Graham's Magazine, Vol. XLI, No. 6, December 1852

“I lost no time in copying the inscriptions, and drawing the bas-reliefs, upon this precious relic. It was then carefully packed, to be transported at once to Baghdad. A party of trustworthy Arabs were chosen to sleep near it at night; and I took every precaution that the superstitions and prejudices of the natives of the country, and the jealousy of rival antiquaries, could suggest.”

Among the numerous other sculptures which Mr. Layard, with great trouble and expense, succeeded in forwarding to England, was the figure of a king, one of the most carefully executed and best preserved in the palace. He is represented with one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other being supported by a long wand or sword. It was found in the north-west palace at Nimroud.

When Mr. Layard had expended the funds appropriated by the Trustees of the British Museum for the excavations, and sent a large number of sculptures down the Tigris to Busrah, to be shipped to England, he caused the excavations to be carefully filled up, and leaving for a season the scene of his labors, returned to England. Another expedition has since been sent to Nimroud, further excavations have been made, and Mr. Putnam will ere long publish their results. In the meantime, we feel that we cannot too cordially commend to the reading public, the first work of Mr. Layard, as affording the most interesting and important revelations concerning the actual state of the ancient world, which have been made public since the Egyptian discoveries of Champollion.

FRAGMENT OF A POEM

—BY WM. ALBERT SUTLIFFE—  It was the twilight, and we sat alone.  We sat alone beside the winter fire —  My friend and I – a fire that crackled well,  And sounded through the stillness as a flame  Shoots through the dark. The embers of the sun  Had died to ashes. While it sunk we talked  Of Love, of Beauty, Poetry and Hope,  Which are religion. For, is Beauty loved,  Then God is loved, and in our loving we  Do emulate his noblest attribute.  But all our words had failed to silentness,  And memories clustered in the heart’s twilight,  As shadows in a wood; and all was still.  But in the quietness there seemed to grow  A sympathetic mood, and we to look,  As through glass, into each other’s mind,  Calm reading, while our thoughts and feelings verged  In a soft sadness to one common point.  Then low I spoke: – “Were it not sweet and well  To die from out this chaos of a life  Into the waiting dark, and leave our toil  To stronger minds and hands? To spurn the clay,  And mount the crystal air in spiral gyre,  Glad-voiced, and angel-winged, like bird uncaged?  I think it sweet! or so it seemeth now,  When I look back, as down a charnel-vault,  Into the retrospect, and see it all; —  See every should-be that was never done,  And every would-be that has died its death,  And my hot dreams, and my distempered hopes,  Pictured in light and dark as on a wall.”  Then in the dusk I ceased, and so we sat,  With hearthward faces, but with upward thought.  I saw my words drop, pebble-like, down deep  Into his inmost mind, and there they lay,  While he, with careful quiet, shaped response,  And then, abstract, as to himself, replied: —  “’Tis speaking well, and yet not speaking well!  For in the web of life are golden threads —  And in the sky of life are brilliant stars —  And on the sea of life are favoring gales —  Or we should wither all as flowers in drought.  He who doth pilot the great universe,  Doth mete and parcel out the light and dark,  Strange, varicolored, like a wanderer’s dream; —  And He that made the man hath made his work.  And in the bark of life hath given the oar  At which to tug and toil until the death;  Nor yet all toil; for oft the summer sea  Ripples on bloomy shores, whence balmy winds  Bring a rich, spicy life to make one glad.  We thrid wild mazes not without a clue —  We sink again to soar as eagles do —  We deeply quaff at the rare desert founts,  And so plod on to fair oases green,  Where rustling palms nod to the welcome wind —  While with the sun of our own minds we shine  On planetary minds, and light, and cheer,  And lead then to a loftier, brighter end.  All this is well: So let the creature’s wish  Circle its scanty orbit round and round  With borrowed light from the Creator’s will.”  Then I again: – “We are but merest drops  That swell a deathward torrent, or as grains  Of sand, which make up a conglobéd sphere,  And he that is fore’er undoes the work  Of him that has been, through the whirl of time.  What profits it to weave a golden web  Which all our heirs may rend above our grave!  To pile our treasuries with yellow dust  That every reckless future wind may blow!  To think to be unthought in coming years!  To write to be the jest of fresher times!  All this is emptiness! I wish the end.”  What he had said I know not, for the wind,  Which had blown fitful since the red sun sunk,  Came in fierce gusts against the window now —  Bringing large drops that pattered chill and loud.  Then our talk changed to what might be afar —  To the rude ocean, and the mariners  Driven by windy war on unknown coasts,  To sin and sorrow in this poor, poor world,  And all those dreary themes akin to tears.  So mused we in the dusk a gentle space,  A cloudy dreamer I – my friend, that trod  The green hills of his own complacency  Like any king.

MONDE HEDELQUIVER

A TALE OF WINTER-LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND—BY THE AUTHOR OF “SUSY L – ’S DIARY.”—

CHAPTER I

ROSAMONDE HEDELQUIVER TO EDITH MANNERSDanville, December 2, 1851.

At last, I have found a spot where, for myself, there can be no want; where I can sit and write in peace letters to you, my friend, and stories for the magazines. By the last, I shall win money, and, perhaps, laurels; although, I confess, I care little now for them – that is, for the laurels – if I can earn money. If I have genius, this may truly seem a poor aim; but, if I have genius, so have I along with it such a dread of what is heavy, and sordid, and perpetually toilsome – of extreme poverty; in short, so have I a longing for beauty, for ease, for a still home of plenty, so that sometimes I could stretch out my hands and cry, with an imploring voice – not as good Agar did, but – “Give me riches, oh! give me riches.” Yet, Heaven knows that it is not to be greatly rich that I desire; but to be so far supplied, that there need be no forebodings whenever it is seen that my parents’ steps begin already to be slow, and their eyes dull; so that there may be beautiful things in our home, and land about it which is ours, on which we may tread with independence, on which we may see the trees and the plants growing, on which God’s sunshine shall fall, and His rain, and His dews, so that we may feel him near, and know that our mother Earth is to us a good mother.

This is what I long for, when shut up in our close rooms in the city, morning, noon, and night. In the night, tears of yearning – mingled with the fear that it is never to be satisfied – go drop, drop on my pillow, until my head is ready to burst. Then I brush them away, and say – “God forgive me, his poor child, if, in my longing for what I have not, I forget the gratitude due for what I have.” Then come penitential feelings and, again weeping, I say – “Father, do with me as seemeth good in thy sight!” I would be able to say this at all seasons, working still with cheerfulness and trust in God’s ways: but He knows I cannot; that often when I would praise Him I can only pray, and beg Him to do that for me which I feel to be my great need.

But hear! I complain, I sigh. I sit here, buried in my own egotism, while the bright sunshine lies on the pure white fields, hills, and mountains, and the troops of merriest birds play with the new-fallen snow. I shall go and see them, and feed them with crumbs, as once a brown-haired boy, who now is gray-headed – my father – used to do.

Evening.

Uncle Hedelquiver said this morning, as he folded his paper, after breakfast was over —

“You had better ride this morning, Monde. Take Kate, she is hard on the bit; but all the better. I like this grappling with tough-bitted circumstances. It is exactly what you need to do. You have the name your old grandmother Hedelquiver had in her day. You can see yourself that you are like that portrait up there; and I want you to get hold of her energy – her kind of life. You have been an idle child compared with her, I fancy.”

“No doubt of it, uncle,” said I, with tears choking me. “But, because I have been so penned up there in the city, and by our bad circumstances, I could not do any thing but fold my hands and sigh, and long for better things to come to me.”

“Well, well, there is room here you see,” tossing his hand a little toward the window, through which we see the pine-covered Green Mountains that are near, and the snowy White Hills that are far, but gigantic and splendid to see. “You had better go the road we went yesterday,” preparing to leave the room, “over the hills. It is stinging cold up there, but all the better for that.”

Aunt dreaded the hills —

“I would let her go down the other way,” begged she.

“No – if she is wise, she will face the cold and wind – see the snow-birds out there! – and you are a little bit wise aint you, Monde?” with a smile the sweetest and most beaming one ever sees on mortal face. It is the more enlivening to see, because his brow when he is grave is so dark, heavy, and over-arching. It is pleasant therefore that he smiles often, when he is talking – that is, if he talks of the things that he values.

“O, I don’t know, uncle,” I replied. “I fear I have little wisdom or little any thing worth having. But I would like the bracing wind and this gleaming sunshine on the hills, at any rate. It must be glorious! – Is Kate fond of being mounted? Has any one ever rode her?”

“Many times. As I said before, she is hard-bited, but kind.” This is all uncle would have said; for he looks forward, leaving the dead to bury their dead. But aunt said, with drooping figure and dreamy voice —

“Poor Alice used to ride her very often when Alfred was here – at any other time she was afraid. But, then, he used to ride John, and urge her out. He was always anxious that she should ride often, although I am sure I don’t know why.” No, aunt seldom knows why things are thus and so, which is something of an annoyance to uncle, to whom most things in physics and metaphysics are merest transparencies. “John was such a headstrong horse,” resumed aunt, looking dreamily down on the crumb of bread she was rolling along the table-cover; “he was so headstrong, and Alfred not accustomed to the saddle – living in the city, as he has, for so many years. I was never easy when they were gone. I was always expecting that something bad would happen to them in some way.”

“There was never the least danger – not the least danger!” said uncle. “They were much too cautious for this. It was laughable, seeing the jog-trot they kept. Monde, your aunt will make a coward of you, if she can. She, for her own part, gets ten thousand needless hurts as she goes along in dread of their coming upon herself, or some of the rest of us. Isn’t this true, Alice?”

“I don’t know, I am sure. Perhaps I do,” replied aunt.

“You certainly do. Say, Monde, will you ride?” with an impatient jerk of his fine shaggy head.

“Yes, sir,” said I, springing promptly to my feet; for I felt, as I often do when he speaks to me, as if the current of his own electrical force ran through my brain and limbs – “over the hills, uncle mine, or anywhere!”

“That’s sensible,” replied he, with a look of hearty approbation. “Put on your things – I will have Kate at the door in five minutes.”

Heavens! how gorgeous is the winter landscape, when our sky is as blue as Italy’s, when the sun is on hills and mountains, and the blue shadows are in all the valleys and beside all the little knolls; when the dark firs, and pines, and hemlocks, and the black-hazel-blossoms are fringed and tufted with the new-fallen snow, and the crows and jays go screaming, and the blood in all one’s veins is astir with the new life that comes on every breath.

“Father,” I said, lifting reverently upward the eyes that had been wandering over the beautified scene, “Father, accept Thou the love of Thy child. Help her to be always thankful to Thee.”

But, directly, between me and the Father, between me and His glorious earth came dark visions of my poor home, and of my parents, held back from a clear strong life, by their shame-faced poverty and pride. For you must be told, friend of mine, that we are much poorer than even you, who have seen us all and our home many and many a time, believe; and that we grow really poorer every day, because, with all our pains-taking and studiously-contrived appearances of competency, my father makes no head-way in engrossing popularity, and, therewith, the business that pays liberally. We brush and brush – or papa and mamma do – to move the dust and bring back the old polish and prime, and then go forth with lofty heads and independent feet; and papa talks in a brisk way of “My client A – ; my clients, Messrs. B – and C – ;” of the case of D – versus E – , and F – versus G – . Meanwhile, you have seen what mamma does – with what care she preserves her fine complexion, her natural graceful curls, into which the threads of silver are already coming; her cashmere long shawl and black silk gown, that were hers at her marriage – they look no older than most shawls and gowns do after five years’ service, and they have seen twenty-five. In these she goes out to the shops, and looks at carpets and mirrors and tête-à-têtes, as if she were a duchess. And she lets it be known, if it will come in gracefully in any way, that she is Mrs. Hedelquiver, and that her husband is Jerome Hedelquiver, Attorney at Law, V – Street. My father really did get a case, worth a hundred dollars to him, of a dealer, who hoped that, in compliment thereto, my mother would spend all the fee and other additional fees for his upholstery.

We laughed over it. My father called it “capital;” but he and my mother both sighed after it. I presume their souls – so deep within them, so gentle toned as seldom to be heard above the clamor that “the strong circumstances” make in controlling the hands, the lips, and the brain – spake then so as to be heeded, though not long. The hands, the lips, and the brain soon took up again their worldly, time-serving ways. My father talked again of his clients, my mother priced velvets and Axminsters. I would not say this to you, dear Edith, but that you have already seen the same when visiting us; and but that you are the friend of my soul, to whom I must speak of that which is so poor and so sorrowful to me, especially now that I have looked attentively upon uncle’s sincere, manly life.

Uncle’s circumstances are very different to my father’s – this is true. He is a very wealthy and distinguished man. Yet if he were as poor as my father – he would never mind this – he would keep Truth close beside him wherever he went, in whatever action he performed, in whatever words he spake. This would make him free and strong, indeed; and the freedom and strength would lay hold on success. Thus, in seeking first the kingdom of heaven, all these things for which the poor man seeks now first, and last, and at all times, would without pains-taking on his part, be added unto him. Would that he could see it – would that he were more quiet – happier! for I pity him so!

And I have seen men poorer than he, and less distinguished in learning and in an agreeable exterior, whom I cannot, by any view of their condition, bring myself to commiserate, any more than I can commiserate Christ. And you know, dear Edith, we may look at his life on earth as we will, at the hunger, the dusty journeyings, the thorns, the spear, the bitter cup, the blind revilings that came with them all, and the death of shame and lengthened agony, still it fills our hearts with praise – it is the sublimest destiny ever fulfilled on the earth! I will tell you what I desire more and more; what I desire now, at this still hour, above every other thing – and this is, to be so much like Christ, as to attain a perfect mastery of myself, so that none of the outward things shall move me. Christ’s excellence lay in this – did you ever think of it? Proffered crowns and kingdoms, the trammels of time-honored usages, threats at his side and a cross before him, all fell short of moving his soul. This never swerved a hair’s breadth from its high purpose, from beginning to end. And I would be able to look out from a quiet, inward life, and say to the world – “Poor world! enslaved and enslaving! Struggling, vain world; we love thee, we pity thee – poor world! We would die for thee, if the time might come when our blood would have the efficacy of a good martyr’s in healing thee. But we bow to thee, we follow thee, take up thy mummeries no more. For within us, the life breathed into us of God, the life that is divine and glorious – far beyond all that thou hast to offer, comes gently forward for its development into our daily thought and action. Poor world! dear world! after this, the God of the true life helping us, while with thee we are above thee!”

But, my dear child Edith, I remember that you like short sermons, while, on the other hand, tales may be ever so long, ever so often told. I have no tale for you yet. We will wait and see what will come hereafter. Thine, dear,

Monde Hedelquiver.—

CHAPTER II

MONDE HEDELQUIVER TO EDITH MANNERSDanville, Dec. 15, 1851.

“Rosamonde,” said Aunt Alice one morning, as she sat stitching a wristband; and her voice had an ominous cadence.

“What would you say to me, aunt?”

I looked up from my paper, but she had turned her face from me a little, and bent it low over her work, as if what she was going to say had a certain sort of wickedness in it that made her ashamed. “What would you say, aunt?” I repeated.

“Why it isn’t much; but I was thinking that if Alfred Cullen comes up while you are here – and I have an idea that he will – I hope you will try to like him.”

“Or rather, aunt, you hope I will like him without trying, don’t you?”

By the way, I wonder if you remember that Alfred Cullen was the betrothed of Cousin Alice. He still wears his weeds for her; still comes up here every few months, and sits at her piano playing the airs that she used to play most. Uncle and aunt say that he is very pale and very noble, with the air of one who follows Christ close at his feet; that he is gentle and loving like a child; always forgetful of himself, never forgetful of others. You see he is quite a miracle of goodness. If he comes, I fear I shall have a panic as long as he stays.

“That would be better,” aunt replied; “I didn’t think of that. Yes, I hope you will like him with ease – if poor Alice had lived, he would have been her husband. As it is, I can’t wish him to be single always on her account; and, somehow, when I think of his marrying another, I want it to be one who would be a sort of daughter to me and your uncle as well as a wife to Alfred.”

“Yes, that would be pleasant for you,” answered I, feeling something of a panic beforehand. I feel the more of it, because aunt never sees through things that go on clearly, or understands how they go, or how they had best go. So she is always lending a word here and a word there for their adjustment, according to her idea. I thought this all over – covering a piece of waste paper with dashes, dots, and initials – while she considered what must next be said.

She said next, that Alfred is attentive to every body, especially – as she has sometimes thought – to Paulina Monroe, aunt’s niece, who lives in the neighborhood, who was Cousin Alice’s dearest companion, and who is now, as it were, a daughter in the house. Aunt’s “ideas,” of which she has so much to say, are not clear on this head. She has thought that it would not be strange if Alfred were to transfer his affections to Paulina; but she is sure she don’t know how it will terminate. He certainly sits by her a great deal; and when he is here, in summer, walks with her a great deal in the roads and paths she and Alice used to frequent – such as down the hill, through the back lane and the pasture to the old, deserted Fifield house, by the brook, where, as aunt says, the pinks and the roses still bloom, and the apples ripen, albeit the old couple that used to look on their growth have been mouldering this many a year under a hedge close by.

“If he does come while you are here,” again said aunt. “But you are done thinking about it, Rosamonde, and going on with your writing.” She looked as if she were deprecating some hurt I had given her.

“Oh, well, aunt, I am only writing a letter, and can write and talk at the same time.”

“This is strange; but your uncle can do just so, while I can never think of but one thing at a time. What I was going to say was, that you ought to stay longer than you say. Alfred will surely be up in the spring, if he don’t come this winter; and you ought to see our New England scenery in the summer, now that you are old enough to appreciate it. ‘The Switzerland of America’ you know our state has been called, although your uncle says ‘Poh!’ to this. He and Alfred both seem to think New England as good as Switzerland; or, at any rate, good enough without borrowing names for it.”

“As it certainly is, aunt.”

Finding that this was all I had to say, that I had no remark to make respecting Alfred Cullen, she added, hesitatingly —

“Paulina is, to be sure, my own niece – she and Alice were like twins, almost. She is a good little girl as ever was; but, somehow, it seems to me, ever since you came, that Alfred would like you best.” Again aunt’s voice became a little husky, and again a little panic ran along my nerves. “Still, I do think,” added aunt, “that he grows more particular in his attentions to Paulina every time he comes up. And, lately, they correspond occasionally, although Paulina keeps a close mouth about it, so that neither her mother nor I know what it amounts to. Paulina is reckoned very pretty.”

“She is very pretty, indeed, aunt, with a beautiful complexion.”

“Yes, this is true; but, somehow, her beauty is of a very common kind. Alice’s wasn’t; yours isn’t. You and Alice are alike, or were, only you have a better form for those who like dignity. And you have more courage: you are all Hedelquiver; she was half Monroe.”

“You estimate me very kindly, dear aunt,” said I, grateful for the cordial words and tones.

“Well, I like you, somehow, better and better every day. You are calm and strong, like your uncle. I always like to have such people with me, I suppose because I am so nervous and weak myself. Alfred is nervous, too, I think, although he commands himself perfectly.”

Thus it was Alfred, Alfred, all day, and for, many days, until I was quite tired of it; until I wished that there was no Alfred Cullen in the universe. She said to me this morning, in a way as if she were doubtful whether it would recommend him to me – “Alfred writes beautiful poetry, they say. I saw a piece he wrote on ‘Night,’ and it was very beautiful I thought.”

“Writes poetry, does he!” said I, determined to exorcise him and his praises. “I am sorry! I can never bear a man to be always scribbling poetry, whenever the moon shines, or any thing happens.”

Dismayed now, in her turn, aunt put in numberless disclaimers, which amounted to this – Why, she has heard, to be sure, that he does sometimes write very pretty poetry, and that some of it comes out in the “Tribune;” that, in fact, she has seen one piece with her own eyes – Paulina had it, she cut it out of the Tribune. But, for all that, he has as much energy and manliness as those have who never touch a pen but in keeping their accounts. She wouldn’t have me think, for a thousand worlds, that he is an effeminate, moon-struck young man. She hopes he will come up: she has no doubt he will while I am here, and then I shall see with my own eyes!

Yes, then I shall see, Edith mine, and then you shall hear about it. One thing troubles me – I fear aunt will be bumping our heads together every five minutes, in the way of making us like each other; that is, if he comes, as I presume he will by some device of aunt’s. If she does manœuvre in a way the least bit gross, I foresee – that I can live through it, to be sure, as one can live through every sort of vexation and grievance if one will. But I shall be very still, and very tall; and, moreover, so repulsive in various ways, that he will be propelled with something of a shock to the far corners of the room, as often as he meditates approach to me.