"'A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee,
So that her high-born kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me.'
"There seems a strange and almost profane disregard of the sacred purity and spiritual tenderness of this delicious ballad, in thus overlooking the allusion to the kindred angels and the heavenly Father of the lost and loved and unforgotten wife.
"But it was in his conversations and his letters, far more than in his published poetry and prose writings, that the genius of Poe was most gloriously revealed. His letters were divinely beautiful, and for hours I have listened to him, entranced by strains of such pure and almost celestial eloquence as I have never read or heard elsewhere. Alas! in the thrilling words of Stoddard,
"'He might have soared in the morning light,
But he built his nest with the birds of night;
But he lie in dust, and the stone is rolled
Over the sepulcher dim and cold;
He has canceled the ill he has done or said,
And gone to the dear and holy dead.
Let us forget the path he trod,
And leave him now to his Maker, God.'"
The influence of Mr. Poe's aims and vicissitudes upon his literature, was more conspicuous in his later than in his earlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or three years—including much of his best poetry,—was in some sense biographical: in draperies of his imagination, those who take the trouble to trace his steps, will perceive, but slightly concealed, the figure of himself. The lineaments here disclosed, I think, are not different from those displayed in his biography, which is but a filling up of the picture. Thus far the few criticisms of his life or works that I have ventured have been suggested by the immediate examination of the points to which they referred. I add but a few words of more general description.
In person he was below the middle height, slenderly but compactly formed, and in his better moments he had in an eminent degree that air of gentlemanliness which men of a lower order seldom succeed in acquiring.
His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and his large and variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who listened, while his own face glowed, or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his blood or drew it back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision of genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and clearness, he rejected the forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of accretion, built up his ocular demonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur, or in those of the most airy and delicious beauty—so minutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly, that the attention which was yielded to him was chained till it stood among his wonderful creations—till he himself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearers back to common and base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest passion.
He was at all times a dreamer—dwelling in ideal realms—in heaven or hell—peopled with the creatures and the accidents of his brain. He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer, (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned, but) for their happiness who at the moment were objects of his idolatry;—or, with his glances introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and with a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest storms; and all night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and rains, would speak as if to spirits that at such times only could be evoked by him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals his disturbed soul sought to forget the ills to which his constitution subjected him—close by the Aidenn which were those he loved—the Aidenn which he might never see, but in fitful glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less fiery and more happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of death. He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will and engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of "The Raven" was probably much more nearly than has been supposed, even by those who were very intimate with him, a reflection and an echo of his own history. He was that bird's
"——unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden
bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never—never more.'"
Every genuine author, in a greater or less degree, leaves in his works, whatever their design, traces of his personal character; elements of his immortal being, in which the individual survives the person. While we read the pages of the "Fall of the House of Usher," or of "Mesmeric Revelations," we see in the solemn and stately gloom which invests one, and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both, indications of the idiosyncracies—of what was most remarkable and peculiar—in the author's intellectual nature. But we see here only the better phases of his nature, only the symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience had deprived him of all faith, in man or woman. He had made up his mind upon the numberless complexities of the social world, and the whole system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regarded society as composed altogether of villains, the sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villany, while it continually caused him by overshots to fail of the success of honesty. He was in many respects like Francis Vivian, in Bulwer's novel of "The Caxtons." Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could not speak of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural advantages of this poor boy—his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere—had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into prejudices against him. Irascible, envious—bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers. There seemed to him no moral susceptibility; and, what was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the true point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that desire to rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or the love of his species; only the hard wish to succeed—not shine, not serve—succeed, that he might have the right to despise a world which galled his self-conceit.
* * * * *
Lack we motives to laugh? Are not all things, anything, everything, to be laughed at? And if nothing were to be seen, felt, heard, or understood, we would laugh at it too! Merry Beggars.
I.
There's nothing here on earth deserves
Half of the thought we waste about it,
And thinking but destroys the nerves,
When we could do so well without it:
If folks would let the world go round,
And pay their tithes, and eat their dinners,
Such doleful looks would not be found,
To frighten us poor laughing sinners.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
One plagues himself about the sun,
And puzzles on, through every weather,
What time he'll rise,—how long he'll run,—
And when he'll leave us altogether;
Now matters it a pebble-stone,
Whether he shines at six or seven?
If they don't leave the sun alone,
At last they'll plague him out of heaven!
Never sigh when you can sing
But laugh, like me, at everything!
Another spins from out his brains
Fine cobweb, to amuse his neighbors,
And gets, for all his toils and pains,
Reviewed, and laughed at for his labors:
Fame is his star! and fame is sweet;
And praise is pleasanter than honey,—
I write at just so much a sheet,
And Messrs Longman pay the money!
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
My brother gave his heart away
To Mercandests[*illegible], when he met her,
She married Mr. Ball one day—
He's gone to Sweden to forget her
I had a charmer, too—and sighed,
And raved all day and night about her;
She caught a cold, poor thing! and died,
And I—am just as fat without her
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
For tears are vastly pretty things,
But make one very thin and taper;
And sighs are music's sweetest strings,
But sound most beautiful—on paper!
"Thought" is the Sage's brightest star,
Her gems alone are worth his finding;
But as I'm not particular,
Please God! I'll keep on "never minding."
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
Oh! in this troubled world of ours,
A laughter-mine's a glorious treasure;
And separating thorns from flowers,
Is half a pain and half a pleasure:
And why be grave instead of gay?
Why feel a-thirst while folks are quaffing?—
Oh! trust me, whatsoe'er they say,
There's nothing half so good as laughing!
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything!
* * * * *
Over that ancient story grass has grown;
Myself, I scarce recall my own transgression;
Yet, when at twilight hour, I stray alone,
At times I feel as I could make confession.
But turning from the Past as all unknown.
I harbor in the Present! Such opression
Of futile sad remorse by me be flown!
Why summon bootless woes to Memory's session?
When Death, that scythesman stern, thy frame destroyeth,
He'll lop the grass, too, which thing actions covers.
And that forgotten deed shall cling about thee!
Back to the Past! Not vainly Care employeth
Labor and pain to pierce where Darkness hovers;
Till sin is slain within, it cannot die without thee!
* * * * *
Toward the end of November, in the year 1831, one of those rude sleighs, met with in winter on all the roads of Sweden, passed rapidly along the shores of the Gulf of Bothnia. For several hours the pale winter sun had been like a lamp extinguished beneath the horizon. The skies, however, had that transparent clearness which is one of the charms of the nights of the north. Myriads of stars covered its surface with a network of gold, and glittered again on the snow which covered the surface of the earth. The wind was calm: space was silent. Nothing was heard but the sounds of the hoofs of two horses attached to a light vehicle, and occasionally the voice of the Swedish postillion, who from time to time urged them on by a word of affectionate reproach, or a joyous eulogium. A traveler sat in the sleigh, wrapped up in heavy furs, and from time to time cast aside the folds of the cloak which covered him, to take a thoughtful glance around him. A stranger in Sweden, he was traveling through it, and during the last month had experienced a multitude of emotions, altogether unexpected, and which seemed to increase as he drew near the north. After having crossed the southern provinces of that kingdom bounded by the Baltic, and those on the vast silver basin of Lake Milar, seen Stockholm in all its pride, Upsal, the city of the ancient gods, and Gébel, the active and industrious, he found himself amid a region entirely silent, inanimate, and wrapped in a snowy pall. Soon he penetrated the bosom of a long pine forest, the shafts of which seemed, as it were, giants wrapped in cloaks of white. Now he ascended steep hills, then rapidly hurried to the Gulf, the shores of which the waves had made to look like point-lace, and looked up at the immense rocks on which the waters broke.
Everywhere the same silence existed. Far in the distance a light was seen to shine, either the glitter of a woodman's fire, or the midnight torch kindled by some invalid. This light, fixed like a point in space, was but another evidence of the isolation of man in these regions.
In this inanimateness of nature, in this sad uniformity of plains of snow, in this desert of fields and woods, such sadness, such distress was evident, that the heart of the traveler, who however was young and brave, was filled with a kind of mysterious fear. Before him, among all the other stars, shone that of the pole, that faithful light which is nightly kindled like a pharos, and in the seasons of storm, smiles on the pilgrim who has gone astray, and guides the navigator's steps. The stranger, for a few instants, kept his eyes fixed on this benevolent light, as if to find some relief to the impressions he had received from the melancholy appearance of the earth. He then tapped the postillion on the shoulder, and said to him, with the laconism compulsory on him from his knowledge of the Swedish tongue, "Aland?" This was the name of the halting-place. "Intet tu," (not yet,) replied the postillion, as he took his arm from the sheepskin which surrounded his shoulders. At the same time he cracked his whip, as if to show how impatient he was to reach his halting-place. The animals, thus excited, set forth at a long gallop across that portion of the Gulf where the frequent passage of the fishermen had to a degree leveled the snow, and ascended with much difficulty a hill covered by trees at least a hundred years old. At the extremity of this forest, the postillion turned toward the traveler, and with his finger pointed out to him a spot so distant that it could be distinguished with difficulty. "Aland!" said he; and with his voice and gestures he encouraged his horses, who doubled their ardor, as if they comprehended that this was the last effort which would be required of them before they reached their destination.
The sleigh soon halted at the foot of a vast wooden house. When the driver cracked his whip, when the sound of the bells was heard, the door opened, and the stranger, it was evident to see, was expected. A servant advanced to meet him, with a lantern in his hand, and led him through a long corridor, introducing him into a room where a man with gray hair sat in an arm-chair.
"My uncle!" said the traveler, rushing toward him.
"Ireneus, my dear child!" said the old man. They stood in silence, clasped in each other's arms, until the old man, taking the young one by the hand, led him to a table on which two lights were burning, looked at him with complaisance, and said, "It is indeed yourself—it is the likeness of my poor brother: the same eyes, the same proud and resolute air. You look as he did thirty years ago, when he was about to cast himself amid the dangers of war; when, unfortunately, he embraced me for the last time."
"My dear uncle," said Ireneus, "instead of the brother you have lost, a son comes to you. In my early youth, my mother taught me to love you. That duty I shall be glad to discharge."
"The very sound of his voice!" continued the old man, who still looked at him; "the very sparkle of his eye! No painter could have made a more exact portrait. May you, however, have a far different destiny. Fatality weighs on the family of Vermondans. May you, the only vigorous offshoot of that old race of soldiers, already stricken by misfortune, already an exile from your country, never learn, as your father and I did, how bitter is the bread of the stranger—how difficult it is to go up and down the stranger's staircase. But what do I say? You are in another father's house. You come to it like a long-expected child, and you meet with two sisters." Then going toward the door of another room, he said, "Ebba, Alete, come to welcome your cousin."
Two young girls entered immediately. One of them was lively and active, with black eyes and a ruddy complexion; the other pale, fair, and delicate. The first gave her hand gaily to Ireneus, and kissed him on both cheeks; the other advanced timidly, and with downcast eyes, leaning her brow forward to be kissed.
"My dear cousins," said Ireneus, "my mother would have been delighted, as I am, to have seen you; but being unable to make this long journey in Sweden, has sent you at least a token of her affection." As he spoke, he took from his pocket a little morocco box, which the agile Alete took and opened with eagerness.
"What pretty ear-rings!" said she; "what a charming ring! See that little blue cross, and the bracelet set with emeralds. Such jewels are made only in Paris. Come look at them, Ebba!"
During all this time, Ebba stood aside motionless and silent. She then approached the table on which her sister had displayed the jewels, and looked at them without speaking.
"Is not this pretty?" said Alete. "We must divide them; and as I have a lover who will make it a point of honor to give me as many ornaments as my whim dictates and his fortune will permit, I wish you to take the larger part."
"No," said Ebba, with a voice soft as that of a child, "as you are about to be married you should have all as a wedding present. If you will however let me keep this little cross, I shall be very grateful."
Alete, who under the mask of frivolity concealed a tender and delicate heart, sought in vain to overcome the modesty of her sister; and finally, with much reluctance, received three-quarters of the jewel-case.
"Now, young ladies," said their father, who had been an observer of this contest of generosity, "remember that your cousin has made a long journey. See if his room is in order and if supper is ready; for when one has passed the whole day in crossing our snow-plains, some comfort is required."
"They are good and affectionate children," continued the father, when they had gone out. "The eldest is a gipsy who delights me with her gayety; the youngest often moves me even to tears. Her mother died in giving birth to her. The poor girl seems constantly under the influence of the misfortune which presided over her birth.
"None of the things in which girls of her age delight, please or excite her. Her silent and retiring life, seems one long act of resignation. She finds interest in story and books alone. She has learned three or four languages, and read all the books either here or at the parsonage. When, however, she is in society, one would fancy her a very ignorant person, so little does she say and so anxious does she appear to conceal her information. Her modesty is disturbed by no vanity, and the placidity of her meditations is interrupted by no vulgar commotion. One might almost fancy her a stranger to this world, indifferent to its calculations, lost to its joys, and submitting without effort to its sorrows. I have never seen her smile, but I have never heard her complain. Delicate and weak, the paleness of her face, the languor of her appearance, betray a physical suffering she herself denies.
"As soon as she perceives that I remark any indisposition in her, her countenance becomes illuminated by a gentle light, her lips are gilded with a sweet smile, as if she begged me to excuse the uneasiness she had inspired me with.
"Forgive me, dear Ireneus, for this unscrupulous thrusting on you of my paternal egotism. I should first have inquired after you and your hopes which were crushed so soon. Ebba, however, is ever a cause of anxiety to me."
Ireneus replied to this confidence by cordially clasping his hand. Just at that moment it was announced that the table was served.
"Come," said the old man, "you will not find here the gastronomical niceties of Paris. Like plain country people, we live on the produce of the soil. A good bottle of old beer, however, has some merit, and varieties of game are found in our forests, for which the gourmets of Paris would willingly exchange their hares and partridges."
Ireneus sat between his two cousins, and his youthful appetite, sharpened by the journey he had made, delighted the old man. As he ate large slices of the haunch of a reindeer, and drank cup after cup of a savory beer, prepared with particular care by Alete, he contrived to look at the young girls on each side of him.
The eldest, always in motion, waited on her cousin and her father, went to the kitchen, sat again at the table, and when she laughed disclosed two rows of pearl between her rose-colored lips. She was indeed a charming girl, round and dimpled as a child, fresh and gay as a bird, with every gesture graceful, though she was a little espiegle and coquettish. Her coquetry, however, was naive and chaste, of a kind which in many women is but the amiable manifestation of a sentiment of benevolence, and an innocent desire to be agreeable.
Ireneus took pleasure in looking at her, and as she immediately acquired self-possession, she conferred the same privilege on others. She already jested with him as if he had been an old friend, and he felt himself as unconstrained as if he had passed his whole life with her. When, however, he looked at Ebba, it was with strange emotion. Nothing in his whole life had ever touched him so. The countenance of the young girl had a cold marble whiteness, making it assume the appearance of a statue, wrought in the most artistic manner.
Two long tresses of yellow hair fell over her cheeks, and disclosed a brow of ideal serenity. Her pale face was lit up with eyes clear as crystal, and blue and deep as lakes reflecting the skies. Any one who had once looked into her eyes could not forget them. Often they drooped beneath the lids, like a heart overcome with grief sheltering itself beneath a cloud. When they were lifted up no earthly desire animated them, and in their vague radiation they seemed to look into the infinite.
There are plants which the dew and sun do not completely develop. There are beings like weak plants, attached to earth by but feeble roots, and who from their very birth seem predestined to misfortune, and who, by a kind of second-sight, made aware of the fate which awaits them, attach themselves with fear and trembling to a world in which they anticipate only an ephemeral existence and cruel deception. Their sadness is reflected on those who approach them. There is as it were a fatal circle around them, in which all feel themselves seized with indescribable fear, and with the evidences of sympathy entertained for them is mingled a kind of commiseration.
Ireneus experienced at the appearance of Ebba this sentiment of uneasiness and melancholy sympathy. When after supper he bade adieu to his uncle and cousins, when he was alone in his room, he smiled when he remembered the amiable gayety of Alete, but became sad and pensive when he recalled the dreamy look of her young sister, the sad melancholy glance which shone over her face like the twilight of an autumn day.
Ireneus was not however one of those sentimental beings belonging to the Byronic or German school. His mind was rather energetic than tender; it was rather ardent than despairing. The son of a brave country gentleman who had devoted fortune and life to the cause of legitimacy, and after having followed the princes in their various emigrations, had died for them in the wilderness of la Vendée. Ireneus had been the inheritor of that obstinate will which never deviates from the end it proposes to itself, and of a chivalric worship of the Royal family, which to him seemed by a law divine to be invested with the imprescriptible right to govern France. Of the large fortune which formerly belonged to his family, the revolution had left him but a dilapidated castle, a few fields and forests, the revenue of which scarcely sufficed to support his mother in comfort.
The condition of his fortune did not permit him to lead an idle life. His birth made his profession certain. He entered Saint-Cyr, and left it with the best possible recommendations. He could also appeal to the traditions of his fathers services. Through the union of these two claims he was so rapidly advanced that at twenty-eight he was already Captain of the Lancers of the Guard, with an honorable name, a handsome person, some intelligence and that elegance of manners inherent in the class to which he belonged, and which to us is known as the aristocracy, the young nobleman might without presumption anticipate a brilliant future. His mother amid the silence of her provincial castle followed him step by step, with pride, and her solitary dreams saw him the husband of a rich heiress, Colonel and aide-de-camp of a prince, deputy and peer of France. Who can tell how vague were the hopes entertained in relation to that child in whom all her hopes were centered!
His mother was lost in this study and observation of castles in the air, when the revolutions of July burst forth like a thunderbolt, and at one blow overturned all her aerial edifices.
Ireneus was at Paris when this terrible contest, the result of which was the overturning of a monarchy, began with the crushing of a throne. He fought with the ardor inspired at once by his love of legitimacy and his innate horror of the revolutionary flag. On the first day he had the honor of resisting with his company a numerous body of insurgents, and succeeded in protecting the post which had been confided to him. On the second day, after a desperate contest, the danger of which served only to magnify his courage, he fell from his horse with a ball through his chest. His soldiers who were devoted to him bore him to a house where he was kindly treated. A few hours after, a General who had seen him in the battle, sent him the brevet of Major. It was an empty honor, for the hand which signed this promotion soon renounced all human grandeur and all command.
The wound of Ireneus was severe. The kind attentions however which surrounded, protected him from danger of death. As soon as he was beginning to grow well, he went to his mother's house, where his cure was completed. There he heard of the new exile of those for whom his father had shed his blood and of the establishment of the new monarchy. Many of his friends were soon induced to connect themselves with the new monarchy which retained them in service, and even conferred special compliments on them, and they wrote to induce him to follow their example. Such a thought never entered his mind. Without partaking of the exaggerated hatred of many of the Legitimists against the new monarchy, he had stated that he would never serve it. He was not a man to violate a promise. But he was subject to the danger of inactivity, the greatest torment of active and strong minds. As an ambitious man examines with great uneasiness the path which leads him to power, as the speculator contemplates the capricious whims of fortune, as the young officer waiting orders looks in every direction for action, did Ireneus. More than once he resolved to join his fortunes with those of the exiled princes in the arena of public opinion. They however had submitted to their fate, and no longer appealed to their faithful servants. The time of Royal crusades had gone by. Sovereigns made uneasy by the effervescence of revolutions, which like a contagion spread over Europe, had enough to do to secure their own thrones, and had no disposition to ruin themselves in lifting up that of a neighbor.
Madame de Vermondans, after striving in vain to amuse her son, induced him to visit his uncle in Sweden, hoping that travel would restore quiet to his mind. It was one of those healthful remedies which often escape the observation of science, and are suggested only by the ingenuity of tenderness. Nothing in certain moral diseases is more efficacious than travel. He who after having enjoyed all the emotions of active life, finds himself at once condemned to the sterility of idleness, suffers under a perpetual fever. Within him there is as it were an ever-acting spring he strives with a constant effort to repress.
His intellectual and physical faculties, his imagination, his senses seek to resume their old power. If the forces with which he is endowed, if the abundant grasp of his mind are paralyzed in their motion, these forces weigh on him like a useless burden. Soon in consequence of the internal contest he has undergone, the constant desires he has given vent to, from the very exuberance of life, which finding no outlet, recoils on itself, he becomes a victim of the demon of satiety. To escape from its rude grasp, air and space are required. The victim must be borne from the narrow circle within which he is riveted as by a chain, which clasps his frame. He must shake from himself every chimera, and to enable him to forget himself, the aspect of strange lands, of scenes and pictures which one after the other exhibit themselves before him, all that forcibly attracts the attention, all that occupies the mind in a new land, material cares, unexpected incidents, the surprises of travel, and yet more the magical influence of nature, are required to restore tone to the sick soul.
Ireneus had really experienced the effect of this moral remedy. In his journey across Germany and the North, he had not recovered his early impetus, his natural ardor, but he at least felt himself master of himself. He reached his uncle's house in the happiest possible disposition of mind.
When he arose on the next day, he took occasion to remark the delicate Precaution taken to render his sojourn pleasant as possible. The furniture of maple or birch was plain, but wonderfully neat; the bed linen was of snowy whiteness and purity; and perfumed by aromatic plants with which in the drawers it had been strewed. Here and there were a few choice engravings, and on the floor was a carpet woven by his two cousins.
At the very dawn of day a servant came to open the earthen stove, which stood on the hearth like a vast column, and placed in it an armfull of the pitch pine, which sent out jets of flame and a perfume which filled the whole room. Double windows protected this room also against the severity of the weather. Between them was a bed of flocks of wool on which the young girls had placed artificial flowers, as if to preserve in the nudity of winter the smiling image of spring. Here windows looked out on a landscape which in the summer time must have presented a charming aspect. The house of M. Vermondans stood on a hill, on the brow of which was a breast of pines. In front of the principal façade was a garden with a proclivity toward the lake, which was surrounded and sheltered by a belt of trees. In the distance the peasants' houses were seen, the tall clock spire of Aland, and far in the distance the chimneys of the furnace belonging to M. de Vermondans. At this moment, the plain, the snow-covered woods, the frozen lake presented one uniform color. Any one, however, might see they would present beautiful landscapes, when the sun called forth the field-flowers, made the forests lifeful, and gilded the water.
Ireneus went to his uncle's room. He found the old man rested in an arm chair, with his legs crossed and a long pipe in his mouth.
M. de Vermondans was not one of those persons who willingly distress themselves about what the poets call the miseries of human life. He took things as they came, and enjoyed prosperity without imagining future troubles.
While young, he had fought with his brothers the battles of legitimacy. Like his brother, he entertained a mortal hatred for revolutionary rabble: gradually, like many others, he had begun to reason on the matter, and become so tolerant that his doctrines reached the point almost of carelessness. Just as her [sic] nephew came in, he was reflecting and quasi confirmed in the wisdom of his principles. "Yes," said he, as if he continued a conversation already begun, "yes, my friend, I am as much opposed as you are to a stormy revolution. I left my father's house, I abandoned my patrimony to accompany our princes into exile. I have fought for them, in their holy cause I received a sabre cut on the arm, which every now and then, by a very disagreeable sensation, recalls my youthful patriotism to me. Soon, however, the idle pretensions of my comrades, the disputes of our chiefs, repressed my ardor. I left one of the cohorts in which reason was treated as treachery, and where boasting alone was listened to with complacency. There firmness and complaisance were paralyzed now by erroneous movements and next by contradictory orders. A faithful servant contrived to save a portion of my estate, and at the peril of his own life brought me twenty thousand francs in gold. With this sum I came to Sweden, knowing that here everything was cheap, and determined to buy a small estate on which I might live, until I could find an opportunity of serving to some purpose that cause to which my heart was devoted, and which I had never yet entirely abandoned.
"At Stockholm one of those strange rencontres which we attribute to chance, but which the pious with more propriety think originate in Providence, made me acquainted with a land-holder in Angermania, named Guldberg, as good a man as ever lived. I am indebted to him for all my prosperity, and I bless his memory. M. Guldberg had discovered a rich mineral deposit on his estate, was anxious to establish a furnace, and sought for some one to aid him in his enterprise. In the course of my studies I had acquired some ideas of hydraulics and mechanics, trifling enough it is true, but one day conversation having been directed to these matters, Guldberg, who knew even less than I did, appeared delighted with my explanations, and asked me to aid him in his projected enterprise. Without reflecting more than he did when he made the offer, I consented. I came hither with him: I superintended the construction and the first labor of the furnace you see glowing there. I was not unlike the ignorant teacher who studies in the morning the lesson he teaches in the afternoon. I made more than one unfortunate experiment. I committed more than one error, but at last I got our establishment under way. Guldberg had suffered patiently, and never complained of the mistakes I had made, and now appeared most grateful for my success. He very generously offered me a share of the profits of an enterprise which from the very commencement promised the most favorable results. From this time commences a series of derogations I now look on as so many wise resolutions, but which many would look on as acts of apostasy. Here I am, a French noble, with I know not how many illustrious quarters, compromising my escatcheon in an industrial occupation. This was the first derogation. Guldberg had an only daughter, very interesting, and who pleased me. She had the kindness to show that I was not disagreeable; she however had not a drop of noble blood, not even a single quartering. I married her, much to your father's discontent. That was my second derogation. This woman during her life was the very impersonation of virtue, but was a protestant, and asked me as a favor that if our children were female, they might be educated in her faith. My two daughters believe as their mother did. That is the third derogation.
"An honest young fellow has courted the eldest of these girls. He is the son of a priest, and will go into orders himself if he does not become professor of a college. I saw my dear Alete had confidence in him. I consented that she should marry a plebeian and a heretic. In this was comprised the fourth and fifth derogation. I suffered the revolutionary crisis of France to pass without exciting me: I have learned through the papers that our dear country, the most intelligent in the world, has successively adulated and cursed the bloody tyranny of Robespiere, the gallantry of Barras, the Consulate, Empire and the Revolution.
"When the lilies replaced the tricolor, and the amiable people of Paris cast themselves before the troops of the white-horse of Monsieur, with the same enthusiasm they had a few years before manifested at the appearance of the proud charger of the conqueror of Wagram and Jena, I remained here and never changed my colors: I never cried 'down with the Corsican Ogre.' Smoking my pipe in peace, I watched my furnace, smiled on my children and my harvests, in the sunlight of Sweden, which would be so delightful if it were a little less rare. This was another and a terrible derogation.
"Gradually, however, dear Ireneus, I built up a faith to suit myself, found, I think, in the works of no philosopher (I read but little), but which yet seems to me a very good rule of conduct, inasmuch as it leaves the conscience at ease and makes me as happy as any one can be in this valley of tears. I therefore think, dear Ireneus, that in our benevolence we make monsters of certain ideas which we imbibe when we are children, and to which, without examination, we always submit ourselves. I think that without violating any true principle of morality, without ceasing to be, in any respect, a moral man, we may break some links of that network of traditions spun for us by our teachers at so much an hour, and which throws a hood over us as it is thrown over a falcon, to keep it from flying in the infinitude of space. I respect every sincere belief, even hat which I look on as a prejudice, and I insist that my own be respected. As a conclusion of my profession of faith, I am willing to admit that even a republican convinced of the justness of his opinions appears as reasonable to me as a monarchist, and that a quaker or Calvinist is as near heaven as the devout Catholic.
"When my mind lifts itself up toward God, I imagine him the representative and originater of all good, and I am convinced that the surest way to approach him, to merit his favor and win his blessing, is, in the circle in which we are, whether large or small, to do as much good as possible. I say, that the workingman, who toils for a short time to assist his invalid neighbor, acquires more merit than the rich man, who with an icy hand casts his coin into the lap of the indigent. I have the audacity to think that a king, who in the splendor of his court is forgetful of the suffering of his people; that a noble, who abandons himself to all the enjoyments of his fortune, forgetful of misery languishing at his castle gate, are great criminals; and that God will punish their misdeeds, either on them, or, as the Bible says, 'on their children even until the fourth and fifth generation.'"
Ireneus, who had listened in silence to this long profession of faith, asked himself if it was worth while to contradict it. The words of his uncle were contradictory of one of those doctrines, which are the more difficult to shake, as they have their hold in the philosophy of the heart, and are fenced around with many noble sentiments. His loyalty, however, seemed to require some reply, and he spoke as follows:
"I understand well enough, my dear uncle, the chain of circumstances which has led you almost to lay aside the principles which now seem prejudices to you. I myself willingly immolate on the altar of new ideas that pride of nobility which delights in the study of old parchments, and makes a kind of fetish of scutcheons carved on the walls of an ancient castle. I condemn as a foolish error, the airs of superiority affected by old nobles in respect to merit sprung from the people; and if, in the opinion of my father, your marriage with the daughter of your friend, seemed a degradation, forgive him. Remember that he died at an epoch of strife and convulsion in which every noble defended, with the greatest possible ardor, the prerogatives of his rank, which he saw were attacked by the maddest passion, and were in danger of being lost. Since then we have made much progress. The barriers which formerly divided society into two classes have been destroyed, space has been opened for every one to carve his own way, and the people participate in governments, and in the royal councils.
"The majority of the ministers of the Restoration were chosen from among the people. In relation to this, I admit all the reasonings of the philosophers of the eighteenth century, and of the liberals of our own times. In them I find expansion of heart, intelligence, and I care not for genealogy. The qualities of mind, grace and beauty seem to me signs of distinction marked by the finger of God, who is wiser far than D'Hozier.[A] I cannot, however, forget that this race of nobles, so cruelly persecuted thirty years ago, so often trampled on in our own times, was the glory and the power of France. I was forced with pain to see with what incessant malignity this race, though stripped of its ancient power, was attacked. I have often said that in sapping the foundations of the aristocratic edifice, that in crushing the legitimacy of the nobles, an attack was made on the legitimacy of monarchy. The revolution just over has but too well justified my apprehensions. This revolution which by a species of criminal conversion, selects one of the old royal blood to occupy the throne of the exile, which selects the one nearest the throne, is perhaps but the first of a series of convulsions, in which will be engulfed, by ambition and pride, the wisdom and experience of the past."
[Footnote A: A genealogist of great repute in France, twenty years since.]
This conversation between the uncle and nephew was interrupted by the sound of a horse's hoofs, dragging a sleigh rapidly toward the door of the house.
"That is beyond doubt my future son-in-law," said M. de Vermondans, "another philosopher, who, like yourself, does not in every respect agree with you. He is, however, a good fellow, who under a by no means aristocratic exterior conceals the noblest qualities."
When she heard the sleigh, Alete ran to the door sill; and Ebba followed him. At the appearance of the two sisters, like a rose and a lily, the young man hastened to divest himself of the thick fur which enwrapped him, sprang from the sleigh, and hastened to his betrothed. He had not, however, remembered the caprice of Alete, who, instead of giving him her hand as usual, looked sternly at him, and said:
"Sir, you are incorrigible. How comes that waistcoat to be buttoned wrong? And why has that cravat wings, like those of a crow? Why does your shirt-collar come up to your ears? Is this the fruit of the lessons on the toilette, which I have so often given you? Did I not also order you to attend to your hair, and not let it fall on your shoulder, like two bundles of flax, in disorder? You do not know that we have here a cousin from Paris, who will take you for a Goth, or the Lord knows what."
The poor young man, stupefied at this reception, looked down mechanically, with his hand on his waistcoat and his cravat, and did not dare to approach his rigorous mistress.
"Alete, Alete," said Ebba, with a voice of supplication, "how can you be so cruel!"
Alete, satisfied beyond doubt by the respectful submission with which her Reproaches had been received, sprang to the neck of her betrothed, and said,
"But I love my dear Eric truly. If I sometimes play the magnificent with him, it is to make him think that he has himself, in a noble epistle, called me his sovereign. Is not this so, Eric?" added she, leaning toward him like a petted child. "Do you not weary of my little wickednesses? At present, you see, I use the remnant of my liberty: when we are married, however, I shall be a model of obedience."
The face of Eric had already become lighted up, and he kissed with pleasure the little hand placed in his.
Alete seemed to fear nothing so much as these sentimental manifestations, and took him into the room where the uncle and nephew had their political contest, and pausing before Ireneus, said,
"Cousin, permit me to introduce to you M. Eric Goldberg, Doctor of the University of Upsal, and a learned Grecian, who never in his life read a single line of the Journal des Modes, and cannot conceive of the difference between a good and bad tailor; who would not know how to hold a fan; or to perform a contradance, but who, in spite of all that, is one of the best fellows in the world, and is devoted to your cousin."
After this singular introduction, a faint blush spread over the face of the young doctor. A clasp of the hand, and an affectionate word, however, from Ireneus, put an end to all embarrassment.
"A strange girl," said M. de Vermondans, following Alete with his eye as she hurried to the kitchen to take charge of the preparations for dinner. "Is not that an odd introduction of her husband and lover? She never does things, however, like other people. Be seated, dear Eric, though, and tell me why we have not seen you for three days. We had began to be uneasy about you, and Alete often looked toward the window. Had you not come to-day, I should have sent to ask the reason."
"My father has been a little unwell," replied Eric; as he placed his hands, made red by the cold, near the stove. "I had to remain to assist him in some of his duties, and to amuse him by reading to him. This morning, as I learned that Monsieur—Monsieur—"
"Say at once your cousin," said Ireneus, frankly.
"That my cousin" resumed the timid Eric, with more confidence, "had arrived, I was unwilling to remain longer away, and my father was kind enough not to wish to retain me."
As the Upsal student pronounced these few simple words, Ireneus observed him, and discovered in his face such an expression of kindness, and in his clear blue eyes such intelligence that he felt a real sympathy for him.
"I thank you," said he, "for thinking of me before you knew me. I hope that when we shall be acquainted you will grant me a portion of the love you have conferred on my family. I am already disposed to love you as a cousin."
"Ah!" cried Eric, springing up, and glancing at Ireneus with an expression of radiant joy, "how happy I am at what you say! I was afraid. I will confess, that I might find in you one of those careless men of the world, as we hear most of the Parisians are. I see, however, you are a worthy nephew of him I shall soon call uncle."
"Gentlemen," said Alete, who from the door had, with a pleasant smile on her face, heard this amicable exchange of sentiments, "will you be pleased to come to dinner?"
"Have they any caviar?" asked M. de Vermondans.
"Certainly, and as good as possible."
"Then we can give this Parisian a complete specimen of the gastronomical refinements of our out-kitchen."
"You must know, Ireneus," said he, as he led his nephew to a little table placed in the corner of the dining-room, "that we do not commerce our meal as the rest of the world does. Our good ancestors certainly discovered, that the walls of the stomach being contracted by cold, needed to be refreshed by something spirituous, and from time to time this estimable precaution has been perpetuated in the country. We will therefore first take a glass of this brandy, and then a cake of this caviar, a few anchovies, and a slice or two of ham, after which we will really sit at the festal board, where the soup, to which you assign the first rank, appears only as a secondary entree, after many culinary preparations."
This was done to the great amusement of Ireneus, who really would have taken for the dinner itself the prelude to it.
When they had sat down, Alete undertook to put him through a course of national gastronomy.
"What do you think," asked she, "of the fish to which my father has just helped you?"
"They are very good," replied Ireneus, "and resemble smelts."
"What do you mean by smelts? They are doubtless some tasteless product of your warm rivers. Know, Monsieur, that these are stroemlings, the finest and most delicate fish in the icy waters of the north. This other fish, which glows like a piece of gold in its porcelain plate, you would find it difficult to call by the correct name. It is a salmon, caught by a skillful hand, and smoked with particular care. Near you is the tongue of a reindeer, prepared by a Laplander, unrivaled in this useful art. This bird, which yet looks fixedly at you with open eyes, though it died two days ago, you might fancy a barn-door fowl, fattened up by the cook. Not so: it is the briar-cock, the honor of our forests. The two fowls in that dish are not a pair of vulgar pullets, but succulent grouse. I will not mention that haunch of sanglier, which, however, is worthy of a royal table; nor of those vegetables, which strangers say are nowhere as finely flavored as they are in our loved Sweden; nor of those berries, gathered last fall on the sides of our hills. Pay some attention, however, to that bread which you break so carelesely with your fingers. It is not coarse and heavy, like that of other countries. It is our kneach-brad, delicate and light as a sheet of paper, and white as the purest flour."
"Have you done?" said M. de Vermondans; "and can you not, as an accompaniment to so many exquisite things, bring us a bottle of claret?"
"Wrong again." said Alete; "as if this beer, prepared from the best barley, the most perfumed hops, yellow as the Baltic, amber and pure as spring-water, was not more valuable than the coarse red fluid you send to such a distance for."
"I agree with you," said Ireneus, who in his turn wished to laugh at the young girl. "It seems to me, that when seated in front of the riches of the north, it would be a profanation to pour out a libation in a foreign beverage. This beer has besides so excellent a flavor, that were there anything like it in France, it is probable that the owners of the Clos de Vaugeot and Medoc would root out their vines to make room for hops and barley."
"You are laughing at me, dear cousin," said Alete; "take care, however."
"Peste!" said M. de Vermondans, "any one who knows you would be rash indeed to excite your ceaseless babble. I do not think that Ireneus, who has more than once proved his courage, is bold enough for that."
"Two royal officers contending against a poor country-girl," said Alete.
"We are not fairly matched, and I will go for the claret."
It was wrong for Alete to leave just then, for the conversation, which hitherto had been gaily sustained, immediately began to languish, and assumed a direction which compelled her to silence.
Ireneus complained of the inroad of democratic ideas, of the trembling and fall of aristocratic institutions, of the authority of right divine, which in his chivalric enthusiasm he looked on as the basis of society.
"Ah," replied Eric, with a tone of voice which seemed aroused by a feeling of affection, "this holy authority will lift itself up from the level of the popular waves which threaten to overwhelm it. It will appear clear and brilliant as our polar star, above the clouds which now surround it. It would subsist in all its power, if it were exercised by men who comprehended the holy duties it imposed on them. Everything connected with this primitive law, with this noble image of patriarchal government, would yet exist, if each member of the great social family would contemplate from a just point of view his own condition, and carry out the consequences in a Christian-like manner.
"Charity, that is to say love and compassion, the two expressions in which are summed up all the joys and miseries of human life, are two virtues, ennobling and consoling man. Let the rich man be charitable to the servant he has subjected to his will, toward the poor man who begs of him. Let him say every day, as he awakes, every night as he prepares himself for repose, that the more powerful he has been made by Providence, the greater is the obligation he is under to aid and protect those around him. In his turn, let the poor man be charitable to the rich; let him know that no rock of marble, no gilded platform can rescue the prince from mortal anxiety, and that human grief is found beneath the imperial purple as well as wrapped in rags, and that often the noble, surrounded by riches and at the festal board, is forced to envy the humble hut and obscure repose of the coal-burner.
"If ever," pursued Eric, with an accent of enthusiasm, "I shall be called to expound the word of God, this especially shall be the text of my sermons: Charity! Charity! By charity I do not mean the habit of extending the hand, which by a kind of instinctive motion, lets alms fall in the blind man's basket, nor the graceful action of a lady who at certain hours leaves the saloon to visit the garret. True charity consists not so much in material aid as in the gifts of the heart; and every individual, humble as he may be, may perform a precious act of charity. To pay correct esteem to a poor man who has been calumniated; to revive hope in a mind overpowered by misfortune and tortured by doubt; to console by kind words a soul mistaken and suffering from errors; each of these is a charity. To be mild and kind to all who approach you, to be indulgent to those blinded by the glitter of prosperity, to be kind and affectionate even when an effort is required to be so, to open a sympathizing heart to all complainings, to all diseases, to all human errors, is the way to gain daily the choicest opportunities of charity. To be charitable is to be good. One of your illustrious writers, Bernardin de Saint Pierre, said, 'Were every one to regulate his own house, order would be the law of nature.' We may also say, were each one to do good, universal happiness would be certain."
"Dear, dear Eric," said Alete, clasping his hand. Then as if she reproached herself for this emotion, she suddenly withdrew it and said, "You need not get into the pulpit to preach a very edifying sermon. You treat us already as your future parishioners, and honor my cousin in the same manner. Since you have begun, will you not complete his education? That beautiful France, the wit and learning of which is so much extolled, exhibits a haughty disdain of the science of other lands. I am sure my cousin knows very little of the history of Sweden,—that magnificent chronicle which in its royal genealogies dates from the deluge. You can teach him. My learned sister Ebba will also teach him Swedish, the most beautiful and harmonious tongue in the world, and certainly the oldest, since savans have proven that Adam and Eve spoke it in Paradise. I also wish to do my duty, and will guide my cousin in the study of natural history of grouse and briar-cock, and the aromatic plants which grow on our hillsides."
"You jest," said Ireneus, "but I seriously adopt your proposition."
"Bah! bah!" cried M. de Vermondans. "He would be a pretty Captain of Lancers if he were to subject himself to pedagogues, like a school-boy, and study themes and versions like a college lad."
"Excuse me, my dear uncle, the most unpleasant thing in the world to me is to be idle. Since circumstances condemn me to inactivity, I would, if possible, employ my time usefully. I shall be very grateful to Eric and my cousins, if they will give me the instruction I need so much. I shall be delighted to study the history of Sweden, a language spoken by persons I love better than any in the world, and the products of the soil of Which Alete is the amiable Buffon."
"So be it," said M. de Vermondans, who, in spite of his eclecticism in politics, had, with a strange mental contradiction, preserved in relation to certain things very deeply rooted ideas, "So be it. In my time people took up no such fancies—more than one emigre passed ten years of his life in a foreign country, and never learned to speak its language. The young men of our times are not like those of to-day. The world, which when I knew it was so gay and careless, which from its very recklessness and its choleric daring was so interesting, now looks to me like a vast school. Its atmosphere, formerly impregnated with perfumes, is now saturated with the atmosphere of dusty tomes and damp newspapers. We meet with no one but persons anxious either to teach or learn. What will become of us if we give way to this pedantic pride? If we surrender to this anxiety to analyze everything? If we go on so, to suit us, God will be compelled to make a new world, to give occupation to the lofty fancies of naturalists and physical philosophers, who seem to me to have weighed and examined this thoroughly.
"Bah! bah! Mademoiselle the philosopher," said M. de Vermondans, as he saw Ebba smile, "I am not ignorant that just now I talk very much like a heretic. You have delighted in reading a multitude of books. I excuse you, however, because you never boast of your acquisitions.
"You do not belong to those blue-stockings, and I have met many such, who, as soon as you approach them, throw at your head the name of a poet like a bomb-shell, and exhibit the wealth of their arsenal by firing a philosophical cannon, or algebraic chain shot.
"May God almighty keep me from those women who forget in this manner the natural graces of their sex. Let him protect me from those Laureates who can see no natural phenomenon without crying out with stupid satisfaction, 'I know the reason.'
"Imagine how delighted I should be, if when enjoying the delicious luxury of sunset, some bachelor of arts should say—
"'Monsieur, will you suffer me to explain how various clouds assume the colors which so vividly impress you, and with what rapidity light comes to the eye?'
"For heaven's sake let me enjoy in peace all the gifts of Providence, admire its works in the innocence of my heart, and discover by what geometrical process God has regulated the form of the globe, and to what pallet, to use the painter's phrase, he has ground his colors."
"There you express a pious and respectable sentiment, which, however, permit me to say, cannot be admitted without some qualification. We must not forget that the greatest gift with which God has endowed man is intelligence, and that one of our first duties is to attempt to develop that intelligence by means of every faculty and all the means of application with which he has endowed us."
"Good. If you were sure that you would not lose yourself amid temptation, or, if like Tobias, you had an angel to guide you in the stormy voyage you undertake. Into what derangement of pride has not man fallen, from the fabulous Prometheus, who sought to snatch fire from heaven, to the Philosophers of the eighteenth century, who extinguished fire in the lights of their reason. Prove to me that what you call human reason has in any manner purified or ennobled the moral sentiment, and I will bow myself before your logicians and rhetoricians. To what direction soever I turn I see only vain puerilities, useless labor, doubtful hypotheses, presumption and falsehood. I admit that you may count amid the multitude of books lumbering the shelves of your libraries many innocent and instructive works. Those books, however, prove your impotence.
"Act as you please, and you will never be able to develop equally the various mental powers. To expand one it is necessary to repress the others. By giving your reason the rude aliment of scholastic argument, you neglect your imagination. By illuminating your mind you overshadow your heart. You congratulate yourself at the discovery of a problem, the solution of which you have long sought for. Scientific journals become filled with numerous dissertations about it, academies decree crowns and medals to the author of the precious discovery. No one remembers, that each of these solutions breaks one of the wonderful chains of charming symbols, of naive ideas which once animated and vivified the people. That it strips it of poetry, of the emotions of the heart, and the delightful and fairy-like creations of the imagination.
"The ancients were not so learned as we, yet they were wiser. They did not explain the phenomena of nature, but described with a graceful and imposing imagery. The rainbow, reduced in our colleges to a mere conformation of matter, was the scarf of Iris; the light-footed hours preceded the car of night, and the rosy-fingered Aurora opened the horizon to permit the car of Jove to pass. When the thunder rolled, Jupiter spoke to attentive mortals. When volcanic mountains trembled, the old Titans sought to throw off the mass of rocks which weighed on them as an eternal punishment of crime. The middle age, yet more naïve and poetical, peopled the air, fields, woods, and waters with a crowd of mysterious beings who spoke to the senses and thought, and awakened in the human mind a mild sentiment of faith or healthful fear.
"Now, thanks to your haughty reason, we have banished, like idle fancies, all these creations of our forefathers. Now we know that the air has no other voice than that of the wind and tempest; that the wood has no animals other than those the structure of whom has been minutely described; that there are no fairies in the green fields, and no invisible spirits watching over the hearth and fireside. Man, relying on his reason, would be ashamed to suffer himself to be excited by tales of ghosts. He has cast aside all supernatural apprehensions; and I see the coming of the time when even Saint Nicholas will not impose on children. What have we gained by thus shaking off the network of smiling and serious fancies, which both enlivened and restrained our fancy? Are we happier, stronger, or better? Alas! for my own part, even were I to pass for a mind behind the times, I would confess that I regret those days of candid credulity in which each dark forest had its legend, every chapel its history. One of the reasons why I love the Swedes, amid whom I found a peaceful home, is, that they have not yet sacrificed to the teachings of modern times their old poetry; and that in the majority of their woodland homes are a multitude of popular songs, of traditional faiths, of domestic customs, which recall the poetic days of the middle age. Is not this true, Ebba? You know something of this matter, for you participate in my predilections in relation to them; and more than once I have seen you listen anxiously to the stories of the old women of Aland."
"Yes, father," said Ebba; who had listened with eager sympathy to the long dissertation of the old man, while Eric and Ireneus listened modestly to all he had said.
"When you give me a lesson in Swedish," said Ireneus, "will you be kind enough to add to it some of those histories, which, I assure you, interest me in no small degree?"
"If you wish it," said Ebba, "I will." Whenever she spoke she seemed with difficulty to surmount her timidity.
"Well, my dear nephew," said M. de Vermondans, with Eric on one side, Ebba on the other, and the practical knowledge of Alete, "it seems to me you can employ your time very profitably; for my own part I can only induct you into the mysteries of bear-hunting, and the chase of the stag and reindeer. It is so rude that I shall not be able to keep up with you. Among my people, however, I shall be able to find a guide, who finds game like a blood-hound, and follows it like a lion."
"That will do wonderfully well, uncle; with so attractive an offer, I fear only that amid my amusements I shall forget my country and my regiment, and become faithless to my king."
Even if Ireneus had not willingly accepted the plan worked out for the Employment of his leisure in study, the rigorous climate of Sweden would, in some manner, have made it compulsory for him to do so. To the cold and dry days, which, during the winter, enlightened and animated the people of the north, succeeded storms and hurricanes. Tempests of snow floated in the air, covered the paths, and blocked up the doors of the houses. A cloudy horizon and black sky seemed to close around every house, like a girdle of iron. At a little distance not even a hill could be distinguished from a forest; all was, as it were, drowned and overwhelmed in a misty ocean, in movable columns of snow, which were impetuous, and irresistible as the sand-whirlpools of the desert. About midday a light purple tint, like a dying twilight, glittered in somber space: a ray thrown by the sun across the clouds, gave an uncertain light. All, however, soon became dark again. One might have fancied that the god of day had retired over-wearied from regions he had in vain attempted to subdue. Nowhere does the symbolical dogma of the contests of darkness and light manifest itself in more characteristic traits than in the Scandinavian mythology; and nowhere does it appear physically under a more positive image than in the regions which have been for centuries devoted to this mythology. During the summer at the north, the sun reigns like an absolute sovereign over nature, and ceaselessly lights it with his crown of fire; he ever watches it, like a jealous lover. If he inclines toward the horizon, if his burning disk disappears behind the purple mountain brows, he leaves for only a moment those polar regions, and leaves even then a clearness behind like the dawn. He soon reappears in his spotless splendor.
In the winter, however, he yields to night, which, with her dark cortege, occupies the northern world. She envelops space with her black wings, and casts the ice and snow from her bosom. Sometimes, for weeks, the storms are so violent, that one cannot, without danger, venture into the fields; and cruel necessity alone induces the peasant to take the road, either to offer something for sale in the nearest market, or to gain a few shillings as a guide to some adventurous traveler. Sometimes, even the peasants of this country are afraid to cast their nets in the river, and gulf, which in the greatest degree contribute to their subsistence. During the greater portion of the time, the poor people of the north, secluded in their homes by masses of snow, isolated from their neighbors, pass whole winters by the fireside. The men occupy themselves in repairing the harness of their horses, in mending the iron work of their carriages—for in that country the homes of people are so far from each other, that each family is forced to provide for its daily wants, and every peasant is at once saddler, wagon-maker, and carpenter. Women are busy in weaving and spinning. In many provinces, especially in that in which the uncle of Ireneus had established himself, there was in existence an industry, which, during the last twenty years, has been much developed. Every peasant's house is a perfect workshop, for the manufacture of linen. Woofs, white and fine as those of Holland, and quite as good, are there produced. This variety of work commences after harvest. In the autumn evenings, women, young girls, &c., assemble at different houses, with their distaff or bundle of flax, which they place before the hearth. It is pleasant, indeed, to see this collection of industrious women, busied in the performance of the task prescribed to them, laughing, talking, without sometimes taking time even to listen to the young lovers who hover around them.
Often a respectable grandmother, the fingers of whom were wrinkled by age, and which neither weave nor spin, would bid the wild troop be silent, as she told one of the mad histories of old times. Then, one of the work-women would merrily ring out the peasant songs, the chorus of which her companions would re-echo. After a few hours of toil, a young man would arise, and give a pleasant signal. All chairs and benches would at once be removed; the work-shop would be changed into a ball-room. To supply the deficiency of an orchestra, one of the spectators defined the modulations of a dance by some old traditionary song. Young men and women took each other by the hand, and formed together one of those country groups which are the elements of the chorographic art. They then parted, making a rendezvous for the next day, for another hearth-side, but for similar amusements. All the work-women, returned to their own houses, where they gaily retailed all the episodes of the evening's events, some recording merely a silent glance, which met their own, or a furtive clasp of the hand which had aroused a blush. More than one happy acquaintance originates in one of those northern evenings—and more than one girl, who, in the autumn, has a heart free as air, in the spring wears on her finger the ring of a promised bride.
When the weather was good, Ebba went out sometimes alone, to be present at these re-unions. All rose to welcome her with a sentiment of respect and attention, for she was kind to the poor.
The young people silently withdrew, and the matron of the house gave her the most pleasant seat by the hearth-side. The children, however, to whom she brought every day fruits and presents, leaped and danced around her. The old village story-tellers were also glad when she came, for no one Questioned them with more kindness, or listened with more attention to their popular tales. Her delicate tournure, her graceful form, her pale and melancholy look, were in striking contrast with those around her. To see her motionless and mute amid the merry girls and the robust young persons, would have induced a belief that she was one of those supernatural beings, one of those fairy inhabitants of woods and waters—strange legends about whom she so much delighted in. She entered and retired silently, and her light feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground. She flitted away like an aerial being, leaving with all those whom she visited an indefinable impression, and arousing in some the vague remembrance of a superstitious being.
One evening, when she was about to leave, a woman, who had looked Attentively at her, said, "Dear young lady; how feeble and ill she seems!"
"Yes," said a timid voice, "one might almost think she had joined in the elfin dance."
"What is the elfin dance?" asked a young man; "I have seen many, but never that."
"God grant you never may," said the one to whom he spoke; "the elves are wonderful beings, who come we know not whence; and live, we know not how, in the mountain gorges and woods. Probably they are the descendants of some race accursed of God, and sentenced to live on earth, deprived of every joy and hope. They never enter towns; do not associate with us; but when they see a solitary wanderer, they seek to win him to them, and exercise a most unhappy influence over him.
"You sometimes have seen large circles of grass in the meadows trampled down. They are traced by the elves, as they dance in the summer night when the moon is shining. Wo to the wanderer, wo to the young girl, who at that time passes near them. The elves invite them to join in the dance, and sometimes drag them by force away. Into the veins of any one who comes within their circle, a secret poison is infused, which makes him languish and die. I tell you, I fear that Ebba, good and charitable as she is, has been surprised by those accursed beings; for she has the pale face and languid air of those who suffer from philtre of the elves."
Sitting one morning in the room of her father, Ebba was discharging the task she had proposed to herself in jest. She was teaching Ireneus the elements of the beautiful Swedish language, of the Islandic from which it is derived, and which has its ulterior origin in the old tongues of India, the cradle of the great Gothic races. "It is pleasant," says Byron, "to learn a foreign tongue from the eyes and lips of a woman." Ireneus enjoyed all the luxury of such a system of instruction.