is possi
ble in such conditions; recognizing the exceed
ing difficulties of the task, but resolved, before
all things, not to sacrifice* single one of the
beauties, of the barbarisms—-nay—so religious
ly faithful ia hi* devotion to bis great original—
not one of his patent faults, to the iastee of
French reader*.' Considering the differences
between the two Mguages and between the
two peoples* of Wte genericaUy different
modes of thought And sentiment they aretbe
of the crtgteai, wSttf considerable gratification.
Its beet nse foe a Frenchman is as an auxiliary
| (what we styled in our college days a “pony")
to tho study of the English text; as Hayward’s
Faust, is a valuable help to the English students’
early reading of Goethe’s masterpiece. I might
to saythat the prose of Hugo,with nearly as great
| dictionary accuracy is not nearly so proasi
cal as that of Hayward; and that he manages
to indicate, without pretending to reproduce or
imitate, the versification of his original. To
do this, he lias, so far nil possible, made his
French prose fadge with the English vefse, and.
in the former marked tli* limits of the latter by
dashes—typographical not rhetorical This
somewhat irks the reader’s eye and mind in
his progress down the pige and causes a cer
tain fatigue and irritatioifanalngous to what one
experiences in walking og a railroad track, where
tiie ties measure and deck his free pace.
But I am running off the track into a descrip
tive book notioe of M. Hugo’s work. To return
to our purpose, which w.is, if I recollect, to help
correct thh vulgar error (bat the French people
and the French don't, wo*t, and can’t take in the
literary productions of foreigners. This error
is never enunciated by J iglishman or Ameri
can without the counter proposition, “we oth
ers will, do, and can,” ut ?red or subaudilur.—
Now, to resume: There :re of the entire dra
matic works of Shakspear , a peculiarly English
and, if one can so say, e cessively foreign au
thor, no less than five ti inslations. A third
editioa of one of these, Li roche’s, published in'
very cheap popular form hot more than five
years ago, is already nearly exhausted; a second
edition of Michel's, a thin of the so-called Gui
zot’s, and the first of Hug >’s, are now in course
of publication. Os transitions and imitations
of separate plays—for the closet and the stage
—the number is much la-ter. Among tho au
thors of them you may note Dumas, George
Sand, Victor Sejour; amoig the theatres where
they have been represent: d within the past ten
years, you may note the ‘ Francais,” the Cirque
Imperial the Ambigu Cousque, the Odeon.
And now where is the first translation of
into English? His plots and his per
sonages in their more marked features, have
been liberally stolen, and transferred to the
English stage" by Fielding and numberless oth
ers since Folding’s day, and before, but without
a word of acknowledgment, and so disguised
and deformed that a Frenchman’s sense of ridi
cule is kept down by surprise and disgust at
first discovery of the theft Byron in French
form is always to bo found on the Quais. You
will seek in vain for an English version of Al
| fred de Musset in London book stalls. DeWail.
| ly’s Burns is doubtless a very imperfect
attempt, but where is the English 'attempt at
Beranger? Scott and Cooper are as familiar
to French novel readers as Dumas. Dumas is
well enough known with us, although his dia
logue, which is his “ speciality,” loses sadly in
vivacity and naturalness in its passage to Eng
lish. But what do most of us know of Balzac?
So little that we loosely class him with the cor
rupt, licentious Frepeh romances. I humbly
venture to say that, with the single exception of
Joham Wolfgang Goethe, no writing man since 5
William Shakspeare, has looked so broadly over
the whole field of human passion, and so deeply
and curiously with so penetrating and so sure
an investigating glance to the deep underlying
springs and mysteriously fructifying elements of
its various developments, as Honore de Balzac.
To those who answer that my say is bold, net to #
say bombastically silly,l offer the simple interrog-'
ative reply: Hpve you read hta? Not this or
that jingle work of hia, but the whole body of
hi» works, the entire twenty volume* in octavo;
not carelessly for amusement, in which they are
rich, but thoughtfully for instruction, in which
they are affluent and reproductively suggestive T
If not, suffer me to assure you that you cannot
judge, and have no right to condemn. For Hie
rest, it is not particularly deeirabie that Balzac
should be translated,into English; ignorance is
better than knowledge perhaps in this case, but
Of'teteyeaxs the translation of English works
into French has grown to be an extensive busi
ness. I think there must be a translating fkc
tory connected with the great publishing house
of Hachette A Co, seeing the number and rapid
succession of their publications of English nov
els ; here are Bulwer, Dickens, Thackeray—even
the Tellow Plush Papers of Thackeray done in
to French, m the BMiotheque da Meilieurs
Romans Strangers of that house. The news
papers also frequently occupy their feuilletpn
with an English novel; Guy Livingstone, for
instance, is now appearing in the feuilleton of
La Presse; Ik Marvel’B Reveries of a Bachelor,
and some of Hawthorne’s tales were published
a few years again the Jfonffear; Lothrop Mot
ley’s Dutch EepuWio is excellently well trans
lated and fitly honoured with an introduction by
Guizot These few examples will, with what
has been said of Shakspeare, perhaps suffice to
illustrate the position of * minority reporter.
Further argument might be abundantly gather
ed from the pages of the French literary period
icals; as, for instance, the numerous able and
generously appreciative critical articles of Emile
Montegut in the Revue des Deux Mondes, on
English and American literature. In the bat
two numbers of that excellent magazine are the
first and second parte of an historioo-critiea) es
say on the English dramatists of the seventeenth
century, by Henri Taine, who shows a familiar
ity with his theme and its historical “ belong
ings ’’ that would become Maoautay, treating it
with an equally acute and, it seems to me, a
profounder discrimination, in a style more ser
ried, but not less clear and not less attractive,
though leas ornamented than that of the brilliant
English essayist. If, by the way, you are an
admirer of Macaulay, let me command to you in
passing, that little 18mo. in the next box, “ Ss
sais de critique et d’histoire,” by this same Mon
sieur Taine. Apart from other large pleasure
and profit to b« derived from its perusal, you
may gather from its pages, especially from those
devoted to the novels of Dickens and Thackeray,
and to the History of Macauby, more extended
and correct notions of the French national char
acter—not only as marked by large intellectual
and moral traits in literature, but in many re
spects of social manners and customs, than can be
learned by tbe reading of many books of travefo
in France. For in measuring these work*, X.
Taine show* the Frenoh standards whit* he em
, ploys; his ingenious observations on English so
ciety, apropos of Vanity Fair, for example, tint*
becoming, for an English reader, revelations of
French society. But if he never forgets that he
, is a Frenchman, he always is mindful that he is
, a citizeaof the general republic of letters; be
. is free from all narrow prejudices, preserving in
. tact only such national qualities as clearness oi
f thought and language, vivacity aud generous
, courtesy. „»
> But ft*
i loose, nil <Hi />ryfgffceand pro*
' gTo*~*tKn gttsh in the walk* of French literature,
t ’■£“ <™ce it* influence there, especially in the
t dramatic walk, and in society, would bad us
I vride away from this easy aide-walk track. To
; some bolder traveller, w«th supplied with pre
, paratory learning, strong with studious seal,
■ and not afraid of tbe difficulties and uses
I of the way, and not too muofe given, as travel
i lers often are, to substitute easy, broad general
-1 ization for laborious investigation, the search
would prove curious and instructive.
; We, if you please, will take another idle
. stroll here next week. The Quais and the bou
i quiniata will keep till then, and Madame
. Buaques’ hot pressed dinner will not.
A BEAUTIFUL EXTRACT.
It was night. Jerusalem Blept as quietly
amid her hills as a child upon the breast of its
mother. The noiseless sentinel stood like a
statue at his post, and the philosopher’s lamp
burned dimly in the recesses of his cheerless
chamber.
But a mortal darkness involved the nations
in its uniighted shadows. Reason shed a faint
glimmering over the minds of men, like the cold
and insufficient shining of a distant star. The
immortality of man’s spiritual nature was un
known, his relations unto heaven undiscovered,
and his future destiny obscured in a cloud of
mystery.
It was at this period that two forms of etherial
mould hovered about the land of God’s chosen
people. They seemed like sister angels sent to
earth on some embassy of love. The one of
majestic stature Snd well formed limb, which
her snowy drapery concealed, in her erect bear
’ ing and steady eye, exhibited the highest degree
of strength and confidence. Her right arm was
extended in an impressive gesture upward where
night appeared to have placed her darkest pavil
ioD, while on the left reclined her delicate com
panion, in form and countenance the contrast of
the other, for she was drooping like a flower
when moistened with refreshing dews, and her
bright but troubled eyes scanned the air with
ardent but varying glances. Suddenly a light
like the sun flashed out from the heavens, and
Faith and Hope hailed with exulting songs the
ascending star of Bethlehem.
Years rolled away, and the stranger was seen
in Jerusalem. He was a meek, unasuming man
whose happiness seemed to consist in acts of
benevolence to the human race. There were
deep traces of sorrow on his countenance, though
no one knew why be grieved, for he lived in the
practice of every virtue, and was loved by all
the good and wise. By and by it was rumored
that the stranger worked miracles; that the
blind saw, that the blind spake, the dead leaped,
the ocean moderated its chafing tide; and the
very thunders articulated, He is the Son of God.
Envy assailed him to death. Slowly and thick
ly girded, he ascended the hill of Calvary. A
heavy cross bended him to the earth. But Faith
leaned on his arm, and Hope, dipping her pin
ions in his blood, mounted to the skies.
The Stereoscope. —Sir David Brewster, in
quiring into the history of the stereoscope, finds
that its fundamental principle was well known
even to Euclid; that it was distinctly described
by Galen, one thousand five hundred years ago;
and that Giamhista Porto bad, in 1599, given
such a complete drawing of two separate pic
tures as seen by each eye, and of the combined
picture placed between them, that we recognize
in it net only the principle but the construction
of the stereoscope.
Ip you hear a person saying that he hasn’t*a
friend in the world, you may be sure that he
doesn’t deserve one.
{For the Southern Field *»d FtrwideJ
FALSE SEHTUCHTI » THE WBLHStfes OF
wuman. 1
A PENDANT TO “LIBEKTY IS THE OVERPLUS." I
* J
BT MAiT A BETAS. Wj
I h*Te just written the concluding wojda of
an essay, began in a light spirit, finished ifrrira j
graver one. The thought that at first
gayly on the surface, insensibly went deeper, ■
and the real seriousness of the theme threw its I
shadow across the page despite the light whKh 1
it was meant ndicule should cast upon it bit- I
ting hers in the silence of midnight, this light <•
Sides utterly from ray thoughts, and I think 4
deeply and of the sad, dissansaau
and half
that is more fully reflective of socia'(life and the
general feelings and opinions of the ,
This spirit is more plainly to be seeaJu»«“ n S
luridly through die impassioned poems
mances, contributed to Northern magazines and t
journals, yet there are young Southern writers W
who have adopted the same tone—a tone mat, f
superficially considered, seems only die expres- f
sion of a bold, independent spirit, impatient of )
eonventtonol raatraints-And. aspiring towards a !
“freer” and “truer” life; or rase of the wildly 1
pathetic hopelessness of a heart to whom cer- <
tain Bocial laws are the fetters erf Prometheus, ‘
chaining it to a fate colder than the rock of Cau- ,
casus, with the vulture of despair to feed upon /
it forever. This tone is mostly to be met witK>
in such poetry as is merely an ebullition of feel
ing, and in the thrilling stories written for wide
ly circulated periodicals. I have seen it (burst
ing out like a brief jet of flame frqsr smothered
embers) in tbe poems of a young and brillianthr
endowed woman—a resident of one of our mid
dle States. Her warm sympathies, her impaa- „
sioned feelings frequently hurry the tide of her
genius over the barriers of reason, and she writes
with a defiant scorn of custom and a reckless
despondency, almost fearful in one so young.
Fascinating as this style of wridng may be, it
is productive of no good, and but fSsters a spirit
conducive neither to happiness nor to the intel
lectual or moral growth of the soul. -It pan af
fect no reform, for whenever reform is really
needed in society, it will naturally and inevitably
grow out of this necessity.
We find this false sentiment—one feature of
which is an impatience of the restraints imposed
by society—more frequently apparent in the
writiqgs of women tbau of men; not that the
latter are purer by any meant, but women are
apt to look at life through the diminishing laws
of personal feeling. lnfluen«|d father by im
pulse than reason, and seldom taking breed and
comprehensive views of what interests'them
deeply or nearly, they regard tfie laws of society
£RH
many, not of the few, moVbn consulted.
Women seldom gener/flze. Their own feel
ings and sympathies s’A them in, like a hedge, *
from the world bey</l and it is rarely that a
boldi strong power lifts them out
of tbe narrow wq/fof personal experience to
height, wjlsretjfynau behold human life in its
, which most frequently
by affection-hearty
uuiied by 48 Wld<;1 -' l araied^
ti>*rv3tMMßßP<tark Hours when she feels
a grieved, cfeeam out of wbat was best and
most satisfying in life.
If she be a Christian, she will take up )ier
burden resignedly, saying only “ life is not mere
ly for selfish pleasure; it Is a discipline, and its
sorrow and disappointment are stern teachers
of good.” But if shs is only a woman with acute ,
sensibilities, quick, warm impulses, and mind
poetical rather than philosophical, it any be
otherwise. Unhappy in the marriage ration,
or seeiDg around her others who are so, an< for
whom her ready sympathies are excited, md
perceiving no hope of escape from the unconge
nial relation without a violation of custom, and
none of forming new and happier ties without
an infringement of civil as well as social laws,
she may rebel agamst what seems the injtstice
of these laws ; and the feelings, she would not
openly declare and hardly acdnowledges to Isr
aeli; may vaguely colour what she writes, for
we put upon paper sentiments we would acarcfty
express in oral words.
Often a woman gives this hectic colouring to
iler writings unintentionally, almost without a
consciousness of having- done so. Unsatisfied,
vaguely or aeptely miserable—or fancying her
self so, which is quite as bad—she flies to the
pen for relief, and, unable to make her feelings
subservient to her intellect, she strings all her
pearls of thought upon the sombre thread of
bitterness and despondency.
But I believe that in many—nay, in most in
stances, women who write thus indirectly, or
even directly of society and the injustice of its
customs, do so from no impure motives. They
err in judgment, through thenarrowness of their
views, through their mistaken and extreme ideas
of independence, or through the strength of their
feelings—but seldom, as I thank God, (except
in some depraved exceptional cases,) through
any lower and coarser motive, any desire for
liberty to indulge sensual propensities.
This I saw sneeringly denied in a late stand
ard monthly, where the tendency to morbid sen
timentalism on the part especially of married
women, was alluded to with stinging, but rather
unrefined carcasm. It was said to be the off
spring of grosa licentiousness, and treated with
coarse ridicule. But it is not by such thrusts of
tbe broad sword of irony that any plague spot,
eating into the heart of society, cau be eradica
ted. More patient, loving and sympathizing ’
hands must carefully and skilfully remove it,
and pour into the wound the healing balm of
charity.
We need only look around us to find exam
ples of the uncongenial unions that are produc
tive of so much unhappiness. Their name is
legion in this country of early and hasty mar
riages, and it is in most instances the woman
who is the greater sufferer, since she it ia who
is more dependent upon love for happiness, and
whose duties confine her more closely to the
sphere of home and prevent Mr finding in the
excitement of public pursuits, or outdoor busi
ness, any coin;* osatiou for the absence of domes
tic enjoyment. It is of then, that we
would more particularly "rite.
Our American, and especially our Southern,
girls, are too frequently married at an age when
their intellect and affections are undeveloped,
before they understand themselves and the ne
cessities of their souls, or’ are capable of com
prehending the full and holy meaning of mar
riage. As years pass, as their minds and hearts
expand, they learn to know themselves, to meg
sure their own capacities and'to t feel what are
the requirements of their being. If these re-