Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 1 July 1848

But I must take up again the broken thread of my own adventures in this square-room, where I left Aunt Polly flourishing about in joy at our unexpected arrival.

A large, straight-backed rocking-chair stood in one corner of this apartment, and on its cushion – stuffed with feathers, and covered with blazing chintz – lay a large gray cat curled up asleep – decidedly the most comfortable looking object in the room – till Aunt Polly unceremoniously shook her out of her snug quarters to give my father the chair. I then discovered that poor puss was without a tail! On expressing my surprise, aunt only replied – "Oh, my cats are all so!" And, true enough, before we left, I saw some half dozen round the house, all deficient in this same graceful appendage of the feline race. The human domestics of the family were only half-grown – but half did their work, and seemed altogether naturalized to the whirligig spirit of their mistress. The reader may anticipate the consequences to the culinary and table arrangements. For supper we had, not unleavened bread, but that which contained "the little leaven," that having had no time to "leaven the whole lump," rendered it still heavier of digestion; butter half-worked, tea made of water that did not get time to boil, and slack-baked cakes. I supped on cucumbers, and complaining of fatigue, was conducted by my kind aunt to the sleeping apartment next her own, as it would seem like old times to have me so near. What was wanting to make my bed comfortable, might have been owing to the fact, that the feathers under me had been only half-baked, or were picked from geese of Aunt Polly's raising; at any rate, I was as restless as the good lady herself until daylight, when I fell into as uneasy dreams – blessing the ducking that saved me a more lingering fate before. After a brief morning-nap I arose, and seeing fresh eggs brought in from the farm-yard, confidently expected to have my appetite appeased, knowing that they could be cooked in "less than no time;" but here again disappointment awaited me. For once, Aunt Polly's mis-hit was in over-doing. The coffee sustained in part her reputation, being half-roasted, half-ground, half-boiled, and, I may add, half-swallowed. After this breakfast – or keepfast – my father archly inquired of me aside, how long I wished him to leave me with Aunt Polly, as he must return immediately home. Horror at the idea of being left at all overcame the mortification that my reaction of feeling naturally occasioned, and throwing my arms around his neck, I implored him to take me back with him. This reply he took as coolly as if he were prepared for it. Not so did Aunt Polly receive the announcement of my departure. She insisted that I had promised her a visit, and this was no visit at all. My father humored her fondness with his usual tact; but on telling her that it was really necessary for me to return to school, the kind woman relinquished at once her selfish claims, in view of a greater good to me.

Poor Aunt Polly! if my affection for her was less disinterested than her own, it was none the less in quantity; and I never loved her more than when she gave me that cruelest of squeezes at our parting, which proved to be the last – for I never saw her again. But in proof that she loved me to the end, I was remembered in her will; and did I not believe that if living, her generous affection, that was the precious oil through which floated her eccentricities like "flies as big as bumble-bees," would smooth over all appearance of ridicule in these reminiscences, they should never amuse any one save myself. But really, I cannot better carry out her restless desire of pleasing others, than by reproducing the merriment which throughout a long life was occasioned by her, who of all the Aunt Pollies that ever lived, was the Aunt Polly!

STUDY. (Extract.)

Life, like the sea, hath yet a few green islesAmid the waste of waters. If the galeHas tossed your bark, and many weary milesStretch yet before you, furl the battered sail,Fling out the anchor, and with rapture hailThe pleasant prospect – storms will come too soon.They are but suicides, at best, who failTo seize when'er they can Joy's fleeting boon —Fools, who exclaim "'tis night," yet always shun the noon.Live not as though you had been born for naught.Save like the brutes to perish. What do theyBut crop the grass and die? Ye have been taughtA nobler lesson – that within the clay,Upon the minds high altar, burns a rayFlashed from Divinity – and shall it shineFitful and feebly? Shall it die away,Because, forsooth, no priest is at the shrine?Go ye with learning's lamp and tend the fire divine.Pore o'er the classic page, and turn againThe leaf of History – ye will not heedThe noisy revel and the shouts of men,The jester and the mime, for ye can feed,Deep, deep, on these; and if your bosoms bleed,At tales of treachery and death they tell,The land that gave you birth will never needTarpeian rock, that rock from which there fellHe who loved Rome and Rome's, yet loved himself too well.And she, the traitress, who beneath the weightOf Sabine shields and bracelets basely sank,Stifled and dying, at the city-gate,Lies buried there – and now the long weeds, dankWith baneful dews, bend o'er her, and the rankEntangled grass, the timid lizard's home,Covers the sepulchre – the wild flower shrankTo plant its roots in that polluted loam —Pity that such a tomb should look o'er ruined Rome.Rome! lovely in her ruins! Can they claimCommon humanity who never feelThe pulse beat higher at the very name,The brain grow wild, and the rapt senses reel,Drunken with happiness? O'er us should stealFeelings too big for utt'rance – I should prizeSuch joy above all earthly wealth and weal,Nor barter it for love – when Beauty diesLove spreads his silken wings. The happy are the wise.HENRY S. HAGERT.

THE FANE-BUILDER

BY EMMA C. EMBURYA poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,A poet's memory thy most far renown. Lament of Tasso.

In the olden time of the world there stood on the ocean-border a large and flourishing city, whose winged ships brought daily the costly merchandise of all nations to its overflowing store-houses. It was a place of busy, bustling, turbulent life. Men were struggling fiercely for wealth, and rank, and lofty name. The dawn of day saw them striving each for his own separate and selfish schemes; the stars of midnight looked down in mild rebuke upon the protracted labor of men who gave themselves no time to gaze upon the quiet heavens. One only of all this busy crowd mingled not in their toil – one only idler sauntered carelessly along the thronged mart, or wandered listlessly by the seashore; Adonais alone scorned to bind himself by fetters which he could not fling aside at his own wild will. Those who loved the stripling grieved to see him waste the spring-time of life in thus aimlessly loitering by the way-side; while the old men and sages would fain have taken from him his ill-used freedom, and shut him up in the prison-house where they bestowed their madmen, lest his example should corrupt the youth of the city.

But for all this Adonais cared little. In vain they showed him the craggy path which traversed the hill of Fame; in vain they set him in the foul and miry roads which led to the temple of Mammon. He bowed before their solemn wisdom, but there was a lurking mischief in his glance as he pointed to his slender limbs, and feigned a shudder of disgust at the very sight of these rugged and distasteful ways. So at last he was suffered to wend his own idle course, and save that careful sires sometimes held him up as a warning to their children, his fellow-townsmen almost forgot his existence.

Years passed on, and then a beautiful and stately Fane began to rise in the very heart of the great city. Slowly it rose, and for a while they who toiled so intently at their daily business, marked not the white and polished stones which were so gradually and silently piled together in their midst. It grew, that noble temple, as if by magic. Every morning dawn shed its rose-tints upon another snowy marble which had been fixed in its appointed place beneath the light of the quiet stars. Men wondered somewhat, but they had scarce time to observe, and none to inquire. So the superb fabric had nearly reached its summit ere they heard, with unbelieving ears, that the builder of this noble fane, was none other than Adonais, the idler.

Few gave credence to the tale, for whence could he, the vagrant, and the dreamer, have drawn those precious marbles, encrusted as they were with sculpture still more precious, and written over with characters as inscrutable as they were immortal? Some set themselves to watch for the Fane-builder, but their eyes were heavy, and at the magic hour when the artist took up his labors, their senses were fast locked in slumber. Yet silently, even as the temple of the mighty Solomon, in which was never heard the sound of the workman's tool, so rose that mystic fane. Not until it stood in grand relief against the clear blue sky; not until its lofty dome pierced the clouds even a mountain-top; not until its polished walls were fashioned within and without, to surpassing beauty, did men learn the truth, and behold in the despised Adonais, the wonder-working Fane-builder. In his wanderings the dreamer had lighted on the entrance to that exhaustless mine, whence men of like soul have drawn their riches for all time. The hidden treasures of poesy had been given to his grasp, and he had built a temple which should long outlast the sand-heaps which the worshipers of Mammon had gathered around them.

But even then, when pilgrims came from afar to gaze upon the noble fane, the men of his own kindred and people stood aloof. They cared not for this adornment of their birth-place – they valued not the treasures that had there been gathered together. Only the few who entered the vestibule, and saw the sparkle of jewels which decked the inner shrine, or they to whom the pilgrims recounted the priceless value of these gems in other lands – only they began to look with something like pride upon the dreamer Adonais.

But not without purpose had the Fane-builder reared this magnificent structure. Within those costly walls was a veiled and jeweled sanctuary. There had he enshrined an idol – the image of a bright divinity which he alone might worship. Willingly and freely did he admit the pilgrim and the wayfarer to the outer courts of his temple; gladly did he offer them refreshing draughts from the fountain of living water which gushed up in its midst; but never did he suffer them to enter that "Holy of holies;" never did their eyes rest on that enshrined idol, in whose honor all these treasures were gathered together.

In progress of time, when Adonais had lavished all his wealth upon his temple, and when with the toil of gathering and shaping out her treasures, his strength had well-nigh failed him, there came a troop of revilers and slanderers – men of evil tongue, who swore that the Fane-builder was no better than a midnight robber, and had despoiled other temples of all that adorned his own. The tale was as false and foul as they who coined it; but when they pointed to many pigmy fanes which now began to be reared about the city, and when men saw that they were built of like marbles as those which glittered in the temple of Adonais, they paused not to mark that the fairest stones in these new structures were but the imperfect sculptures which the true artist had scorned to employ, or perhaps the chippings of some rare gem which in his affluence he could fling aside. So the tale was hearkened unto and believed. They whose dim perceptions had been bewildered by this new uncoined and uncoinable wealth, were glad to think that it had belonged to some far off time, or some distant region. The envious, the sordid, the cold, all listened well-pleased to the base slander; and they who had cared little for his glory made themselves strangely busy in spreading the story of his shame.

Patiently and unweariedly had the dreamer labored at his pleasant task, while the temple was gradually growing up toward the heavens; skillfully had he polished the rich marbles, and graven upon them the ineffaceable characters of truth. But the jeweled adornments of the inner shrine had cost him more than all his other toil, for with his very heart's blood had he purchased those costly gems that sparkled on his soul's idol. Now wearied and worn with by-gone suffering he had no strength to stand forth and defy his revilers. Proudly and silently he withdrew from the world, and entered into his own beautiful fane. Presently men beheld that a heavy stone had been piled against the door of the inner sanctuary, and upon its polished surface was inscribed these words: "To Time the Avenger!"

From that day no one ever again beheld the dreamer. Pilgrims came as before, and rested within the vestibule, and drank of the springing fountain, but they no longer saw the dim outline of the veiled goddess in the distant shrine, only the white and ghastly glitter of that threatening stone, which seemed like the portal of a tomb, met their eyes.

Thus years passed on, and men had almost forgotten the name of him who had wasted himself in such fruitless toil. At length there came one from a country far beyond the seas, who had set forth to explore the wonders of all lands. He lacked the pious reverence of the pilgrims, but he also lacked the cold indifference of those who dwelt within the shadow of the temple. He entered the mystic fane, he gazed with unsated eye upon the treasures it contained, and his soul sought for greater beauty. With daring hand he and his companions thrust aside the marble portal which guarded the sanctuary. At first they shrunk back, dazzled and awe-stricken as the blaze of rich light met their unhallowed gaze. Again they went forward, and then what saw they? Surrounded by the sheen of jewels – glowing in the gorgeous light of the diamond, the chrysolite, the beryl, the ruby, they found an image fashioned but of common clay, while extended at its feet lay the skeleton of the Fane-builder.

Worn with toil, and pain, and disappointment, he had perished at the feet of his idol. It may be that the scorn of the world had opened his eyes to behold of what mean materials was shapen the divinity he had so honored. It may be that the glitter of the gems he had heaped around it had perpetuated the delusion which had first charmed him, and he had thus been saved the last, worst pang of wasted idolatry. It matters not. He died – as all such men must die – in sorrow and in loneliness.

But the fane he has reared is as indestructible as the soul of him who lifted its lofty summit to the skies. "Time, the Avenger," has redeemed the builder's fame; and even the men of his own nation now believe that a prophet and a seer once dwelt among them.

When that great city shall have shared the fortunes of the Babylons and Ninevahs of olden time, that snow-white fane, written all over with characters of truth, and graven with images of beauty, will yet endure; and men of new times and new states shall learn lessons of holier and loftier existence from a pilgrimage to that glorious temple, built by spirit-toil, and consecrated by spirit-worship and spirit-suffering.

DREAM-MUSIC; OR, THE SPIRIT-FLUTE

A BALLADBY FRANCES S. OSGOODThere – Pearl of Beauty! lightly press,With yielding form, the yielding sand;And while you lift the rosy shells,Within your dear and dainty hand,Or toss them to the heedless waves.That reck not how your treasures shine,As oft you waste on careless heartsYour fancies, touched with light divine,I'll sing a lay – more wild than gay —The story of a magic flute;And as I sing, the waves shall playAn ordered tune, the song to suit.In silence flowed our grand old Rhine;For on his breast a picture burned,The loveliest of all scenes that shineWhere'er his glorious course has turned.That radiant morn the peasants sawA wondrous vision rise in light,They gazed, with blended joy and awe —A castle crowned the beetling height!Far up amid the amber mist,That softly wreathes each mountain-spire,The sky its clustered columns kissed,And touched their snow with golden fire;The vapor parts – against the skies,In delicate tracery on the blue,Those graceful turrets lightly rise,As if to music there they grew!And issuing from its portal fair,A youth descends the dizzy steps;The sunrise gilds his waving hair,From rock to rock he lightly leaps —He comes – the radiant, angel-boy!He moves with more than human grace;His eyes are filled with earnest joy,And Heaven is in his beauteous face.And whether bred the stars among,Or in that luminous palace born,Around his airy footsteps hungThe light of an immortal morn.From steep to steep he fearless springs,And now he glides the throng amid.So light, as if still played the wingsThat 'neath his tunic sure are hid!A fairy flute is in his hand —He parts his bright, disordered hair,And smiles upon the wondering band,A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air.Anon, his blue, celestial eyesHe bent upon a youthful maid,Whose looks met his in still surprise,The while a low, glad tune he played —Her heart beat wildly – in her faceThe lovely rose-light went and came;She clasped her hands with timid grace,In mute appeal, in joy and shame!Then slow he turned – more wildly breathedThe pleading flute, and by the soundThrough all the throng her steps she wreathed,As if a chain were o'er her wound.All mute and still the group remained,And watched the charm, with lips apart,While in those linkéd notes enchained,The girl was led, with listening heart: —The youth ascends the rocks again.And in his steps the maiden stole,While softer, holier grew the strain,Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul!And fainter fell that fairy tune;Its low, melodious cadence wound,Most like a rippling rill at noon,Through delicate lights and shades of sound;And with the music, gliding slow,Far up the steep, their garments gleam;Now through the palace gate they go;And now – it vanished like a dream!Still frowns above thy waves, oh Rhine!The mountain's wild terrific height,But where has fled the work divine,That lent its brow a halo-light?Ah! springing arch and pillar paleHad melted in the azure air!And she – the darling of the dale —She too had gone – but how – and where?Long years rolled by – and lo! one morn,Again o'er regal Rhine it came,That picture from the dream-land borne,That palace built of frost and flame.Behold! within its portal gleamsA heavenly shape – oh! rapturous sight!For lovely as the light of dreamsShe glides adown the mountain height!She comes! the loved, the long-lost maid!And in her hand the charméd flute;But ere its mystic tune was playedShe spake – the peasants listened mute —She told how in that instrumentWas chained a world of wingéd dreams;And how the notes that from it wentRevealed them as with lightning gleams;And how its music's magic braidO'er the unwary heart it threw,Till he or she whose dream it playedWas forced to follow where it drew.She told how on that marvelous dayWithin its changing tune she heardA forest-fountain's plaintive play,A silver trill from far-off bird;And how the sweet tones, in her heart,Had changed to promises as sweet,That if she dared with them depart,Each lovely hope its heaven should meet.And then she played a joyous lay,And to her side a fair child springs,And wildly cries – "Oh! where are they?Those singing-birds, with diamond wings?"Anon a loftier strain is heard,A princely youth beholds his dream;And by the thrilling cadence stirred,Would follow where its wonders gleam.Still played the maid – and from the throng —Receding slow – the music drewA choice and lovely band along —The brave – the beautiful – the true!The sordid – worldly – cold – remained,To watch that radiant troop ascend;To hear the fading fairy strain;To see with Heaven the vision blend!And ne'er again, o'er glorious Rhine,That sculptured dream rose calm and mute;Ah! would that now once more 't would shine,And I could play the fairy flute!I'd play, Marié, the dream I see,Deep in those changeful eyes of thine,And thou perforce should'st follow me,Up – up where life is all divine!

RISING IN THE WORLD

BY P. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC"This is the house that Jack built."

Whether it was cotton or tallow that laid the foundations of Mr. Fairchild's fortunes we forget – for people have no right now-a-days to such accurate memories – but it was long ago, when Mrs. Fairchild was contented and humble, and Mr. Fairchild happy in the full stretch of his abilities to make the two ends meet – days which had long passed away. A sudden turn of fortune's wheel had placed them on new ground. Mr. Fairchild toiled, and strained, and struggled to follow up fortune's favors, and was successful. The springs of life had well-nigh been consumed in the eager and exhausting contest; and now, breathless and worn, he paused to be happy. One half of life he had thus devoted to the one object, meaning when that object was obtained to enjoy the other half, supposing that happiness, like every thing else, was to be bought.

Mrs. Fairchild's ideas had jumped with her husband's fortunes. Once she only wanted additional pantries and a new carpet for her front parlor, to be perfectly happy. Now, a grand house in a grand avenue was indispensable. Once, she only wished to be a little finer than Mrs. Simpkins; now, she ardently desired to forget she ever knew Mrs. Simpkins; and what was harder, to make Mrs. Simpkins forget she had ever known her. In short, Mrs. Fairchild had grown fine, and meant to be fashionable. And why not? Her house was as big as any body's. Her husband gave her carte blanche for furniture, and the mirrors, and gilding, and candelabras, were enough to put your eyes out.

She was very busy, and talked very grand to the shopmen, who were very obsequious, and altogether was very happy.

"I don't know what to do with this room, or how to furnish it," she said to her husband one day, as they were going through the house. There are the two drawing-rooms, and the dining-room – but this fourth room seems of no use – I would make a keeping-room of it, but that it has only that one large window that looks back – and I like a cheerful look-out where I sit – why did you build it so?"

"I don't know," he replied, "it's just like Ashfield's house next door, and so I supposed it must be right, and I told the workmen to follow the same plan as his."

"Ashfield's!" said Mrs. Fairchild, looking up with a new idea, "I wonder what use they put it to."

"A library, I believe. I think the head carpenter told me so."

"A library! Well, then, let's us have a library," she said. "Book-cases would fill those walls very handsomely."

He looked at her for a moment, and said,

"But the books?"

"Oh, we can get those," she replied. "I'll go this very morning to Metcalf about the book-cases."

So forthwith she ordered the carriage, and drove to the cabinet-maker's.

"Mr. Metcalf," she said with her grandest air, (for as at present she had to confine her grandeur to her trades-people, she gave them full measure, for which, however, they charged her full price,) "I want new book-cases for my library – I want your handsomest and most expensive kind."

The man bowed civilly, and asked if she preferred the Gothic or Egyptian pattern.

Gothic or Egyptian! Mrs. Fairchild was nonplused. What did he mean by Gothic and Egyptian? She would have given the world to ask, but was ashamed.

"I have not made up my mind," she replied, after some hesitation, (her Egyptian ideas being drawn from the Bible, were not of the latest date, and so she thought of Pharaoh) and added, "but Gothic, I believe" – for Gothic at least was untrenched ground, and she had no prejudices of any kind to combat there – "which, however, are the most fashionable?" she continued.

"Why I make as many of the one as the other," he replied. "Mr. Ashfield's are Egyptian, Mr. Campden's Gothic."

Now the Ashfields were her grand people. She did not know them, but she meant to. They lived next door, and she thought nothing would be easier. They were not only rich, but fashionable. He was a man of talent and information, (but that the Fairchilds knew nothing about,) head of half the literary institutions, a person of weight and influence in all circles. She was very pretty and very elegant – dressing beautifully, and looking very animated and happy; and Mrs. Fairchild often gazed at her as she drove from the door, (for the houses joined,) and made up her mind to be very intimate as soon as she was "all fixed."