Gifts of Genius Part 4

Does she forget how shone the happy eyes When they beheld her?--how the eager tongue Plied its swift oar through wave-like harmonies, To reach her where she sung?

How at her sacred feet I cast me down?

How she upraised me to her bosom fair, And from her garland shred the first light crown That ever pressed my hair?

Though dust is on the leaves, her breath will bring Their freshness back: why lingers she so long?

The pulseless air is waiting for her wing, Dumb with unuttered song.

If tender doubt delay her on the road, Oh let her haste, to find that doubt belied!

If shame for love unworthily bestowed, That shame shall melt in pride.

If she but smile, the crystal calm will break In music, sweeter than it ever gave, As when a breeze breathes o'er some sleeping lake And laughs in every wave.

The ripples of awakened song shall die Kissing her feet, and woo her not in vain, Until, as once, upon her breast I lie, Pardoned and loved again.

ON POPULAR KNOWLEDGE.

BY GEORGE S. HILLARD.

Against all inst.i.tutions for the diffusion of knowledge among the community, an objection is often urged that they can teach nothing thoroughly, but only superficially, and that modest ignorance is better than presumptuous half-knowledge. How frequently is it said that "a little learning is a dangerous thing." This celebrated line is a striking instance of the vitality which may be given to what is at least a very doubtful proposition by throwing it into a pointed form. If anything be a good at all, it is a good precisely in proportion to the extent in which it is possessed or enjoyed. A great deal of it is better than a little, but a little is better than none. No one says or thinks that a little conscience, or a little wisdom, or a little faith, or a little charity is a dangerous thing. Why then is a little learning dangerous? Alas, it is not the little learning, but the much ignorance which it supposes, that is dangerous!

We also frequently hear it said, that the general diffusion of popular knowledge is unfavorable to great acquisitions in any one individual. This is a favorite dogma with those persons whose views are all retrospective, who are ever magnifying past ages at the expense of the present, and who will insist upon riding through life with their faces turned toward the horse's tail instead of his head. "We have smatterers and sciolists in abundance," say they, "but where are the giant scholars of other days?"

Dr. Johnson once said, in reply to a remark upon the general intelligence of the people of Scotland, that learning in Scotland was like bread in a besieged city, where every man gets a mouthful, but none a full meal. He also observed in a conversation held with Lord Monboddo, that learning had much decreased in England, since his remembrance; to which his lordship remarked, "you have lived to see its decrease in England; I, its extinction in Scotland." The fallacy of views like these consists in taking it for granted that there is always just about the same aggregate amount of knowledge in the world, and that only the ratio of distribution is changed. But there is no such a.n.a.logy between learning and material substances. The wealth of the mind is not like gold, which must be beaten out the finer, as the surface to be covered by it is more extensive. As to the alleged superiority of past ages, in anything essential, I am more than skeptical. I hold rather that of all good things, learning included, there is as much in the world now as there ever was--not to say more. The great scholars of Europe in our time are not inferior to the greatest of their predecessors. Even in cla.s.sical literature and antiquities, the searching, a.n.a.lyzing and investigating spirit of our age has poured new light upon the remote past, and rendered the labors of former generations useless. By elevating the general standard, it is true that there is less distance between the common mind and the deeply learned. The scholars of the middle ages seem the higher, from the low level of ignorance from which they rise. They are like mountains shooting abruptly from the plain.

Our scholars seem to have reached an inferior point of elevation, because the level of the general mind has come nearer to them, as mountain peaks lose somewhat of their apparent height when they spring from a raised table land.

ON RECEIVING A

PRIVATELY PRINTED VOLUME OF POEMS

FROM A FRIEND.

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

A modest bud matured mid secret dews, May yield its bloom beside some hidden path, Full of sweet perfumes and of rarest hues While few may note the beauty which it hath--

And yet perchance some maiden, wandering there, May bend beside it with a loving look, Or by the streamlet place it in her hair; And smile above her image in the brook.

A bird with pinions beautiful, and shy, May sing scarce noted mid the noisier throng; Or 'scaping earth, take refuge in the sky And though concealed still charm the air with song.

Yet haply some enamored ear may hark, And deem it sweetest of the birds that sing; Or in his heart still praise the unseen lark That leads his fancies toward its heavenward wing.

A star in some sequestered nook on high, In its deep niche of blue may calmly shine, While careless eyes that wander o'er the sky, May only deem the brightest orbs divine.

But there are those who love to sit and trace Between all these some shy retiring light, For such, they know, shed through the veil of s.p.a.ce The general halo that adorns the night.

Thus many a poet's volume unproclaimed By all the myriad tongues of Fame afar, The few may deem as worthy to be named, (As I do this) a Flower, a Bird, a Star!

THE PRINCE AT LAND'S END.

BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO.

Last from the church came the organist, Daniel Summerman. He was less hurried than others; to him it was not, as to people in general, a day of increased social responsibility. His great duty was now performed. Done, whether well or ill. He descended the stairs slowly, but with a step so light you might have taken it for a child's. No need for him to haste; the precious moments would go fast enough--he wished not to lose one.

In the porch he paused a moment, to draw on his woollen gloves, and b.u.t.ton his great coat, and for something besides. Perhaps the person who laid the wreath of cedar leaves on his organ stool was somewhere about, and had some criticism to offer in respect to the choir's performance.

But he descended the church steps without having met even the s.e.xton; somewhat disappointed, it was not with indifference that he saw a stranger standing in the churchyard among the graves; by the grave, it chanced, of a child who died in October, five years old. When the organist perceived this, a purpose which he would have formed later in the day, antic.i.p.ated itself, and led him to the little mound. He would leave the cedar wreath on Mary's grave.

He was not ashamed of his gracious purpose when he had drawn near. His gentle heart was glad to do this homage to the dead, in the presence of a stranger who had never seen the living child. Stooping down, he smoothed the frozen gra.s.s, and laid the wreath upon it; and when he saw the stranger watching him, he said:

"She was the prettiest child in the village; if she had lived, we should have had one singer in the choir. I would have taught her. She loved music so much."

Here was an introduction sufficient for an ordinary man. At least the organist thought so. But when he looked at the stranger he was sorry that he had spoken, for no genial sympathy was in that face, and still less in the voice that asked,

"Will you leave the wreath here? Where did it come from?"

The organist replied as though he did not perceive the indifference with which the questions were asked:

"I found it in the choir," said he. "One of the children left it, may be.

Any way this is the best place for it. Dear little girl! I should hate to think that she was really down there."

"Where, then?" asked the stranger.

"Up above, as sure as there's a heaven." As Summerman spoke, he stepped from the frozen ground to the gravel walk, and turning his back on the stranger he brushed a tear from his cheek.

The gentleman, whose name was Redman Rush, followed him. He was a well-dressed person; indeed, his attire was splendid, in comparison with the rough garments of the little organist. His fine broadcloth cloak was trimmed profusely with rare fur, and he wore a fur cap that must have cost half as much as the church paid Summerman for playing the organ a twelvemonth. He was a noticeable person, not merely on account of his dress. His bearing was elegant, that of a well-bred man, not indifferent to the eyes of others; that of a man somewhat cautious of the reflection he should cast in a region of shadows and appearances. But, moreover, the face of this Redman Rush was the face of misery. If ever a wreck came to sh.o.r.e, here was the torn and battered fragment of a gallant craft.

"Were you in the church this morning?" asked the organist, struggling with himself, speaking with effort; for, to his gaze, the aspect of the stranger was forbidding and awful; and yet it was beyond his power to walk by the side of any man cautious, cold, and dumb. This person was at least a gentleman, and perhaps understood music.

"Yes," was the brief answer.

"How did the singing go?"

"Tolerably."

"That's a comfort," said the organist, looking more pleased than the occasion seemed to warrant. But he was not a vain man; he merely supposed that the gentleman's reply promised criticism worth hearing.

"Didn't you hear it yourself?"