Part 4

TWENTY. I say, by labor must men gain the prize. See! I am standing at this moment on an eminence, from which I overlook the whole plain of life. On whatever side I turn my eyes, the landscape smiles, and the thickly-scattered objects of human desire arrest my attention, and invite my pursuit. All are fair and enticing; but my thoughts are fixed on that fairest and most enticing of all; that verdant hill-top before me. On it are the power of wealth and the respect of men; the consciousness of great actions done, of worth, or nobility; domestic affections throw their warm colors upon it; the power of making loved ones happy; the calm, quiet, fresh, dewy summer evening of my earthly pilgrimage; all that makes existence a blessing is there. Between it and me there may be much hard journeying, and many obstacles difficult to surmount. I cannot see them all from here, and do not care. But with my eye steadfastly fixed on that point, I descend to the plain, and set out on the way. What though it be toilsome? What though I stumble, or am thrust from the path, or fogs envelope me, and clouds overwhelm me? Can any thing turn me aside from the straight course? Can any mists be so dense as to shut out that golden spot from my view? And so I struggle on, through darkness and opposition, always keeping within me a brave heart and a well-braced spirit, and never relaxing my nerves, till I reach that predestined place of repose.

FORTY. _Disjecta membra_ of a boy's dream!

TWENTY. But is it not so? Are you not now there?

FORTY. My dear young friend, there is a slight optical illusion in the case. That promised land of yours lies beyond the boundaries of life: the Styx rolls between.

TWENTY. I do not understand you. Beyond? Have you not reached it?

FORTY. Do I look like one that takes his rest? or these hands, as though I had left off working?

TWENTY. But you cannot now be far from it?

FORTY. To say the truth, I have no such place of happiness and repose in view as you have mentioned. I lost sight of it soon after setting out. The darkness came down on me so thick that I could scarcely see three paces before me, and the road was so rough that I was forced to be content to pick my steps one by one, and had no time to think of the distant future.

TWENTY. I cannot believe it. There is many a lesser prize, many lower heights, in your path, to be gained, which should serve as encouragements and way-marks. I cannot believe that you have lost sight of the ultimate object of your life.

FORTY. You have odd views of things! The fact was, when with much exertion and difficulty I had gained one of those lesser prizes, a little social distinction, for example, I was so fatigued that I was glad to sit down a moment, and enjoy my acquisition. Finding it, however, not in every respect suited to my desire, I pushed on, and attained the next of those luminous points, which to you are only way-marks to a higher one beyond. From these I took a survey of the path before me; and seeing that its length rather increased than diminished as I obtained clearer views of the intervening country, and feeling at the same time my strength diminishing, and that 'courageous heart' of yours, (the hope and spirits of inexperienced youth,) growing fainter in its pulsations, I gave up the chase, and suffered myself to settle down into, and become one of, the million.

TWENTY. Oh! weak of faith and cowardly!

FORTY. Oh! ignorant and presumptuous!

TWENTY. Well; it does not become us to bandy names. So you are content to live for nothing?

FORTY. I live for something; for my daily bread, and for the pleasures that to-morrow, or at the farthest the next day, may bring forth.

TWENTY. And is not that living for nought? You have become an ant, whose thoughts are confined within its cell, and whose cares are centered on its single little kernel of corn. You are a fixture, a vegetable, a sensitive plant, a shell-fish. These are lying words of yours; I will not believe them.

FORTY. If you do not credit my report, you can go forward as you have proposed, and satisfy yourself by experience.

TWENTY. That will I! Go forth on wings, undeterred by timorous and hesitating counsels. I _know_ it is not so. Can I not see with my own eyes?

FORTY. I fancy you see stars that are not in the heavens, and sights that are not on the earth.

TWENTY. I am not so pusilanimous and easily contented as you appear to be. My belief in the omnipotence of will and labor is firm. Yonder object have I set my eye on; and breaking through all obstructions, and deaf to all way-side seductions, I will force myself straight on, till I attain it.

FORTY. Valiantly resolved! Gallant Sir Knight! Will you take the world by storm?

TWENTY. I have told you already that it is not a battle. No passion or strife shall mingle with my motives. Good will to all men, and success to my compeers, even though they triumph in my disappointment, shall be the feeling of my heart.

FORTY. As I said before, a very good resolution.

TWENTY. Nor is it necessary to spend the intervening years in monotonous, cheerless toil. There are a thousand social affections which spring up spontaneously in the human heart, but which wither unless fostered, cherished, and cultivated; there are social duties to be performed; and the whole man is to be polished into the form of grace and nobility. At the same time, from books and men, by the midnight lamp and in the crowded market-place, will I draw treasures of knowledge and skill; from history, poetry, philosophy, human nature; till I can instruct the judge on his bench, and the artisan in his shop; till I make myself such as men have in all ages delighted to honor, and been compelled to esteem. I will fashion my mind by the model of strength and beauty, and will enlarge the capacities of my heart, and fill it with love. In all this, my labors are ordered with principal reference to that ultimate point of which I never lose sight an instant. Men are forced to acknowledge excellence; much more will they acknowledge it when they see that it is amiable, and love it.

FORTY. It is with difficulty that I can refrain from laughter! You have such strange notions!

TWENTY. Do you call the notion of excellence strange? You will next say that virtue itself is an 'Idola!' But I tell you, there is a reality in both; I know it, for I can feel it. Nobility, virtue, respect, and happiness, are not empty names. The last, I am conscious of this moment; and if the others did not exist, I should never have had given to me this desire for them.

FORTY. Ignorance and happiness!

TWENTY. Knowledge and happiness! Why should they not go together? Will the innumerable gifts of nature ever be withdrawn? Or will the capability of receiving pleasure from them ever be taken away? Happiness does not necessarily accompany ignorance, but it _does_ knowledge. And throughout the world, every man has within him a well-toned harp, whose strings nature and society and he himself strike together, making harmonious music. They are sometimes broken; but mine shall be well guarded, and will never produce discord.

FORTY. Foolish and vain!

TWENTY. And have _you_ then become wise?

FORTY. I have become wise enough to know that you are foolish and your thoughts vain; I have become a full grown man.

TWENTY. You have, indeed, attained a full growth in the wisdom of those of sordid views and narrow foreheads! But can it be really so? Are you what you seem to be? I have felt, more than once, a suspicion creeping into my mind, that I might be, after all, mistaken. It must be so; and 'how art thou cast down, O my soul!'

FORTY. Be not disconsolate, my young friend; your soul is not so much cast down, as turned aside into another channel of thought and mode of existence.

TWENTY. Do you mock me, with your 'be not disconsolate?' If you speak the truth, there is nothing in life to live for. Had I not calculated well? Had I not found the means to be used in order to arrive at a certain position? I thought means and the result were connected; but you have undeceived me. Or else, I am too weak and cowardly to follow out my plans: in either case, I am of no worth in the world, and had better quit it at the outset.

FORTY. To quit the field, you think less disgraceful than to suffer defeat in a fair and manful fight?

TWENTY. The world's opinion is nothing to me, and I don't know the meaning of disgrace. Fame, you say, is an empty breath, happiness delusion, and knowledge vanity; these are the chief things that fill the minds of men, and they are false appearances. Why, then, should I value them?

FORTY. You cannot say that all life is not a dream.

TWENTY. Oh, I know it is; and therefore I will have nothing to do with it.

FORTY. You are a wild colt as yet, and kick against your traces. But the whip, the rein, and work, will soon break down that proud spirit of yours, and you will trot along obediently and patiently.

TWENTY. That shall never be; sooner will I leave the world altogether. To suffer this, you call courage! And to be a humble, docile, broken brute, you call becoming wise!

FORTY. You use names without discretion.

TWENTY. Oh, you would give it a softer-sounding designation; but the fact, though you may disguise it to yourself, cannot be concealed. Do you labor or hope for any thing but the present, or beyond the next hour? Do you not live with your eyes fixed on the ground? Do you not thread your devious and obscure way through the world, content to be unknown, and never casting a glance on the millions that surround you? What is that wisdom of which you boast, but to know that every man is a robber, and to bar your door against him; that, friendship is an empty profession, and friends venial, therefore to trust no one; that all love is a youthful folly, unbecoming the 'full grown man;' therefore to guard against its approaches? This, I should say, is to live and think like the beast that perishes, and to die as the fool dies.

FORTY. You were inflated with that exhilarating gas, self-esteem; it is not very pleasant to have it escape, but you will soon be reduced to your own proportions.

TWENTY. And you would really have me think that there is no beauty or loveliness in the world? nothing worth hoping or striving for? Because I believed there was, and was filled with enthusiasm in viewing it, you say I was inflated with self-esteem. If I thought as you do, I should contemn myself, and deserve to be despised by every body like myself. You have lost sight of your high destiny, and defiled your soul, which _was_ in the similitude of its MAKER, by frequent contact with the earth.

FORTY. I was not conscious of that.

TWENTY. Tell me, if you please, what was man made for?

FORTY. I have told you already; to eat of the fruit of his labors in sorrow, to write his name on the sea-sands, and to leave his place to his successor after him.

TWENTY. Think you that you do not defile your soul by such thoughts? To confine his aspirations to the snail-shell in which chance has cast him; to find all his delight therein; to call the three or four inches which his horizon bounds, the world; is _this_ the chief end of man? I know not how it may be with others, but as for me, I was made for something better. I hope, I expect, to have a higher destiny!

FORTY. The chase is after shadows.

TWENTY. My chase is after real, tangible substances. I see them, and hope revives, strong and living, within me. Away! cold Doubt! I must have knowledge, respect, and happiness. No obstacles shall hinder me, and no allurements shall entice me, from my way. _My_ name shall not be written on the sands: I will link it with lessons of wisdom, and grave them on the eternal rock.

FORTY. Glorious dreams, young man! glorious dreams!

TWENTY. They are sober, waking realities.

FORTY. But since you will not be aroused, I would have no one attempt to break them. Sleep on now, for the day cometh; the clear light of morning will beam on your eyes, dispersing the mists, and then you will see your duties and capabilities through a less distorting medium.

TWENTY. Call it a distorting medium if you like; but if it is the mists that make the world appear so much brighter to me than it does to you, they shall always remain before my eyes.

FORTY. Sweet dreams; but alas! they cannot last! This conversation with you has filled me, even me, with strange desires and indefinite longings. But they are all vain. It is my lot to see and deal with the world as it is, and I must be contented with my little routine of daily toil. And to remain so contented, I must hold no more communion with you.

TWENTY. You are a phantom, as of one in troubled slumber--a lying spirit; and I will never again admit you to my thoughts.

FORTY. You shall be dead to me, and I will bury you out of my sight!

THOUGHTS AT TRENTON FALLS.

ART thou still the same, Or have the lapsing ages stolen away Thy primal beauty, or but added more? Beautiful stream! did thy clear waters fall With the same sound as now, in times remote, When first the sunlight shimmered on thy wave, Or ere the warbling of a forest bird Had echoed through these shades; or did'st thou run In level quietness, till thy smooth bed Was broken up by the strong hand of Change? Or did the sinking Deluge leave thee here, To fill this broken gorge?

R. S. C.

_New-York, Oct., 1843._

THE MIDNIGHT DREAM.

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.

I HAD a vision, love, last eve, That thrills my very heart with fear; I could not wish to see thee grieve, Or wring from manhood's eye a tear: But in this dream, I saw thee weep As never man had wept before: I would not dream the like, if sleep My wearied eyes ne'er shadowed o'er!

Methought I saw thee, bending low Above a pale and shrouded form; A wreath of cold December's snow Flung out upon the freezing storm Hath more of beauty, warmth, and life, Than this white piece of marbled earth! 'How,' thought I, 'have the war and strife Of passion in _its_ heart had birth?'

I saw thee raise the snowy shroud That veiled the features from my view; I heard thee strangely weep aloud, Then slowly recognition grew Within my soul; _my_ body lay All still and wan before me there, Robed for the tomb, while slow decay Was painted on the forehead bare!

I saw thee press the icy brow, Whilst I revolted at the scene; That lifeless clay I hated now, But longed against thy heart to lean. But woe unto that gentle heart! Had it but deemed my spirit near, I felt that agony would start The cold and deadly drops of fear.

I thought if spirits thus were freed From dust which weighed their pinions down, Their destiny were bright indeed, If joy unmingled e'er was known. But I was chained unto thy side, While still this truth seemed strange to me, Though ever by thee I should glide, I was invisible to thee!

I strove to lift the veil which hides The progress of immortal birth; The thin partition that divides The world of spirits from the earth; I longed to bear thy spirit up To flash around the golden throne, But then, stern Death's embittered cup Must first be drained by every one!

Yet still I hovered by thy side; My wings thy very garments brushed, Whilst thou but knew I lived and died, All else within the tomb was hushed. With dreams of earth a sense was blent Of some neglect of duty there, And oh! I thought my punishment Was greater far than I could bear!

How oft I heard thee breathe my name In tearful accents, sad and low, Then suddenly thy voice exclaim, 'A ministering angel thou!' Still swaying thus from sphere to sphere, My spirit knew nor peace nor rest, Till daylight broke that vision drear, And saw me weeping on thy breast!

_Cincinnati, 1813._

THE VENUS OF ILLE.

RENDERED FROM THE FRENCH OF P. MERIMEE BY THE TRANSLATOR OF 'THE GALLEY SLAVE.'

BY JOHN HUNTER.

AFTER a long day's journey, I descended the last of the Canigou mountains, and although it was now past sunset, I distinguished in the plain beneath me the houses of the little village of Ille, toward which I was now directing my course.

'You know,' said I to the Catalonian who acted as my guide, 'you know, I dare say, where Monsieur Peyrade lives?'

'Do I know?' exclaimed he, 'I know his house as well as I do my own; and if it was not so dark, I could point it out to you now. It is the handsomest in Ille. Ah! he has got the money, Monsieur Peyrade has; and he is going to marry his son to one richer than himself.'

'Indeed! and will this marriage take place soon?' asked I.

'Soon! I'll be sworn the fiddles are already engaged for the wedding. It may be to-night, to-morrow, or the day after, for aught that I know. It will take place at Puygarey, for it is Mam'selle de Puygarey, whom young master is going to marry. Ah! there will be fine doings, I can tell you!'

I had a letter of introduction to Monsieur Peyrade from my friend Monsieur de P----. 'This gentleman,' said he to me, 'is a very learned antiquary, extremely hospitable, and will take great pleasure in showing you all the ruins and relics of art for a dozen leagues around.' I had consequently counted upon him, to visit with me the environs of Ille, which I knew to be rich in ancient monuments, as well as those of the middle ages. This wedding, therefore, of which I now heard for the first time, seemed likely to interfere with my plans.

'I shall be an intruder,' said I to myself; 'but as my visit has been already announced by Monsieur de P----, it will be necessary for me to present myself.'

'Monsieur,' said my guide to me, as we reached the plain, 'I will wager a cigar I can guess what you are going to do at Monsieur Peyrade's.'

'Indeed,' said I, handing him a cigar, 'that will not be so very difficult to guess. At this time of night, when one has travelled six leagues in the Canigou mountains, the principal business I think will be supper.'

'Oh yes, but I mean to-morrow. Come now, I will bet that you have come to Ille to see the idol. I guessed as much when I saw you drawing the likenesses of the saints of Serrabona.'

'The idol! what idol?' the word had excited my curiosity.

'How! have you not heard at Perpignan, that Monsieur Peyrade has found an idol buried in the ground?'

'You mean a statue of terra-cotta, or clay?'

'No, no, of copper, real copper, and there is enough of it to make heaps of sous. She will weigh as much as the big bell of a church. We found her buried deep in the ground, at the foot of an olive tree.'

'You were then present at the discovery?'

'Yes Sir; Monsieur Peyrade told us--that is Jean Coll and me, about a fortnight ago--to root up an old olive tree, which had been frozen last year, for the weather you know was very cold. So you see as we were at work, Jean Coll, who went at it with all his might, gave a blow with his pickaxe, and I heard a _bimm_, as if he had struck on a bell. What's that? said I. We dug away, and dug away, and presently saw a black hand, which looked like the hand of a dead man, stretching forth from the earth. I was frightened, and ran to Monsieur: 'There are dead men, master,' said I, 'under the olive tree! We had better send for the priest!' 'What, are you talking about dead men?' said he. He comes to the place, and no sooner sees the hand than he begins to cry out like mad, 'An antique! an antique!' You would have thought he had found a treasure. And so to work he goes with pickaxe and hands, and with such a hearty will that he did as much as Jean and I together.'

'And at last what did you find?'

'A large black woman, more than half naked, saving your presence, Sir, all of copper; and Monsieur Peyrade told us that it was an idol of the heathenish times--of the time of Charlemagne, may be!'

'Ah! I see what it is; some good virgin in bronze from a ruined convent.'

'A good virgin! ah! yes indeed. I should have known it soon enough, had it been a blessed virgin. No, no; it is an idol, I tell you; you can see that well enough by its looks. It stares upon you with its great white eyes. They say it will stare you out of countenance. One is forced to cast down his eyes when he looks at it.'

'White eyes? no doubt they are inserted in the bronze; this must be some Roman statue.'

'Roman! that's it; Monsieur Peyrade said it was a Roman. Ah! I see you are a learned man; just such another as he.'

'Is it in good preservation? perfect?'

'Oh yes, Sir, nothing is wanting. It is handsomer, and better made than the bust of Louis Philippe of painted plaster, which stands in the town-hall. But for all this, the face of this idol does not please me. She has got a wicked look; and in fact, she is so.'

'Wicked? why what trick has she played you?'

'Not exactly on me; but you shall hear. Four of us went to work to set her upright; and Monsieur Peyrade, he too must pull at a rope, although, worthy man! he hasn't much more strength than a chicken. With a good deal of trouble we at last got her straight up. I took a piece of tile to keep her steady, when _patratas_! down she comes headlong, all in a heap. I sung out: 'Take care below!' but not quick enough, however, for Jean Coll hadn't time to pull out his leg.'

'And was he injured?'

'Broken smack off was his poor leg, as if it had been a bean-pole. Sacristi! when I saw that, I was furious. I wanted to break the idol to pieces with my pickaxe, but Monsieur Peyrade wouldn't let me. He gave some money to Jean Coll, who is still in his bed, though it is a fortnight since this happened; and the doctor says he will never walk as well on this leg as on the other. 'Tis a great pity, for he was our best runner, and, next to young master, the best tennis-player in the country. Monsieur Alphonse Peyrade takes it very much to heart, for he always played with Coll. Oh! it was a beautiful sight to see them send the balls up! _Paff_--_paff_--they never touched the ground.'

Conversing in this manner, we entered Ille, and I soon found myself in the presence of Monsieur Peyrade. He was a little old man, still ruddy and active, with powdered hair, a red nose, and a gay and jovial air. Before opening the letter of Monsieur de P----, he installed me at a well-spread table, and introduced me to his wife and son, as an eminent archeologist who was going to draw forth Roussillon from the state of oblivion in which the indifference of the savans had so long left it.

While eating with that fine appetite which the keen mountain air imparts, I studied the appearance of my hosts. I have already spoken of Monsieur Peyrade; I may add that he was vivacity itself. He chattered, ate, jumped up, ran to the library, brought me books, showed me prints, poured out wine for me; in short, he was not a moment in repose. His wife, who, as most of the Catalonian women are after the age of forty, was rather fat, and seemed to be a substantial country dame, wholly taken up with the affairs of her household. Although the supper was sufficient for at least six persons, she ran to the kitchen, ordered pigeons to be killed, had fritters made, and opened I know not how many pots of sweet-meats. In a few moments the table was loaded with dishes and bottles, and had I only tasted all that was offered me, I should certainly have died of indigestion. Still, at every dish which I declined, there were fresh apologies. They were 'afraid I did not find things to my liking at Ille. They had so few resources in the country, and Parisians were so hard to please!'