I.
EXCELSIOR.
The earnest traveller, who would feed his eye To fullness of content on Nature"s charms, Must not forever pace the easy plain.
No! he must climb the rugged mountain"s side, Scale its steep rocks, cling to its crumbling crags, Nor fear to plunge in it"s eternal snows.
And yet, if he be wise, he will not choose To find the doubtful way alone, lest night O"ertake him wandering, and her icy breath Chill him to marble; not alone will risk His foot unwonted on the gla.s.sy bed Of rifted glacier, lest a step amiss Should hurl him headlong down some fissure dark, That yawns unseen--thence to arise no more.
But, furnished with a trusty guide, he mounts From peak to peak in safety, though with toil.
Once on the lofty summit, he beholds A glory in earth"s kingdom all undreamed Till now. The heavy curtains are withdrawn, That shut the old horizon down so close; And, lo! a world is lying at his feet!
A world without a flaw! What late he held But as discordant fragments, now show forth, From this high vantage ground, the perfect parts Of a harmonious whole! He would not dare To change one line in all that picture marvellous Of hill and vale, bright stream and rolling sea, O"erhung by the great sun that gildeth all.
And thou! If thou would"st truly feast thy soul Upon the things invisible of Him Who made the visible, fear not to tread The awful heights of Thought! not to thyself Sole trusting, lest thou perish in thy pride; But following where Faith enlightened leads, Thou shalt not miss or fall. The way is rough, But never toil did win reward so rich As that she findeth here. At every step New prospects open, and new wonders shine!
Mount higher still, and whatsoe"er thy pains, Thou"lt envy not the sleeper at thy feet!
Visions of truth and beauty shall arise So multiplied, so glorified, so vast, That thy enraptured soul amazed shall cry, "No longer Earth, but the new Heavens I see Lighted forever by the throne of G.o.d."
II.
FABLE.
A widow, feeble, old and lonely, Whose flock once numbered many a score, Had now remaining to her only One little lamb, and nothing more.
And every morning forced to send it To scanty pastures far away, With prayers and tears did she commend it To the good saint that named the day.
Nor so in vain; each kindly patron, George, Agnes, Nicolas, Genevieve, Still mindful of the helpless matron, Brought home her lambkin safe at eve.
All-Saints" day dawned; with faith yet stronger, On the whole hallowed choir the dame Doth call--to one she prays no longer,-- That day the wolf devoured the lamb!
A STORY OF VENICE.
BY GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.
I.
When I was in Venice I knew the Marchesa Negropontini. Many strangers knew her twenty and thirty years ago. In my time she was old and somewhat withdrawn from society; but as I had been a fellow-student and friend of her grand-nephew in Vienna, I was admitted into her house familiarly, until the old lady felt as kindly toward me, as if I, too, had been a nephew.
Italian life and character are different enough from ours. They are traditionally romantic. But we are apt to disbelieve in the romance which we hear from those concerned. I cannot disbelieve, since I knew this sad, stern Italian woman. Can you disbelieve, who have seen t.i.tian"s, and Tintoretto"s, and Paolo Veronese"s portraits of Venetian women? You, who have floated about the ca.n.a.ls of Venice?
I was an American boy; and my very utter strangeness probably made it easier for the Marchesa Negropontini to tell me the story, which I now relate. She told it to me as we sat one evening in the balcony of her house, the palazzo Orfeo, on the Grand Ca.n.a.l.
II.
The Marchesa sat for a long time silent, and we watched the phantom life of the city around us. Presently she sighed deeply and said:
"Ah, me! it is the eve of the Purification. My son, seventy years ago to-day the woman was born whose connection with the house of Negropontini has shrouded it in gloom, like the portrait you have seen in the saloon.
Seventy years ago to-day my father"s neighbor, the Count Balbo, saw for the first time the face of the first daughter his wife had given him. The countess lay motionless--the flame of existence flickered between life and death.
""Adorable Mother of G.o.d!" said the count, as he knelt by her bedside, "if thou restorest my wife, my daughter shall be consecrated to thy service."
"The slow hours dragged heavily by. The mother lived.
"My brother Camillo and I were but two and four years older than our little neighbor. We were children together, and each other"s playmates.
When the little neighbor, Sulpizia Balbo, was fourteen, Camillo was eighteen. My son, the sky of Venice never shone on a more beautiful girl, on a youth more grave and tender. He loved her with his whole soul. Gran"
Dio! "tis the old, old story!
"She was proud, wayward, pa.s.sionate, with a splendor of wit and unusual intelligence. He was calm, sweet, wise; with a depthless tenderness of pa.s.sion. But Sulpizia inherited her will from her father, and at fourteen she was sacrificed to the vow he had made. She was buried alive in the convent of our Lady of the Isle, and my brother"s heart with her.
III.
"Sulpizia"s powerful nature chafed in the narrow bounds of the convent discipline. But her religious education a.s.sured her that that discipline was so much the more necessary, and she struggled with the sirens of worldly desire. The other sisters were shocked and surprised, at one moment by her surpa.s.sing fervor, at another by her bold and startling protests against their miserable bondage.
"Often, at vespers, in the dim twilight of the chapel, she flung back her cape and hood, with the tears raining from her eyes and her voice gushing and throbbing with the melancholy music, while the nuns paused in their singing, appalled by the religious ecstasy of Sulpizia. She was so sweet and gentle in her daily intercourse that all of them loved her, bending to her caresses like grain to the breeze; but they trembled in the power of her denunciation, which shook their faith to the centre, for it seemed to be the voice of a faith so much profounder.
"While she was yet young she was elected abbess of the convent. It was a day of triumph for her powerful family. Perhaps the Count Balbo may have sometimes regretted that solemn vow, but he never betrayed repentance.
Perhaps he would have been more secretly satisfied by the triumphant worldly career of a woman like his daughter, but he never said so.
"Sulpizia knew that my brother loved her. I think she loved him--at least I thought so.
"The nuns were not jealous of her rule, for the superior genius which commanded them also consoled and counselled; and her protests becoming less frequent, her persuasive affection won all their hearts. They saw that the first fire of youth slowly saddened in her eyes. Her mien became even more lofty; her voice less salient; and a shadow fell gently over her life. The sisters thought it was age; but Sulpizia was young. Others thought it was care; but her duties could not hara.s.s such a spirit. Others thought it was repentance; but natures like hers do not early repent.
"It was resolved that the portrait of the abbess should be painted, and the nuns applied to her parents to select the artist. They, in turn, consulted my brother Camillo, who was the friend of the family, and for whom the Count Balbo would, I believe, have willingly unvowed his vow.
Camillo had left Venice as the great door of the convent closed behind his life and love. He fled over the globe. He lost himself in new scenes, in new employments. He took the wings of the morning, and flew to the uttermost parts of the earth,[A] and there he found--himself. So he returned an older and a colder man. His love, which had been a pa.s.sion, seemed to settle into a principle. His life was consecrated to one remembrance. It did not dare to have a hope.
[Footnote A: I use, here, words corresponding to the Marchesa"s.]
"He brought with him a friend whom he had met in the East. Together upon the summit of the great pyramid they had seen the day break over Cairo, and on the plain of Thebes had listened for Memnon to gush with music as the sun struck him with his rod of light. Together they had travelled over the sea-like desert, breaking the awful silence only with words that did not profane it. My brother conversing with wise sadness--his friend Luigi with hope and enthusiasm.
"Luigi was a poor man, and an artist. My brother was proud, but real grief prunes the foolish side of pride, while it fosters the n.o.bler. It was a rare and n.o.ble friendship. Rare, because pride often interferes with friendships among men, where all conditions are not equal. n.o.ble, because the two men were so, although only one had the name and the means of a n.o.bleman. But he shared these with his friend, as naturally as his friend shared his thoughts with him. Neither spoke much of the past. My brother had rolled a stone over the mouth of that tomb, and his friend was occupied with the suggestions and the richness of the life around him. If some stray leaf or blossom fell forward upon their path from the past, it served to Luigi only as a stimulating mystery.
""This is my memory," he would say, touching his portfolio, which was full of eastern sketches. "These are the hieroglyphics Egypt has herself written, and we can decipher them at leisure upon your languid lagunes."
"It was not difficult for my brother to persuade Luigi to return with him to Venice. I shall not forget the night they came, as long as I remember anything."
The Marchesa paused a moment, dreamily.
"It was the eve of the Purification," she said, at length, pausing again.
After a little, she resumed:
"We were ignorant of the probable time of Camillo"s return; and about sunset my mother, my younger sister Fiora, and I, were rowing along the Guidecca, when I saw a gondola approaching, containing two persons only beside the rowers, followed by another with trunks and servants. I have always watched curiously new arrivals in Venice, for no other city in the world can be entered with such peculiar emotion. I had scarcely looked at the new comers before I recognized my brother, and was fascinated by the appearance of his companion, who lay in a trance of delight with the beauty of the place and the hour.