Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine. Volume 55, No. 343, May 1844

“‘Only five minutes!’ exclaimed Maud; ‘that is extraordinary!’

“‘Yes; and, no offence to you, not altogether right,’ answered Albert. ‘Did I not beg of you to wait for me?’

“‘That you might wring the fairy’s neck for him?’ said the maiden, laughing. ‘Set yourself at ease, Albert; it is much better as it is.’

“‘What is?’ screamed the youngster.

“‘Never mind! It is all done now; and indeed, dear boy, we shall neither of us repent it. Come, let us go home.’

“‘O ho!—dear boy!—Mighty wise and patronizing truly!’

“‘Well, then, good Albert,’ said Matilda coaxingly; ‘only come away, and don’t be angry. In four weeks we shall be married.’

“‘In fo—ur wee—eeks!’ stuttered Albert.

“‘Yes, and in three, if you like it better,’ prated the overjoyed Maud. ‘The good people,’ she added, almost inaudibly, ‘have enabled us to marry. Therefore behave pretty, be quiet, and don’t quarrel—or else—‘every thing is at an end between us—clean at an end!’ Don’t you know that I am a Sunday’s child, and am under the especial protection of these kind, little, powerful creatures?’

“The jealous youth followed the maiden with reluctance. Whilst he walked, murmuring in an under-tone at her side, he noticed by the light of the full moon something flickering in Matilda’s hair. He examined it more closely, and then stood still.

“‘What new fashion do you call that?’ he asked in a voice of chagrin. ‘The idea of hanging dried mushrooms in one’s hair! If you will only walk with that finery by daylight down to the brook, the children will run after you, and point at you with their finger.’

“‘Mushrooms!’ replied Maud. ‘Why, where are your eyes again?’

“‘Well, I suppose you don’t mean to call them silver crowns? Thank Heaven, my eyes are good enough yet to see the difference between dried funguses and coined money!’

“‘They are glittering stars, sir,’ said Maud, short and decided.

“‘O indeed!’ returned Albert. ‘Well, then, the next time I would recommend you to select some that shine rather brighter.’

“The lovers had, in the meanwhile, reached the hut of the stone-mason. Albert entered with Matilda. The father lay asleep by the stove. The mother turned her spinning-wheel.

“‘Good-evening, mother!” said Albert. ‘Have the goodness to tell that conceited girl there, that her headgear is the most miserable that ever was seen.’

“‘What!’ said the old lady wondering, and with a shake of the head. ‘Maud has no other gear that I see, but her own beautiful hair, which may God long preserve to her!’

“Instead of giving any answer, Albert would have set the daughter before her mother’s eyes. But Maud had already, in the doorway, pulled off the fairy’s gift, and turned pale as she saw that she had actually worn dried mushrooms on a string, twisted of withered rushes. Albert observed her perplexity, and laughed. He bantered her, and snatched two or three mushrooms from the chain, to hoard up for future sport. This was the token of their reconciliation. Maud, although very calmly, assured her lover, over and over again, that within a month their nuptials should take place. That the tired old man might not be disturbed, Albert went home early; and Maud hastened to put carefully away, for a while, the very meagre-looking fairy gifts.

“On the following morning, Albert was off betimes to his work. Putting on his jacket, he heard something chinking within. His surprise was naturally great, knowing that he had no money there. He dived at once into his pocket, and drew out two large old gold pieces. Then he suddenly remembered, that the evening before he had pocketed the mushrooms which he had snatched away from Maud, and the most extravagant joy possessed him. He forgot his work and every thing else; started off, and ran, as fast as his legs could carry him, to the house of the stone-mason.

“Maud stood at the brook, before the door, washing her small white hands in the clear stream.

“‘Good-morrow, dear Maud, and a thousand blessings on thy sweet head!’ cried Albert to her, as he came running. ‘Look, look, how thy mushrooms have changed! If the others turn out as well, I am afraid that, after all, I must forgive that little shrimp that was so killingly polite to you!’

“‘Delightful! delightful!’ exclaimed Matilda, gazing at the gold pieces. ‘Mine have not changed yet—but that doesn’t matter; for in the night, a little rush band, with which the fairy steered me into his kingdom of wonders, has bloomed into precious pearls and brilliants, and two sparkling wreaths are now lying upstairs in my drawer.’

“Joyful surprise choked Albert’s words in his throat; but Maud drew him on, and displayed to him her glories from the fairy world.

“‘Let us leave nothing undone that may help our luck. Do you take the little wreath for the present. Such is the wish of the mysterious being, who required my attendance at the Fairies’ Sabbath.’

“Albert received the gift with a softened heart. He begged Maud’s forgiveness of his fault; she granted it willingly, and before four weeks had passed by, the lovers were man and wife.

“Of her adventure on Whitsun-eve, Maud never spoke. So much the more had her godmother Helen to say about it; for it was not difficult to guess that the fairies had had their prospering hand in the marriage of her godchild. The stone-mason now gave up his laborious calling. Albert became the master of a moderate property, which he diligently cultivated with his beloved Maud; and, as fair child after child was born to them, the happy mother laid upon the breast of each a shriveled leaf from the elfin chain, for so had her little guide counseled her, when she once, in a doubtful hour, had summoned him to her aid. Albert and Matilda reached a good old age; their children throve, and carefully preserved, like their parents, the gifts received from the subterranean folk, who continued their favour to them and to all their posterity.”

COLUMBUS

(A Print after a Picture by Parmeggiano.)BY B. SimmonsIRise, Victor, from the festive boardFlush’d with triumphal wine,And lifting high thy beaming sword,Fired by the flattering Harper’s chord,Who hymns thee half divine.Vow at the glutted shrine of FateThat dark-red brand to consecrate!Long, dread, and doubtful was the frayThat gives the stars thy name to-day.But all is over; round thee nowFame shouts, spoil pours, and captives bow,No stormier joy can Earth impart,Than thrills in lightning through thy heart.IIGay Lover, with the soft guitar,Hie to the olive-woods afar,And to thy friend, the listening brook,Alone reveal that raptured look;The maid so long in secret loved—A parent’s angry will removed—This morning saw betrothèd thine,That Sire the pledge, consenting, blest,Life bright as motes in golden wine,Is dancing in thy breast.IIIStatesman astute, the final hourArrives of long-contested Power;Each crafty wile thine ends to aid,Party and principle betray’d;The subtle speech, the plan profound,Pursued for years, success has crown’d;To-night the Vote upon whose tongue,The nicely-poised Division hung,Was thine—beneath that placid browWhat feelings throb exulting now!Thy rival falls;—on grandeur’s baseGo shake the nations in his place!IVFame, Love, Ambition! what are Ye,With all your wasting passions’ war,To the great Strife that, like a sea,O’erswept His soul tumultuously,Whose face gleams on me like a star—A star that gleams through murky clouds—As here begirt by struggling crowdsA spell-bound Loiterer I stand,Before a print-shop in the Strand?What are your eager hopes and fearsWhose minutes wither men like years—Your schemes defeated or fulfill’d,To the emotions dread that thrill’dHis frame on that October night,When, watching by the lonely mast,He saw on shore the moving light,And felt, though darkness veil’d the sight,The long-sought World was his at last?18VHow Fancy’s boldest glances fail,Contemplating each hurrying moodOf thought that to that aspect paleSent up the heart’s o’erboiling floodThrough that vast vigil, while his eyesWatch’d till the slow reluctant skiesShould kindle, and the vision dread,Of all his livelong years be read!In youth, his faith-led spirit doom’dStill to be baffled and betray’d,His manhood’s vigorous noon consumedEre Power bestow’d its niggard aid;That morn of summer, dawning grey,19When, from Huelva’s humble bay,He full of hope, before the galeTurn’d on the hopeless World his sail,And steer’d for seas untrack’d, unknown,And westward still sail’d on—sail’d on—Sail’d on till Ocean seem’d to beAll shoreless as Eternity,Till, from its long-loved Star estranged,At last the constant Needle changed,20And fierce amid his murmuring crewProne terror into treason grew;While on his tortured spirit rose,More dire than portents, toils, or foes,The awaiting World’s loud jeers and scornYell’d o’er his profitless Return;No—none through that dark watch may traceThe feelings wild beneath whose swell,As heaves the bark the billows’ race,His Being rose and fell!Yet over doubt, and pride, and pain,O’er all that flash’d through breast and brain,As with those grand, immortal eyesHe stood—his heart on fire to knowWhen morning next illumed the skies,What wonders in its light should glow—O’er all one thought must, in that hour,Have sway’d supreme—Power, conscious Power—The lofty sense that Truths conceived,And born of his own starry mind,And foster’d into might, achievedA new Creation for mankind!And when from off that ocean calmThe Tropic’s dusky curtain clear’d,All those green shores and banks of balmAnd rosy-tinted hills appear’dSilent and bright as Eden, ereEarth’s breezes shook one blossom there—Against that hour’s proud tumult weigh’d,Love, Fame, Ambition, how ye fade!VIThou Luther of the darken’d Deep!Nor less intrepid, too, than HeWhose courage broke Earth’s bigot sleepWhilst thine unbarr’d the Sea—Like his, ’twas thy predestined fateAgainst your grin benighted age,With all its fiends of Fear and Hate,War, single-handed war, to wage,And live a conqueror, too, like him,Till Time’s expiring lights grow dim!O, Hero of my boyish heart!Ere from thy pictured looks I part,My mind’s maturer reverence nowIn thoughts of thankfulness would bowTo the Omniscient Will that sentThee forth, its chosen instrument,To teach us hope, when sin and care,And the vile soilings that degradeOur dust, would bid us most despair—Hope, from each varied deed display’dAlong thy bold and wondrous story,That shows how far one steadfast mind,Serene in suffering as in glory,May go to deify our kind.

TO SWALLOWS ON THE EVE OF DEPARTURE

BY THE SAME

“The day before V–’s departure for the last time from the country—it was the 4th of August, one of the hottest days of the season—as evening fell, he strolled with an old school-fellow through the cool green avenues and leafy arcades of the neighbouring park, where his friend amused him by pointing out to his attention vast multitudes of Swallows that came swarming from all directions to settle on the roofs and gables of the manor-house. This they do for several days preparatory to their departing, in one collected body, to more genial climates.”—MS. Memoir.

IJoyous Birds! preparingIn the clear evening lightTo leave our dwindled summer dayFor latitudes more bright!How gay must be your greeting,By southern fountains meeting,To miss no faithful wing of all that started in your flight!IIEvery clime and seasonFresh gladness brings to you,Howe’er remote your social throngsTheir varied path pursue;No winds nor waves dissever—No dusky veil’d for ever,Frowneth across your fearless way in the empyrean blue.21IIIMates and merry brothersWere ye in Arctic hours,Mottling the evening beam that slopedAdown old Gothic towers!As blythe that sunlight dancingWill see your pinions’ glancingScattering afar through Tropic groves the spicy bloom in showers!IVHaunters of palaced wastes!22From king-forlorn VersaillesTo where, round gateless Thebes, the windsLike monarch voices wail,Your tribe capricious ranges,Reckless of glory’s changes;Love makes for ye a merry home amid the ruins pale.VAnother day, and yeFrom knosp and turret’s browShall, with your fleet of crowding wings,Air’s viewless billows plough,With no keen-fang’d regrettingOur darken’d hill-sides quitting,—Away in fond companionship as cheerily as now!VIWoe for the Soul-endued—The clay-enthrallèd Mind—Leaving, unlike you, favour’d birds!Its all—its all behind.Woe for the exile mourning,To banishment returning—A mateless bird wide torn apart from country and from kind!VIIThis moment blest as ye,Beneath his own home-trees,With friends and fellows girt around,Up springs the western breeze,Bringing the parting weather—Shall all depart together?Ah, no!—he goes a wretch alone upon the lonely seas.VIIITo him the mouldering tower—The pillar’d waste, to himA broken-hearted music makeUntil his eyelids swim.None heeds when he complaineth,Nor where that brow he leanethA mother’s lips shall bless no more sinking to slumber dim.IXWinter shall wake to spring,And ’mid the fragrant grassThe daffodil shall watch the rillLike Beauty by her glassBut woe for him who pinethWhere the clear water shineth,With no voice near to say—How sweet those April evenings pass!XThen while through Nature’s heartLove freshly burns again,Hither shall ye, plumed travellers,Come trooping o’er the main;The selfsame nook disclosingIts nest for your reposingThat saw you revel years ago as you shall revel then.23XI—Your human brother’s lot!A few short years are gone—Back, back like you to early scenes—Lo! at the threshold-stone,Where ever in the gloamingHome’s angels watch’d his coming,A stranger stands, and stares at him who sighing passes on.XIIJoy to the Travail-worn!Omnific purpose liesEven in his bale as in your bliss,Careerers of the skies!When sun and earth, that cherish’dYour tribes, with you have perish’d,A home is his where partings more shall never dim the eyes.

THE DILIGENCE

A Leaf from a Journal

A diligence is as familiar to our countrymen as a stage-coach; and, as railroads flourish more amongst us than with our less commercial and enterprising neighbours, it is probable that, to many English travellers, it is even more familiar. There is no need, therefore, to describe the portentous vehicle. Suffice it to say, that, of the three compartments into which it is divided, I found myself lodged—not in the coupée which looks out in front, and which has the appearance of a narrow post-chaise that has been flattened and compressed in the effort to incorporate it with the rest of the machine—nor in the rotunde behind, where one rides omnibus-fashion—but in the central compartment, the interieur, which answers to the veritable old English stage-coach, and carries six. I was one of the central occupants of this central division; for I had not been so fortunate as to secure a corner seat. Now, for the convenience of the luckless person who occupies this position, there depends from the roof of the coach, and hangs just before his face, a broad leathern strap, with a loop through which he can, if so disposed, place his arms; and, when his arms are thus slung up, he can further rest his head upon them or upon the strap, and so seek repose. Whether he finds the repose he seeks, is another matter. One half of the traveller swings like a parrot on his perch, the other half jolts on stationary—jolts over the eternal stones which pave the roads in France. Perhaps there are who can go to roost in this fashion. And if it is recorded of any one that he ever slept in this state of demi-suspension—all swing above, all shake below—I should like very much to know, in the next place, what sort of dreams he had. Did he fancy himself a griffin, or huge dragon, beating the air with his wings, and at the same time trotting furiously upon the ground? Or, in order to picture out his sensations, was he compelled to divide himself into two several creatures, and be at once the captured and half-strangled goose, with all its feathers outstretched in the air, and the wicked fox who is running away with it, at full speed, upon its back? As to myself, in no vain expectation of slumber, but merely for the sake of change of position, I frequently slung my arms in this loop, and leaning my head against the broad leathern strap, I listened to the gossip of my fellow-travellers, if there was any conversation stirring; or, if all was still, gave myself up to meditations upon my own schemes and projects.

And here let me observe, that I have always found that a journey in a stage-coach is remarkably favourable to the production of good resolution and sage designs for the future; which I account for partly on the ground that they cannot, under such circumstances, demand to be carried into immediate execution, and therefore may be indulged in the more freely; and partly on this other ground, that one who has become a traveller has loosened himself from his old customary moorings, and so gives himself, as it were, a new starting-point in life, from which he may, if the spirit of delusion is still happily strong within him, draw a mathematically straight line in the given direction A B, to be the faithful index of his future career.

What a generous sample of humanity it is that a well filled diligence carries out of the gates of Paris! The mountain of luggage upon the roof, consisting of boxes of all shapes and sizes, does not contain in its numerous strata of stuffs, and implements, and garments, rags and fine linen, a greater variety of dead material, than does the threefold interior, with its complement of human beings, of living character and sentiment. As to the observation not unfrequently made, that Frenchmen have less variety of character than ourselves, it is one which seems to me to have little or no foundation. Something there doubtless is of national character, which pervades all classes and all classifications of men; and this colouring, seen diffused over the mass, makes us apprehend, at first view, that there is   in the several parts a radical similarity which, in fact, does not exist. We have only to become a little more intimate with the men themselves, and this national colouring fades away; while the strong peculiarities resulting from social position, or individual temperament, stand out in sharp relief. And, in general, I will venture to say of national character—whatever people may be spoken of—that one may compare it to the colour which the sea bears at different times, or which different seas are said to be distinguished by: view the great surface at a distance, it is blue, or green, or grey; but take up a handful of the common element, and it is an undistinguishable portion of brackish water. It is French, or Flemish, or Spanish nature in the mass, and at a distance; looked at closer, and in the individual, there is little else than plain human nature to be seen.

But I did not open my journal to philosophize upon national character; but to record, while it is still fresh in my memory, some part of the conversation to which I was, as I travelled along, of necessity, and whether willingly or unwillingly, a listener. To the left of me the corner seats were occupied by two Englishmen—would it be possible to enter into a diligence without meeting at least two of our dear compatriots? They were both men in the prime of life, in the full flush of health, and apparently of wealth, who, from allusions which they dropt, could evidently boast of being of good family, and what follows of course—of having received an university education; and whom some one of our northern counties probably reckoned amongst its most famous fox-hunters. All which hindered not, but that they proved themselves to belong to that class of English travellers who scamper about the Continent like so many big, boisterous, presumptuous school-boys, much to the annoyance of every one who meets them, and to the especial vexation of their fellow-countrymen, who are not, in general, whatever may be said to the contrary, an offensive or conceited race, and are by no means pleased that the name of Englishmen should be made a by-word and a term of contempt. Opposite to me sat a Frenchman, of rather formal and grave demeanour, and dressed somewhat precisely. He was placed in a similar position in the diligence to myself; he had, however, curled up his leathern strap, and fastened it to the roof. Apparently he did not think the posture to which it invited one of sufficient dignity; for during the whole journey, and even when asleep, I observed that he maintained a certain becomingness of posture. Beside me, to the right, sat a little lively Frenchwoman, not very young, and opposite to her, and consequently in front also of myself, was another lady, a person of extreme interest, who at once riveted the eye, and set the imagination at work. She was so young, so pale, so beautiful, so sad, and withal so exceeding gentle in her demeanour, that an artist who wished to portray Our Lady in her virgin purity and celestial beauty, would have been ravished with the model. She had taken off her bonnet for the convenience of travelling, and her dark brown hair hung curled round her neck in the same simple fashion it must have done when she was a child. She was dressed in mourning, and this enhanced the pallor of her countenance; ill-health and sorrow were also evidently portrayed upon her features; but there was so much of lustre in the complexion, and so much of light and intelligence in the eye, that the sense of beauty predominated over all. You could not have wished her more cheerful than she was. Her face was a melody which you cannot quarrel with for being sad—which you could not desire to be otherwise than sad—whose very charm it is that it has made the tone of sorrow ineffably sweet.

Much I mused and conjectured what her history might be, and frequently I felt tempted to address myself in conversation to her; but still there was a tranquillity and repose in those long eyelashes which I feared to disturb. It was probable that she preferred her own reflections, melancholy as they might be, to any intercourse with others, and out of respect to this wish I remained silent. Not so, however, my fellow-traveller of her own sex, who, far from practising this forbearance, felt that she acted the kind and social part by engaging her in conversation. And so perhaps she did. For certainly, after some time, the beautiful   and pensive girl became communicative, and I overheard the brief history of her sufferings, which I had felt so curious to know. It was indeed brief—it is not a three-volumed novel that one overhears in a stage-coach—but it had the charm of truth to recommend it. I had been lately reading Eugene Sue’s romance, The Mysteries of Paris, and it gave an additional interest to remark, that the simple tale I was listening to from the lips of the living sufferer bore a resemblance to one of its most striking episodes.

The shades of evening were closing round us, and the rest of the passengers seemed to be preparing themselves for slumber, as, leaning forward on my leathern supporter, I listened to the low sweet voice of the young stranger.

“You are surprised,” she said in answer to some remark made by her companion, “that one of our sex, so young and of so delicate health, should travel alone in the diligence; but I have no relative in Paris, and no friend on whose protection I could make a claim. I have lived there alone, or in something worse than solitude.”

Her companion, with a woman’s quickness of eye, glanced at the rich toilette of the speaker. It was mourning, but mourning of the most costly description.

“You think,” she continued, replying to this glance, “that one whose toilette is costly ought not to be without friends; but mine has been for some time a singular condition. Wealth and a complete isolation from the world have been in my fate strangely combined. They married me”–

“What! are you a married woman and so young?” exclaimed the lady who was addressed.

“I have been; I am now a widow. It is for my husband that I wear this mourning. They took me from the convent where I was educated, and married me to a man whom I was permitted to see only once before the alliance was concluded. As I had been brought up with the idea that my father was to choose a husband for me, and as the Count D– was both handsome and of agreeable manners, the only qualities on which I was supposed to have an opinion, there was no room for objection on my part. The marriage was speedily celebrated. My husband was wealthy. Of that my father had taken care to satisfy himself; perhaps it was the only point on which he was very solicitous. For I should tell you that my father, the only parent I have surviving, is one of those restless unquiet men who have no permanent abode, who delight in travelling from place to place, and who regard their children, if they have any, in the light only of cares and encumbrances. There is not a capital in Europe in which he has not resided, and scarcely a spot of any celebrity which he has not visited. It was therefore at the house of a maiden aunt—to whom I am now about to return—that I was married.