Part 12

I sat with the old Marchesa upon her balcony, and listened to this terrible tale. She tells it no more, for she is gone now. The Marchesa tells it no more, but Venice tells it still; and as you glide in your black gondola along the canal, under the balconies, in the full moonlight of summer nights, listen and listen; and vaguely in your heart or in your fancy you will hear the tragic strain.

THE TORTURE CHAMBER.

BY WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

Down the broad, imperial Danube, As its wandering waters guide, Past the mountains and the meadows, Winding with the stream, we glide.

RATISBON we leave behind us, Where the spires and gables throng, And the huge cathedral rises, Like a fortress, vast and strong.

Close beside it, stands the Town-Hall, With its massive tower, alone, Brooding o'er the dismal secret, Hidden in its heart of stone.

There, beneath the old foundations, Lay the prisons of the State, Like the last abodes of vengeance, In the fabled realms of Fate.

And the tides of life above them, Drifted ever, near and wide, As at Venice, round the prisons, Sweeps the sea's incessant tide.

Never, like the far-off dashing, Or the nearer rush of waves, Came the tread or murmur downward, To those dim, unechoing caves.

There the dungeon clasped its victim, And a stupor chained his breath. Till the torture woke his senses, With a sharper touch than death.

Now, through all the vacant silence, Reign the darkness and the damp, Broken only when the traveller Comes to gaze, with guide and lamp.

All about him, black and shattered, Eaten with the rust of Time, Lie the fearful signs and tokens Of an age when Law was Crime.

And the guide, with grim precision, Tells the dismal tale once more, Tells to living men the tortures Living men have borne before.

Well that speechless things, unconscious, Furnish forth that place of dread, Guiltless of the crimes they witnessed, Guiltless of the blood they shed;

Else what direful lamentations, And what revelations dire, Ceaseless from their lips would echo, Tossed in memory's penal fire.

Even as we gaze, the fancy With a sudden life-gush warms, And, once more, the Torture Chamber, With its murderous tenants swarms.

Yonder, through the narrow archway, Comes the culprit in the gloom, Falters on the fatal threshold-- Totters to the bloody doom.

Here the executioner, lurking, Waits, with brutal thirst, his hour, Tool of bloodier men and bolder, Drunken with the dregs of power.

There the careful leech sits patient, Watching pulse, and hue, and breath, Weighing life's remaining scruples With the heavier chance of death.

Eking out the little remnant, Lest the victim die too soon, And the torture of the morning Spare the torture of the noon.

Here, behind the heavy grating, Sits the scribe, with pen and scroll, Waiting till the giant terror Bursts the secrets of the soul;

Till the fearful tale of treason From the shrinking lips is wrung, Or the final, false confession Quivers from the trembling tongue;

When the spirit, torn and tempted, Tried beyond its utmost scope, By an anguish past endurance, Madly cancels all its hope;

From the pointed cliffs of torture, With its shrieks upon the air, Suicidal, plunging blindly, In the frenzy of despair!

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But the grey old tower is fading, Fades, in sunshine, from the eye, Like some evil bird whose pinion Dimly blots the distant sky.

So the ancient gloom and terror Of the ages fade away, In the sunlight of the present, Of our better, purer day!

THE HOME OF CHARLOTTE BRONTË.

A PASSAGE FROM A DIARY.

BY W. FRANCIS WILLIAMS.

"Such shrines as these are pilgrim shrines-- Shrines to no code or creed confined; The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind."

HALLECK.

The date is September 5, 1857. I am at Haworth, whither I had walked from the Bradford Station, some ten or twelve miles distant. This Haworth--a place but a few years since quite unknown to any but the few residing in its immediate vicinity--is built upon the side of a hill, and, with its long line of grey houses creeping up the slope, seems like a huge saurian monster, sprawling along the hill-side, his head near the top and his tail reaching nearly to the vale below. At the summit, in the very head of our saurian, stands Haworth Parsonage, and the church near by, with the square old tower rising above the houses that cluster about it. I well remember my first view of this place. It was an autumn afternoon, and near sunset. The sky had been cloudy, but as I stopped to take my first long look at the little village, so hallowed by the memory of the Brontë sisters, the declining sun sent through a breach in the clouds a few spears of dazzling light, that played about the old church and parsonage with an ineffable glory. It lasted but a few moments, the sun went down, and darkness and night gradually settled over the scene. The little incident seemed almost like a type of the life of the gifted woman chiefly to whom Haworth owes its fame; for her life, like this very day, had been dark and wearisome, overshadowed by clouds of cares, tears falling like rain-drops upon new-made graves, until near its close, when there came a sweet season of bright domestic happiness, that lasted too shortly, and then gave place to the darkness and night of death.

Strolling through the village, after my quiet meal at the Black Bull Inn, which poor Branwell Brontë had so often frequented, I stopped to make some trifling purchases at a stationery store, and casually asked the proprietor--a small, delicate-looking man, with a bright eye and a highly intellectual countenance--if he remembered the Brontë sisters. It was a fortunate question, for he knew them well, and was a personal friend of the authoress of Jane Eyre, to whose handsomely-framed portrait he proudly pointed. He had provided her, as he said, with joyful delight, with the paper on which she wrote the manuscripts of most of her novels; he is referred to in one of Miss Brontë's letters to Mrs. Gaskell, as her "one friend in Haworth," and is the "working-man" mentioned in her memoirs, who wrote a little _critique_ on Jane Eyre, that came to the notice of the authoress and afforded her great pleasure. To talk of the Brontë girls--to express his admiration of them to one who had come from America to visit their home and grave, was to him a great gratification. He told me how he used to meet them on the moors--how they were accustomed to stroll all three together, and talk and gather flowers; then how Emily died, and Anne and Charlotte were left to pace the familiar path arm-in-arm; then how they took Anne away to the sea-side, whence she never returned, while Charlotte would take her lonely moorland walk, rapt in sad contemplation. Sometimes he would meet her on these occasions, and if he passed by without attracting her attention, she would chide him when told of it afterward. She was always so kind, so good-hearted, and with those she knew, so really sociable.

Sunday, with my new friend, I attended the church. The storm of the day before had cleared away, and even the place of graves looked bright and cheerful. The churchyard was crowded with country people from miles around, who sat carelessly on the long, flat stones that so thickly covered the ground, waiting for the opening services, while the parish bell kept up a merry peal. Everything seemed simple and happy, and I do not wonder that the Brontës loved their home, with its little garden of lilac bushes, the old church in front, and the sweeping moors stretching far behind. On many a Sunday morning like this they had trodden the very path I then was treading, and had entered the church-door; but how few of these simple villagers knew the treasures of genius showered on these quiet, reserved sisters!

The church inside is old, and quaint, and simple; it can neither be called elegant, comfortable, spacious nor antique. Old Mr. Brontë was to preach, and the Rev. Mr. Nicholls read the service. As a compliment to a stranger, I had been invited by the organist of the church to play the organ--a neat little instrument of some eight or ten stops; and it was while "giving out" the familiar tune of Antioch that I noticed, in the reflection of a little mirror placed above the keyboard, that Mr. Brontë had entered the church, and was passing up the aisle. He wore the customary black gown, and the lower part of his face was quite buried in an enormous white neckcloth--the most monstrous article of the kind I had ever beheld. The reflection in that little mirror I shall never forget. The old man, walking feebly up the aisle, shading his eyes with his right hand, and supporting himself with a cane, the quiet congregation, and the singular dress and venerable bald head of the old preacher, all formed a character-picture, that is not often seen. His sermon was extempore, and consisted of a series of running paraphrases and simple and touching explanations upon a few verses selected from the Lamentations of Jeremiah.

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After church, my friend the stationer walked with me on the moors. Charlotte Brontë's experience of the world was so very limited, that in drawing the characters in her novels, she had to select the real, living people in the vicinity. Thus, my friend pointed out one house and another to me as being the residence of many of the originals of many of the characters in her works, especially in "Shirley." Soon, however, our path across the moors took us out of human habitations, and among the moorland solitudes the Brontë sisters so fondly loved. Cold and desolate as they appear from a distance, a nearer examination proves them to be replete with exquisite beauty. Delicate heather-blooms carpet the immense slope, and bend like nodding plumes, in graceful waves, to the breezes that play heedlessly down the hill-side. Gay yellow buttercups, bright purple heath-flowers, and dark bilberries, vary the general violet tint, while the tiny stems of these gentle plants spring from rich tufts of emerald moss, and are pushed aside by the spray-like leaves of the wild fern. The hum of bees imparts a half busy, half drowsy sound to the scene, while far down the long easy slopes are little valleys, through which trickle talkative brooks, that sometimes peep between the low foliage on their margins, and are the next moment lost to sight behind the crowding bushes. It is no wonder that Charlotte and her sisters loved their quiet walks along the moors.

The next day I bade farewell to Haworth. It is now frequently included in the route of American tourists, by many of whom the memory of Charlotte Brontë is as fondly cherished as by her own countrymen and women; and Haworth is no longer the quiet, unknown Yorkshire hamlet that it was a few years ago.

THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST.

BY THE REV. E.A. WASHBURN.

Silent stood the youthful sculptor Gazing on the breathing stone From the chaos of the marble Into godlike being grown. But a gloom was on his forehead, In his eye a drooping glance, And at length the heavy sorrow From the lip found utterance:

"Holy Art! thy shapes of beauty Have I carved, but ne'er before Reached my thought a faultless image, Still unbodied would it soar; Still the pure unfound Ideal Would ensoul a fairer shrine; In my victory I perish, And no loftier aim is mine."

Noble artist! thine the yearning, Thine the great inspiring word, By the sleepless mind forever In its silent watches heard; For the earthly it is pleasure Only earthly ends to gain; For the seeker of the perfect, To be satisfied is pain.

Visions of an untold glory Milton saw in his eclipse, Paradise to outward gazers Lost, with no apocalypse; Holier Christ and veiled Madonnas, Painted were on Raphael's soul; Melodies he could not utter O'er Bethoven's ear would roll.

Ever floats the dim Ideal Far before the longing eyes; Ever, as we travel onward, Boundless the horizon flies; Not the brimming cups of wisdom Can the thirsty spirit slake, And the molten gold in pouring Will the mould in pieces break.

Voice within our inmost being, Calling deep to answering deep, Midst the life of weary labor Thou shalt waken us from sleep! All our joy is in our Future And our motion is our rest, Still the True reveals the Truer, Still the good foretells the Best.

JUNE TWENTY-NINTH, EIGHTEEN FIFTY-NINE.

BY CAROLINE M. KIRKLAND.

To talk about the weather is the natural English and American mode of beginning an acquaintance.

This day--the one that glares upon us at our present writing--is eminently able to melt away what is called the frost of ceremony, and to induce the primmest of us to throw off all disguises that can possibly be dispensed with. It is a day to bring the most sophisticated back to first principles. The very thought of wrapping anything up in mystery, to-day, brings a thrill like the involuntary protest of the soul against cruelty. We are not even as anxious as usual to cover up our faults. We hesitate at enveloping a letter.

The shimmer that lives and moves over yonder dry fallow, as if ten thousand million fairies were fanning themselves with midges' wings, fatigues the eye with a notion of unnecessary exertion. Wiser seems yon glassy pool, moveless, under heavy, not melancholy, boughs. That is reflecting--keeping one pleasant thought all the time--satisfying itself with one picture for a whole morning, as we all did while the "Heart of the Andes" was laid open to our longing gaze. The pool has the advantage of us, too; for it receives into its waveless bosom the loveliness of sky and tree without emotion, while we, gazing on the wondrous transcript made by mortal man of these measureless glories, felt our souls stirred, even to pain, with a sense of the artist's power, and of the amount of his precious life that must have gone into such a creation.

By the way, if we had energy enough to-day to wish anything, it would be to find ourselves far away amid flashing seas and wild winds, hunting icebergs, with Church for our Columbus, his banner of _Excelsior_ streaming over us, his wondrous eye piercing the distant wreaths of spray, in search of domes and pinnacles of opal and lapis lazuli, turned, now to diamonds, now to marble, by sun and shade. One whose good fortune it was to be with the young discoverer at Niagara, came away with the feeling of having acquired a new sense, by the potent magic of genius.

But to-day, Art is nothing--genius is nothing--but no! that is blasphemous. It is we that are nothing--if not stupid. Dullness is the universe. The grasshoppers are too faint to sing, the birds sit still on the boughs, waiting for the leaves to fan them. Children are wilted into silence and slumberous nonentity; boys do not bathe to-day--they welter, hour after hour, in the dark water near the shaded rock. Even they and the tadpoles can hardly be seen to wriggle. The cow has found a shade, and, preferring repose to munching, lies contented under the one great elm mercifully left in the middle of her pasture.

A hot day in June is hotter than any other hot day. It finds us cruelly unguarded. After we have been gently baked awhile, the crust thus acquired makes us somewhat tortoise-like and quiescent. If we were condemned to suffer thirty-nine stripes, or even only as many as belong to our flag, would it or would it not be a privilege to take them by degrees, say one on the first day, two on the second, four on the third, etc., in the celebrated progression style, until the whole were accomplished? Or were it better to have the whole at once, and so be done with it? In either case, or in present case, what a blessing to be made pachydermatous! (a learned word lately acquired by ladies, though doubtless long familiar to lords).

But words beginning with the sound of _ice_, are more agreeable for to-day--such as icicle, isolation, Islip.

Some unhappy critic has said that the "icicle that hangs on Diana's temple" is not colder than other icicles. We pity him, and would like to try the comparison to-day. We have already tried "thinking on the frosty Caucasus," and quite agree with Claudio--was it, or Romeo, or who?--that this is of no service in case of fire.

Delicious music for to-day--the tinkling of ice in the pitcher, as Susan, slowly and carefully, brings up-stairs the water we wait for. It were really a loss to have the way shorter, or the servant a harum-scarum thing who would dash in with her precious burden before one knew it was coming.

We might try, to-day, the latest novelty in cookery, a ball of solid ice wrapped in puff-paste, and baked so adroitly that the paste shall be brown while the ice remains unmelted.

Akin to this, is an antique achievement culinary, as old as Mrs. Glasse, at least--the roasting of a pound of butter, an operation not unlike the very work we are engaged in at this moment--indeed so like it, that the remembrance has occurred several times. Your pound of butter is to be thoroughly crusted in bread-crumbs to begin with, and then put upon the spit and turned before a very hot fire; the unhappy cook standing by to dredge on crumbs continually, to prevent the slippery article from running away. When the crumbs (and cook) are quite roasted, the thing is done.

And so should we be, but that here comes a thunder storm, fit conclusion for an intense day, and very like the sudden and terrific blowings up which terminate the most ferocious kind of friendships. Thick clouds, shaped like piles of cannon balls, have slowly peered up from behind the horizon, and rolled themselves hither and thither, spreading and gathering as they went. Now and then a thunder-whisper is heard, so faint, that if we were conversing, we should not notice it; and an occasional flash of lightning seems, in the sun's glare, like the waving of a curtain by the fitful breeze that begins to touch the pool here and there. The cloud masses gather fresh and fresh accession as they move on, like revolutionary armies marching up to battle. Looking overhead, there seems a field-day in heaven; great bodies of artillery in motion, forming themselves into solid phalanx, and giving more and more dreadful notes of preparation. Volleys tell when divisions join, and the light that announces them is as if the adamantine arch were riven, disclosing dread splendors unspeakable Most grand, most beautiful storm! New music--that of the delicious rain, and in such abundance that it washes away the very memory of the parched and burning day. No wild commotion, no terror! Sublime order and an awe which is like peace. One more proof of the unfailing, tender love of our heavenly Father.

NO SONGS IN WINTER.

BY T. B. ALDRICH.

I

The robin and the oriole, The linnet and the wren-- When shall I see their fairyships, And hear their songs again?

II.

The wind among the poplar trees, At midnight, makes its moan; The slim red cardinal flowers are dead, And all sweet things are flown!

III.

A great white face looks down from heaven, The great white face of Snow; I cannot sing or morn or even, The demon haunts me so!

IV.

It strikes me dumb, it freezes me, I sing a broken strain-- Wait till the robins and the wrens And the linnets come again!

THE BENI-ISRAEL.

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Crammed--lobbies, galleries, boxes, floor; Heads piled on heads at every door. The actors were a painted group, Of statue shapes, a "model" troupe, With figures not severely Greek, And drapery more or less antique; The play, if one might call it so, A Hebrew tale, in silent show.

And with the throng the pageant drew There mingled Hebrews, not a few, Coarse, swarthy, bearded--at their side Dark, jewelled women, orient-eyed. If scarce a Christian hope for grace, That crowds one in his narrow place, What will the savage victim do, Whose ribs are kneaded by a JEW?

Close on my left, a breathing form Sat wedged against me, soft and warm; The vulture-beaked and dark-browned face Betrays the mould of Abraham's race; That coal-black hair--and bistred hue-- Ah, cursed, unbelieving Jew! I started, shuddering to the right, And squeezed--a second Israelite!

Then rose the nameless words that slip From darkening soul to whitening lip. The snaky usurer,--him that crawls, And cheats beneath the golden balls, The hook-nosed kite of carrion clothes-- I stabbed them deep with muttered oaths: Spawn of the rebel wandering horde That stoned the saints, and slew their Lord!

Up came their murderous deeds of old-- The grisly story Chaucer told, And many an ugly tale beside, Of children caught and crucified. I heard the ducat-sweating thieves Beneath the Ghetto's slouching eaves, And thrust beyond the tented green, The leper's cry, "Unclean, unclean!"

The show went on, but, ill at ease, My sullen eye it could not please; In vain the haggard outcast knelt, The white-haired patriarch's heart to melt; I thought of Judas and his bribe, And steeled my soul against his tribe. My neighbors stirred; I looked again, Full on the younger of the twain.

A soft young cheek of olive brown, A lip just flushed with youthful down, Locks dark as midnight, that divide And shade the neck on either side; An eye that wears a moistened gleam, Like starlight in a hidden stream; So looked that other child of Shem, The maiden's Boy of Bethlehem!

And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood That flows untainted from the Flood! Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes! Scum of the nations! In thy pride Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side, And, lo! the very semblance there The Lord of Glory deigned to wear!

I see that radiant image rise,-- The midnight hair, the starlit eyes; The faintly-crimsoned cheek that shows The stain of Judah's dusky rose. Thy hands would clasp His hallowed feet Whose brethren soil thy Christian seat; Thy lips would press His garment's hem, That curl in scornful wrath for them!

A sudden mist, a watery screen, Dropped like a veil before the scene; I strove the glistening film to stay, The wilful tear would have its way. The shadow floated from my soul, And to my lips a whisper stole, Soft murmuring, as the curtain fell, "Peace to the Beni-Israel!"

BOCAGE'S PENITENTIAL SONNET.

_From the Portuguese of Manoel de Barbosa do Bocage._

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

I've seen my life, without a noble aim, In the mad strife of passions waste away. Fool that I was! to live as if decay Would spare the vital essence in my frame! And Hope, whose flattering dreams are now my shame, Showed years to come, a long and bright array, Yet all too soon my nature sinks a prey To the great evil that with being came. Pleasures, my tyrants! now your reign is past: My soul, recoiling, casts you off to lie In that abyss where all deceits are cast. Oh God! may life's last moments, as they fly, Win back what years have lost, that he, at last, Who knew not how to live, may learn to die.

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