Part 4

In the National Gallery we find two portraits of Rembrandt, one representing him at the age of thirty-two, another when an old man. In the same collection is the “Woman taken in Adultery” (1644), and the “Adoration of the Shepherds” (1646), both superb in arrangement and execution. Germany and Russia are almost as rich as Holland in the number of Rembrandt’s pictures which they possess. The “Descent from the Cross,” in the Munich Gallery, is a specimen of the sacred subjects of this master. He interprets the Bible from the Protestant and realistic standpoint, and though the coloring of the pictures is marvelous, the grotesque features and Walloon dress of the personages represented make it hard to recognize the actors in the gospel story. Many of his Scripture characters were doubtless painted from the models afforded him in the Jews’ quarter of Amsterdam, where he resided. The magnificent panoramic landscape belonging to Lord Overstone, and the famous picture of “The Mill” against a sunset sky, are signal examples of his poetic power, and his etchings show us this peculiarity of his genius, even more than his oil paintings. Of these etchings, which range over every class of subject, religious, historical, landscape and portrait, there is a fine collection in the British Museum; and they should be studied in order to understand the immense range of his superb genius. The “Ecce Homo,” to say nothing of the splendor, the light and shade, and richness of execution, has never been surpassed for dramatic expression; and we forgive the commonness of form and type in the expression of touching pathos in the figure of the Savior; nor would it be possible to express with greater intensity the terrible raging of the crowd, the ignobly servile and cruel supplications of the priests, or the anxious desire to please on the part of Pilate. The celebrated plate “Christ Healing the Sick,” exhibits in the highest perfection his mastery of chiaroscuro, and the marvelous delicacies of gradation which he introduced into his more finished work.

The number of Rembrandt’s pictures in Holland, although it includes his three greatest, is remarkably small—indeed, they may be counted on the fingers; and lately, by the sale of the Van Loon collection, the Dutch have lost two more of his finest works in the portraits of the “Burgomaster Six” and “His Wife.” But his works abound in the other great galleries of Europe.

* * * * *

There is really in nature such a thing as high life. A life of health, of sound morality, of disinterested intellectual activity, of freedom from petty cares is higher than a life of disease and vice, and stupidity and sordid anxiety. I maintain that it is right and wise in a nation to set before itself the highest attainable ideal of human life as the existence of a complete gentleman.—_Hamerton._

SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

“Among the writers who have done much to refine and elevate American literature, Thomas Bailey Aldrich should have the brightest place of one who has wrought equally well in prose and poetry. Among his early efforts ‘Baby Bell’ will longest hold its place in poetry.”—_Henry James, Jr._

It is the vision of a gentle, tender spirit, and many eyes unused to tears will grow moist over the delicate lines. We have not room for the whole.

“Baby Bell.”

Have you not heard the poets tell, How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar; With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even— Its bridges, running to and fro, O’er which the white-winged angels go, Bearing the holy dead to heaven. She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels. They fell like dew upon the flowers; Then all the air grew strangely sweet! And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours.

…

O, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes; What poetry within them lay! Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright, As if she yet stood in the light, Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more; Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born; We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen— The land beyond the morn. And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth (The mother’s being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise), For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ! our hearts bent down Like violets after rain.

…

It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell— The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, “O, smite us gently, gently, God! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief.” Ah, how we loved her, God can tell; Her heart was folded deep in ours; Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell!

At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands; And what did dainty Baby Bell? She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair; We parted back her silken hair, We wove the roses round her brow— White buds, the summer’s drifted snow— Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of ours.

Some of Aldrich’s descriptions of oriental scenery are richer in color and more luxurious, but he is more at home and more captivating with familiar themes drawn from every day life. We are charmed with such simple pictures as

“Before the Rain.”

We knew it would rain, for all the morn A spirit on slender ropes of mist Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst

Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens, Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, Dipping the jewels out of the sea, To sprinkle them over the land in showers.

We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind—and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

North from Jerusalem.

We left Jerusalem by the Jaffa Gate. Not far from the city wall there is a superb terebinth tree, now in the full glory of its shining green leaves. It appears to be bathed in a perpetual dew; the rounded masses of foliage sparkle and glitter in the light, and the great spreading boughs flood the turf below with a deluge of delicious shade. A number of persons were reclining on the grass under it, and one of them, a very handsome Christian boy, spoke to us in Italian and English. I scarcely remember a brighter and purer day than that of our departure. The sky was a sheet of spotless blue; every rift and scar of the distant hills was retouched with a firmer pencil, and all the outlines, blurred away by the haze of the previous few days, were restored with wonderful distinctness. The temperature was hot, but not sultry, and the air we breathed was an elixir of immortality.

Through a luxuriated olive grove we reached the Tombs of the Kings, situated in a small valley to the north of the city. Part of the valley, if not the whole of it, has been formed by quarrying away the crags of marble and conglomerate limestone for building the city. Near the edge of the low cliffs overhanging it, there are some illustrations of the ancient mode of cutting stone, which, as well as the custom of excavating tombs in the rocks, was evidently borrowed from Egypt. The upper surface of the rocks was first made smooth, after which the blocks were mapped out and cut apart by grooves chiseled between them. I visited four or five tombs, each of which had a sort of vestibule or open portico in front. The door was low, and the chambers which I entered, small and black, without sculptures of any kind. There were fragments of sarcophagi in some of them. On the southern side of the valley is a large quarry, evidently worked for marble, as the blocks have been cut out from below, leaving a large overhanging mass, part of which has broken off and fallen down. The opening of the quarry made a striking picture, the soft pink hue of the weather-stained rock contrasting exquisitely with the vivid green of the vines festooning the entrance.

From the long hill beyond the tombs, we took our last view of Jerusalem, far beyond whose walls I saw the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. Notwithstanding its sanctity, I felt little regret at leaving Jerusalem, and cheerfully took the rough road northward over the stony hills. There were few habitations in sight, yet the hillsides were cultivated, wherever it was possible for anything to grow. After four hours’ ride we reached El Bireh, a little village on a hill, with the ruins of a convent and a large Khan. The place takes its name from a fountain of excellent water, beside which we found our tents already pitched. The night was calm and cool, and the full moon poured a flood of light over the bare and silent hills.

We rose long before sunrise and rode off in the brilliant morning—the sky unstained by a speck of vapor. In the valley, beyond El Bireh, the husbandmen were already at their plows, and the village boys were on their way to the uncultured parts of the hills with their flocks of sheep and goats. The valley terminated in a deep gorge, with perpendicular walls of rock on either side. Our road mounted the hill on the eastern side, and followed the brink of the precipice through the pass, where an enchanting landscape opened upon us.

The village of Zebroud crowned a hill which rose opposite, and the mountain slopes leaning toward it on all sides were covered with orchards of fig trees, and either rustling with wheat or cleanly plowed for maize. The soil was a dark brown loam, and very rich. The stones have been laboriously built into terraces; and, even where heavy rocky boulders almost hid the soil, young fig and olive trees were planted in the crevices between them. I have never seen more thorough and patient cultivation. In the crystal of the morning air the very hills laughed with plenty, and the whole landscape beamed with the signs of gladness on its countenance.

The site of ancient Bethel was not far to the right of our road. Over hills laden with the olive, fig and vine, we passed to Aian el Haramiyeh, or the fountain of the robbers. Here there are tombs cut in the rock on both sides of the valley. Over another ridge, we descend to a large, bowl-shaped valley, entirely covered with wheat, and opening eastward toward the Jordan. Thence to Nablous (the Shechem of the Old and Sychar of the New Testament) is four hours through a winding dell of the richest harvest land. On the way, we first caught sight of the snowy top of Mount Hermon, distant at least eighty miles in a straight line. Before reaching Nablous, I stopped to drink at a fountain of clear sweet water, beside a square pile of masonry, upon which sat two Moslem dervishes. This, we were told, was the tomb of Joseph, whose body, after having accompanied the Israelites in all their wanderings, was at last deposited near Shechem.

There is less reason to doubt this spot than most of the sacred places of Palestine, for the reason that it rests not on Christian, but on Jewish tradition. The wonderful tenacity with which the Jews cling to every record or memento of their early history, and the fact that from the time of Joseph a portion of them have always lingered near the spot, render it highly probable that the locality of a spot so sacred should have been preserved from generation to generation to the present time.

Leaving the tomb of Joseph, the road turned to the west and entered the narrow pass between Mounts Ebal and Gerizim. The former is a steep, barren peak, clothed with terraces of cactus, standing on the northern side of the pass. Mount Gerizim is cultivated nearly to the top, and is truly a mountain of blessing, compared with its neighbors. Through an orchard of grand old olive trees, we reached Nablous, which presented a charming picture, with its long mass of white, dome-topped stone houses, stretching along the foot of Gerizim through a sea of bowery orchards. The bottom of the valley resembles some old garden run to waste.

CELIA THAXTER.

Her home is by the sea, and she gives us some vivid glimpses of ocean scenes. Occasionally a joyous phrase is delicately presented, but the prevailing tone of her verse, on whatever subject, is in the minor. Perhaps “Beethoven” shows most imagination and insight, as well as felicity of expression.

Beethoven.

If God speaks anywhere, in any voice, To us his creatures, surely here and now We hear him, while the great chords seem to bow Our heads, and all the symphony’s breathless noise Breaks over us, with challenge to our souls! Beethoven’s music! From the mountain peaks The strong, divine, compelling thunder rolls; And “Come up higher, come!” the words it speaks, “Out of your darkened valleys of despair; Behold, I lift you upon mighty wings Into Hope’s living, reconciling air! Breathe, and forget your life’s perpetual stings— Dream, folded on the breast of Patience sweet, Some pulse of pitying love for you may beat!”

Faith.

Fain would I hold my lamp of life aloft Like yonder tower built high above the reef; Steadfast, though tempests rave or winds blow soft, Clear, though the sky dissolve in tears of grief.

For darkness passes; storms shall not abide, A little patience and the fog is past. After the sorrow of the ebbing tide The singing flood returns in joy at last.

The night is long and pain weighs heavily; But God will hold His world above despair. Look to the east, where up the lucid sky The morning climbs! The day shall yet be fair!

The Sandpiper.

Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit— One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky, Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white light-houses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach— One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery; He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God’s children both, Thou, little sandpiper and I?

UNITED STATES HISTORY.

THE FRENCH AND INDIAN WAR.

Before the middle of the eighteenth century the current of events in the American colonies became rapid and impetuous. Many obstacles were met, but the swollen stream rushed on, leaping over, or dashing aside the barriers that seemed to accelerate, rather than hinder the progress.

But a crisis was at hand, and the danger grew apparent.

England and France, rival nations, and often in conflict, both had extensive possessions in this country, and their rights were in dispute. The English occupied the Atlantic coast from Maine to Florida, and their colonies were well established. As yet all their important settlements were east of the Allegheny Mountains, though they claimed, as their right by discovery, all the land westward to the Pacific.

Meanwhile, the French had made important inland settlements, occupying principally the valley of the St. Lawrence and some of its tributaries. They had built Quebec and Montreal, more than 500 miles from the gulf, with other towns of importance; had fortified themselves at different points along the great chain of lakes, from Ontario to Superior; had penetrated the wilderness of western New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan and Illinois, fixing their stations and building forts on all the more important tributaries of the Mississippi, with the evident and avowed intention of connecting their St. Lawrence and Canadian possessions with the great western valley; and, through the large rivers that drain it, find their way to the sea. They would thus confine the English to the Atlantic States, and found their empire in the West. Comparatively little intercourse as there was between the East and West, these designs were well understood, and the resolute purpose to thwart them was at once avowed. The nations beyond the Atlantic were nominally at peace, but not friendly, and neither disposed to yield to the claims of the other. France, dominated by Roman Catholics, and England, the leading Protestant nation of Europe, had nurtured hatred and jealousies that might any day precipitate a conflict of arms, and the theater of the strife would be in their colonial possessions.

But before war was declared the colonists themselves became involved in actual hostilities. The English had adjusted their difficulties, and, confederate by articles of agreement and a strong national feeling, refused to be restrained by the mountain barriers. Two settlements were begun west of the Alleghenies, one on the Youghiogheny, and one in some part of western Virginia. Their relations with the Indians were friendly, and trade with them was profitable. The French, who had taken possession of the valley of the Ohio, and were doing their utmost to secure the influence of the Indians in all the region between the river and the lakes, protested against the encroachment of the English, and warned the Governor of Pennsylvania to restrain his subjects from entering territory claimed by the King of France. Of course no attention was paid to the warning other than appeared in preparations for the conflict that now seemed inevitable. The “Ohio Company,” composed of Virginians, continued to explore and survey the country. The natives protested against the French occupying their country, and the tribes prepared for an armed resistance. The Virginia charter included the whole country north to Lake Erie, and Governor Dinwiddy thought best, before hostilities were begun, to draw up a remonstrance, setting forth in order, the nature and extent of the English claim to the valley of the Ohio, and warning the French against any further attempt to occupy it. It was necessary that this paper, whatever danger and hardship it might require, should be carried to the French General St. Pierre, who was stationed at Erie, as commander of their forces in the West. The journey, that could be performed only on foot, would be through a vast, unbroken wilderness, and would require more than ordinary endurance, as well as undaunted courage. George Washington, then a young surveyor, was sent for from his home on the Potomac, and duly commissioned to carry the document. He set out on the last day of October, with four attendants and an interpreter. The route was through the mountains to the head waters of the Youghiogheny, thence down the stream to the site of Pittsburgh, which was noted as an important point, and the key to the situation in the valley of the Ohio. Thence the course was twenty miles down the river, and across to Venango (Franklin), and thence, by way of Meadville, to Fort Le Bœuf, on the head waters of French Creek, fourteen miles from Erie, where he met the General, who had come over in person to superintend the fortifications.

The officer received him with courtesy, but declined to discuss any questions of national rights. “His superior, the Governor of Canada, owned the country from the lakes to the Ohio; and being instructed to drive every Englishman from the territory, he would do it.” A respectful but decided reply was sent to Dinwiddy, and Washington was dismissed, to find his way back to Virginia.

It was by this time midwinter, and the perils of the long journey were increased by swollen rivers that had to be crossed on the treacherous ice, or on rafts constructed of logs and poles cut for the purpose. Of the incidents of that first great public service by the “Father of his Country,” but few authentic records are found, and we only know that it was performed with fidelity, and that the fuller information gathered respecting the strength of the French forces, and their preparations for descending the Allegheny with their large fleet of boats and canoes, in the spring, thoroughly aroused the Virginians to the importance of holding the point at the confluence of the great rivers forming the Ohio. In March, and before it was possible for the French to come down the Allegheny, a rude stockade was built; but there was not force enough to hold it. As the fleet came sweeping down the river, and resistance was found impossible, the little band at the head of the Ohio surrendered, and was allowed to withdraw from the stockade, which the enemy at once entered, and where they laid the foundations of Fort Du Quesne. Remonstrance and negotiations having failed, the alternative of war was promptly accepted, and Washington having been made Colonel, was commissioned to take the fort, “to kill or repel all who interfered with the English settlements in the disputed territory.” His regiment of Virginia soldiers, in the month of April, encountered difficulties and hardships in their westward march that made progress slow.

The roads were well nigh impassable, the streams were bridgeless, and drenching rains fell on the tentless soldiers. Before reaching the Ohio, Washington learned that the enemy were on the march to attack him, and immediately built a stockade that he called Fort Necessity. He advanced cautiously, with some heavy skirmishing, in which a number of the enemy were killed, and some prisoners were taken. But the promised reinforcements not arriving, he fell back to his little fort, and was scarcely within the rude enclosure when he was surrounded. The enemy in force gained an eminence, from which they could fire into the fort, while they were partly concealed. For hours, the gallant little band, encouraged by the calm, resolute bearing of their colonel, vigorously returned the fire. Thirty of the company were killed, and others wounded, when they were allowed to withdraw, taking all their stores and equipage. The retreat was orderly, but the enterprise was abandoned.

The valley of the Ohio and the whole country to the lakes was left in the power of the French, who were also strengthening their works at Crown Point and Fort Niagara.