Chapter 3

In order to exchange the fascinations of the moment for the lessons of the past, one cloudy morning we drove through the avenue of the Champs Elysées, by the triumphal arch of Napoleon, to the palace of St. Cloud, and from the esplanade gazed back upon the city, over the plain below, to the dense mass of buildings surmounted by the domes of the Invalids, and the Pantheon and the towers of Notre Dame. To the eye of contemplation it is one of the most memorable of landscapes; a stand-point for historical reverie, which attunes the mind for subsequent and less discursive retrospection. Enter the apartment where Bonaparte dispersed the assembly of five hundred--the initatory act of his rule; it is now a conservatory, whence rising terrace walks, statues and fountains only are visible; in the fresh silence of morning, they offered a striking contrast to that eventful scene. In an adjacent room a picture representing Maria de Medici's interview with Sully after the death of Henry IV., carries us back to an earlier era. Here Blucher had his headquarters, and here was settled the convention by which Paris was yielded to the allies. The saloon of Vernet, the well-trimmed vine-trees of the garden, the vivid hues of the tapestry, the newly waxed floors, the hangings and couches of Lyons silk, the elegant Sèvres vases, and Florentine tables of _pietra dura_, the velvet cushions of the chapel, and late publications on the library desks--all free of speck or stain--proclaim this summer palace as great a favorite now as when resorted to by the princes of Orleans. In this hall the two Napoleons were proclaimed; and the brilliant memory of those summer festivals that lately made St. Cloud dazzling with light and beauty, was reflected from mirror, cornice, and tinted fabric; from this gilt on the iron chain of usurped dominion, a glance through the window revealed its origin: a throng of people were on their way to mass and a regiment was on parade--the one illustrating the blind exaction of bigoted authority, the other the machinery of brute force--the church and the army, the mitre, and the sword, superstition and violence; with these, in all ages, have the multitude been subdued; and between these two representations of elemental despotism, clustered on a high wall, stood a crowd to watch the meek procession of worshippers, and the exactitude of the manual, or admire the spirited, yet controlled, evolutions of the officer on his noble charger. The whole scene typified France as she is; uneducated devotees, a military organization at the beck of its chief, and a surplus of curious, intimidated or acquiescent spectators.

To pass from St. Cloud to Versailles is like turning from the last to the first chapters of French history. The vast court of the palace is lined with colossal statues; and thus we enter the vestibule through a file of pale and majestic sentinels, summoned, as it were, from the tomb to guard the trophies of nationality. Our pilgrimage through such a world of effigies begins with Clovis and Charlemagne, and ends with Louis Philippe: the place itself is the ancient home of royalty; the gardens, visible from every window, have been trod by generations of monarchs and courtiers; the ceilings bear the arms of the noble families of the kingdom; while around are the faces and figures of the men of valor and of genius that consecrate her history. Through this panorama move peasants, workmen, citizens, and foreigners, gazing unrestricted, as upon a procession evoked from the inexorable past, in which are all those of whom they have heard or read as illustrious in France; they see the battles, the leaders, the kings, the poets, the human material of history. This grand conception, which has of late years been mainly realized by the last king, is certainly one of the most grand and significant of modern times. Even in this, our one day's observation, how many ideas are revived, how many characters brought into view; what events, associations and people throng upon our consciousness, as slowly gazing, we tread the interminable halls and scan the countless memorials of Versailles!

Taking up the thread of reminiscence when looking at the old moldy mortar that belonged to the knights of St. John when at Rhodes, the expiring chivalry of Europe gleams fitfully upon us, once more, to provoke a mortifying comparison with the not yet completed pictures of the capture of Abd-el-Kader and the last siege of Rome; thence turn to the "Jeu de Paume," where the ardent figure of Mirabeau represents the genius of the Revolution, and from it to "Louis XVIII. and the Charter," emblematic of the Restoration; how shines on this canvas the "helmet of Navarre" in the "Battle of Ivry," as in Macaulay's spirited lyric, and chastely beautiful in its stainless marble, stands the heroic Maid of Orleans; while, appropriately in the midst of these historic characters, we find the bust of that ideal of picturesque narrators, Froissart. The modern rule of France is abruptly and almost grotesquely suggested amid such associations, by the figure of De Joinville on the deck of a man-of-war, well described by Talfourd, as "the type of dandified, melodramatic seamanship." The cycles of kingly sway is abruptly broken by the meteoric episode of Bonaparte: first he appears dispersing the Assembly, and then in his early victories, wounded at Ratisbon, at the tomb of Frederick the Great, distributing the Legion of Honor at the Invalides, quelling an insurrection at Cairo, engaged in his unparalleled succession of battles, and at the altar with Maria Louisa. The divorce from Josephine and the murder of the Duc D'Enghien, are events that only recur more impressively to the mind of the spectator because uncommemorated. From the career of military genius which transformed the destinies of France, we pass to apartments where still breathes the vestiges of legitimacy as in the hour of its prime. The equestrian statue of Louis XIV. in the court-yard, his bed and crown, his clock and chair in the long suite of rooms kept sacred to his memory, typify the age when genius and beauty mingled their charms in the corrupt atmosphere of intrigue and profligacy. The noble expanse of wood, water, and meadow; the paths lined with stately myrtles and ancient box, spread as invitingly to the eye from this embayed window, as when the _grand monarque_ stood there to watch the graceful walk of La Vallière, or the staid carriage of Maintenon. The abandonment and quietude of these chambers, mirrored, tapestried, and solitary, owe not a little of the spell they exercise over the imagination, to the vicinity of the galleries devoted to the men of the Revolution and the campaigns of '92; amid the smoke of conflict ever appears that resolute, olive face with the dark eye fixed and the thin lip curved in decision or expectancy. We mechanically repeat Campbell's elegy as we mark "Hohenlinden," and linger with patriotic gratitude over "Yorktown," notwithstanding the absurd prominence given to the French officers; Condé, Turenne, Moreau, Lannes, Massena, and Lafayette fight over again before us the wars of the Fronde, the Empire, or the Republic. The monotony of these scenes of destruction is only relieved by the individual memories of the chiefs; they link a certain individuality with the flame and shroud of war, the fragmentary conquests, and the struggles that make up so large a portion of external history; and we emerge from the crowd of warriors into the company of statesmen, wits, and poets, with a sensation of refreshment. Each single triumph of thought, each victory of imagination and memorial of character, has an absolute worth and charm that the exploits of armies can never emulate.

Racine's portrait revives the long controversy between the classic and romantic schools; that of La Bruy re the art of character-painting now one of the highest functions of popular literature; that of Bossuet the pulpit eloquence of France and the persecution of Fenelon, and that of Saint Cyr the Jansenist discussion. A blank like that which designates the place of Marino Faliero in the Ducal palace at Venice, is left here for Le Sage, as the nativity of the author of Gil Blas is yet disputed. We look at Rousseau to revert to the social reforms, of which he was the pioneer; at La Place to realize the achievements of the exact sciences, and at St. Pierre to remember the poetry of nature. Voltaire's likeness is not labelled for the same reason that there is no name on the tomb of Ney; both are too well known to require announcement. How incongruous become the associations as we proceed; old Père la Chaise cheek by jowl with the American Presidents; Cagliostro, who died before the word his career incarnated had become indispensable to the English tongue--the apotheosis of humbug; Marmontel, dear to our novitiate as royal leaders; and near to the original Pamela; Chateaubriand's ancestor the Marshal; Bisson going below to ignite the magazine, rather than "give up the ship;" and the battered war dog, with a single eye and leg, beneath whose fragmentary portrait is inscribed that Mars left him only a heart.

It is with singular interest that we look upon the authentic resemblance of persons with whose minds and career literature has made us familiar, and compare what we have imagined of their appearance with the reality. Of such characters as Gluck, Klopstock and Madame Le Brun, whose ministry of art has excited a vague delight, we may have formed no very distinct image; but associated as is the name of Madame Roland with courage, suffering and affliction, we naturally expect a more dignified and less vivacious expression than here meets us, until we remember the earlier development of her rare and sympathetic intelligence. Count Mirabeau has a look of mildness and _sang froid_ instead of the earnestness we fancied. Who would have supposed the fair assassin of Marat such a thin, delicate and spirituelle blonde? The sensuous face of George IV. and the tragic one of Charles I., in the ever recurring Vandyke, with Sheridan's confident, handsome and genial physiognomy, seem grouped to make more elevated, by comparison, the noble abstraction of Flaxman. Talleyrand resembles a keen, selfish, humorous and gentlemanly man of the world, in an unexceptionable white wig. Richelieu is piquant and Madame de Staël impassioned and Amazonian. What decadence even in the warlike notabilities is hinted by glancing from Soult to Oudinot! I thought of the French fleet in the memorable storm off Newport, as I recognized the portrait of the Count d'Estaing; and realized anew the military instinct of the nation in the preponderance of battle-scenes and heroes, and marked the interest with which groups of soldiers lingered and talked before them.

THE RETURN OF THE GODDESS.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

Not as in youth, with steps outspeeding morn, And cheeks all bright from rapture of the way, But in strange mood, half cheerful, half forlorn, She comes to me to-day.

Does she forget the trysts we used to keep, When dead leaves rustled on autumnal ground? Or the lone garret, whence she banished sleep With threats of silver sound?

Does she forget how shone the happy eyes When they beheld her?--how the eager tongue Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies, To reach her where she sung?

How at her sacred feet I cast me down? How she upraised me to her bosom fair, And from her garland shred the first light crown That ever pressed my hair?

Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring Their freshness back: why lingers she so long? The pulseless air is waiting for her wing, Dumb with unuttered song.

If tender doubt delay her on the road, Oh let her haste, to find that doubt belied! If shame for love unworthily bestowed, That shame shall melt in pride.

If she but smile, the crystal calm will break In music, sweeter than it ever gave, As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake And laughs in every wave.

The ripples of awakened song shall die Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain, Until, as once, upon her breast I lie, Pardoned and loved again.

ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE.

BY GEORGE S. HILLARD.

Against all institutions for the diffusion of knowledge among the community, an objection is often urged that they can teach nothing thoroughly, but only superficially, and that modest ignorance is better than presumptuous half-knowledge. How frequently is it said that "a little learning is a dangerous thing." This celebrated line is a striking instance of the vitality which may be given to what is at least a very doubtful proposition by throwing it into a pointed form. If anything be a good at all, it is a good precisely in proportion to the extent in which it is possessed or enjoyed. A great deal of it is better than a little, but a little is better than none. No one says or thinks that a little conscience, or a little wisdom, or a little faith, or a little charity is a dangerous thing. Why then is a little learning dangerous? Alas, it is not the little learning, but the much ignorance which it supposes, that is dangerous!

We also frequently hear it said, that the general diffusion of popular knowledge is unfavorable to great acquisitions in any one individual. This is a favorite dogma with those persons whose views are all retrospective, who are ever magnifying past ages at the expense of the present, and who will insist upon riding through life with their faces turned toward the horse's tail instead of his head. "We have smatterers and sciolists in abundance," say they, "but where are the giant scholars of other days?" Dr. Johnson once said, in reply to a remark upon the general intelligence of the people of Scotland, that learning in Scotland was like bread in a besieged city, where every man gets a mouthful, but none a full meal. He also observed in a conversation held with Lord Monboddo, that learning had much decreased in England, since his remembrance; to which his lordship remarked, "you have lived to see its decrease in England; I, its extinction in Scotland." The fallacy of views like these consists in taking it for granted that there is always just about the same aggregate amount of knowledge in the world, and that only the ratio of distribution is changed. But there is no such analogy between learning and material substances. The wealth of the mind is not like gold, which must be beaten out the finer, as the surface to be covered by it is more extensive. As to the alleged superiority of past ages, in anything essential, I am more than skeptical. I hold rather that of all good things, learning included, there is as much in the world now as there ever was--not to say more. The great scholars of Europe in our time are not inferior to the greatest of their predecessors. Even in classical literature and antiquities, the searching, analyzing and investigating spirit of our age has poured new light upon the remote past, and rendered the labors of former generations useless. By elevating the general standard, it is true that there is less distance between the common mind and the deeply learned. The scholars of the middle ages seem the higher, from the low level of ignorance from which they rise. They are like mountains shooting abruptly from the plain. Our scholars seem to have reached an inferior point of elevation, because the level of the general mind has come nearer to them, as mountain peaks lose somewhat of their apparent height when they spring from a raised table land.

ON RECEIVING A

PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS

FROM A FRIEND.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

A modest bud matured mid secret dews, May yield its bloom beside some hidden path, Full of sweet perfumes and of rarest hues While few may note the beauty which it hath--

And yet perchance some maiden, wandering there, May bend beside it with a loving look, Or by the streamlet place it in her hair; And smile above her image in the brook.

A bird with pinions beautiful, and shy, May sing scarce noted mid the noisier throng; Or 'scaping earth, take refuge in the sky And though concealed still charm the air with song.

Yet haply some enamored ear may hark, And deem it sweetest of the birds that sing; Or in his heart still praise the unseen lark That leads his fancies toward its heavenward wing.

A star in some sequestered nook on high, In its deep niche of blue may calmly shine, While careless eyes that wander o'er the sky, May only deem the brightest orbs divine.

But there are those who love to sit and trace Between all these some shy retiring light, For such, they know, shed through the veil of space The general halo that adorns the night.

Thus many a poet's volume unproclaimed By all the myriad tongues of Fame afar, The few may deem as worthy to be named, (As I do this) a Flower, a Bird, a Star!

THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END.

BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO.

Last from the church came the organist, Daniel Summerman. He was less hurried than others; to him it was not, as to people in general, a day of increased social responsibility. His great duty was now performed. Done, whether well or ill. He descended the stairs slowly, but with a step so light you might have taken it for a child's. No need for him to haste; the precious moments would go fast enough--he wished not to lose one.

In the porch he paused a moment, to draw on his woollen gloves, and button his great coat, and for something besides. Perhaps the person who laid the wreath of cedar leaves on his organ stool was somewhere about, and had some criticism to offer in respect to the choir's performance.

But he descended the church steps without having met even the sexton; somewhat disappointed, it was not with indifference that he saw a stranger standing in the churchyard among the graves; by the grave, it chanced, of a child who died in October, five years old. When the organist perceived this, a purpose which he would have formed later in the day, anticipated itself, and led him to the little mound. He would leave the cedar wreath on Mary's grave.

He was not ashamed of his gracious purpose when he had drawn near. His gentle heart was glad to do this homage to the dead, in the presence of a stranger who had never seen the living child. Stooping down, he smoothed the frozen grass, and laid the wreath upon it; and when he saw the stranger watching him, he said:

"She was the prettiest child in the village; if she had lived, we should have had one singer in the choir. I would have taught her. She loved music so much."

Here was an introduction sufficient for an ordinary man. At least the organist thought so. But when he looked at the stranger he was sorry that he had spoken, for no genial sympathy was in that face, and still less in the voice that asked,

"Will you leave the wreath here? Where did it come from?"

The organist replied as though he did not perceive the indifference with which the questions were asked:

"I found it in the choir," said he. "One of the children left it, may be. Any way this is the best place for it. Dear little girl! I should hate to think that she was really down there."

"Where, then?" asked the stranger.

"Up above, as sure as there's a heaven." As Summerman spoke, he stepped from the frozen ground to the gravel walk, and turning his back on the stranger he brushed a tear from his cheek.

The gentleman, whose name was Redman Rush, followed him. He was a well-dressed person; indeed, his attire was splendid, in comparison with the rough garments of the little organist. His fine broadcloth cloak was trimmed profusely with rare fur, and he wore a fur cap that must have cost half as much as the church paid Summerman for playing the organ a twelvemonth. He was a noticeable person, not merely on account of his dress. His bearing was elegant, that of a well-bred man, not indifferent to the eyes of others; that of a man somewhat cautious of the reflection he should cast in a region of shadows and appearances. But, moreover, the face of this Redman Rush was the face of misery. If ever a wreck came to shore, here was the torn and battered fragment of a gallant craft.

"Were you in the church this morning?" asked the organist, struggling with himself, speaking with effort; for, to his gaze, the aspect of the stranger was forbidding and awful; and yet it was beyond his power to walk by the side of any man cautious, cold, and dumb. This person was at least a gentleman, and perhaps understood music.

"Yes," was the brief answer.

"How did the singing go?"

"Tolerably."

"That's a comfort," said the organist, looking more pleased than the occasion seemed to warrant. But he was not a vain man; he merely supposed that the gentleman's reply promised criticism worth hearing.

"Didn't you hear it yourself?"

"Oh, yes, after a fashion. I play the organ. It isn't the best situation for hearing. I thought it decent. Particularly the _Gloria in Excelsis_. I was most anxious about that. How did it sound to you, sir?"

"Well."

"But, after all, they didn't understand it."

"Understand what?"

"The meaning. It opens with the song of the angels, you know. 'Glory be to God on high; on earth, peace, good will toward men.' They couldn't tell, coherently, what the Peace and Good Will meant. That's the worst of it. How can they sing what they don't understand?"

"Surely. Why don't you teach them?"

"Why don't I teach them!" exclaimed the organist. "I'm not a brain-maker; that's the reason, I suppose."

"Then, you've tried it?"

For a minute Summerman seemed vexed by this question; but for no longer than a minute.

"What's the use? what's the use?" he said to himself, and his answer to the question was a laugh.

The laugh, though neither loud nor boisterous, but merely a mild evidence of good-nature that was not to be clouded by vexations, had a disagreeable sound to Redman Rush. He looked contemptuous, and felt more than he looked, so that it was really surprising to see him linger for such conversation as this of the organist, and to hear him ask,

"How do you teach your choir? Whose fault is it that they cannot learn?"

"Their own fault," answered Summerman. "They've got to learn more than the notes. So they complain. You can't make a singer out of a note-book. I've tried that enough. Now I try to show them that peace means a riddance of selfishness, and that selfishness is the devil's device for holding the world together. Not God's; for his idea is love, and was in the beginning. Wasn't the world given to understand, that the life which was born was the love, truth, and beauty of the world, and that by Him all truth and beauty must live? They can't see it. I can't make a man or woman understand that an idea must be the centre around which the life will revolve. They come to practise, not to hear preaching, they say."

It seemed as if at this, and because of this announcement, Redman Rush drew himself apart and up, loftily, and with a gloomy defiance looked around him. When Summerman's eyes turned toward him, he seemed gazing into distance, and gave no indication that he had heard a word of what had been said. The organist was disappointed. He had hoped again for criticism; but he went on, perhaps with some suspicion of the correctness of his convictions--at least he had not said all he wished to say.