Part 9

The Pilgrims, a class of deeply conscientious non-conformists, who, because of the persecutions endured, had in the land of their birth no certain abiding place, and many of whom for ten years found an asylum in Holland, had now, by some mysterious influence, turned their thoughts and hopes to the New World. They had known the bitterness of leaving home and country for conscience sake, had in their voluntary exile cultivated habits of industry, gained strength of character by the things they suffered, and were now ready to encounter any difficulty to find a home, though in the far-off American wilderness.

With no charter or grant of land from the king they could only obtain consent of the Company to occupy some uninhabited part of that vast and rather indefinite tract then known as Virginia, and between 34° and 45° north latitude. After much difficulty they obtained two vessels, the “Speedwell” and “May-Flower.” The former, being found unseaworthy, returned to Plymouth, and the “May-Flower” proceeded with one hundred and one colonists. Encountering fierce storms it was a long, perilous passage of sixty-three days; and being compelled to land outside the limits of the Virginia Company’s jurisdiction, and so without any government, they proceeded at once to form one. All the men of the company, forty-one in number, signed the constitution before leaving the ship. It was brief but comprehensive, and, with an honest avowal of allegiance to the crown, democratic in the most explicit sense. On Monday, the 11th of December, 1620, the Pilgrims landed on the Rock of Plymouth, on the western shore of Cape Cod. It was late in the season, and though all possible efforts were made to provide themselves shelter, and some means of defense in case of attack, there was much sickness, suffering and death during the winter. An early spring brought relief to those who survived; and, from year to year, their decimated ranks were recruited by new arrivals. Treaties of peace were made with the Indians; the fields and forests furnished food, and in a short time the colony numbered thousands. Other settlements were made, and in ten years spread over the country from Cape Ann to Plymouth. Before the end of the next decade some fifty towns and villages dotted the country, and the signs of thrift were most encouraging. W. Stevens, a ship builder, had already launched an American vessel of four hundred tons burden; and two hundred and ninety-three immigrant ships had anchored in Massachusetts Bay, and more than 20,000 Europeans had found homes as the outcome of the humble beginning at Plymouth. But the good men who had suffered much for conscience’ sake, and that they might enjoy liberty, were not themselves free from the bigotry they spurned and became cruelly intolerant of those who dared differ from them.

But that narrowness was soon overcome, and measures unworthy of them overruled for good. The banishment of the eloquent Roger Williams and others who pleaded for complete religious toleration, and declared that the consciences of men are in no way bound by the authority of the magistrate, so far from quenching the spirit of freedom that burned in his manly words, gave it wider scope and richer fruitage. The exile, finding favor with the Indians, whose rights he had so nobly defended, soon became, by purchase, the owner of Rhode Island. He founded the city of Providence and established a little republic, in whose constitution freedom of conscience was guaranteed, and persecution for opinion’s sake forbidden. Moreover, his influence in Massachusetts was scarcely less than it would have been had he remained.

The seed was sown, and the fruit very soon appeared. The aristocracy that was growing up in spite of all disclaimers was overthrown, a representative government established, and the good Puritans, without compromising their orthodoxy, became more tolerant toward such as “followed not with them.”

The colonies of Rhode Island, Maryland and Pennsylvania were the first civil communities in which free toleration in religion was granted, but the leaven was working. A nation was fast growing up in the wilderness, whose resources were rapidly developing. But the scattered communities were much exposed, and, for mutual defense, the colonies of Plymouth, Massachusetts Bay, Connecticut and New Haven united in 1643, forming the “United Colonies of New England.” The union lasted forty years, and foreshadowed the union of the United States. In union they found strength, and increased still more rapidly in all the resources of a prosperous community. They had council chambers, churches, school houses, and printing presses, with probably as large a proportion of educated and highly cultured people as are found in any new settlement. That many were strangely superstitious, bigoted and intolerant; that lives, otherwise noble and praiseworthy, were stained with acts of injustice and cruelty, is confessed with sorrow; but it only proves them men with the weaknesses and faults that belong to our common humanity. Their virtues alone are worthy of imitation.

While rapid progress was made in the east, and popular government was becoming securely established, the work of colonization was pushed vigorously in other sections, and, in less than fifty years, there had been planted fifteen colonies, most of which prospered greatly. In 1636 Providence united with Rhode Island, in 1677 Maine with Massachusetts, and in 1682 New Haven with Connecticut. Of those eventually forming the “Empire” and “Keystone” states mention will be made hereafter.

[C] Abridged from “People’s History.”

[End of Required Reading for March.]

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A correspondent asks: “What is the meaning of ‘Creole?’ To whom is it applied, and why?” The word is French—the Spanish being nearly the same. It means primarily to create, but also to nourish, educate, bring up. It was first applied to children of French and Spanish parentage born in the West Indies or in Louisiana, because they were brought up in the country to which their parents came as colonists. The name is honorable. The influence of climate and other circumstances made these children of European parentage differ somewhat in appearance from their ancestors. They were less hardy and robust, but more beautiful. The term “Creoles” is sometimes applied to all born in tropical climates, as they have some common characteristics.

HELEN’S TOWER.

By CHARLES BLATHERWICK.

Helen’s tower, here I stand, Dominant over sea and land. Son’s love built me, and I hold Mother’s love engraved in gold. Love is in and out of time, I am mortal stone and lime. Would my granite girth were strong As either love, to last as long, I should wear my crown entire To and thro’ the Doomsday fire, And be found of angel eyes In earth’s recurring Paradise.—_A. Tennyson._

Halfway up Belfast Lough, on the high ground to the left you may see a remarkable landmark. This is Helen’s Tower, built by the present Earl of Dufferin as a tribute of filial affection to his mother, the late Countess of Gifford, and formally named after her on attaining his majority.

Looking across from the grey old walls of Carrickfergus, it may be seen crowning the highest hill on the Claudeboye estate. Clear cut against the sky, there it stands, lashed by the winds or touched by the sun, ever firm and enduring—a fitting memorial of one of the best and noblest of women.

Lady Gifford was a Sheridan, one to whom wit and beauty came as natural gifts, yet one who dipped deeply into the font of human knowledge, and by pure sympathy with all that was good and beautiful in life, exerted a lasting influence on all those whose privilege it was to know her.

A short drive from Bangor, or, still better, a pleasant two-mile stretch across the turf from Claudeboye House, will bring you to the foot of the hill. Here, glimmering amid ferns, sedges, birches, and firs, very calm and peaceful on a golden autumn day, with Helen’s Tower reflected on its face, is a quiet lake. Then a smart climb through a fir wood, and the tower—a veritable Scotch tower, with “corbie stairs” and jutting turrets all complete—is before you.

At the basement lives the old keeper with his wife; and here, after inscribing your name in the visitors’ book, you follow him up the stone steps.

The sleeping chamber first. A cosy little room, remarkable for the fine specimen of French embroidery which decorates the bedstead, with the quaint inscription on the tester—

“_I . nightly . pitch . my . moving . tent_ _A . day’s . march . nearer . home._”

From here you are taken to the top.

Looking east on a clear day the view is superb. From Claudeboye woods and lakes, Belfast Lough and the Antrim hills on the left, the eye sweeps round to Cantire and the Scotch coast, till distance is lost in the dim range of Cumberland hills.

Descending again, we enter the principal chamber—octagonal, oak-paneled, with groined pointed ceiling and stained-glass windows. On these are numerous quaint designs, intermixed with the signs of the zodiac, showing the pursuits of mankind during the progress of the seasons—from the sturdy sower of spring to the shrivelled old man warming his toes by the winter fire. Over the fire-place is a niche for a silver lamp, and flanking the west window are two poetical inscriptions—that on the left, printed in gold and having reference to the lamp, is by Lord Dufferin’s mother; and that on the right, printed in bold black type, is by the poet-laureate.

On reading Lady Gifford’s graceful verses, we are pathetically reminded that she was not spared to see her son’s brilliant career. I give them here, and the laureate’s sonorous lines stand at the head of this paper.

TO MY DEAR SON ON HIS TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

[_With a Silver Lamp._—“_Fiat Lux._”]

How shall I bless thee? Human Love Is all too poor in passionate words! The heart aches with a sense above All language that the lip affords! Therefore, a symbol shall express My love;—a thing nor rare nor strange, But yet—eternal—measureless— Knowing no shadow and no change! Light! which of all the lovely shows To our poor world of shadows given, The fervent Prophet-voices chose Alone—as attribute of Heaven!

At a most solemn pause we stand! From this day forth, for evermore, The weak, but loving, human hand Must cease to guide thee as of yore! Then as through life thy footsteps stray And earthly beacons dimly shine, “Let there be Light” upon thy way, And holier guidance far than mine. “Let there be Light” in thy clear soul, When Passion tempts, or Doubts assail, When Grief’s dark tempests o’er thee roll “Let there be Light” that shall not fail!

So—angel guarded—may’st thou tread The narrow path, which few may find; And at the end look back, nor dread To count the vanished years behind! And pray, that she whose hand doth trace This heart-warm prayer, when life is past, May see and know thy blessed face In God’s own glorious Light at last!—_Good Words._

Mr. Robert Browning has also written lines upon this “Tower,” and has consented to their publication in a late issue of the _Pall Mall Gazette_. In an introduction to the poem, the _Gazette_ remarks: “The difference in treatment of the same subject by the two poets will, we are sure, interest our readers. Mr. Browning’s tribute to the love-inducing qualities of the late Lady Gifford was no mere compliment, as all who knew her will bear witness.”

“HELEN’S TOWER.”

Who hears of Helen’s Tower, may dream, perchance, How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan Gate Gazed on old friends unanimous in hate, Death-doom’d because of her fair countenance.

Hearts would leap otherwise at thy advance, Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate! Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate, Yet, unlike hers, was blessed by every glance.

The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange; A transitory shame of long ago, It dies into the sand from which it sprang; But thine, Love’s rock-built Tower, shall fear no change; God’s self laid stable earth’s foundation so, When all the morning stars together sang.

—_Robert Browning._

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The traces of human deeds fade swiftly away from the sun-lighted earth, as the transient shade of thought from the brow, but nothing is lost and dissipated, which the rolling hours, replete with secrets, have received into their dark creative bosom. Time is a blooming field; nature is ever teeming with life, and all is seed, and all is fruit.—_Schiller._

MENDELSSOHN’S GRAVE AND HUMBOLDT’S HOME.

By the Author of “German-American Housekeeping,” etc.

I wish this article could be accompanied by a pen and ink sketch made on the spot of Mendelssohn’s grave and that of his sister Fanny. The simplicity of it would surprise you, as it astonished me, on one Sunday afternoon when, in company with a friend, I wandered in search of the resting place of him whose songs need no words. We had both imagined some lofty monument would mark the spot, and that in order to find it, it would only be necessary to inquire of some one in the vicinity. Pursuing this plan, to our utter amazement we only received an ignorant stare from plebeian and patrician. Finally being told by an old gentleman, “if we would go beyond the Canal-strasse in the direction of the Belle-alliance Platz down the Schöneberger Ufer through a narrow street,” we would come to a gate opening into a cemetery, which we must pass through, before reaching a smaller cemetery, in which Mendelssohn was buried. After many efforts we roused the old porter who kept the key to the latter gate. We walked rapidly in, expecting to see something in monumental art worthy of the name, but the artless old porter pointed to a grave in the corner and there, overshadowed by some trees, stood the plain slabs with the names of Felix, Fanny and August Mendelssohn.

A curious sense of the incongruous came over us while standing by the simple stones and recalling the solemn and appropriate demonstration at the time of Felix Mendelssohn’s death, made in every city and town where his genius had been known. Was it true that here in this small, unknown grave-yard they had left him? Was it to yonder small gate the four horses in black accoutrements drew the carriage containing the coffin covered with palm-branches, laurel-wreaths and flowers? And did the great choirs and orchestras of the city pass through with the grand choral, “Jesus my trust,” preceded by all Germany’s musicians, the clergy, civil officers, professors, officers of the army, and the immense throng of admirers? Perplexed by such thought we followed the old porter, who had started with a watering pot to the grave beyond, and asked if a monument was to be erected to Mendelssohn’s memory. “Ach, nein, er war einer Jude, und deshalb ist er vernachlässigt.” A Jew, therefore is his grave neglected.

When Paul and Barnabas turned to the Gentiles it was because the Jews “had judged themselves unworthy of everlasting life.” But we are never told that a penitent Jew was treated differently from any one else in the days of the Apostles. Although a Jew by birth, Felix Mendelssohn’s character wanted no principle of the genuine Christian. Never was feeling more sacred and profound, expressed in harmonious strain than he expressed in his great oratorio of “St. Paul” and “Elijah,” nor can the praise of God be more grandly heard on earth than in the double chorus of his XLII. Psalm, when well rendered, or again, when with his pious heart he wished to show the triumph at the creation of light over darkness, which ends with a beautiful duet, “Therefore I sing thy everlasting praise, thou faithful God.”

We are told that Mendelssohn spent his last days laboring over a new oratorio—“Christ.” It was commenced during his stay in Italy, and while rambling among the mountains of Switzerland he is said to have been inspired with the theme for his work, which he hoped to make his best. Never was wealth used more wisely and religiously than his. Not only did he clothe the naked and feed the hungry, but every one who came near him with aspirations for an ennobling life he advanced. He undertook a tremendous amount of labor in giving concerts in Leipzig, the proceeds of which were devoted to the statue of Bach. At first he undertook to erect such a monument out of his own means, saying “that it was only right that John Sebastian Bach, who had labored so usefully and with such distinguished honor as cantor at the Thomas school at Leipzig, should have a monument in the streets of the city in which he had lived, as an immortal spirit of harmony.” At these concerts he allowed only Bach’s music to be produced, intending in this way, he said, to make the rising generations of musicians more familiar with the works of one to whom he felt under the greatest weight of obligation, and whom he is said to have resembled in the severity of his studies as well as the loftiness of his aims. But this is the expression of Mendelssohn’s best friends; adverse criticism has much to say, and while his motives were pure and his compositions genuine and vivacious, yet in sublime combinations and serious themes Bach and Beethoven can alone be compared.

Every winter in Berlin the oratorios of “Elijah” and “St. Paul” are given in the Sing-Academy. This old music hall is a place of memorial scenes, the directorship of which Mendelssohn once applied for, at the earnest solicitation of his friends, and was refused. The enthusiastic audiences which now assemble there to hear his music seem to be as forgetful of this as they are ignorant of the little secluded grave-yard in the outskirts of the city where his immense throng of friends and admirers left him twenty years ago.

In beautiful imitation of his noble efforts for Bach’s monument could an appropriation of the money secured by the rendering of his great oratorio be made—an idea which occurs to the mind of strangers in Berlin, but unfortunately not to the citizens, who are less disposed in this case than the Greeks to honor their dead, and who more readily ridicule in Mendelssohn’s death than praise such sentiment as the following:

“By the sea’s margin, by the sea’s strand, Thy monument, Themistocles shall stand; By it directed to thy native shore, The merchant shall convey his freighted store, And when her fleets are summoned to the fight, Athens shall conquer with thy grave in sight.”

It had never occurred to the Berliners to raise a monument to Goethe until two years ago, and Alexander and Wilhelm von Humboldt have just been recognized in this way. “Tegel,” the grand old home of Alexander, is seldom seen by visitors, that is to say, it is not frequented by the traveler as Potsdam and Charlottenburg. An interesting place, and an interesting master it had, “who had trod many lands, known many deeds, probed many hearts, beginning with his own, and was far in readiness for God.” His grave is just beyond the house, at the end of an avenue. His home has been inherited by a niece, and is kept up in all the elegance of former years. The grounds are very handsome, so densely covered in places with magnificent old trees along avenues stretching beyond the house and grave. These forest trees are very rare in this low sandy region. After driving for miles through barren land with only occasional forests of stiff pines, to come suddenly upon trees which somewhat resemble our American oak, bestows a happy home-like feeling to the American who has wandered from her primeval forests.

The house at “Tegel” is built in the most rigid style, relieved on the outside by niches filled with good pieces of statuary. Within every room is painfully neat—the formality with which the furniture is placed shows evidence that the owner had no wife and no children. It is an attempt at an Italian villa, but seems too cold and formal for such a climate as Berlin. There is certainly taste displayed and cultivation evinced in the selection of many things. The library is filled with books, principally works of Humboldt and Voltaire. On the tables are large portfolios containing maps and cartoons. The desk with the pen and inkstand remain just as he left them. Indeed, there is only a suggestion here and there, that the niece is living and owning the place—it seems as if she were a ghost and her life a myth—so still and so orderly are the rooms, and so undisturbed hang the red apples by the house. Indeed, the house seems as silent as the stately avenue of oaks that leads to the grave. Humboldt left a handsome fortune to this niece, for he lived and died a bachelor.

He owned many valuable pieces of statuary. The original of Thorwaldsen’s Venus was purchased by Humboldt with much pride, it is said, and placed in his collection with other rare pieces found at various places in his travels. Among other curious possessions a mutilated old fountain from Pompeii stands in the hall. The floors are tiles, as one generally finds in Germany, and the saloon which contains the finest statuary suggests Goethe’s lines in “Mignon:”

“Und Marmor Bilder stehen und sehen mich an.”

What is there in the make up of literary men which prompts them almost invariably to isolate themselves in some far removed country place? The explanation which is generally given by themselves is, that their time being so precious they can not be interrupted; their ideas will not grow and flourish in the midst of the talkative world. Emerson tells of the literary man who declared “the solitary river was not solitary enough; the sun and moon put him out. When he bought a house the first thing he did was to plant trees. He could not enough conceal himself.” ’Tis worse, and tragic Emerson goes on to remark that no man is fit for society who has fine traits. “At a distance he is admired, but bring him hand to hand, he is a cripple.” He affects to be a good companion; but is he entitled to marry? But happily for our love of Emerson, in the same essay he observes, “A man must be clothed with society or we shall feel a certain bareness and poverty.” “For behavior, men learn it as they take diseases, one of another.” “But people are to be taken in small doses.” “Solitude is impracticable and society fatal.” Whoever talked more to the point than this wise philosopher? Carlyle talked more wisely, because his spiritual sky was less nebulous, perhaps—but who shall judge of this? All men who have written have subjected themselves to criticism, and criticism is desirable, provided it originates with good and honest intentions. Madame d’Staël wanted to hear it, not to read it! and if more authors and literary people would live as Goethe, as Macaulay, as Madame d’Staël, as the recent German novelist, Berthold Auerbach, in the midst of their friends or foes as they may chance to be, hearing the arguments for and against them, would they not have fewer words and paragraphs to regret at the end of their career? Goethe wanted to hear all that could be said of him, that he might the more cleverly understand what he was, what he was writing for, and where his lessons were to be honored.