"I am afraid, sir, that my selection will displease you."
"I will risk it, as, notwithstanding your flattering opinion to the contrary, I am not altogether so unreasonable as to take offense at a compliance with my own request."
Still she shrank from the task he imposed, and her fingers toyed with the scarlet fuchsias; but after eyeing her for a while, he leaned forward and pushed the gla.s.s bowl beyond her reach.
"Edna, I am waiting."
"Well, then, Mr. Murray, I should think that these two pa.s.sages would impress you with peculiar force."
Raising the book, she read with much emphasis:
""Thou pursuest after wisdom, O Melampus! which is the science of the will of the G.o.ds; _and thou roamest from people to people, like a mortal driven by the destinies_. In the times when I kept my night-watches before the caverns, I have sometimes believed that I was about to surprise the thoughts of the sleeping Cybele, and that the mother of the G.o.ds, betrayed by her dreams, would let fall some of her secrets. But I have never yet made out more than sounds which faded away in the murmur of night, or words inarticulate as the bubbling of the rivers." . . . "Seekest thou to know the G.o.ds, O Macareus! and from what source, men, animals, and elements of the universal fire have their origin? The aged ocean, the father of all things, keeps locked within his own breast these secrets; and the nymphs who stand around sing as they weave their eternal dance before him, to cover any sound which might escape from his lips, half opened by slumber.
Mortals dear to the G.o.ds for their virtue have received from their hands lyres to give delight to man, or the seeds of new plants to make him rich, but from their inexorable lips--nothing!"
"Mr. Murray, am I correct in my conjecture?"
"Quite correct," he answered, smiling grimly.
Taking the book from her hand he threw it on the table, and tossed his cigar into the grate, adding in a defiant, challenging tone:
"The mantle of Solomon did not fall at Le Cayla on the shoulders of Maurice de Guerin. After all he was a wretched hypochondriac, and a tinge of _le cahier vert_ doubtless crept into his eyes."
"Do you forget, sir, that he said, "When one is a wanderer, one feels that one fulfils the true condition of humanity?" and that among his last words are these, "The stream of travel is full of delight. Oh!
who will set me adrift on this Nile?""
"Pardon me if I remind you, _par parenthese_, of the preliminary and courteous _En garde!_ which should be p.r.o.nounced before a thrust. De Guerin felt starved in Languedoc, and no wonder! But had he penetrated every nook and cranny of the habitable globe, and traversed the vast zaarahs which science accords the universe, he would have died at last as hungry as Ugolino. I speak advisedly; for the true Io gad-fly, _ennui_, has stung me from hemisphere to hemisphere, across tempestuous oceans, scorching deserts, and icy mountain ranges. I have faced alike the bourrans of the steppes, and the Samieli of Shamo, and the result of my vandal life is best epitomized in those grand but grim words of Bossuet: "_On trouve au fond du tout le vide et le neant!_" Nineteen years ago, to satisfy my hunger, I set out to hunt the daintiest food this world could furnish, and, like other fools, have learned finally, that life is but a huge mellow golden osher, that mockingly sifts its bitter dust upon our eager lips. Ah! truly, _on trouve au fond du tout le vide et le neant_!"
"Mr. Murray, if you insist upon your bitter osher simile, why shut your eyes to the palpable a.n.a.logy suggested? Naturalists a.s.sert that the Solanum, or apple of Sodom, contains in its normal state neither dust nor ashes; unless it is punctured by an insect, (the Tenthredo), which converts the whole of the inside into dust, leaving nothing but the rind entire, without any loss of color. Human life is as fair and tempting as the fruit of "Ain Jidy," till stung and poisoned by the Tenthredo of sin."
All conceivable _suaviter in modo_ characterized his mocking countenance and tone, as he inclined his haughty head and asked:
"Will you favor me by lifting on the point of your dissecting knife this stinging sin of mine to which you refer? The noxious brood swarm so teasingly about my ears that they deprive me of your cool, clear, philosophic discrimination. Which particular Tenthredo of the buzzing swarm around my spoiled apple of life would you advise me to select for my _anathema maranatha_?"
"Of your history, sir, I am entirely ignorant; and even if I were not, I should not presume to levy a tax upon it in discussions with you; for, however vulnerable you may possibly be, I regard an _argumentum ad hominem_ as the weakest weapon in the armory of dialectics--a weapon too often dipped in the venom of personal malevolence. I merely gave expression to my belief that miserable useless lives are sinful lives." . . .
FOOTNOTE:
[36] By permission of the author, and of the publisher, G. W.
Dillingham, N. Y.
DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS.
~1836=----.~
DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS is a native of Charlestown, West Virginia, and has reputation as a lawyer, orator, and judge. He was a soldier in the Confederate Army and wrote his fine and best known poem, "The Land Where We Were Dreaming," in 1865. He has served in the State Legislature. His sister was also a poet and her verses are included in the "Wreath of Eglantine."
WORKS.
Memoir of John Yates Bell.
Maid of Northumberland.
Ballads and Madrigals.
Wreath of Eglantine, and other Poems.
THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING.
(_From The Land We Love._[37])
Fair were our nation"s visions, and as grand As ever floated out of fancy-land; Children were we in simple faith, But G.o.d like children, whom nor death Nor threat of danger drove from honor"s path-- In the land where we were dreaming.
Proud were our men as pride of birth could render, As violets our women pure and tender; And when they spoke, their voices" thrill At evening hushed the whip poor-will, At morn the mocking bird was mute and still, In the land where we were dreaming.
And we had graves that covered more of glory Than ever taxed the lips of ancient story; And in our dream we wove the thread Of principles for which had bled And suffered long our own immortal dead, In the land where we were dreaming.
Our sleep grew troubled, and our dreams grew wild; Red meteors flashed across our heaven"s field, Crimson the moon, between the Twins Barbed arrows flew in circling lanes Of light, red comets tossed their fiery manes O"er the land where we were dreaming.
A figure came among us as we slept-- At first he knelt, then slowly rose and wept; Then gathering up a thousand spears, He swept across the field of Mars, Then bowed farewell, and walked among the start, From the land where we were dreaming.
[Ill.u.s.tration: [Handwriting: T. J. Jackson, LtGnrl.]]
We looked again--another figure still Gave hope, and nerved each individual will; Erect he stood, as clothed with power, Self-poised, he seemed to rule the hour With firm, majestic sway--of strength a tower-- In the land where we were dreaming.
As, while great Jove, in bronze, a warder G.o.d, Gazed eastward from the Forum where he stood, Rome felt herself secure and free-- So, Richmond! we on guard for thee, Beheld a bronzed hero, G.o.d-like Lee, In the land where we were dreaming.
Woe! woe is us! the startled mothers cried; While we have slept, our n.o.ble sons have died.
Woe! woe is us! how strange and sad, That all our glorious visions fled Have left us nothing real but our dead In the land where we were dreaming.
"And are they really dead, our martyred slain?"
No, dreamers! Morn shall bid them rise again From every plain, from every height On which they seemed to die for right; Their gallant spirits shall renew the fight In the land where we were dreaming.
FOOTNOTE:
[37] By permission of the author.