GIFTS OF GENIUS:
A Miscellany
OF
PROSE AND POETRY,
BY
AMERICAN AUTHORS.
NEW YORK:
PRINTED FOR C.A. DAVENPORT.
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1859,
by C.A. DAVENPORT,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern
District of New York.
CONTENTS.
PAGE INTRODUCTORY, ix OUT AT ELBOWS.—THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE. By John Esten Cooke, 13 MY SECRET. (From the French.) By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 42 A LEAF FROM MY PARIS NOTE-BOOK.By H.T. Tuckerman, 44 THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS. By Bayard Taylor , 55 ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE. By George S. Hillard, 57 ON RECEIVING A PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS FROM A FRIEND. By Thomas Buchanan Read, 60 THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END. By Caroline Chesebro, 62 SEA-WEED. By James Russell Lowell, 89 TREFOIL. By Evert A. Duyckinck, 91 MISERERE DOMINE. By William H. Burleigh, 121 THE KINGDOMS OF NATURE PRAISING GOD.—A SHORT ESSAY ON THE 148th PSALM. By C.A. Bartol, 124 TRANSLATIONS. By the Rev. Charles T. Brooks, 133 RECOLLECTIONS OF NEANDER, THE CHURCH HISTORIAN. By the Rev. Roswell D. Hitchcock, D.D., 138 POEMS. By Julia Ward Howe, 160 EARTH'S WITNESS. By Alice B. Haven, 164 THE NEW ENGLAND THANKSGIVING. By the Rev. Henry W. Bellows, D.D., 165TO THE PUBLIC.
At the desire of Miss Davenport, for whose benefit this collection of original Miscellanies by
If this were not enough, an inducement of another kind is to be found in the circumstances of the lady in whose behalf the contents of this volume have been so freely contributed. A few years since, she was a teacher in our schools, active, useful, and esteemed for her skillful communication of knowledge. At that time it was one of her favorite occupations to make sketches and drawings from nature, an art in which she instructed her pupils. A severe illness interrupted her duties, during which her sight became impaired, and finally lost. A kind of twilight came over it, which gradually darkened into utter night, shutting out the face of nature in which she had so much delighted, and leaving her, without occupation, in ill health. In this condition she has already remained for five years.
To this statement of her misfortunes, which I trust will commend her to the sympathies of all who are made acquainted with them, as one who was useful to society while Providence permitted, I have only to add the expression of her warmest thanks to those who have generously furnished the contents of the volume she now lays before the public.
W.C. BRYANT.
New York, June, 1859.
INTRODUCTORY.
This volume speaks so well for itself that it does not need many words of preface to commend it to a wide circle of readers. Its rich and varied contents, however, become far more interesting when interpreted by the motive that won them from their authors; and when the kindly feeling that offered them so freely is known, these gifts, like the pearls of a rosary, will be prized not only severally but collectively, because strung together by a sacred thread.
The story of this undertaking is a very short and simple one. Miss Davenport, who had been for many years an active and successful teacher in our schools and families, especially in the beautiful arts of drawing and painting, was prostrated by a severe illness, which impaired her sight and finally terminated in blindness.
The late Benjamin F. Butler, in a letter dated October 13, 1858, which will have peculiar interest to the many readers who knew and honored that excellent man, writes thus:
"Miss Davenport has for several years been personally known to me. She is now blind and unable to follow the calling by which, before this calamity befell her, she obtained her living. Having lost her parents in early life, and having few relatives, and none able to assist her, she is dependent for her support on such efforts as she is still capable of making. These, were she a person of common fortitude, energy and hopefulness, would be very small, for to her great privation is added very imperfect general health. Yet she has struggled on in the hope of gaining such a competency as should ultimately secure 'a home that she may call her own.' I commend Miss Davenport to all who feel for the afflicted and who wish to do good."
The Rev. Dr. S. Storrs writes: "Miss Davenport is a Christian woman, of great excellence of character, and of many accomplishments, whom God in his providence has made totally blind within a few years past."
We need add but two remarks to these statements—one in reference to the volume itself, and the other in reference to her for whose welfare it is contributed.
The volume is one of the many proofs which have been gathering for years, of the alliance between literature and humanity. Every good and true word that has been written from the beginning has been a minister of mercy to every human heart which it has reached, whilst the mercy has been twice blessed when the word so benign in its result has been charitable in its intention, and the author at once yields his profits to a friend's need, and his production to the public eye. Thackeray has written well upon humor and charity, but should he undertake to carry out his idea and treat of literature and humanity in their vital relations, he would have his hands and heart full of work for more than a lifetime. Princes who give their gold to generous uses are worthy of honor; but there is a coinage of the brain that costs more and weighs more than gold. The authors of these papers would of course be little disposed to claim any high merit for their offerings, yet any reader who runs his eye over the list of contributors will see at once that they are generally writers whose compositions are eagerly sought for by the public, and among them are some names whose pens can coin gold whenever they choose to move. All these articles are original, and nothing is inserted in this book that has been before published. We are confident that it deserves, and will command wide and choice circulation.
A word as to the lady for whose benefit these gifts are brought together. The preface of Mr. Bryant and the letter of Mr. Butler, tell her story with sufficient distinctness, and the readiness with which our men and women of letters have so generally complied with her request, shows what eloquence she bears in her presence and statement. Some certificates from her pupils in drawing, who testify to her love of nature and her delight in sketching directly from nature, so greatly to their improvement in this beautiful art, give peculiar pathos to her case. The organ that was the source of her highest satisfaction is closed up by this dark sorrow, and the gate called Beautiful, to this earthly temple no longer is open to scenes and faces of loveliness. What a fearful loss is this loss of sight—on the whole the noblest of the senses, and certainly the sense of all others most serviceable, alike to the working hand and the creative imagination. The eye may not be so near the fountains of sensibility as the ear, and no impression reaches the sympathy so profoundly as the pathos of living speech, but the eye has a far wider range than the ear and fathoms the heavens and sweeps the earth and sea, whilst the ear hears distinctly but within a very narrow limit, hardly a stone's throw. When the eye, then, loses its marvellous faculty and sees no longer the light of day and the countenances of friends, let the ear do what it can to make up for the loss by every cheering word of sympathy and hope. In God's Providence there is a principle of compensation that aims to balance every privation by some new privilege, as for instance by giving new acuteness to the senses which are called to do the work of the senses lost. But genial humanity is the great principle of compensation, and by this God's children glorify the Father in Heaven. May this volume serve his merciful will, and may the light shed from the stars of our literary firmament do something to lessen the night upon every dark path.
S.O.
GIFTS OF GENIUS.
OUT AT ELBOWS.
THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE.
BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, OF VIRGINIA.
I.
How good a thing it is to live! The morn is full of music; and Annie is singing in the hall!
The sun falls with a tranquil glory on the fields and forests, burning with the golden splendors of the autumn—the variegated leaves of the mighty oaks are draped
I sat up late last night at my accounts; to-day I will take a holiday. The squire has bidden me good morning in his courteous, good-humored way, and gone in his carriage to attend a meeting of his brother magistrates:—I am away for the time from my noisy courts—the domain is mine—all the world is still!
No;—Annie is singing in the hall.
She sings to herself, I think, this autumn morning, and would not like to be interrupted. I will therefore take a ramble—and you shall accompany me, O friend of my youth, far away in distant lands, but beside me still! Whither shall we go? It is hard to decide, for all the world is lovely. Shall we go to my favorite woodland? It skirts the river, and I love the river; so we pass into the forest.
How regal is the time of the fall of the leaves! A thousand brilliant colors charm the eyes—the eyes of their faithful lovers. How the mighty oaks reach out their knotty, muscular arms to welcome us!—how their ponderous shoulders bear aloft the imperial trappings—trappings of silk and velvet, all orange, blue, and purple! The haughty pines stand up like warriors—or call them spears of nordland heroes, holding on their summits emerald banners! The tulip-trees are lovely queens with flowers in their hair, who bend and welcome you with gracious murmurs; the slender elms sway to and fro, like fairest maidens of the royal blood; and sigh, and smile, and whisper, full of the charming grace of youth, and tenderness, and beauty.
I salute my noblemen, and queens, and princesses; they bow in return to me, their king. Let us wander on.
—Ah! that is well; my river view! Of all my broad domain, I think I like this part the best. Is it not beautiful? That clump of dogwood, however, obstructs the view somewhat; I must cut it down. Let us move a little to the right. Ah! there it is! See my lovely river; surely you must admire my swan-like ships, flying, with snowy canvass spread, before the fresh breeze. And see that schooner breaking the little waves into foam. Is that a telescope which the captain of my vessel points toward us? He salutes me, does he not? But I fear the distance is too great; he could hardly recognize me. Still I shall bow—let us not neglect the laws of courtesy.
My ship is sailing onward. In earlier days I had many barks which sailed from shore; they were freighted with the richest goods, and made me very anxious. So my argosies went sailing, but they never came again. One bore my poem, which I thought would make me very celebrated, but the ship was lost. Another was to bring me back a cargo of such beautiful things—things which make life delightful to so many!—pearls, and silks, and wines, and gold-laced suits—garters, rosettes, and slips of ribbon to be worn at the button-hole. This, too, was lost, and yet it did not grieve me much. The third caused me more regret; I do not think I have yet wholly recovered from its loss. It bore a maiden with sunny hair, and the tenderest, sweetest eyes! She said she loved me—yes a thousand times! and I—I loved her long and dearly. But the ship in which she sailed went down—the strong, good ship, as I regarded it. She died thus,—did she not?—or is it true that she was married to a richer suitor far away from me in foreign lands?... These are foolish tears—let me not think of her with want of charity; she was only a woman, and we men are often very weak. One over all, is alone great and good. So, beautiful ship!—I say—that sailed across my path in youth, sail on in peace and happiness! A lonely bark, lonely but not unhappy, sees you, on the distant, happy seas, and the pennon floats from the peak in amicable greeting and salute. Hail and farewell! Heaven send the ship a happy voyage, and a welcome home!
This little soliloquy perhaps wearies you; it is ended. Let us sail for an hour or so on the silver wave; my new pleasure-boat is rocking here beneath in the shadow of the oak. She is built for speed. See how gracefully she falls and rises, like a variegated leaf upon the waves—how the slender prow curves upward—how the gaily-colored sides are mirrored in the limpid surface of the joyous stream! Come, let us step into the little craft, and unfurl the snowy sail.... How provoking! I have left my boat key at the hall; another day we will sail. Let us stroll back to the good old house again.
Are not my fields pleasant to behold? They are bringing in my wheat, which stretches, you perceive, throughout the low-grounds there, in neatly arranged shocks. My crops this year are excellent—my servants enjoy this season, and its occupations. They will soon sing their echoing "harvest home"—and over them at their joyous labor will shine the "harvest-moon," lighting up field and forest, hill and dale—the whole "broad domain and the hall." The affection of my servants is grateful to me. Here comes Cato, with his team of patient oxen, and there goes Cæsar, leading my favorite racehorse down to water. Cato, Cæsar, and I, respectively salute each other in the kindest way. I think they are attached to me. Faithful fellows! I shall never part with them. I think I will give this coat to Cæsar; but, looking again, I perceive that his own is better. Besides, I must not be extravagant. The little money I make is required by another, and it would not be generous to buy a new coat for myself. This one which I wear will do well enough, will it not? I ask you with some diffidence, for 'tis sadly out at elbows, and the idea has occurred to me that the coolness and neglect of certain visitors to the hall, has been caused by my coat being shabby. Even Annie——, but I'll not speak of that this morning. 'Twas the hasty word which we all utter at times—'tis forgotten. Still, I think, I will give you the incident some day, when we ramble, as now, in the fields.
From the fields we approach the honest old mansion, across the emerald-carpeted lawn. The birds are singing, around the sleepy-looking gables, and the toothless old hound comes wagging his tail, in sign of welcome.
'Tis plain that Milo has an honest heart. I think he's smiling.
II
My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable taste. I am glad they built me that wing for my books; my numerous children cannot disturb me when I am composing, either my speech to be delivered in the Senate, or my work which is destined to refute Sir William Hamilton.
Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes from the sitting-room, and I recognize the exquisite air of "Katharine Ogie" which Annie is singing. Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we pass.
What a stately head my old grandfather had! He was president of the King's Council, a hundred years ago—a man of decided mark. He wears a long peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders—a gold-laced waistcoat—and snowy ruffles. His white hand is nearly covered with lace, and rests on a scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vandyke. He must have been a resolute old gentleman. How serene and calm is his look!—how firm are the finely chiselled lips! How proud and full of collected intelligence the erect head, and the broad white brow! He was a famous "macaroni," as they called it, in his youth—and cultivated an enormous crop of wild oats. But this all disappeared, and he became one of the sturdiest patriots of the Revolution, and fought clear through the contest. Is it wrong to feel satisfaction at being descended from a worthy race of men—from a family of brave, truthful gentlemen? I think not. I trust I'm no absurd aristocrat—but I would
So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave and truthful gentleman—that grandma yonder, smiling opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not remember her, but she must have been a beauty. Her head is bent over one shoulder, and she has an exquisitely coquettish air. Her eyes are blue—her arms round, and as white as snow—and what lips! They are like carnations, and pout with a pretty smiling air, which must have made her dangerous. She rejected many wealthy offers to marry grandpa, who was then poor. As I gaze, it seems scarcely courteous to remain thus covered in presence of a lady so lovely. I take off my hat, and make my best bow, saluting my little grandmamma of "sweet seventeen," who smiles and seems graciously to bow in return.
All around me I see my family. There is my uncle, the captain in Colonel Washington's troop. I do not now mean the Colonel Washington of the French wars, who afterward became General Washington of the American Revolution—though my uncle, the captain, knew him very well, I am told, and often visited him at Mount Vernon, the colonel's estate, where they hunted foxes together, along the Potomac. I mean the brave Colonel Washington who fought so nobly in North Carolina. My uncle died there. His company was much thinned at every step by the horrible hail-storm of balls. He was riding in front with his drawn sword, shouting as the column fell, man by man, "Steady, boys, steady!—close up!"—when a ball struck him. His last words were "A good death, boys! a good death! Close up!" So, you see, he ended nobly.
Beside my uncle and the rest of his kith and kin of the wars, you see, yonder, a row of beauties, all smiling and gay, or pensive and tender—interspersed with bright-faced children, blooming like so many flowers along the old walls of the hall. How they please and interest me! True, there are other portraits in our little house at home—not my hall here—which, perhaps, I should love with a warmer regard; but let me not cramp my sympathies, or indulge any early preferences. I must not be partial. So I admire these here before me—and bow to them, one and all. I fancy that they bow in return—that the stalwart warriors stretch vigorous hands toward me—that the delicate beauties bend down their little heads, all covered with powder, and return my homage with a smile.
Why not? Can my shabby coat make the lovely or proud faces ashamed of me? Do they turn from me coldly because I'm the last of a ruined line? Do they sneer at my napless hat, and laugh at my tattered elbows? I do not think of them so poorly and unkindly. My coat is very shabby, but I think, at least I hope, that it covers an honest heart.
So I bow to the noble and beautiful faces, and again they smile in return. I seem to have wandered away into the past and dreamed in a realm of silence. And yet—it is strange I did not hear her—Annie is still singing through the hall.
III.
I promised to tell you of the incident of the coat, the unfortunate coat which I sometimes think makes the rich folks visiting the hall look sidewise at me. It is strange! Am I not myself, whether clad in velvet or in fustian—in homespun fabric, or in cloth of gold? People say I am simple—wholly ignorant of the world; I must be so in truth.
But about the coat. I hinted that Annie even saw, and alluded to it; it was not long after my arrival at the hall, and a young lady from the neighborhood was paying a visit to Annie.
They were standing on the portico, and I was leaning against the trunk of the old oak beneath, admiring the sunset which was magnificent that evening. All at once I heard whispers, and turning round toward the young ladies, saw them laughing. Annie's finger was extended toward the hole in my elbow, and I could not fail to understand that she was laughing at my miserable coat.
I was not offended, though perhaps I may have been slightly wounded; but Annie was a young girl and I could not get angry; I was not at all ashamed—why should I have been?
"I am sorry, but I cannot help the hole in my elbow," I said, calmly and quietly, with a bow and a smile; "I tore it by accident, yesterday."
Annie blushed, and looked very proud and offended, and it pained me to see that she suffered for her harmless and, careless speech. I begged her not to think that my feelings were wounded, and bowing again, went up to my room. I looked at my coat, it was terribly shabby, and I revolved the propriety of purchasing another, but I gave up the idea with a sigh. She needs all my money, and my mind is made up; she shall have the black silk, and very soon.
I very nearly forgot to relate what followed the little scene on the portico. During all that evening, and the whole of the next day, Annie scarcely looked at me, and retained her angry and offended expression. I was pained, but could add nothing more to my former assurance that I was not offended.
Toward evening, I was sitting with a book upon the portico, when Annie came out of the parlor. She paused on the threshold, evidently hesitated, but seemed to resolve all at once, what to do. She came quickly to my side, and holding out her hand said frankly and kindly, with a little tremor in her voice, and a faint rose-tint in the delicate cheeks:
"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Mr. Cleave, indeed I did not, sir; my speech was the thoughtless rudeness of a child. I am sorry, very sorry that I was ever so ill-bred and unkind; will you pardon me, sir?"
I rose from my seat, and bowed low above the white little hand which lay in my own, slightly agitated,—
"I have nothing to pardon, Miss Annie," I said, "if you will let me call you by your household name. I think it very fortunate that my coat was shabby; had it been a new one, you would never have observed it, and I should have lost these sweet and friendly accents."
And that is the "incident of the coat."
IV.
The week that has just passed has been a pleasant one. I have thought, a hundred times, "how good a thing it is to live!"
I must have been a good deal cramped and confined in the city; but I enjoy the fair landscapes here all the more. The family are very friendly and kind—except Mrs. Barrington, who does not seem to like me. She scarcely treats me with anything more than scrupulous courtesy. The squire and Annie, however, make up for this coldness. They are both extremely cordial. It was friendly in the squire to give me this mass of executorial accounts to arrange. So far it has been done to his entire satisfaction; and the payment for my services is very liberal. How I long for money!
There was a splendid party at the hall on Tuesday. It reminded me of old times, when we, too,—but that is idle to remember. I do not sigh for the past. I know all is for the best. Still, I could not help thinking, as I looked on the brilliant spectacle, that the world was full of changes and vicissitudes. Well, the party was a gay and delightful one; the dancing quite extravagant. Annie was the beauty of the assemblage—the belle of the ball—and she gave me a new proof of the regret which she felt for the speech about my coat. At the end of a cotillon she refused the arms of half a dozen eager gallants to take mine, and promenade out on the portico.
"Do you ever dance?" she said.
"Oh, yes," I
"You say 'we.'"
"I mean my mother and I; I should have said 'poorly,' perhaps, instead of 'quietly,' And I am busy."
She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling:
"But you are not busy to-night; and if you'll not think me forward, I will reverse the etiquette, and ask you to dance with me."
"Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure."
"Are you sure?"
"Could you doubt it?"
"I was so very rude to you!"
And she hung her head. That, then, was the secret of her choice of my arm. I could only assure her that I did not think her rude, and I hoped she would forget the whole incident. I was pleased in spite of all—for I like to think well of women. The cynical writers say they are all mean, and mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie? She had left many finely-dressed gentlemen, faultlessly appointed, to dance with a poor stranger, quite out at elbows.
I saw many cold looks directed at myself; and when Annie took my arm to go into supper, the gloom in the faces of some gentlemen who had been refused, made me smile. When the party was over, Annie gave me her hand at the foot of the staircase. I saw a triumphant light in her mischievous eyes, as she glanced at the departing gallants; her rosy cheeks dimpled, and she flitted up, humming a gay tune.
It is singular how beautiful she is when she laughs—as when she sighs. Am I falling in love with her? I shall be guilty of no such folly. I think that my pride and self-respect will keep me rational. Pshaw! why did I dream of such nonsense!
V.
So—a month has passed.
My coat, it seems, is to be the constant topic of attention.
A day or two since, I was sitting in my chamber, reflecting upon a variety of things. My thoughts, at last, centred on the deficiencies of my wardrobe, and I muttered, "I must certainly have my coat mended soon;" and I looked down, sighing, at the hole in my elbow.... It had disappeared! There was no longer any rent. The torn cloth had been mended in the neatest manner; so neatly, indeed, that the orifice was almost invisible. Who could have done it, and how? I have one coat only, and—yes! it must have been! I saw, in a moment, the whole secret: that noise, and the voice of Sarah, the old chambermaid.
I rose and went out on the staircase; I met the good crone.
"How did you find my coat in the dark?" I said, smiling; "and now you must let me make you a present for mending it, Sarah."
Sarah hesitated, plainly; but honesty conquered. She refused the money, which, nevertheless, I gave her; and, from her careless replies, I soon discovered the real truth.
The coat had been mended by Annie!
I descended to the drawing-room, and finding her alone, thanked her with simplicity and sincerity. She blushed and pouted.
"Who told you?" she asked.
"No one; but I discovered it from Sarah; she was unguarded."
"Well, sir," said Annie, blushing still, but laughing, "there is no reason for your being so grateful, I thought I would mend it, as I formerly laughed at it—and I hope it is neatly done."
"It is scarcely visible," I said, with a smile and a bow; "I shall keep this coat always to remind me of your delicate kindness."
"Pshaw! 'twas nothing."
And running to the piano, the young girl commenced a merry song, which rang through the old hall like the carol of a bird. Her voice was so inexpressibly sweet that it made my pulses throb and my heart ache. I did not know the expression of my countenance, as I looked at her, until turning toward me, I saw her suddenly color to the roots of her hair.
I felt, all at once, that I had fixed upon her one of those looks which say as plainly as words could utter: "I love you with all the powers of my nature, all the faculties of my being—you are dearer to me than the whole wide world beside!"
Upon my word of honor as a gentleman, I did not know that I loved Annie—I was not conscious that I was gazing at her with that look of inexpressible tenderness. Her sudden blush cleared up everything like a flash of lightning—I rose, set my lips together, and bowed. I could scarcely speak—I muttered "pray excuse me," and left the apartment.
On the next morning I begged the squire to release me from the completion of my task—I had a friend who could perform the duties as well as myself, and who would come to the hall for that purpose, inasmuch as the account books could not be removed—I must go.
The formal and ceremonious old gentleman did not ask my reasons for this sudden act—he simply inclined his head—and said that he would always be glad to serve me. With a momentary pressure of Annie's cold hand, and a low bow to the frigid Mrs. Barrington, I departed.
VI.
Five years have passed away. They have been eventful ones to me—not for the unhoped for success which I have had in my profession, so much as for the long suffering which drove me, violently as it were, to seek relief in unceasing toil.
The thought of Annie has been ever with me—my pain, though such a term is slight, was caused by my leaving her. I never knew how much I loved her until all those weary miles were thrown between us. My days have been most unhappy, my nights drearier still; for a long time now, I have not thought or said "how good a thing it is to live!"
But I acted wisely, and honorably; did I not? I did my duty, when the temptation to neglect it was exceeding hard to resist. I went away from the woman whom I loved, because I loved her, and respected my own name and honor, too much to remain. It was better to break my heart, I said, than take advantage of my position at the hall, to engage a young girl's heart, and drag her down, in case she loved me, to the poor low sphere in which I moved. If her father had said to me, "You have abused the trust I placed in you, and acted with duplicity," I think it would have ruined me, forever, in my own esteem. And would he not have had the right to say it?
So I came away from the temptation while I could, and plunged into my proper work on earth, and found relief; but I loved her still.
Shall I speak of the correspondence which ensued between the squire and myself? 'Twas a somewhat singular one, and revealed to me something which I was before quite ignorant of. It is here beneath my hand; let us look at it. It passed soon after my departure: