Gifts of Genius Part 16

That polished brow, those lips of Rose Beneath the flowers were laid-- But where the music never tires, Amid the white-robed angel choir The happy spirit stray'd.

Yet lingering at the accustom'd place That minstrel ply'd his art, Though its soft symphony of words Convulsed with pain the broken chords Within a mother's heart.

They told him that the babe was dead And could return no more, _Dead! Dead!_--to his bewildered ear, A foreign language train'd to hear-- The sound no import bore.

At length, by slow degrees, the truth O'er his young being stole, And with sad step he went his way No more for that blest babe to play, The tear-drop in his soul.

City of Washington, May 24, 1858.

THE ERL-KING.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.)

BY MRS. E.F. ELLET.

By night through the forest who rideth so fast, While the chill sleet is driving, and fierce roars the blast?

'Tis the father, who beareth his child through the storm, And safe in his mantle has wrapped him from harm.

"My son, why hid'st thy face, as in fear?"

"Oh, father! see, father! the Erl-king is near!

The Erl-king it is, with his crown and his shroud!"

"My boy! it is naught but a wreath of the cloud."

"Oh, pretty child! come--wilt thou go with me!

With many gay sports will I gambol with thee; There are flowers of all hues on our fairy strand-- My mother shall weave thee robes golden and grand."

"Oh, father! my father! and dost thou not hear What the Erl-king is whispering low in mine ear?"

"Be quiet, my darling! thy hearing deceives; 'Tis but the wind whistling among the crisp leaves."

"Oh, beautiful boy! wilt thou come with me!--say!

My daughters are waiting to join thee at play!

In their arms they shall bear thee through all the dark night-- They shall dance, they shall sing thee to slumber so light?"

"My father! oh, father! and dost thou not see Where the Erl-king's daughters are waiting for me?"

"My child! 'tis no phantom! I see it now plain; 'Tis but the grey willow that waves in the rain."

"Thy sweet face hath charmed me! I love thee, my joy!

And com'st thou not willing, I'll seize thee, fair boy!"

"Oh, father! dear father! his touch is so cold!

He grasps me! I cannot escape from his hold!"

Sore trembled the father, he spurs through the wild, And folds yet more closely his terrified child; He reaches his own gate in darkness and dread-- Alas! in his arms lay the fair child--dead!

THOUGHTS UPON FENELON.

BY THE REV. SAMUEL OSGOOD, D.D.

Fenelon died at Cambray, January 7, 1715, aged 64, some years after the death of Bossuet, his antagonist, and shortly before the death of his royal patron and persecutor, Louis XIV. The conscience of Christendom has already judged between the two parties. Never was the spirit of the good archbishop more powerful than now. Whilst ambitious ecclesiastics may honor more the name of Bossuet, the heart of France has embalmed in its affections the name of his victim, and our common humanity has incorporated him into its body. When Fenelon's remains were discovered in 1804, the French people shouted with joy that Jacobinism had not scattered his ashes, and a monument to his memory was forthwith decreed by Napoleon.

In 1826, his statue was erected in Cambray, and three years after, a memorial more eloquent than any statue, a selection from his works, exhibiting the leading features of his mind, bore witness of his power and goodness to this western world. The graceful monument which the wife of Follen thus reared to his memory was crowned by the hand of Channing with a garland that as yet has shown no trace of decay.

To any conversant with that little work, or with the larger productions of Fenelon's mind, need I say a single word of tribute to his character or gifts? Yet something must be said to show the compa.s.s of his character, for common eulogium is too indiscriminate in praise, exaggerating certain amiable graces at the expense of more commanding virtues.

He was remarkable for the harmony of his various qualities. In his intellect, reason, understanding, fancy, imagination, were balanced in an almost unexampled degree. The equilibrium of his character showed itself alike in the exquisite propriety of his writings and the careful and generous economy of his substance. He died without property and without debt. Some critics have denied him the praise of philosophical depth. They should rather say, that his love of prying a.n.a.lytically into the secret principles of things was counterbalanced by the desire to exhibit principles in practical combination, and by his preference of truth and virtue in its living portraiture to moral anatomizing or metaphysical dissection. He could grapple wisely with the fatalism of Malebranche and the pantheism of Spinosa, as his controversial works show; he could hold an even argument with the terrible Bossuet on the essence of Christianity.

He preferred, however, to exhibit under forms far more winning than controversy, his views of human agency, divine power, and Christian love.

The beautiful structure of his narratives, dialogues, and letters, is not the graceful cloak that hides a poverty of philosophical ideas. It is like the covering which the Creator has thrown around the human frame, not to disguise its emptiness, but to incase its energies, and to ease and beautify its action. With this reservation, we will allow it to be said that his mind was more graceful than strong.

His heart was equally balanced with his intellect. Piety and humanity, dignity and humility, justice and mercy, blended in the happiest equilibrium. His gentleness never led him to forget due self-respect, or forego any opportunity of speaking unwelcome truths. Bossuet and Louis, in their pride, as well as young Burgundy, in his confiding attachment, had more than one occasion to recognize the singular truthfulness of this gentle spirit. Measured by prevalent standards, his character may be said to lack one element--fear. His life was love. The text that the beloved disciple drew from his Master's bosom was the constant lesson of his soul: "He that loveth not knoweth not G.o.d, for G.o.d is love."

His active powers were great, for he filled with efficiency posts of duty so various as to call for different orders of ability. Priest, preceptor, prelate, as well as statesman, poet, orator, theologian, he was eminent in every capacity, and in each sphere took something from his distinction by being rival of himself in other spheres. Take him for all in all--allowing to other men superior excellence in single departments--where can we find a man on the whole so perfect as he was?

I am well aware that he has not escaped disparagement, and that the animadversions of his contemporary, St. Simon, have been more than repeated in the suspicions of the over-skeptical historian Michelet. True, that the courtesy that won the hearts alike of master and servant, the high-born lady who sought his society and the broken-spirited widow who asked his Christian counsel, has been ascribed to a love of praise that rejoiced in every person's homage, or a far-sighted policy that desired every person's suffrage. True, that his self-denial has been called a deep self-interest that would win high honors by refusing to accept the less rewards. True, that his piety has sometimes been called sentimentalism, and an alloy of baser emotion has been hinted at as running through some of his letters to enthusiastic devotees. True, that he has been called very politic and ambitious. We claim for him no superhuman perfection. Nor do we deny that he was a Frenchman, whilst we maintain that he was every inch a man.

But let him be judged not by a skeptical suspicion that doubts from the habit of doubting of virtue, but by the spirit of his whole life. That life, from beginning to end, was an example of the virtue commended by our Lord in his charge to his apostles. Sent forth like a lamb in the midst of wolves, he blended the wisdom of the serpent with the gentleness of the dove. Whatever failings he may have had he conquered. His course was ever onward to the mark whither he deemed himself called of G.o.d.

We probably have often felt, on reading Fenelon, as if his sweetness of temper were sometimes at the expense of his manliness, and we could easily spare some of his honeyed words for an occasional flow of hearty, even if bitter, indignation. To his credit, however, be it said, that with him gentle speech was often but the smooth edge of faithful counsel most resolutely pointed and sharpened at the consciences of the great whom rudeness would offend and inelegance disgust. Recent discoveries have given ample proof of his unflinching boldness to the French Court. During his banishment (1694-97) he wrote that masterly and fearless letter to Louis XIV., which was not discovered until 1825, and which the most earnest of his eulogists, not even Channing, we believe, seems to have noted. Than these intrepid words, Christian heroism cannot further go.

Would that there were time to speak of his works in their various departments, especially those in the departments of education, social morals, and religion.

No name stands above his among the leaders in the great cause of education. None surpa.s.s him in the power with which he defended the mind of woman from the impoverishing and distorting systems prevalent in his day, and by his example and pen taught parents to educate their daughters in a manner that should rebuke vanity and deceit, and blend grace with utility. None went before him in knowledge of the art of taming obstinate boyhood into tenderness, and with all modern improvements our best teachers may find in his works a mine of knowledge and incentive both in their tasks of instruction and discipline.

In social morals he was a great reformer; not, indeed, so remarkable for being engrossed with some favorite innovation, as for urging the constant need of applying Christian truth and duty to every social inst.i.tution. He rebuked the pa.s.sion for war, by his own demeanor disarmed the hostility of combatants, and by his instructions struck at the root of warfare in the councils of princes. We may well be amazed at his political wisdom, and taught more emphatically than ever that we are to look for this not to the hack-politicians who think only of the cabals of the moment, but to the sage men who interpret the future from the high ground of reason and right. His political papers embody the lessons that France has since learned by a baptism of blood. Hardly a single principle now deemed necessary for the peace and prosperity of nations, can be named, that cannot be found expressed or implied in Fenelon's various advice to the royal youth under his charge. Well may the better minds of France and Christendom honor his name for the n.o.ble liberality with which he qualified the mild conservatism so congenial with his temperament, creed and position.

As a theologian, he constantly breathes one engrossing sentiment. With him, Christianity was the love of G.o.d and its morality was the love of the neighbor. Judged by occasional expressions, his piety might seem too ascetic and mystical--too urgent of penance and self-crucifixion--too enthusiastic in emotion, perilling the sobriety of reason in the impa.s.sioned fervors of devotion--sometimes bordering upon that overstrained spiritualism, which, in its impulsive flights, is so apt to lose its just balance and sink to the earth and the empire of the senses.

He has written some things that prudence, nay, wisdom, might wish to erase. But, qualified by other statements, and above all, interpreted by his own life, his religion appears in its true proportion--without gloom, without extravagance. To his honor be it spoken, that in an age when priests and prelates eminent for saintly piety sanctioned the scourging and death of heretics, and enforced the Gospel chiefly by the fears of perdition, Fenelon was censured for dwelling too much on the power of love, that perfect charity that casteth out fear. It may, perhaps, be a failing with him that he had too little sympathy with the fears and pa.s.sions of men, and appreciated too little the more sublime and terrible aspects of Divine Providence. His mind was tuned too gently to answer to all of the grandest music of our humanity, and we must abate something of our admiration of him for his want of loyalty to the new ages of Christian thought and heroism. He evidently loved Virgil more than Dante, Cicero more than Chrysostom, and thought the Greek Parthenon, in its horizontal lines and sensuous beauty, a grander and more perfect structure, alike in plan and execution, than Notre Dame or Strasbourg Cathedral, with its uplifting points and spiritual sublimity. He was a Christianized Greek, who had exchanged the philosopher's robe for the archbishop's surplice.

Viewing him now on the whole, considering at once his gifts and graces of mind, and heart, and will; his offerings upon the altar of learning, humanity and religion, we sum up our judgment in a single saying. He worshipped G.o.d in the _beauty_ of holiness. His whole being, with all its graces and powers so harmoniously combined, was an offering to G.o.d that men cannot but admire and the Most High will not despise.

We may not take leave of Fenelon without applying to our times the teachings of his spirit, the lesson of his life. However rich the topic in occasion for controversial argument, we defer all strife to the inspiration of his gentle and loving wisdom. Let an incident connected with the tomb of Fenelon furnish us an emblem of the spirit in which we shall look upon his name. His remains were deposited in the vault beneath the main altar at which he had so often ministered. It would seem as if some guardian-angel shielded them from desecration. Eighty years pa.s.sed and the Reign of Terror came upon France in retribution for her falsity to her best advisers. The allied armies were marshalling their hosts against the new republic. Every means must be used to add to the public resources, and the decree went forth that even the tombs should be robbed of their coffins. The republican administrator of the District of Cambray, Bernard Cannonne, in company with a butcher and two artillery-men, entered the cathedral and went down into the vault which held the ashes of so many prelates. The leaden coffins with their contents were carried away and placed upon the cars; but when they came to the inclosure whose tablet bore the name of Fenelon, and lifted it from its bed, it appeared that the lead had become unsoldered and they could take away the coffin and leave the sacred dust it had contained. Years pa.s.sed, and the reign of Napoleon bringing a better day, rebuked the Vandalism that would dishonor all greatness and spoil even its grave. The facts regarding the acts of desecration were legally ascertained and the bones of the good archbishop triumphantly reserved for a n.o.bler than the ancient sepulchre. There was a poetical justice in the preservation of them from violence. It was well that the b.l.o.o.d.y revolutionists who went to the tombs for metal to furnish their a.r.s.enals, were made, in spite of themselves, to respect the ashes of one whose counsels of duty heeded would have averted that revolution by a system of timely concessions and benignant legislation.

Now that we virtually draw near the resting-place of this good man, let it not be to furnish material for bullets of lead or paper to hurl against theological antagonists. Appreciating the beauty of his spirit, let us learn and apply the rebuke and encouragement it affords. A genius so rare we may not hope to approach or imitate. Graces still more precious and imitable are a.s.sociated with that genius and create its highest charm. Our time has been worse than thrown away, and our study of his works and his biographies has been in vain, if we are not better, more wise, and earnest, and gentle for the page of history, the ill.u.s.tration of divine providence that has now come before us. Placed in the most perplexing relations, he never lost hold of the calm wisdom that was his chosen guide. Exposed to the most irritating provocations, he never gave up the gentle peacefulness of his spirit.

Our age is not peculiarly ecclesiastical, yet we have not done with the church and its teachers. Many a time of late we have had cause to think with regret of the persuasive eloquence of the Archbishop of Cambray, of the sacred Art that could make truth lovely to wayward youth, and religion beautiful to hard and skeptical manhood. Has it not sometimes seemed as if ambitious prelacy had forgotten the purer example for the baser, and copied Bossuet's pride instead of Fenelon's charity? Nay, has not priestly a.s.sumption coveted the talons and forgotten the wings of the Eagle of Meaux and lost sight wholly of the Dove of Cambray? What government or ruler in Christendom would not be the better for a counsellor as eloquent and fearless as he who dared rebuke without reserve the great Louis of France in words like these:

"You do not love G.o.d; you do not even fear him but with a slave's fear; it is h.e.l.l and not G.o.d whom you fear. Your religion consists but in superst.i.tions, in petty superficialities. You are like the Jews, of whom G.o.d said: _'Whilst they honor me with their lips, their hearts are far from me.'_ You are scrupulous upon trifles and hardened upon terrible evils. You love only your own glory and comfort. You refer everything to yourself as if you were the G.o.d of the earth, and everything else here created only to be sacrificed to you. It is you, on the contrary, whom G.o.d has put into the world only for your people."

POEMS.

BY MRS. GEORGE P. MARSH.