Woman in the Nineteenth Century Part 33

C.

THE WEDDING OF THE LADY THERESA.

From Lockhart's Spanish ballads.

'Twas when the fifth Alphonso in Leon held his sway, King Abdulla of Toledo an emba.s.sy did send; He asked his sister for a wife, and in an evil day Alphonso sent her, for he feared Abdalla to offend; He feared to move his anger, for many times before He had received in danger much succor from the Moor.

Sad heart had fair Theresa, when she their paction knew; With streaming tears she heard them tell she 'mong the Moors must go; That she, a Christian damsel, a Christian firm and true, Must wed a Moorish husband, it well might cause her woe; But all her tears and all her prayers they are of small avail; At length she for her fate prepares, a victim sad and pale.

The king hath sent his sister to fair Toledo town, Where then the Moor Abdalla his royal state did keep; When she drew near, the Moslem from his golden throne came down, And courteously received her, and bade her cease to weep; With loving words he pressed her to come his bower within; With kisses he caressed her, but still she feared the sin.

"Sir King, Sir King, I pray thee,"--'twas thus Theresa spake,-- "I pray thee, have compa.s.sion, and do to me no wrong; For sleep with thee I may not, unless the vows I break, Whereby I to the holy church of Christ my lord belong; For thou hast sworn to serve Mahoun, and if this thing should be, The curse of G.o.d it must bring down upon thy realm and thee.

"The angel of Christ Jesu, to whom my heavenly Lord Hath given my soul in keeping, is ever by my side; If thou dost me dishonor, he will unsheathe his sword, And smite thy body fiercely, at the crying of thy bride; Invisible he standeth; his sword like fiery flame Will penetrate thy bosom the hour that sees my shame."

The Moslem heard her with a smile; the earnest words she said He took for bashful maiden's wile, and drew her to his bower: In vain Theresa prayed and strove,--she pressed Abdalla's bed, Perforce received his kiss of love, and lost her maiden flower.

A woeful woman there she lay, a loving lord beside, And earnestly to G.o.d did pray her succor to provide.

The angel of Christ Jesu her sore complaint did hear, And plucked his heavenly weapon from out his sheath unseen: He waved the brand in his right hand, and to the King came near, And drew the point o'er limb and joint, beside the weeping Queen: A mortal weakness from the stroke upon the King did fall; He could not stand when daylight broke, but on his knees must crawl.

Abdalla shuddered inly, when he this sickness felt, And called upon his barons, his pillow to come nigh; "Rise up," he said, "my liegemen," as round his bed they knelt, "And take this Christian lady, else certainly I die; Let gold be in your girdles, and precious stones beside, And swiftly ride to Leon, and render up my bride."

When they were come to Leon Theresa would not go Into her brother's dwelling, where her maiden years were spent; But o'er her downcast visage a white veil she did throw, And to the ancient nunnery of Las Huelgas went.

There, long, from worldly eyes retired, a holy life she led; There she, an aged saint, expired; there sleeps she with the dead.

D.

The following extract from Spinoza is worthy of attention, as expressing the view which a man of the largest intellectual scope may take of Woman, if that part of his life to which her influence appeals has been left unawakened. He was a man of the largest intellect, of unsurpa.s.sed reasoning powers; yet he makes a statement false to history, for we well know how often men and women have ruled together without difficulty, and one in which very few men even at the present day--I mean men who are thinkers, like him--would acquiesce.

I have put in contrast with it three expressions of the latest literature.

First, from the poems of W. E. Channing, a poem called "Reverence,"

equally remarkable for the deep wisdom of its thought and the beauty of its utterance, and containing as fine a description of one cla.s.s of women as exists in literature.

In contrast with this picture of Woman, the happy G.o.ddess of Beauty, the wife, the friend, "the summer queen," I add one by the author of "Festus," of a woman of the muse, the sybil kind, which seems painted from living experience.

And, thirdly, I subjoin Eugene Sue's description of a wicked but able woman of the practical sort, and appeal to all readers whether a species that admits of three such varieties is so easily to be cla.s.sed away, or kept within prescribed limits, as Spinoza, and those who think like him, believe.

SPINOZA. TRACTATUS POLITICI DE DEMOCRATIA.

CAPUT XI.

Perhaps some one will here ask, whether the supremacy of Man over Woman is attributable to nature or custom? Since, if It be human inst.i.tutions alone to which this fact is owing, there is no reason why we should exclude women from a share in government. Experience most plainly teaches that it is Woman's weakness which places her under the authority of Man. It has nowhere happened that men and women ruled together; but wherever men and women are found, the world over, there we see the men ruling and the women ruled, and in this order of things men and women live together in peace and harmony. The Amazons, it is true, are reputed formerly to have held the reins of government, but they drove men from their dominions; the male of their offspring they invariably destroyed, permitting their daughters alone to live. Now, if women were by nature upon an equality with men, if they equalled men in fort.i.tude, in genius (qualities which give to men might, and consequently right), it surely would be the case, that, among the numerous and diverse nations of the earth, some would be found where both s.e.xes ruled conjointly, and others where the men were ruled by the women, and so educated as to be mentally inferior; and since this state of things nowhere exists, it is perfectly fair to infer that the rights of women are not equal to those of men; but that women must be subordinate, and therefore cannot have an equal, far less a superior place in the government. If, too, we consider the pa.s.sions of men--how the love men feel towards women is seldom anything but l.u.s.t and impulse, and much less a reverence for qualities of soul than an admiration of physical beauty; observing, too, the jealousy of lovers, and other things of the same character--we shall see at a glance that it would be, in the highest degree, detrimental to peace and harmony, for men and women to possess on equal share in government.

REVERENCE.

As an ancestral heritage revere All learning, and all thought. The painter's fame Is thine, whate'er thy lot, who honorest grace.

And need enough in this low time, when they, Who seek to captivate the fleeting notes Of heaven's sweet beauty, must despair almost, So heavy and obdurate show the hearts Of their companions. Honor kindly then Those who bear up in their so generous arms The beautiful ideas of matchless forms; For were these not portrayed, our human fate,-- Which is to be all high, majestical, To grow to goodness with each coming age, Till virtue leap and sing for joy to see So n.o.ble, virtuous men,--would brief decay; And the green, festering slime, oblivious, haunt About our common fate. O, honor them!

But what to all true eyes has chiefest charm, And what to every breast where beats a heart Framed to one beautiful emotion,--to One sweet and natural feeling, lends a grace To all the tedious walks of common life, This is fair Woman,--Woman, whose applause Each poet sings,--Woman the beautiful.

Not that her fairest brow, or gentlest form, Charm us to tears; not that the smoothest cheek, Wherever rosy tints have made their home, So rivet us on her; but that she is The subtle, delicate grace,--the inward grace, For words too excellent; the n.o.ble, true, The majesty of earth; the summer queen; In whose conceptions nothing but what's great Has any right. And, O! her love for him, Who does but his small part in honoring her; Discharging a sweet office, sweeter none, Mother and child, friend, counsel and repose; Naught matches with her, naught has leave with her To highest human praise. Farewell to him Who reverences not with an excess Of faith the beauteous s.e.x; all barren he Shall live a living death of mockery.

Ah! had but words the power, what could we say Of Woman! We, rude men of violent phrase, Harsh action, even in repose inwardly harsh; Whose lives walk bl.u.s.tering on high stilts, removed From all the purely gracious influence Of mother earth. To single from the host Of angel forms one only, and to her Devote our deepest heart and deepest mind, Seems almost contradiction. Unto her We owe our greatest blessings, hours of cheer, Gay smiles, and sudden tears, and more than these A sure perpetual love. Regard her as She walks along the vast still earth; and see!

Before her flies a laughing troop of joys, And by her side treads old experience, With never-failing voice admonitory; The gentle, though infallible, kind advice, The watchful care, the fine regardfulness, Whatever mates with what we hope to find, All consummate in her--the summer queen.

To call past ages better than what now Man is enacting on life's crowded stage, Cannot improve our worth; and for the world Blue is the sky as ever, and the stars Kindle their crystal flames at soft fallen eve With the same purest l.u.s.tre that the east Worshipped. The river gently flows through fields Where the broad-leaved corn spreads out, and loads Its ear as when the Indian tilled the soil.

The dark green pine,--green in the winter's cold,-- Still whispers meaning emblems, as of old; The cricket chirps, and the sweet eager birds In the sad woods crowd their thick melodies; But yet, to common eyes, life's poetry Something has faded, and the cause of this May be that Man, no longer at the shrine Of Woman, kneeling with true reverence, In spite of field, wood, river, stars and sea, Goes most disconsolate. A babble now, A huge and wind-swelled babble, fills the place Of that great adoration which of old Man had for Woman. In these days no more Is love the pith and marrow of Man's fate.

Thou who in early years feelest awake To finest impulses from nature's breath, And in thy walk hearest such sounds of truth As on the common ear strike without heed, Beware of men around thee! Men are foul With avarice, ambition and deceit; The worst of all, ambition. This is life, Spent in a feverish chase for selfish ends, Which has no virtue to redeem its toil, But one long, stagnant hope to raise the self.

The miser's life to this seems sweet and fair; Better to pile the glittering coin, than seek To overtop our brothers and our loves.

Merit in this? Where lies it, though thy name Ring over distant lands, meeting the wind Even on the extremest verge of the wide world?

Merit in this? Better be hurled abroad On the vast whirling tide, than, in thyself Concentred, feed upon thy own applause.

Thee shall the good man yield no reverence; But, while the Idle, dissolute crowd are loud In voice to send thee flattery, shall rejoice That he has 'scaped thy fatal doom, and known How humble faith in the good soul of things Provides amplest enjoyment. O, my brother If the Past's counsel any honor claim From thee, go read the history of those Who a like path have trod, and see a fate Wretched with fears, changing like leaves at noon, When the new wind sings in the white birch wood.

Learn from the simple child the rule of life, And from the movements of the unconscious tribes Of animal nature, those that bend the wing Or cleave the azure tide, content to be, What the great frame provides,--freedom and grace.

Thee, simple child, do the swift winds obey, And the white waterfalls with their bold leaps Follow thy movements. Tenderly the light Thee watches, girding with a zone of radiance, And all the swinging herbs love thy soft steps.

DESCRIPTION OF ANGELA, FROM "FESTUS."

I loved her for that she was beautiful, And that to me she seemed to be all nature And all varieties of things in one; Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise All light and laughter in the morning; fear No petty customs nor appearances, But think what others only dreamed about; And say what others did but think; and do What others would but say; and glory in What others dared but do; it was these which won me; And that she never schooled within her breast One thought or feeling, but gave holiday To all; that she told me all her woes, And wrongs, and ills; and so she made them mine In the communion of love; and we Grew like each other, for we loved each other; She, mild and generous as the sun in spring; And I, like earth, all budding out with love.

The beautiful are never desolate; For some one alway loves them; G.o.d or man; If man abandons, G.o.d himself takes them; And thus it was. She whom I once loved died; The lightning loathes its cloud; the soul its clay.

Can I forget the hand I took in mine, Pale as pale violets; that eye, where mind And matter met alike divine?--ah, no!

May G.o.d that moment judge me when I do!

O! she was fair; her nature once all spring And deadly beauty, like a maiden sword, Startlingly beautiful. I see her now!

Wherever thou art thy soul is in my mind; Thy shadow hourly lengthens o'er my brain And peoples all its pictures with thyself; Gone, not forgotten; pa.s.sed, not lost; thou wilt shine In heaven like a bright spot in the sun!

She said she wished to die, and so she died, For, cloudlike, she poured out her love, which was Her life, to freshen this parched heart. It was thus; I said we were to part, but she said nothing; There was no discord; it was music ceased, Life's thrilling, bursting, bounding joy. She sate, Like a house-G.o.d, her hands fixed on her knee, And her dark hair lay loose and long behind her, Through which her wild bright eye flashed like a flint; She spake not, moved not, but she looked the more, As if her eye were action, speech, and feeling.

I felt it all, and came and knelt beside her, The electric touch solved both our souls together; Then came the feeling which unmakes, undoes; Which tears the sea-like soul up by the roots, And lashes it in scorn against the skies.

It is the saddest and the sorest sight, One's own love weeping. But why call on G.o.d?

But that the feeling of the boundless bounds All feeling; as the welkin does the world; It is this which ones us with the whole and G.o.d.

Then first we wept; then closed and clung together; And my heart shook this building of my breast Like a live engine booming up and down; She fell upon me like a snow-wreath thawing.

Never were bliss and beauty, love and woe, Ravelled and twined together into madness, As in that one wild hour to which all else The past is but a picture. That alone Is real, and forever there in front.

* * * After that I left her, And only saw her once again alive.