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No. 1]
SALT LAKE CITY. MAY 8, 1869.
[Vol. •^
*'BO-PEEP."
It wua OctobiT — and into our home one morn, Came a quaint little rogue, "all slinvcn and shorn," As funny an elf as ever was bornl
With a puckered face and dot of a nose, And such wee little turned up tips of toes, And blushing all over red as a rose.
For never a bit of raiment brought he;
liut, as fate would have it, a drawer had we *
Piled full of wee clothes as a drawer could be.
So we daintily <lressed the sprite and fed — Tenderly hushed him and laid him in bed. And wond'ringly watched o'er the tiny head.
And, when he awoke from his blossom-like sleep, He so won oui" hearts wo concluded to keep The dear little fellow and call him "Bo-peepl"
For he brought with him glin-pses of Eden most fair; And sweet blessings like perfumes pervaded the air, Upwafting our thoughts from the labor and care.
And daily in stature and beauty he grew. Renewing his freshness each morn with the dew, Till earth, in his being, seemed created anew.
And, now that he's been with us three years or more,
We wonder how e're we existed before
He came, that October morning, and knocked at our door.
As, down through the dasies, he trips at my side, And holds up the blossoms with dimples of pride, I shudder lest ill should my darling betide.
My heart, in its fullness of passion and love. Goes yearningly out to the Father above. And prays Him, from evil, to shelter my dove.
NEVER DELIVERED.
THE 8T0RV OF A TAIEMINE.
CHAPTER I.— THE MESSENGER WHO BORE IT,
And who never delivered it. Perhaps it would have been
too much to expect of him that he should do so ; too much
to expect that the little packet, carelessly taken and thrust
a way amongst others, would ever enter his head again. At
a ny rate it did not. He was a young man still, though he
had been for some years a widower ; and he had fallen in
ove, and was on the way to learn his fate.
^ ■ CHJRCH
It cannot be flatteringr to a young lady, if she knows it, that her suitor should be capable of taking thotight for any one besides herself; but certainly Sir Hugh Hainhani tried to believe that he was not making his own ha])]>incss alto- gether the first consideration. There was tlie well-being of his little girl to be thought of — and what did he know about bringing up little girls? He h;id heard sensible people say. and he was ready enough now to accept the dictum, that the wisest thing a man in his position could do woidd be to marry again ; wisest both for his own future and his child's. He said this to himself as he stood in Evelyn Neville's drawing-room, hat in hand, waiting, looking out upon the bare branches which were soon to be green again, and wondering, in a desultory fashion, if this February day woidd bring him another spring-time, or only the desolate branches, the dead leaves whirling about, nr the cold sky beyond. He had not long to wait. M'heii she came into the room, and that thrill went through his heart which the presence of one we love alone can bring, it njust have left some mark upon his face; for -she knew why he had come, and in a few rapid arguments had decided upun her answer. He was rich, but she did not care so much about that, not knowing what it was to be anything else; he was sir Hugh Ilaiuham. hut she didn't care for that either, her pride being of another sort ; he was good, generous, and devoted — these things she did not care for. He loved her ; and he came when that same pride of hers was smarting under a sense of neglect. In the few seconds allowed her before he spoke. Evelyn Neville made her decision. She had thought that he knew, and was jealous of, her friend- ship with that cousin Frank, whom she fancied might one day be nearer than a cousin. But that was over. The cousins had kept up a childish habit of exchanging valentines ; and to-day there was nothing from him, while her own had gone as usual. That was the humiliating part of it. If she had broken through the custom it would have been well ; but that he should be first 1 and when, too. he had given her cause to expect that his would be no ordinary' valentine ! Here, within her reach, was the means of punishing him — at any rate of letting him know that she did not care. Evelyn listened to Sir Hugh with a forced attention, but he knew ■nothing of that. When he spoke of his little girl, falteringly, she roused up and saw the strong earnestness and anxiety in the man's face; and strange to say, this touched her more just then, than any passionate lover's pleading from his lips would have done. She turned towards him suddenly, and put her hand into his and said, speaking of the small Cecilia —
fiRCHlVLS ^i
Jhe §hutc«i 01 Jesus ChiisI ol Lattet-dij Saints
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May 8,
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■' She shall be very dear to me, and precious. I will care for her, as much as you could desire."
And when Sir Hujzh had left her, she did not repeut. It is true that there came upou her a certain sense of being bound — of having done what could not be undone — and that half rebellious desire to be free, which is almost always inseparable from an act that seals one's own fate. And then the drawing-room was rather lonely ; the trees outside the window got a ghostly look, and seemed to wrap themselves up tighter as the fog gathered round them; and — altogether, she thought she would just go and tell her brother, by way of convincing herself that the thing was finally .settled.
When she told him. he lifted his eyebrows and stared at her.
'■ Is it true ? — You look- as if it were. Rather scared, and that sort of thing. Not that there is anything to be seared about ; only I suppose it's proper. Hem I I might have thought of Frank Neville; but this is wiser."
She bit her lip. but never answered him. She wished he had not said that about Frank, aud she didn't like the word '• wiser." What had wisdom to do with it ?
She started from her sleep that night, with a mist before her eyes aud a great throbbing at her heart, for Frank's voice was in her ears. Would he care ?
But what \iKe to ask, now that it was too late ? And that it was too late no one knew better than herself; for to her, having once decided publicly as it were, change would have been Impossible.
And on her wedding-day she was to Sir Hugh a radiant princess, far away above him, stooping to crown him with the blessing of her love. Any one who had seen him that day might have doubted ab(mt its being altogether, or even very much for his daughter's sake that he took this step.
• I have reason to be grateful," he said to his new brother- in-law, when the speechifying was over, and the bride was going away to change her dress.
George Neville looked at her and nodded. •■ She's a good girl cncmgh ; a little .self-willed, perhaps; but then she has always had her own way."
•■ And will have it still. I hope," said Sir Hugh. " If I don't make her happy, I shall deserve to be a miserable man all my life."
In years to come he recalled the speech, and wondered whether some strange misgiving had moved him to utter it. Just tlien Frank Neville was saying to Evelyn, " So you did not think me wurth an answer I "
She was pa.ssing through the throng toward the door, and she never faltered or raised her head. No one knew that the words fell upon her with a sudden chill, like a cold hand grasping her heart. She had seen her cousin amongst the guests, and knew that he w:ls looking miserably ill, but she had been too much occupied to think about that. •■ What do you mean, Frank ? "
'• Oh, not much. Valentines don't require answers in a general way; but I think you might have given me a few words last February. However, you'll keep my secret. No one knows it but you, unless it is your husband. What's the matter, Evelyn ? You look a,s if ynu dicln't uuderstand." '• I don't."
" You must have had it. I mi.ssed the post over-night, and gave it to Raiiihaui. there, :ls I knew he would see you the next day."
" To — my hiLsband ? "
"Yes; I'll ask him "
" Frank," she said, with a heavy hand on hi.s arm, " for- get all tiiis. Never speak of it — fur my sake."
He looked at her with a perplexed cxiivession of inquiry, but Lc saw that .she was white and flurried, and gave up the point. ■• Well, we have always been friends ; have we not 'f I
fe
would ask you yet for your good wishes, as you have mine ; but the doctors say there's something amiss here," touching
his chest ; •• and I may not live to never mind ! God
bless you, Evelyn I "
CHAPTER II. — ITS MARK ON THE YEAR TO COME.
Sir Hugh brought his wife home : and his hair was not gray, neither had any premature wrinkles marked his face. To his servants there appeared no change in him, either for better or for worse. He was just the same grave, silent, rather deliberate master they remembered. They did think, indeed, that he was dreadfully polite to his lady ; but per- haps that was proper — before servants.
Sir Hugh, taking Evelyn to the drawing-rooms, which he had caused to be altered and brightened for her, turned and said to her, '■ Welcome home."
And as he said it, the memory of his own dreams of that home stung him so bitterly that he half put out his arms to take into them the Evelyn he had once known. But .she never saw the movement ; and would not have heeded it if she had seen. She passed on into the room, the brilliant light of which seemed to hurt Sir Hugh's eyes, for he put his hand over them suddenly ; and for a moment he stood at the door, irresolute ; then closed it gently, and went to see after his little girl.
That was natural enough, they said — those gossips down stairs who were always on the watch. But why didn't he take his new wife with him ? And why did he stay with the child, hour after hour, till none of the evening remained? The first evening, too I Above all, why, when the house- hold had retired, and all was quiet, did a tall, slight figure, which rustled a little as it passed, go into the nursery and kneel down beside the sleeping child and sob ?
The nurse saw, for she was not asleep, and my lady fan- cied ; and she was not likely to keep it to herself, either. These and such things were puzzling. At first they formed a constant source of whisperings and shakings of wise heads; but gradually the gloss of newness wore away from them ; the dull days swept on, and something of the grimness of the stone heads that guarded the sweep of steps at the hall- door seemed to have crept into the house. It was so still and silent ; so monotonous. But for the small Cecilia, it would have been unutterably dismal. But she was a child, and had childish ways, which remained unchecked. She was quite young enough to take very kindly to the new mamma, who was so beautiful aud so good to her.
'■ Not like nurse said .she would be — ugly and cross," she said to her favorite playfellow — " but good. I think she could have brought the little princess to life again, as well as the fairy did. You never saw such eyes in your life as she has got; just like the pool under the willows, where we are not to go, Charlie, you know ; down, as if you couldn't ever see the bottom ; ever so deep. And she kisses me, too."
To which the boy replied, with decision, that she couldn't be a fairy in that case, for fairies never kissed anybody ; it wasn't lucky, that was unless they were wicked fairies. And it was all very well now, but when Cecil married him, he shouldn't allow her to kiss anybody.
By and by, however, as Cecil grew older, she used to won- der in her wise little head what made her father and mother, when they were alone, talk to each other, if they did talk, so like "company." That was her idea of it. She jumped up from the piano one day, and waltzed round to the foot- stool at Lady Kainham's feet, with a sudden thought that she would find out.
"Well." said Evelyn, looking at the pursed-up lips, which evidently had a (|uestion upon them, " what's the matter? Is your new muiiic-les,son too hard ?"
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NEVER DELIVERED,
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" My new music-lesson is — is a fidf;otty crank," said Cecil, hesitating for an expression strong enough ; '■ but it's not that. I was just wondering why you and papa "
Sir Hugh let his book fall with a sudden noise, and went out of the room, passing the child, but taking no notice of her.
'• Why you and papa," went on Cecil, reflectively, ''are so odd, like grand visitors. When there's any one here I know I have to sit still, and not tumble my frock, nor cross my feet; but when there's no one, it's dift'ercnt."
" Your papa and I are not children," said Lady Kainliam. '' Grown-up people must be steady, Cis."
" Then I don't want to be grown up. And I'm sure, quite sure, that I'll never be married, if one is to do nothing but sit — sit all day long, and have no fun."
Lady liaiidiani bent down to kiss the resolute lips that ut- tered this bold decision, and then her face grew sad. There were times when even to her pride the life she led seem.ed aluio.st too hard to bear — times when she was mad enough to think slie would tell Sir Hugh that the act which stamped him in her eyes as base and dishonored was no secret from her, as he doubtless believed it to be. But she could not do it. It seemed to her as if the consciousness that she knew would only make him more contemptible in his own eyes as well as in hers. It would but widen the gulf, and make what she was able to bear now utterly intolerable. For she never doubted that the purport of the letter was known to him, and he had suppressed it for his own ends. And the poor boy who wrote it was dead. There was the great mis- chief of it all. If he had been living and well, so tender a halo might not have rested over the past, and all in the past connected with him ; so bitter a resentment might not have been nursed in silence against the wrong which her hus- band had dune them both. But Frank had lived but a few months after her wedding, and she never saw him again. He was dead, and she had killcMl liini — un. not she, lint Sir Hugh.
She was thinking such thoughts one day when something made her look up, and she met Sir Hugh's eyes fi.xed upon her. There was so peculiar an expression in them that she could not prevent a certain proud, antagonistic inquiry com- ing into her own. He went toward her with his book open in his hand. He bent down and put his finger on a, line in the page, drawing her attention to it.
•• 'How much the wife is dearer than tlu^ bride.' This struck me rather, that's all," he said, and went away.
Fvelyn sat on by the window, with the book dropped from her fingers, and she covered her face. What did lie mean ? If he had only not gone away then !
'• How could he do that one thing'? " she said to herself. '• He meant the line as a reproach to me. And I would have loved him — is it possible that I do love him, in spite of it ? Am I so weak and false '/ I want so much to comfort him sometimes that I half forget, and am tempted. But I never will — I never must. T used to be strong, I shall be strong still."
And so the same fmiit nf icy indift'erence met Sir Hugh day by day and year by year, and he knew none of her strug- gles. But he wrapped himself up more and more in his books and his problems and writings. New MSS. began tri grow out of the did ones, for he had various subjects. In these days a little fairy used to come in from time to time with a pretence of arranging them for him. She would open and shut the study door with a great show of quietness, seat herself on a big chest which was full of old papers, and in which .she meant to have a glorious rummage some day; and begin folding up neat little packages; stitching loose sheets together; reading a bit hero and there, and looking up now and then with a]suggostive sigh till he would lay aside his work
fe^_
and declare that she was the plague of his life. This was the signal always for the forced gravity to disappear from Cecil's f\ce; for her to jump up, radiant and gleeful, and just have one turn round the room — to shake off the cobwebs, as she said.
■■ But you know you couldn't do without mc, and I do help very much. What do you know about stitching papers together 'f And you are a most ungrateful man to say I am a plague, only you don't mean it. I wonder what you'll do when I am married.''
'■ Married I '' echoed Sir Hugh. ■■ (io and pl.iy \vith your last new toys, and don't talk nonsense."
But the word worried him. and made him thoughtful. When he came to consider it, the fairy was no longer ex- actly a child, though she was as merry as a young kitten. He did a little sum on his fingers in sheer absence of mind, and found out that in a few weeks she would be eighteen. It was twelve years since he went, that February day. to plead her cause and his own with Evelyn Neville. He used to go now sometimes to the window and look out, and re- member the day when he had stood at that other windov/ watching bare branches and wondering about his future. He knew it now. If only he could find out icluj it was thus. What had changed her all at once, on her wedding day, from the very moment, as it seenuxl to him. that she became his wife ':*
Sir Hugh pushed his hair away from his forehead and sighed. He was getting gray by this time, but then he was past forty, and Evelyn, his wife, must be two-and-thirty at least. It occurred t« him that he had noticed no alteration in her. She was as beautiful as ever, with the beauty of a statue that chills you when you touch it. He thought he would look at her that evening and see if he could trace no change, such as there was in himself. He did look, when the room was brilliant with soft light, and she sat languidly turning over a book of engravings with Cecil. They formed a strange contrast; the cold, proud, indifferent beauty of the one face and the eager animation of the other. The girl's one hand rested on Lady Kainham's shoulder, caressing, for the tie between these two was more like the passion of a first friendship than the affection of mother and daughter. Sud- denly Cecil pointed down the page and said something iu a whi.sper, and Lady Bainham turned and looked at her with a smile.
As he saw the look, just such a thrill went through Sir Hugh's heart as he had felt when she came to him twelve years ago to give him his answer. No, time had not done iier so much wrong as it had to himself, and there was one hope in which she had never disappointed him — her care for liis daughter.
■• For her sake," he said that night wiien Cecilia was gone. '' I am always grateful to you."
But he did not wait for any reply. He never did. Per- haps he might not have got one if he had ; or perhaps he thoitght the time had gone by for any\durnge to be possible.
Lady Bainham looked from the window the next morning and saw Cecil under a tall laurel reading something. And the sun had come out ; there was a twittering of birds in the shrubbery, and the sky was all flecked with tiny white clouds. It was Valentine's ].>ay, and Lady Bainham knew that the girl was reading over again the one which Sir Hugh had handed her with such a troubled face at the breakfast table. What did that unquiet expression mean; and why did Cecil, when she saw it, look from him tu herself, Lady Bainham, fold up her packet hurriedly and put it away 'I
It meant, on Sir Hugh's part, that he knew what it was and didn't like it ; that he could not help thinking of his life, doubly lonely, without the child. But this never oc- curred to liis wife, i'resently some one joined Cecil in the laurel walk, and though of course Ijady Bainham could not
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hear their words, she turned instinctively away from the window.
Cecil was saying just then, " No, it isn't likely. Who should send me valentines ? They're old-fashioned, vulgar, out of date. Charlie, mind I won't have any more."
'•Why not?"
•• Because — I'm serious now — for some reason or other they don't like my having them," said Cecil, motioning toward the house. '' And it's a shocking thing to say, but I'm sure there's something not straight between papa and Lady Kainham, some misunderstanding, you know. I'm sure that they arc dreadfully fond of each other, really; but it's all so strange; I do so want to do something that would
bring it right, and 1 shall have nothing to say to you
till it is right."
'■ Cecil 1 "
'■ I mean it. I am a sort of go-between ; no. not that ex- e.xactly ; but they both care for me so much. They don't freeze up when I'm there. I cant fency them without me ; it would he terrible."
" But Cecil, you promised "
" No I didn't. And if I had, I shouldn't keep it. of course ; that is, you wouldn't want me to. It would kill pa to lose me. and as to Lady Kainham. why I never cared for any one so much ill all my life. I didn't know it was in me till she woke it up. You remember what I used to say about her eyes. They arc just like that; like a beautiful deep pool; all dark, you know, till it draws you close and makes you want to know so much what is underneath."
Here Lady Kainham came to the window again, but the two figures had passed out of the laurel walk, and she saw them no more.
In the afternoon Cecil went as usual to her father's study, but he was stooping over a book and did not notice her. He was, in fact, thinking the thought that had troubled him in the morning, but Cecil fancied he was busy, and looked round to see what mischief she could do. It flashed through her mind that there was a fine opportunity for the old chest, and so she seated herself on the carpet and began to rum- mage. Presently Sir Hugh, hearing the rustle of papers, looked round.
'■ I should like to know who is to be my fairy Order," he said,, "amongst all that mess."
" I will, papa. I shall give a tap with my wand, and you will see it all come straight. But look here. Isn't this to mamma ? It has never been opened, and it's like — a valen- tine."
Sir Hugh looked at the large " Miss Neville " on the envelope, and knitted his brows in a vain effort to remember anything about it. He couldn't,. It was very strange. He fancied he knew the writing, but yet could not tell whose it was — certainly not his own — nor recollect anything about the packet. He considered it a little and then said, •• You had better take it to her."
He took a pen and wrote on the cover, '■ Cecil has just found this amongst my old papers. I have no idea how or when it came into my possession, neither can I make out the hand, though it doesn't seem altogether strange. Perhaps you can solve the mystery."
CHAPTER in. — ITS MEf5SAOE — AFTER .^lANY DAYS.
It was in verse, as Frank's valentines had always been; halting, and with queer rhymes and changes of measure. It was full of the half humorous tenderness of quiet friendship ; and it ended with a hope that she would make " old Hugh '^ happier than hi.s first wife did ; that was if she accepted him ; and with a demand for her congratulations upon his own ap- proaching marriage; since he was the ■•happiest fellow alive "
and couldn't keep the news from her, though it was a secret from all besides.
And the evening grew old ; the white flecked sky turned colder, and the moon came out. But Lady Kainham sat with this voice from the dead in her hand, motionless ; full of humiliation and remorse. And she was thinking of many year.s of bitterness and sorrow and pride; and of a heavy sacrifice to a myth, for she had never loved him. And her husband — whom she did love — whom she had so wronged — how was she to atone to him ?
By and by the door opened and Cecil stole in. And she saw Lady Rainham's face turned towards the window with the moonbeams lighting it, and thought she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.
'• Mamma," she said softly, '■ why don't you come down ? We are waiting, papa and I ; and it's cold up here."
"I will come," said Lady Kainham; but her voice was strange. Cecil knelt down beside the chair and drew her mother's arm around her neck.
'■ How cold you are ! Dear mamma, is anything the matter ? Cannot I comfort you?"
Lady Kainham bent down and held her in close embrace.
•• My darling, you do always. I cannot tell whether I want comfort now or not. I am going down to your father, and Cecil, I must go alone ; I have something to say."
She went into the drawing room, straight up to where her husband sat listlessly in his chair at the window. He started when he saw her, and said something hurriedly about ringing for lights, but she stopped him.
'• It will be better thus, for what I have to say. Hugh, I have come to ask your forgiveness."
Sir Hugh did not answer. The speech took him by surprise, and she had never called him Hugh before since their marriage. He had time enough to tell himself that it was only another mockery, and would end in the old way.
But standing there with Frank's letter in her hand, she told him all, not sparing herself, and then asked if he could ever forgive her. She was not prepared for the great love which answered her ; which had lived unchanged through all her coldness and repulses ; and which drew her to him closer now perhaps than it might have done if her pride had never suffered under those years of wretchedness.
Cecil never knew exactly what had happened ; but when her father put his arm around her and called her his bless- ing, she looked up at him with an odd sort of conseiousness that in some way or other the old valentine found in her rummage amongst his papers had to do with the change she saw. And it was her doing.
ADVENTURE ON MONT BLANC.
A TRAVELER S NARRATIVE.
Five mountaineers, including the chief guide, decided to accompany me; and, securing ourselves to each other by long ropes, so that a slip or mis-step of one might not prove fatal to him, we set out, each carrying his knapsack of provisions strapped to his back, and in his hand a long balancing pole, with a hook at one end and a steel point at the other, to assist his footing along dizzy ledges and over yawning chasms, whose awful depths could not be penetrated by human eye.
We were already in a region of peril. Around and above us towered mountains of ice and snow, whose slippery and dazzling summits we must gain.
At length we came to a perpendicular wall of ice, some twenty-five or thirty feet in height, over which we must pass direct, or abandon our purpose. We examined it on all sides, but found nothing better than that which directly faced us.
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ADVENTURE ON MONT BLANC.
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How CI ml J we surmount the difficulty V
'■ If we go forward, we must climb this precipice of ice — - there is no alternative I " at length said the chief guide, turning to me. '■ (^an it lie done? " 1 enquired.
•' That is a question best answered by trying," he replied. " It is difficult and dangerous, but T think it possible."
He then held a short consultation with his companions. and proceeded to the work. He cut places for his hands and feet, and climbing up by these, cut others still higher, his comrades steadying him aiid supporting him as long as they could reach. He then came down, and had one of the poles fastened to his dress, so that they could keep him from loos- ing his bala'jce. In this manner he slowly worked his way up, till the pole became too short, when he came down and rested while; another was being made fast to it. Uuce more he returned to the work, and soon after he accomplished the bold feat, and stood upon the slippery summit.
The rest of us now disengaged ourselves from the rupc, l>y which, as I have mentioned, we were all connected together. and two others ascended in the same manner as the first, one of them taking the rope up with him. They now told me it was best for me to go up while there were some below and some above to assist me ; and prevent any accident liappen- ing- through my inexperience, the rope was lowered and fastened around my body, and as fast as I ascended the slack was taken in by those above. When a little more than half- way from the base to the top one of my feet suddenly slipped, and my body partly swung round. I grasjied tirndy with my hands ; and the tightening of the rope, with the assist- ance of the pole pressing it between my shoulders, kept me from swinging clear, and consequently from dashing my bones on the roitgh ice below — for the pole could not have sup- ported my weight, and those above would have been com- pelled to let go the rope to save themselves from being drag- ged over the precipice. The event gave m_y nervous system a fearful shock, and in an instant 1 was in a perspiration, cold as it was.
We now set forward again, and for some time met with only minor obstacles, which were readily overcome. Towards sunset we came in sight of two sharp-pointed rocks, lifting their bare heads in solemn gTandeur above the surrounding snow and ice. These were called the Grand and Petit Mulcts, and occupied a position a little more than half-way up the mountain.
'• There is the spot." said Uougjon. the principal guide, pointing to the larger of these two rocks, ■■ where, if heaven favors us, we shall pass the coming night."
As we drew near this rock, I was led to think heaven would not favor us in reaching that dangerous point ; for we were suddenly stopped by a wide, black chasm, that made me giddy to look into. This ran along the base of the rock. and completely cut off our approach — nor could we discover any means of getting over it. We could not descend into it and come out alive, and nowhere could we perceive the usual bridge of ice or snow by which we had crossed other similar guHs.
'•The last time I was here," said (xougjon. "there was a narrow wall of ice sloping upwards across this chasm, on which I cut steps and advanced, at a great risk of life ; but now even that is gone — melted away, perhaps — and so. for all that I can see, our upward journey terminates here."
I was disappointed, I coufe.ss, for I had .set my heart on standing upon the very pinnacle of Mount Blanc, and feeling that nothing in this world had ever gone up higher.
" As constant changes are going on." remarked the chief guide, " perhaps by this time next year this gulf will be bridged over." •' Ay, perhaps ! " I answered, moodily.
As it was now too late in the day to retrace our steps before dark, the next important thing was to find some sheltered
spot where we could pass the cold night. We went back some distance, to a crevice which ran around under a huge rock that was in turn heavily overlaid with snow and ice.
Wrapping myself >ip as warmly as I could. I passed the first half of the night in walking up and down along a little narrow ledge, ooeasionally exchanging a word with some of the guides, but most of the time brooding, in sullen silence, over my disappointment. At last, feeling very much fatigued, I went away some distance from the others, and sat down ; but finding, after a few minutes, that I was becoming very drowsy, and likely to fall suddenly asleep, which I did not think was prudent. I arose, with the intention of returning to the guides, and keeping myself awake with Conversaticm.
But scarcely had 1 taken one step fcjrward. when 1 stopped, and felt my hair rise with horror. I heard a strange sound, mure like the distant purring of some animal than anything else I can liken it to. and at the same moment there was a slight vibration or quiver of the ground iinder mc. [ can- not tell why. for L had never experienced anything of the kind before, but at once, as if by instinct. I seemed to know it was a descending avalanche, and descending, too, from far ab<jve. prcibably to overwhelm and bury me for ever.
(juickly the so\inds changed, and deepened in volume, and soon became a hissing roar, fairly shaking the ground beneath me; and then mv mind was whirled away to the dearly- beloved ones at home.
Suddenly there was a strange rush and oppression of air — a cloud of darkness seemed to .settle over me. The hiss- ing roar ended with a terrible crash, and a silence succeeded, so deep and deadly, that it appeared more awful than a thou- sand thunders.
liut the appalling crisis was over, and I was still alive. 1 thanked heaven for it. and shouted to my companions in peril. Xo answer! T shouted again. No response ! I started to go tcjthem. and three paces brought me against a wall of ice and snow. 1 recoiled in horror, and comprehended that they might be no longer among the living. I turned and ran the other way. tremljling with fear. Six paces brought me against another wall of ice and snowl It was over me — around me — on every side of mel 1 was buried alive! I shrieked at the dreadful conviction — my brain reeled, and I fell.
It would be useless for me to attempt to paint the horrors of that night, after recovering my consciousness.
When morning once uku'c dawned, to my great surpri.se. and. I scarcely need add. rapturous joy. I beheld the light stream into my little chamber through an apperture aVjout the size of my body, and only a few feet above my head. I readily clindjcd to it. crawled through, and once more .stood in the living world.
A tremend(jus avalanche had tidlen; but 1 had only been caught by a light portion of the extreme left, had been saved by the overhanging rock, which fortunately had not been displaced in the downward ru.sh of this mountain of ice and snow. Not so the poor guides. They were further to the right, and they were probably crushed to death. At least, they were gone, and no mortal ever beheld them more.
How I found my way down that awful mountain, alone and unaided. I hardly know. Even now. I can scarcely re- alize that I actually went through so many dangers and es- caped with life. On three occasions, in sliding down the hills of ice, I was sent to the very verge of an awful gulf, and saved, as it were, by a miracle; and three times, in low- ering myself down the slippery precipices, I lost my hold. And yet not a bone was broken. I was much bruised, how- ever; and once I was so stunned that I knew nothing for an hour. But heaven, in its mercy, saw proper to give me back to the world, and save me from the awful fate of my com- panions in peril.
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THE UTAH MAGAZINE,
•May 8,
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THE UTAH MAGAZINE.
|nffl(ettual, .Social, |lolitiral aiib aiJjfologifaL
SATURDAY, MAY^S, 1869.
ORIGINAL MATTER IN THIS NUMBER.
We desire to make the Mauazine in every sense a rep- resentative of tlic talent of tlie community. With an eye to this object we open the present volume with a first-class home-made serial story, entitled The Hebrew Maiden, or, Not all Dross. A small portion of this story has been com- posed for some time, but it is now reconstructed and com- pleted for The Utah jMacjazine.
We also take pleasure in drawing attention to the fulluw- ing, among- other original articles in this number : '' The History of the World Illustrated in its Great Characters," and "Our Woman's Platform," both prepared in this office ex- pressly for the Magazine; '-How the World has Grown," by Eli B. Kelsey; "A Humorous Discourse on Railroad Mat- ters, " by Saxey, together with a Batchelor's song. " by Jingo," of keep-a-pitchin'-in fame ; an Ode to the Steam Horse, by Jabez Woodard, also to our dramatic and musical articles, prepared respectively by the editors of those de- partments.
We also present, in this number, an original piece of music by Prof. Tullidge, being the first sheet of music, in the old notation, ever published in the Rocky Mountains.
To fully carry out our purpose of making this magazine "the Home Journal of the People," we invite contributors on science or other interesting subjects, from all our think- ing men who wish to aid in the intellectual and social growth of the people.
Literary and Debating Societies, throughout the Territory, are re((uested to forward their questions. Reports of Lectures are invited.
MUSIC AND THE DRAMA.
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Music and the drama properly belong to magazine liter- ature. We have, therefore, designed in this enlarged edi- tion of the Utah Magazine, which a contemporary has honored with the name of the " Blackwood of the Rocky Mountains," regular editorial departments for these branches of art. For the one we have engaged friend E. W. Tullidge, whose reviews of the characters of Shakspeare and lives of famous historical personages obtained a distinc- tion in the American Phrenological Journnl ; and for the musical department we have engaged, as editor Prof. John Tullidge. Prof Tullidge, in his youth, was a favorite pupil of the great English master, Hamilton, and for years was a teacher and conductor of Catholic choirs. Wo therefore take the liberty to respectfully invite correspondence from the musical profession at home and abroad, with confidence that questions upon theory and music generally, both vocal and instrumental, will be competently answered by him.
OUR WOMAN'S PLATFORM.
NO. 1 — THE women's JIOVEMENT,
The editress of the Revolution has seen a live '' jNIormon" publisher — considers his head a cheering spectacle for a phrenologist, and being reflectively stirred up by the sight, exclaims, in effect, "What if, after all, the Jlormons should lead in the assertion of the rights of women I" A very suggestive remark, anyway, and one which, we believe, despite present appearances to the outside world, will be found in due time to have contained the germ of a correct prophecy.
It is with us on this ■• other strong themes now believe there is a a;erm of
woman's rights" question as with agitating the public mind; we ;i areat truth in it, and an inspi-
ration vvorking to a good end, but it seems as if no truth ne- cessary for human happiness was ever yet established in this world, without being at first arrayed in garments vastly too magnificent for it. Before a truth can ever tell on the pub- lic mind, it does appear as though it must be preached up as being about six times its real size; and then in due course of God's Providence it will get accepted for what it really is. A twenty-five centtruth must come calling itself a dollar, and fight furiously for its rights as such, depreciating all such small val- ues as fifty vr seventy-five cents as vastly inferior amounts; when after sufficient struggling, it will settle down into its place in the world (if coins really allowed and credited as twenty-five cents — having obtained its friends, inflamed their zeal, and received their indefotigable labors in its behalf, simply on the ground of its dollar-t67i pretensions.
This is the history of the success of all truths, and the mainspring and strength of all great movements. Their ad- vocates are impressed with the conviction that along-side of their special truth there is no truth worth talking about ; and by no possibility an opposite side, or a draw-back to their picture. Believing, as W'e do, that Providence — manipula- ting men like pawns on the chequer-board of humanity — is in all this, we see, special wisdom in such impres.sions; for men will fight and die for a truth, if they believe it to be the grandest in existence, when they would not suffer the prick- ing of a pin's point for it, if they thought it was merely a truth and nothing more, It may sound as an irreverent ex- pression, but this philiisophy has created martyrs and reform- ers in all ages, by the score.
It appears to us to be precisely so with the question of womanly privileges. Women, we consider, have clearly been withheld fr<im manifest rights. Their importance in society has been vastly underrated, and their capabilities unappre- ciated. They have been the victims of masculine lust, and false ciides of society. Now has come the reaction — now the sufferers steer for the other extreme. Women should be eli- gible for everything; they should be bound by no considera- tion which the experience of past ages has confirmed ; the more unlike women of the past, they can get to be in every respect, the better for them, the more glorious for society. This extreme view of the ca.se would not, of course, be ad- vocated by many individual ladies of the " Woman's Rights" order, but this is the soul of the movement — the inspiration of the hour. And, harmless enough, too, it allows plenty fur clipping and paring; it contains hugeness enough to glo- rify it in the imaginations of its disciples, and make them enthusiastic, till they gain — as they should — a hearing. Ex- perience, solid sense and the true instincts of womankind will trim and square the proposition to about its right shape in due time ; and although, when gained, it will not make earth a paradise or take the "skeleton" out of everybody's cupboard, it will — like all God's movements in society — result in lift- ing humanity one little step nearer to their destined condition.
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1869.
MUSIC AND THE DRAMA.
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[C^^rroHpontU'iu-r- on imisiriil subjcrfs is invitcil.]
ri'iii iiiiii- liis iiiitiritit; la-
\\Iiitli luul Ikmmi nliiHiflt
■i chii'f (Ink in tin? Prtwi-
MUSICAL (levi'Iupnicrit in very miiL-h tlir- imli-x uf civili/.ntinii, nii'l it?: vnriaticiiis of quiilitit'rt tho -sigiiH of national cliaracti-r. Nsitiuiis highly inlviUiccd nml rcfim-d Iiavo lint' musiciil ta-sto, such fts the Gcrnmnrt, the Itiilisuin luul thf Eiiglit-h. Their ednciitfd olanHps cannot fmluio crude co^lln^^i1i.»ns. N.)thing Icf^n than cxquinite wtiains uf nielo'ly, ami tli<' gran<lest hannoMie« will f^iiti^ly the soul attiim-d to tlie ht^nufiful atul tlu' hulilinie. On the other hand the ChineHu, the Ajueriran Indians, ami tlie races generally wlio arc crude in their natures, and uuprogressivu in their uatinnal characterw Imve very poor perception.s of sweet melodic strains or harmonic gramUnir. Kettle drums, and uoiny discordant instruuieuts would afford them more deliglit tJian the matchloMti oratorioes of Handel and Haydn, or the solemn majesty of the Masses of Mnzai-t.
In the growth of the arts music uprings up among their first uutshoots, taking the iirecedence, in the unfolding of civilization, of every genius hut that of poetry —as the Rccund horn of the Miines — yhc starts out with her divine missiun. In her flrnt stages she talte.i the form of simple song. Like as poetry, when far ad- vanced, brings to its aid writing and printing, with their magician like powers and agencies, so music, in her advancement, armnges her alphahet, notation, and her art hecomcs ehihorateil into science. Like also as poetry fnnu the cru<l^ hody of verso receives a massivi- and infinitely capacitated transfornintion into univer.sal literature, so music rises from her primitive form of .simpK' ^--ng and clothes hcr.self in grand gigantic harmonies. No longer a hymn or ii halhul from untutored voices and inartistic votaries, but a volume of Creation from the creator Haydn, from the hanuimic Handel a Messiah hearing the aliniglity majesty of his Hallelujah chorus to the Lord God Omnii)otent, and from Mozart a consecrat<'d nutss to Deity. The genius of music develops capacities and forms for all the expositions of the harmonies nf nature an<l the human soul, and for her interpre- tations she is no longer depentlant on unlearncil composers, mir upon uncouth utterances from Tintntorcd voices.
The history and schools of music agree with the stages of civilization. In ca- thedral times we have cathedral music. Their solemn, massive forms and eccle- siastical suhlimity resemlde the religious service of the age to which they hcloug. Masses, Anthems, and Luther's hymns show their quality. The Oratorio resem- bles the epic poem translated into another tongue of art, with the same princi. pies, the same style, the si\me majestic elaboration. It is, however, Hebraic and not Grecian in its spirit, prophetic and not heroic in its themes. As yet the Oratorio is the best form and stylo that has been given in modern times of music suitable for Temple service. It is more Hebraic in its quality than the Masses of the Catholic, there ia iu its composition the declamatory moods, and bursts of bold insi)irations that so wonderfully characterized the Jewish projdiets, while the choruses describe the lofty exultation of the congregations of Israel wlien they were the people of Jehovah's special care. The mass music of the C'lthoHcs is, it is true, very imposing and seductive, but it is burdened with the supersti- tions of a church rather than with the bold inspirations of Prophets and Psalm- ists. Kven its Gloria in Ej-rr?sis is more like choruses performed by priests and virgins of Heathen temples tliau the wondrous exultations in nmsic of the viu^t congregations of the Zion of God. However near they may approximate to it in classical forms and treatment, there are no Mass compositions burdened with such pure Hebrew subject nor breathing so much divine theme as the Oratorio of the Mesinli, and m) Gloria in £xcclsis equals the triumphant majesty t>f Han- del's Hallelujah for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth, in which one can imagine when Zion from aliove conies down to unite iu worship with the Zion of all the earth, unnumbered millions of mortals and immortals will take their parts to 8well the mighty th<'me.
Hail, Beautifui- Spring. — We present in this number an original composition under the above title. Our reason for publishing Tritis and Duets in this 9imi)le style i.s, because there exists a want for compositions of this class for the use of puch as are unlearned iu the art of reading classical music at sight. The part- music generally published is what is termed by the profession ''set duett03" and glees, that is they are mixed with different forms of construction, and can- not be said to belong to any simple form. These compositions are only fitted for musicians well practiced in the vocal art, and in fact they are not appre- ciated by the mass. Ballads, in general, are composed in the dui)lex form of two capital periods, the first modulating to the dominant, or some key of close connection wliich is easily caught by the hearer. Others arc composed in the grand triplex form, which contains three capital periods, and would require a twelve line verse. We think the best constructiou of this form is the da capo, that is, the third movement is the return to the first, which constitutes tlie final one, and the composition by this can be remembered quickly. However, we cannot always select this form for the want of poetry that will fit. "Hail, Beau- tiful Spring," is of this class.
"We shall endeavor to give a sheet of music with every other number of the Magazine, including the composition of our best home musicians. Productions from tiic jiens of Professors Thomas, Careless, and others, will be given in due time. AVe shall be hapi>y to puldish any composition of real merit. ,
Class-Teaching in Utah.— Class-tenclung in Salt Lake City is entirely sus- pended at present. Some years ago Mr. David 0. Calder raised large classes of the youthful portion of this city and gratuitously taught them the art of singing and Mr. Curwen's system of musical science. For years Mr. Calder labored to educate the people of Utah in the "divine art," and sought to establish classes and Philharmonic Societies throughout the Territory. In this he succeeded be. yond a fair expectation of what one man could accomplish, and he founded the De.soret Musical Association, which several years ago was quite a representa-
tive institution. Mr. Calder, however, was f.oved in di? bors for the cause uf music in Utali to save his benllh, sacrificed to bis mission, and the burden of his duties a dent's office.
Class-teaching, however, in the hettleinents South of this city has been flour- ishing during the past year, under the direction of Professors Charles Thomas and Jnhn TuUidge, and a uiimher of concerts have been given by the latter.
W.' hnpe also to see boiui a Philiiarmonic Society again iu Salt Lake City.
H\NnEi,. — A review of some of this great cnmposer's works, with a brief bio- gra]diical sketch of his life, and anecdotes «if his peculiarities, selected from p»>r- honal reminiscences of llic author, written expressly for this magazine I»y tlm editor uf this rlepartnient, will sliortly appear.
^g.j c|^vattta»
fe.
A New Pi.ay.— One leading feature of the season has been the presentation of a new ilraniatization, by Mr. Julin Lindsay, for liis own benefit. There was con- siderable merit in the literary execution, and considering that Mr. Lind^-ay lays no pretentions to professional authorshii), his effort deserves to be considered a decided success.
Miss .\xxiE LooKHART. — This very interesting actress lias been running a suc- cessful eng:igement in the Salt Lake Theatre. She came to us not in the rank of one of the world's great stars, but her gen.-ral nsefulncss and fitness woubl plense the public during a long engagement, when actresses of more lofty pre- tensions would exhaust thems.dvcs in their specialties ard grow stale to their audiences. The managejnent has been liappv in the engagement of Miss Annie Lockhart.
Mr. Hkrxe and Lucille Western. — Our enterprising managers, in addition to Miss Annie Lockhart, have also engaged Mr. Heme and the celebrated Lucillo Western. The first appearance of Mr. Herne was in his great specialty of "Kip Van Winkle." His touches of nature and his easy, unconstrained rendering make an audience furgi-t tliat he is the actor and regard him as the veritable "Rip." Notwithstanding that it is almost impossible for a play to run more than two or three times in a city where an audience is weekly limited to about the same iHTsnns, Mr. HeriK- has again and again rejiroduced his nnitiue Dutch- man to the <lidight even of those who have seen the character three or four times.
East Lynne.- Lucille Western made her first appearance on the Salt Lake stage in East Lynne. We have no liking for this class of plays, nor do avc con- sider them chaste, or even moraL The time was when even the classical part of Mrs. Haller was repudiated by the critics, and it only held Us place upon the stage because of its ]iathos, fine texture of subject, and tlie scope that it gave great actresses. But now we can have a wretched woman, with her seducer^ paraded before our very eyes and the play be called "highly moral." So might the deep damnation of a prostitute's life be "highly moral." as a frightful warn- ing to virtuous women not to fall into the like perdition. But the innate dignity of Julia Dean sanctified to the mind of the Salt Lake public the play of East Lynne, and Lucille Western nnide her first ajtpearance in it here with great suc- cess. She did not, however, blot from our mind our lamented friend, nor do we think there is a lady on the stage who can happily f(dbiw Julia Dean as Camillo or in the double character of Isabelle and Madame Vine. In the plays of Green Bushes and Flowers of the Forest, Miss Western surpassed the lady who, in tho hearts of the iie»qple of Salt Lake, will live much in the character of High Priest- ess of their Temple of Art. Miss Western, coming to us with a national name, has very generally provoked comparison between herself and Julia Dean, and it is saying much in favor of both hulie.s that tliey have neitlier uf them lost by the comparison.
One of Miss Western's great hits during her engagement was in Leah, the For- saken. Another of her triumphs was in the character of the "Child Stealer,' a sensational play of considerable power and illustration. It is a picture of tho lower phases of society, with its marked vices ami mannerisms in tho delinea- tions of which both Miss Western and Mr. Heme were very effective.
On Thursday evening. April l.^th, this popular and powerful actress took a " farewell benefit" in Victor Hugo's famous historical play of —
LucnETTiA Borgia. Tlie character of the Satanna of Italy, we think, is of too high a class for Miss Lucillo Western. There is an imperial casting in the type of the original as marked as the genius of Victor Hugo himself, who has been veO' aptly cliaracterized as the Michael Angelo among authors. To illustrate the grand poetic quality of Victor Hugo's genius, and the dark splendor of Lu- cretia Borgia, whose a^-ful character is like Night in her profnundest majesty, with but one lone flickering star to guide her, is beyond the sphere t:'f Jliss Lu- cille Western. It is a character fora Siddons, a Ristori or a Julia Dean. Nev- ertheless, though Lucretia Borgia was not rendered by tho lioneficiare with that imperial classicality which we should have seen in tlie personations of those great artistes, she played the part very successfully; for her style, if not of the rarest quality, is exceedingly forcible. Mr. Hornc .sustained the lady as Genar- ro, a young soldier of fortune. We wouhl advise Miss Western never to choose this excellent actor to mate her in heroic parts again. No touch of "Rip Van Winkle" should have been seen in Genarro, nor shouM the audience even re- member that the same gentleman represented these two very dissimilar parts. Mr. Ileruo docs himself an injustice in thus sacrificing his rei)ntatiou for tho purpose of playing the leading character to the heroine.
After the t)erforniance of Lucretia Borgia, our artistic visitors came l.iefnre tlie curtain, and Mr. Ib/rne, aftrr tb.' lady had retircil. returned thanks in a pertinent
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THE UTAH MAGAZINE
May 8,
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little speech, iu which he expressed the hopes of himself and professional companion soon to appear before a Salt Lake audience on a second visit.
Miss Fanny Morgan pH»aps.— This lady is the last novelty offered to our theatre-going public. She has made a decided mistake in prosenting herself be- fore a Salt Lake audience as a Star. It is a task even for a good actress to run a successful engagement here.
.c'i^tm 0f W00^$, k(^*
Tlie last birth of American magazines is "Appleton's Journal." It is a weekly paper devoted to literature, science and art. These well-known New York pub- lishers have laid out for their journal a popular design, but the term "popular," as they use it, has a A-ery select interpretation. Their 'Weekly is of the same class and tone as the Galaxy, a monthly with which our readers are familiar. The Galaxy, which gave a new phase to "popular" literature, has since become one of the first magazines of America, and the Appletons have now made a fur- ther advance in their issue of a weekly of the sauie class. Indeed we recognize among its corps of writers some of the Galaxy names. It is not so heavy in its literature and forms as the Atlantic Monthly, but it is more classical than any of the weekly magazines that we have yet seen till now, either of England or America. Its essays are from the pens of the best writers, and it opens with a splendid pictorial supplement— "The Grand Drive at Central Park." The first number contains the commencement of the new story of Victor Hugo, entitled "The Man VTho Laughs," for which the French Publishers paid the author 300,- 000 francs. It is said to have been for twenty years in the author's workshop, and that its conception was in his mind contemporaneously with that of " Les Miserables." A fine, full length engraving of the author accompanies his work in a chaste biographical article and review of the genius of the illustrious French patriot. The writer says, "The power, the struggle, the sublime, and the co- lossal that we contemplate in Michael Angelo, and the grotesque sculptures of the middle ages, we contemplate in Victor Hugo's works. As Michael Angelo is alone among sculptors, Victor Hugo, by many of the same traits, is alone among writers. The grand, the bold, the complex elements of life and nature are in his writings; everything but the fused and fluent harmonies of thought and emo- tion which charms us in the expression of Lamartine, of Do Musset, of George Sand."
Editor's Notice. — Owing to the great amount of original matter in this num- ber, several of our regular departments, including Extracted Humor, Gems from the Poets, Scientific Notes and Household Receipts are crowded out.
I0tn$p0n^m<:t^,
In this department we insert small original compositions, the authors of which make no pret^sions to literary ability, but desire to aid in giving variety and a home-character to our columns.
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In the following pithy effort of friend Sexex, we think we discover the hand of an old fellow-traveler in the London Conference. Many of his efforts are worth a higher classification than the above :
SELF-RULE.
Are you old ? Learn how to mould
Your will. Are Tou young? Control your tongue
AVith skill. Ho who can rule his will can speech control — He who controls his tongue can rule his soul.
Are you rich ? Gold gives the itch
For more. Are you poor? Toil and endure
The sore. The rich — disease is often hard to cure ; Thought, time and industry will heal the poor.
Are you great in mind's estate ?
'Tis lent. Are you small ? See you they all
"Well spent. Ilightuse of talents, not results, will guago Your worth, and rightly estimate your wage.
Young, or old, nor wit, nor gold,
AVill tell ■Who are wise without disguise.
So well As he who learns with skill himself to rule — His wit, his wealth, to use in Wisdom's school. — Senex.
An Ode on the Death of Rolin — Puzzles us; we cannot tell what the author means. It appears to be a burlesque of some kind. There is some wit in the production, Imt very crude. It wants digesting. A. Metcalf — Has thanks for his excellent selection.
R. C. — Has something to learn in respect to "feet." He expresses our ideas ex- actly in the following sentiment — tremendously so.
Give your emploj'er all that's due, In time and wnrk that seemeth just; He should be honest, too, with you, If not in this world, in the next he must. We should think bo.
Received. — Angels Whisper to Mother. The Lady and the Warrior. Darkest Hour Before Dawn.
HOW THE WORLD HAS GROWN.
BY ELI B. KELSEY.
CHAPTER I. — THE PROPOSITION.
I propose to examine biblical and profane history for facts that shall prove how deep and fervent are the instincts in man, in his rudest and most primitive condition :
1st. To worship that which he esteems stronger and more powerful than himself — with him might being right ; and that he naturally endows his Deity with the passions which rule and govern himself.
2d. That in proportion as he advances in intelligence and overcomes, in a measure, the rude barbarism of his nature, he looses a portion of his sectionality, and creates divinities that rule, not only a tribe or clan, but a section of the uni- verse; the attributes of which deities are yet, however, clothed by him with a greater or less degree of the imperfections of his own nature.
3d. That man, in a still more advanced condition, even after God has revealed Himself as the creator of all things, and the only true God by manifestations that he could best un- derstand— namely : manifestations of irresistible power — could still only comprehend so much of the true character of God as he had developed within hLm,self, and continued to clothe Deity with his own sectionality and vengeful and un- forgiving nature.
4th. That with the multiplied experiences of a procession of ages, man has gradually advanced and become more liberal in his views; that God has continued to lead him along by giving him "line upon line and precept upon precept" towards the full development of all that is cosmopolitan in his nature, that he may be prepared for the revealment of a uni- versal faith which will embrace within its ample provisions all mankind, in every age, in every nation and in every clime, from the burning sands of Arabia to the ice-bound shores of the Arctic Sea.
CHAPER II. — RESEMBLANCE OF MEN TO THEIR DEITIES.
At a very early period of the Noachian dispensation, man- kind, with a few noble exceptions, began to create unto them- selves gods, whose attributes should not be a standing rebuke to themselves in the license they gave to their passions and lusts. As their traditions — unguided by divine revelation — multiplied, the gods of their first creation became farther and farther removed from them; their attributes were so magni- fied and mystified by the lapse of time, until, in the imagina- tion of their worshippers, they could no longer act as the im- mediate controlers of the destinies of mankind; hence, other and lesser deities, both male and female, sprang out of, or were begotten by the primary or higher gods. Imagining things always in harmony with their own characters, these gods again, mankind supposed, by a gratification of their lusts to have surrounded themselves with a progeny of demi, or half gods — a class of deities well adapted to the wants of the mass, who by their close relationship with mankind could the better act as mediators between man and the highest class of deities.
The god a man worshipped — then as now — was simply a projection of his own nature ; and as men's conceptions of glory, greatness and power are as varied as their local circum- stances and intellectual status, the worship of a plurality of gods is a marked feature in the exercise of the devotional in- stincts of all barbarous and semi-barbarous tribes and nations. War, rapine and plunder was the rule, and not the excep- tion, in the barbarous polity of the ancients ; therefore it was impossible for them to conceive of, or to worship deities
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HOW THE WORLD HAS GROWN,
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who acted always in accord or always dwelt together in peace — it was necessary with the gods of their worship — as with themselves might was tiik hulk of iuiuit. and the stronger ruled the rest by his superior strength and by the superiority of his weapons of ofl'ense and defense. And. as the electric force was the most wonderful and least understood of all the heavenly phenomena, and yet. with irresistible voice and ef- fect, was so often heard and seen, they clothed the ruling deity with the power of the thunderbolt — in awe of which they supposed all the hosts of heaven stood.
Each tribe or nation had its own particular deity, wlm. though associating with the other gods, and consulting with them in matters of unusual concern, was nevertheless hound to protect the fortunes and forward the interests of the tribe or nation whose titular or peculiar deity he happened to be.
In those times no undertaking of importance was ever en- tered into by any tribe without first consulting their augurs, or priests, of their special deity. If war with a neighboring people was in contemplation, and their god, through his au- gurs, gave his approval of the expedition, he was expected to take charge of the interests of his people and make war. if necessary, upon the gods of the tribe or nation against which they were marching. If he was as powerful as he professed to be and his people believed, they were sure of success, for after he had subdued the opposing god himself, he, by his great power, could thwart and render abortive all the plans of defense made by the people attacked.
On the other hand, if he came in contact with a god stronger than himself, and was well thrashed, his people were overthrown and returned in shame and defeat to their own land, in which case woe to the augurs or priests of the poor beaten god — unless, indeed, the priests succeeded in con- vincing the exasperated chiefs and people that themselves were the transgressors, through their having neglected to of- fer some portion of spnil at the shrine of their deity, which they but seldom tailed to do. In proof of much that is here written, read Kabshaketh's boast, warning the Jews not to resist his master. •■Sennacherib."
Xerxes, King of Persia, is looked upon as a madman be- cause he tried to bind the Hellespont with fetters thrown into its bosom, and caused it to be beaten with rods for its turbu- lence. He is pronounced insane because, upon his return home, badly whipped and terribly seared, from his unfortu- nate expedition against trreece; he demolished all the tem- ples of the gods of Asia Minor, and Lybia, and wound up by utterly destroying the temple of Belus at Babylon. I ask. whj' should he not have done so ? To his view of the case. Belus, through his priests, had accepted rich and costly pres- ents from him, and promised him success in his enterprise against Greece, and had promised him power over the seas that it should obey him. The oracles of the gods of Lybia and the cities of Asia Minor, had received his rich offerings and promised him the fulfilment of all that the great god Belus had said. Acting in good faith, he had gathered to- gether his immense hosts, exhausted his treasures, and im- poverished his people. Instead of gaining the victory and enriching himself with the spoils of all Greece, he expe- rienced a sad overthrow and a large portion of his army had perished in a foreign land — the prestige tif his name and of the greatness of his kingdom was lost forever.
What would have been the result had Moses, after leading the Israelites on an apparently wild goose chase around the borders of Egypt; instead of marching straight out into the wilderness and making his escape before Pharaoh could have gathered his hosts and pursued him — been forsaken by his god. Had the sea refused to obey him when he stretched his rod over it ? Would not the Israelites have arisen in their wrath and destroyed him and all his house ?
Would not the Jews have handed his name down to latest times as that of a vile imposter, and death have been es- teemed too good for him':' If this would have been the case with the Jews let us not blame the heathen for visiting with wrath and destruction the temples and the priests of the god who had been the means of bringing such dire calamities on a whole people.
Xerxes was undoubtedly a man in advance of his times. No wily subterfuge of the oracles of the gods of his country could blind him to the fact of their utter helplessness to save in time of trouble, or to the fatality of spending millions of treasure at the shrines of gods who were not able to cope with the gods of the ••barbarous Greeks."
The bloody and vindictive characteristics of ancient bar- barism was but a reflex of the characters of the gods of their worship. Ilow low must have been the value set upon human life by a people whose deities required the sacrifice of the purest and mo.st innocent of human beings. It was not the blood of the hoary headed sinner, nor of the malefactors that was required to appease their wrath when offended, but the blood of childish innocence. King David in his lOOth Psalm — 3d verse — <.'harges Israel with sacrificing their children to the gods of the Philistines, and King Ahaz in his idolatry offered up seven of his children as a sacrifice to appease the wrath of a heathen deity. No wonder then, that in those dark and bloody days •• it was an eye for an eye and a tooth I'or a tooth," and that mutilation and death was the penalty attached to almost every degree of crime. How low must have been the moral status of a people whose gods and goddesses were supposed to indulge in illicit pleasures ? The orgies enacted in the wor.ship of certain deities by the ancients, are too horrible to be named. We can imagine something of what they must have been, when during the palmiest days of civilization in Greece, the temple of Venus, the titular divinity of the city of Corinth contained one thousand Courtezans, who were at the service of all male worshippers at the shrine of that goddess. When the staid matrons and maidens of Rome, in the highest of her civiliza- tion, esteemed it no shame to walk through the streets of the Imperial City, to and from theshrinesof some of their deities, in a state of nudity. And when by sacerdotal law, no enquiry was permitted of husband, wife, daughter or sister as to their conduct on certain feast days, of some of the gods, and a;oddesses of the •• mistress of the world."
THE STEAM HORSE IN SALT LAKE VALLEY.
Through cuts in the mountains, And over the fountains
He rides on a rail
With smoke for his trail. And that's how the monster comes into our vale.
By day he is steaming. By night he is gleaming.
His music is rough.
With a snort and a putf, There never was steed that was neighing so gruff.
.Vud banners are waving, Yet wild is his raving;
.\nd over the snows
Away he goes, While whistles sound shrill and his furnace heart glows.
With cannons to greet him. And thousands to meet him,
How proud was his look !
When the earth he had shook There seemed a new page in the world's mighty book.
.Tabez Woodard.
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THE UTAH MAGAZINE.
May 8,
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THE WORLD'S fflSTORY Illustrated in its Great Cliaracters.
INTRODUCTION.
The world's liistory is God's epic. We^find the harmonies of His providence in its every theme. The unfolding of the divine subject and plot are ever in keeping with the progressive phases of the human race. As we seek to trace God in the rise and fall of empires and the unfolding of civilizations, we feel that to this day history is as a sealed book. The inner meanings are not seen ; the divine foot- steps, in the course of nations, not yet found out. History will neither be written properly nor read aright until the powers above are recognized in the overruling of human aifairs, and the providence of the world acknowledged in all its great issues. The conception of Shakspeare, "There is a soul of goodness in things evil," is more than a mere poetic truth ; and the epics of the Homers of Greece and the Virgils of Rome, whose inspirations reveal the dramas of immortals and mortals as the inner and outer circles — two worlds in one manifested in the same great action — ^are something better than mere mythological fancies. Moreover, this conception of a divine epic, worked out in the rise and fall of empires and the destiny of the human race, is also Hebraic. It is the theme of Moses and the Prophets. Jove and Jehovah alike rule the spheres. The being who most represents in his own nature infinite love, and the ultimate of whose mission is to bring to pass peace on earth and good will among men is the type of a God, manifested in the flesh, and the perfected state of man. In these lead- ing views the philosophy of all ages and all nations agree.
History, then, we shall treat as a divine epic, and the world's great characters as its chief actors. Illiads per- formed on the earth, now under the walls of Troy, now in Rome and Jerusalem, nest among the empires of Christen- dom, finally in the East and the West and the North and the South in a universal dispensation. They cannot be rightly understood in a thousand disconnected fragments. There is a thread running through them from the earliest ages. The principal actors, though separated by a hundred generations, hold relative parts, and spite of the discords made, there is in the performance of the whole a theme of grandest harmony.
The design of the work before us is to trace this harmony in the progressive movements of the world as illustrated in the lives of its great characters, and to mark the lessons which God. through history, has revealed to man. The work will not be essayic but biographical, and its actors will be chiefly those after the opening of the fifteenth century. But we must first give historical epitomes to that period. They will not be all saints. Harry the Eighth must come with the rest to break down popes with the might of his passions, Cromwell to behead kings, and Napoleon with his splendid genius to startle imperial heads with new ideas and shake with his tremendous impulses the consolidations of ages. Catherine De Medicis, Anna Boleyn, Elizabeth of England and Mary of Scots will afford our readers enough of romance, tragedy and crime. Among the imperial and heroic will come Charles the V. of Germany, William the First of Orange, founder of the United States of the Neth- erlands, and his great-grandson William the Third Prince of Orange, and King of England, who matched the great Prince Conde on the battle field, checkmated the mighty Louis XIII. of France in his policies and combinations, pushed from the throne the last of the Stuart kings and confirmed England's greatest revolution. America will cul- minate the theme. We shall aim to dramatically arrange
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the parts and characters that the great epic of the Christian era may impress the reader with the development of its divine and human action.
CHAPTER I.
JESUS, THE CHRIST.
Jesus is the light and the love of the world. " God is Love," was the beginning and the end — aye, the very vol- ume of his revelation to man. As for as Christendom in its churches, its empires, and in the hearts of its peoples have represented the quality of Love, it has represented Christ and his Father. All good and wise men, even to the Unitarian and Deist, have looked upon Jesus as the type of our ultimate humanity — as the standard of man perfected and purified in his nature in the iumiortality to come. At the very least, the enlightened soul readily confesses that in efiect Christ is God-Man — the Father manifested in the flesh.
Though we design neither a biography nor a sermon upon Jesus, it is fit that we should bring him in to lead the epic of his own dispensation, that in tracing the lives of the world's great characters after him we may properly appre- ciate how much they severally in the history cif churches and empires have illustrated the spirit and theme of Him who rules the play divine.
His own words will best illustrate his gospel and the nature of his kingdom in that day :
"Jesus answered, My kingdom is not of this world ; if my king- dom were of tliis woidd then would my servants fight, that I should not be delivered to the .Jews ; but now is my kingdom not from hence.
"Pilate therefore said unto him, Art thou a king then? Jesus answered, Thou sayest that I am a king. To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the world, that I should bear wit- ness unto the truth. Every one that is of the truth heareth my voice."
Take another illustration :
" Then came they and laid hands on Jesus and took him.
"And behold, one of them which were with Jesus, stretched out his hand and drew his sword, and struck a servant of the High Priest, and smote off his ear.
"Then said Jesus unto him. Put up again thy sword into its place; for all they that take the sword shall perish by the sword.
" Thinkest thou that I cannot now pray to my Father, and he shall presently give me more than twelve legions of angels?"
Now for a theme of his gospel :
" Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy.
"But I say unto you, love your enemies ; bless them that curse you; do good to them that hate j'ou ; and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you;
" That ye may be the children of your Father who is in heaven; for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the luijust.
"For if ye love only them which love 3'Oti, what reward have you? Do not even the publicans the same?"
When humanity embodies this spirit then will it be truly Christian; but never till then shall we have 'the Christ-state — the love-state of the world.
HIS DISCIPLES.
It was during the pontificate period of St. Linus, the second bishop of Rome, that the Christians separated them- selves from the Jewish Synagogues and scattered through Rome, Greece, Egypt and all Asia, having boon excommu- nicated three times on the Sabbath by the Hebrew priest- hood. From this time the Jews and the Christians became as separate races, notwithstanding that Jesus and his disci- ples were selected from the chosen of Abraham's seed. The dispensation of Christ had now fairly passed to the Gentiles and the day of desolation to Jerusalem was nigh at hand. But
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1869.
OUIl HOME HUMORISTS,
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a few years passed before Titus inarched his viet(jri(jus troops against the holy city, tlio liistory of the siege of whicli strikes horror to the heart even to this day. At length the walls of Jerusalem were leveled to the ground, the inhabitants put to the sword, the temple and city utterly destroyed and the plowshare of the llonian tore up and mangled the sacred soil. The prophecy of Jesus, whom they had rejected and crucified, was fulfilled, and of the glorious temple of Solomon not one stone was left upon another. Thenceforth the Jews were no longer a nation. But shall we say the Lord forsook Israel when He cast him out among the Gen- tiles to bo, for well-nigh two thousand years, a hiss and a by-word in the earth '! Nay. there was a Providence in this as there is in all great events. It has enlarged Jacob a hundred fold, and by his wealth to-day he holds the world in his balances and can dictate unto empires.
In the progress of the first century, while the dispensa- tion of providence and of their nationality, were passing away from Judah, it was fast opening to the despised Christians, and empire over the dominant races of the earth, was near in the future for the outlawed and crucified son of Mary. Yet much over zeal, much of a fierce intolerant spirit — so incom- patible with the loving universalian nature of Jesus, was manifested by his early disciples in working out a kingdom for him even to his own Apostles. To confess the truth these Former-day Saints were very much like the Latter-day Saints in their history and character. They were cast out of the Synagogues of their nation, persecuted and crucified every- where, and it made them stern and uncompromising. The early Christians hid themselves in the catacombs of Rome and wandered about in villages and caverns, but they grew in numbers and waxed strong in spirit. Indeed they felt their destiny. The Christians were to become the dominators of the world. They were obscure sectarians then in the eyes of the Roman, but they dared to spit upon the images of his gods and cast down his statues, and then the Prefect of Rome gave them up to the axe. Then came the monster Nero, and the Romans, who were usually tolerant of religion- ists, massacred the Christians by thousands. The uncom- promising zeal with which they enforced their mission upon the world reacted upon themselves, and the bloody Nero took advantage of the bad name which they had obtained in Rome and sent them to the slaughter. It is seldom remembered by the acceptable churches of the day that the early followers of Christ were more obnoxious to the world in the first century. not for their virtues, it was assumed, than are the Saints of the nineteenth century. These facts should be suggestive to us all.
Ittr ggottt.? ^xxxx-0n$t'^.
A DISCOURSE ON RAILROAD MATTERS, Ac.
BY SAXEY.
''Gentle Reader." Who was it that invented the term '■Gentle reader?" we don't know, nor do we particularly care; wc only know, and warn the coumuinity. that the term is not original with us, having been used in one or two instances heretofore, and is used here only as a quotation, hence we j5ay "gentle reader." Before expatiating upon matters and things the above undersigned pulls off his cap to the public, "roaches" back his beautifully raven colored hair over his intellectual forehead, curves up his neck like a "give out" freight mule (the near one on the oif side of the wheelers in the swing team on the lead), and with eyes soaring heaven- ward.s — towards Ogden City, executes, in imagination, one of his highly finished, brass-mounted bows, feeling con-
fident the public will all attend his "benefit," to be given when men get all they deserve if not more; the tickets com- plimentary, "additional ladies" nothing, children in arms not admitted.
(Jentle reader, please examine the paper upon which this article is printed, you perceive it has the body to it equal to the "wear and tear." The last volume of the JFacazine was printed on very thin, shabby material; but it was not the editor's fault by any means. There was no one to blame as the paper was all right and thick enough when it left the States, but wa.s eaten down twice by the grasshoppers on the plains. Such an event is warranted not to occur again as Ashley fnmi Ohio, having "served out the measure of his creation" in Congress, is reported to have the contract for herding the "hoppers" next summer to prevent them from eating up the U. P. R. Road. The hoppers did a great amount of damage last year, and by some .strange twist or other wherever the hoppers did any damage the people were not benefited. I heard of one man whose farm had gone to wreck for two or three years, the proprietor thinking an imaginary gold ledge in the immediate vicinity a better in- vestment. Tire hoppers came and camped on the farm over night but left early next morning. . A neighbor met the ju'oprietor of the deserted firm afterwards and informed him that the insects had "played out" his crop. The shabby farm owner replied, they took possession of his place one night and if they had but stayed one night longer he thought his farm would haxn played the hoppers out. That man has solil his farm now and is running a saw mill; he gave "a party" a third to attend the mill and another party two thirds to .stock it with logs. The last I heard of him he was almost insane — poor man — because he could n't find the office of the Internal Revenue to pay his ten dollars license on the mill.
Gentle reader thou hast doubtless heard the railroad is in Ogden and past Ogden. Yea, verily, such is the truth. Notwithstanding all the wireworking of the "Mormons" to prevent it. notwithstanding President Young has had Echo Canon. Weber Valley, and Weber canon, janmied, crammed full of Danite.s for the last ten month.s — still, in the face of all this, the Iron horse has bunted everything out of his way, including the "bull oif the bridge," and to day is scream- ing towards the Promontory, like an insane Camanche chief after an Indian Agent. Some persons are foolish enough to leave their farms, and notes, at twenty days to go up and see the cars. Now, there is no occasion for this, as I am cred- ilily informed that the Company design leaving a portion of their railroad in the vicinity of Ogden, where it can be seen any time during the coming summer; bnt people, as well as women, have a curiosity to gratify, and cannot be blamed for wishing to see the sights. It may satisfy many, and save them a trip if I here give a little description of the railroad, which I never should have attempted had the editors done their duty, the fact is the people demand .something on rail- roads, especially the payment of certain checks bearing the signatures of sub-contractors.
Many have an idea that the railroad travels very fast which is not the case; the railroad does not travel at all neither does the grade any more than any other road, it is the locomotive and the cars that do the going. The suppo- sition also that the cars run on the bare ties is incorrect, that was the old style and is found to be too rough now; iron rails about as long as a medium sized stick, and as thick as a pine pole, are laid parallel on the ties and the wheels of the cars run on the rails. If a rail should be left out, or stolen from anywhere on the road, the engineers on the first train in the rear generally find it out, and so do all the passengers; those engine-drivers are very sagacious about little matters of that
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THE UTAH MAUAZINE.
May 8,
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kind. and. uo matter wliat their hurry may be, will always stop at such places till the necessary repairs are made. In- stances have been known where two locomotives have tried to pass each other under full head of steam on a single track, but of late years railroad men have concluded the experi- ment is useless, as it has never been successfully performed yet. though occasionally engineers will give it another trial.
The locomotive is called the "Iron Horse" because it snorts like a --bronco" with the distemper, and can't be held by the tail. The cars are tied on to the locomotive with buck- skin strings, or something tough, the iron horse's bowels are then filled with cold water, and a big fire is built under his bell3^ When the water begins to boil, the thingimagig un. der the main driving wheel comes in contact with a couple of concave thingumbobs, which strike a parallel what-you-call-it. connecting with an intermediate turbine convex, which forces the piston-rod through the second gudgeon of the left liand water tank, bringing the center of gravity exactly in the rear of the side lever controlling the three quarter angle at- tached to the --push-and-pull-it." The engineer then jerks a perpendicularly horizontal crank, the horse gives an out- rageous scream, and zip they go. I have been somewhat par- ticular about describing the machinery of the locomotive, as I am aware there are many who have been raised in these valleys who are totally ignorant about engines, and I feel desirous of giving a plain description in order that incorrect impressions may not be adopted by the rising generation with regard to these matters.
THE GAY OLD BACHELOR.
DEDICATED TO THE (rXCOMMON FEW) BACHELORS OF UTAH.
BY JINGO.
[Note. — The following piece vcaa never intended for publication. How it got to this oflBce the author cannot explain. It never would Lave been written at all, but the writer {an amiable bachelor) was exasperated into composing it by receiving from a lady a satirical communication entitled " The Jlournful Old Bachelor." We will publish the cruel epistle uest number, being overcrowded at present. In the meantime, "you that have tears prepare to shed them" — then.]
TERESE, THE HEBREW MAIDEN;
N O T ALL U 11 O S S .
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What a cheery old soul, the gay bachelor is ! With his pleas.Tnt ways and his beaming phiz, On bitter cold nights, when fierce winds blow. When all the earth is covered with snow, How he stirs up the tire and rolls into bed. And laiighs at the troubles of those who are wed.
IIow he revels in peace — From Benedict tied —
As he muffles himself In his cosy bed.
No children are squalling the livelong night; No babies to dress and no tires to light; No cows to be milking — no wood to chop. No baskets to take to the butcher's shop ; But the warmest nook and the easy chair, For the bachelor's welcome everywhere.
Then at morn, when the breakfast bell tolls out. He can tumble and turn himself about Without hearing his wife, in accents wild. Sing fearfully out, '-my child ! my child!" Can tumble up early, with life alert, For no one lies on the tail of his s rt.
The Benedict sits and sucks his thumbs. Or, taking the child, wet-nurse becomes, Then the constant strain on the purse's strings, For the feminine folks' all sorts of things, Ribbons and pins, and of tapes no end. Including the frightful Grecian Bend.
The bach's life is free from care. His cheerful face beams everj'where. Always happy and always gaj-, His pleasures wax from day to day, His hours roll on like a pleasant dream, Serenely he glides down time's fair stream.
BY EDWARD W . TIJI.LIDUE.
TLfve is 11 ini\il of gooduess in tliiugs evil.— Sh.ikspe.ihe. CHAPTER I.
HOME TO DIE.
"To tlie — to sleep — Nu more; — and, t-y a sleep, to say we eud
The heart-ache, and the thousaud natural shuuks That fleeh is heir to, — 'tis a consummatiou
Devoutly to be wished.-'
Back into the past to the year seventeen hundred and ninety- seven. It was .September — that month which might not inaptly be named the Poem of the Year.
The reign of autumn was fast spreading over the country, and many a -'sear and yellow leaf" met the eye of the dying De Lacy as his family chariot wended its M-ay on the roaii between Bath and Shevbourne. He was languidly reclining in the spacious, soft-cushioned chariot; yet the eye at once took in the fact that he had been an exceedingly elegant and well made man of about five feet eleven. His general appearauce was that which character- izes the English gentleman of high birth: and. while he strongly showed tlie stamji of their proud cast, there could be seen in him, coupled with a liigh-toned and generous soul, that mild dignity and unostentatious manner, which have made the hereditary gen- tlemen iif England so exalted in the minds of the peasantry above the middle classes and moneyocracy of the land. Our dying trav- eler was a fine specimen of that class, whose pride of character and family is not a barren representative of naked, unadorned rank. He was a man of that quality of life and character who would be honored and loved by his tenantry, as much as that of some good Baron of feudal times. In fact, in spite of the decline of his family and the transfer of tlie estates of his ancestors into other hands, the loyal tenantry of his father still looked upon Lord Frederick Do Lacy as their hereditary head and proper lord of lands which liad been for generations tlie domains of the De Lacy family.
A solitary foot-traveler had. for several miles, kept pace with the chariot of the dying gentleman, as the horses trod gravely — almost solemnly — along, like those accustomed to the funeral hearse. From time to time, he cast stealthily, sympathizing glances into the carriage upon the dying man, wondering what could liave so suddenly broken down so fine a form, of one whose age he mentally calculated at not more than twenty-seven years.
Nor was the wonder of the foot-traveler strange ; for Lord Frederick had possessed a constitution as solid, comparatively, as the castle of his ancestors, and a frame as finely built : but, like the fortunes of his house, it liad declined, and lie was now at life's last ebb. He had recently conquered a fever; yet he was dying — conquered a fever in spite of his will — dying, evidently, not against his will.
A thoughtful little boy, of about five years of age, sat at the bottom of the carriage, with liis little hands clinging, as with love cai-esses, to liis father's knee, and looking pleadingly into his pa- rent's face to catch his glances from time to time. The artless motive of the intelligent boy was to engage his sire's attention; for he instinctively understood that he was the link which chained liis father to life.
Ever and anon, the dying man would arouse from his languish- ment to deatli, and, with sudden energy, start from the irresist- ible languor that stole over him. Though too much exhausted, even by the very power that aroused him to caress his child, he would bestow upon him a glance of intense feeling and tenderness which the little fellow would diplomaticly answer by taking the opportunity of liolding his father, for a time, by his innocent prattle, but would soon relapse into his languishing state, each time more exhausted by the efforts put forth in liis battle with death.
"Mamma will comeback soon! Don't leave Freddy to go for mammal Talk to Freddy, papa. 1 am sure mamma will come back!"
That little orphan boy in black told a volume by the side of his dying father, with his infantine mystification upon Death, and the length of his dominion over those subject to his reign; that motherless child told the cause oflhatshadowof anguish, which flit- ted, from time to time, across Lord Frederick's pale countenance. The dying man knew but too well that his little darling, motherless son would soon be also fatherless, and knew, too, that neither father nor mother could come back to him in mortality from ''that
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THE HEBREW MAIDEN.
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undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns." The De Lacy felt that, had she remained, his powerful constitu- tion would have conquered the fever that had carried his wife to the grave before him; hut his loss and yearning for his beloved dead took from him the power to conquer for life and child. Death and life consumed hinj, and his self-reproach was from the con- sciousness that his boy woulil soon be fatherless, because that father had lost the mother — his wife.
•■Nurse said maninui would come back,'' persisted the little fel- low. "I am sure she will if God up in heaven will let her. I know mamma can't stay away from Freddy ami papa. Hod will let her come back, won't he'^'
The dying geutlemau could bear it no longer. With a mighty effort of his every mortal energy — with tlie intense yearning of his whole being. Lord Frederick caught his boy in his arms and convulsively pressed him to his breaking heart, and burst into passionate sobs, while the child, terrilied by his father's tears, clung, crying, around his neck. A week before and this mighty struggle of De Lacy to remain witli his motherless ciiild would have conquered Death at his very gates; but now no mortal prow- ess could win the battle — no human affection or yearning could hold him long to earth.
The eliild hushed liis own sobs tn Imsb the strung iines of his dying sire.
''Don't cry, papa!" and he wipeil, ^vith his infant hands, his parent's eyes. "Freddy will let you go and fetch mamma."
"Father of the fatherless more abundantly be tn him in my stead," prayed the dying nobleman.
"Talk to me about the good Sir Richard and baby Alice," the child coaxed, to draw his sire into a sunnier iirospect.
Thus with childhood's deepest impressions. Its heavy calami- ties are like writing upon the sand, from which a child, tripping along, will efface a volume of sorrows, and its tiny foot ilance away a record of direst events.
Slowly, solemnly rolled the family chariot of the De Lacy to- wards the ancestral house of Sir Richard Courtney, lonl of a noble estate in the county of Somersetshire, England.
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Night had hung her black mantle over the ancestral mansion of Sir Richard Courtney. The day which had been so serene and mellow, saw at its close the signs of the gathering thunderstorm. A solemn silence reigned in that stately mansion, for while night has spread her dark drapery willioul l)eath has hung his sable pall within.
Lord Frederick De Lacy was in the last sweet sleep of his mor- tal life, which stole over him after his arrival at the mansion of hia friend, where he had come to die. By his side sat Sir Richard Courtney, whose love for the dying nobleman was as the love of David for Jonathan.
When Lord Frederick arrived at .Sir RichardCourtney's, he was so exhausted that life scarcely remained, and although he recog- nized his friend, he was powerless to speak. A strengthening cordial was administered and he sofm fell into a refreshing sleep upon the baronet's own bed, where he directed his servants to lay his beloved friend. He had slept nearly six hours, for the jour- ney, though it much fatigued him, made his sleep deeper and re- freshing.
It was now about nine o'clock at night. By the be<l of death Sir Richard had mournfully sat watching his friend, and listening to the storm without, which did not awe but served to deepen his meditation upon the memory of the past — the events which had consummated the ruin of the De Lac^' family and the will of that mysterious Power of Good whicli had summoned the two dear ones of himself and friend, who had stood together at the same marriage altar, and who now also sent the dread message of Death to that friend himself.
At length the silent revery of Courtney was broken, and he mournfully murmured —
"Life would have been even now in the fresh-opened bud of our youth, yet of those beloved ones who, in that quiet village church, on that blessed day when all seemed sunshine for many a cloud- less year, entered into holy marriage-bonds — of them all, I, I alone, shall, ere to-morrow comes, be left the last. Were it not for the many holy trusts committed to me. to which will soon be added this dear, motherless, fatherless lioy, I could almost wish that thou and I, my brother, were about to stand again at the same altar — this time at the alter above, to be united with our dear ones forever. "
The half wish of Sir Richard might be unorthodox, but in our fresh, fond youth, we all more or less hope for a re-union etei-nal in a better world with those we love on earth.
Perhaps the fond, pathetic murmurings of Courtney found an echo in the sympathies of a departing soul, for Lord Frederick moved gently — he was waking for the last time in mortal life. .Sir Richard was ready to catch the first glance of consciousness of his dying friend, for he knew that although he would awake, re- newed awhile, his very moments were numbered.
"Thank Heaven I have lived to see you once more ! " exclaimed the dying man, as he became conscious of the presence of his friend.
Courtney knelt by the bed of death, and taking the hand of Lord Frederick, with sobs, which he could no longer suppress, burst into the utterance of friendship's agony — "Oh! brother of my soul, that we should thus meet again."
"'Tis not, Richard, the kind of visit I promised — is it?" De Lacy replied. "I and my Agnes and our darling boy — all should have been your joyous guests. But my wife — well, I am going to her soon, and I come to leave our son with you. Heaven willed if other^vise, my brother."
"That you should come to my nnccstial home to die ! " observed the baronet in a broken voice, as the warm fears of friendship, which swelled up from his true manly heart, fell upon the hand, wliicb he held, of his dying companion, as he knelt tenderly over him.
"Why. where could 1 better come to die. old frieml ? " half cheerfully, and with fonil confidence, replied Lord Freilerick; "I tear not death; it has a prospect brighfernow tomethanlife. Since my Agnes passed away 1 have longed lojoinherin a brighter sphere, and I have come to spend the last moments of my mortal life with you. who shared so many of its years with me."
"Would to God many more remained for us to share together."
"An eternity above. Richard! — friends— brothers forever wdiere brotherhood is first, highest, most enduring," fervently came from De Lacy, his countenance lit with the divine enthueiasm of a departing soul that fears not death.
.\fler a moment's pause, the dying nobleman said —
"My son, Richard, I leave to your guardianship — my darling little one who has held me to life since his mother died. I could not — I dared not pass away until I had placed him myself into your hands. To none but you, my more than brother, could I trust without a pang of agony, my motherless, fatherless boy.''
"Not fatherless ! not fatherless! (lb, not fatherless while I live! " Sir Richard interrupted with emphasis of his strong, noble nature.
And the friends fondly clasped each other's hand in expressive silence. In that silent communion of souls they untlerstood the feelings and sublime mutual confidence in each other that moved them. Their language of sympathy was more expressive than vocal speech.
"There is a scene of our youth, Frederick, that I would re- call," observed the baronet. He wished to arouse his friend to the future of their families and their dearly cherished compacts, and he continued to him suggestively —
"That night in Rome! — You remember. Frederick?"
"Remember ? I have it always before me. I am here to die because of that night. I saw nothing on my journey which did not conjure up that night — that sacred compact."
"You remember the nature of that compact, my friend'?" said Courtney, aiming to holdDe Lacy's wandering mind to the object.
"Yes, 'twas in Rome: I remember.''
"The present? — the past? — ourselves? — the children? " interro- gated the baronet with anxious prompting.
"Aye, word by word — item by item. I have come to you that all may be fulfilled." Lord Frederick replied, and then relapsing into his wandering revery of the past; again he mui'mured —
"Yep, it was in Rome — grand, old historic Rome! How fresh and hold that scene conies back from the memory of the past like reality repeated."
"Yes, yes, dear Frederick," interrupted Sir Richard, for he knew the very moments of his friend were numbered, but still the dying nobleman continued to dream —
"The night was full of poetry, high thoughts and generous sentiments. The soft sky of sunny Italy was eloquent with Na- ture's tenderness and the gentle Zephyrs which funned the un- covered heads of two youths, were heard in the ruins of that old monastery, like a vocal chorus, sanctioning the vows of friendship."
"Yes. yes, those youths, my brother." still prompted Sir Richard.
"Together they enter those stately ruins, as reverently as though they had been sons of the church of Rome. Solemnly they approach the broken altar and vow a life friendship which nothing should sever."
"And they promised, Frederick, that should the fortunes of
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THE UTAH MAGAZINE.
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either become as that noble etlifice — a ruin — they would foreswear all false pride and share as brothers.
"I am here to fulfill the compact of our budding manhood, Richard. For myself I claim my part of the inheritance of my brother — your family vault. Let me rest awhile in the hal- lowed resting-place of your ancestors."
"But why this strange request? My ancestors would welcome a De Lacy to their last home, but what would yours say, Fred- erick ?"
"Listen, Richard, for I feel my time is sliortly measured. My ancestral home and estates have fallen into the hands of our house's enemy."
"I will avenge you!"
"Not so, my brother. Fate' willed to humble ray race for their pride, for pride was their greatest sin. My enemy and his father were but instruments to the end."
"Your son and his children shall yet inherit that which Ids race so long possessed."
"I believe it, Richard."
"I will see the debt wipedVout if Providence spares me," said Sir Richard, and then he quickly continued, for lie knew the time was short and the strengthjof |the dying gentleman waning.
"In the union of our children, Frederick, much of the fu- ture lies which shall restore your house united with mine. A part of that night's sacred compact was to unite our races should Heaven bless us with children, providing it did not outrage their own free choice."
"What is more likely now, their young days will be en- twined! Heaven grant it!" earnestly invoked the dying De Lacy.
"Amen, my brother ! " responded Sir Richard.
"I shall die at least with the blessed prospect that you will indeed be the father of my orphan son and our friendship perpetuated in thejlove of our children. Y'es, should they love, the compact in that old monastery will be fulfilled."
"In this awful hour be that compact renewed, my brother, between us," said^Courtney, withjuplifted hands.
"Even so Richard — even so!'' joined in his friend, and then with the light of an almost unveiled soul looking its last out of Nature's windows and a spiritual transparency illuminating his pale clasical countenance he said:—
"As I near the other side towards eternity the future brightens. 'Twill bo fulfilled! The compact of our youth will rebuild the house of my ancestors and our common offspring be its future lord. God be praised!"
"But there is one matter more Richard, and then one last earth- ly embrace of my darling son, and blessing for your family."
"Name it and it shall be fulfilled my brotlier."
"Should the DeLacy estates be redeemed then remove me from the last resting place of your raceandlay me beside my ancestors."
Sir Richard promised]; and then summoned his family. He re- turned to the chamber of death, leading the orphan "Freddy" and "baby Alice" as the boy called her. Following was young Walter Templar, a darkintellectual youth of about seven years of age, with his cousin of a similar type — Eleanor Courtney. Lady Templar brought up the rear of the family. But one unbidden entered. It was old George — the faithful last remaining servant of the De Lacys. No one questioned the right of the old man's presence in that chamber of death as he stood just inside the room like a faithful watch dog, longing, yet fearing to approach to lick its master's hand: His dying master hearing his sobs called him by the familiar name of "Old Fidelity" and beckon- ed him to his bed-side.
The last aifecting chapter of man's relationship with this world was passed and Sir Richard was again alone witli his dying friend. No High Priest was in that chamber of death to sup- port the DeLacy in mortality's last moments; but one was there who had received the consecration of a holier unction than that which Canterbury's priestly head could give — Friendship had con- secrated him for the service. No Divine of England's Church, to which they both belonged, knelt by that bed of death to read its prayers for departing souls, but one knelt there who, as the soul of Lord Frederick departed, sent up to the Receiver of the spirits of the just a petition, eloquent and powerful from friend- ship's inspiration.
CHAPTER II.
TIIK VE LACYS .\X1) THE SUPPL.\NTERS.
The De Lacys were one of the oldest and noblest families in England of high Norman descent; and as usual with the various branches of that stock of warrior chiefs who came over with Wil-
fe_
liani the Conqueror, they had been distinguished for pride of family. They had not been without their bad representatives, but the majority liad been of the quality of Lord Frederick. Of course the ditterence of the times reflected in the more modern represent- atives of their house a softer texture of their race. They were exceedingly jealous of their personal and family honor, and par- ticular about sustaining the irreproachable character the De Lacys bore.
The grandfather of Lord Frederick considered it a sacred duty, which he owed both to his ancestors and descendants, to sustain the magnificence of their house; to do this the nobleman consider- ed his income not too large; and, had it been ten times as much, he would have felt bound in honor to have exhausted it, to the glorification of his family. But, injustice to the old lord, it must be said that he considered a De Lacy in honor bound to appropri- ate no inconsiderable portion of his income to the well being of his tenantry and preserving and improving his family domain.
Had tlie grandfather of Lord Frederick gone no farther than the exhaustion of his family income, the ruin which afterwards befel his house had not been invoked: but it was the too princely mag- nificence with which the old lord sustained the glory of his family and name which left their estates involved at his death under mortgage to the amount of two hundred thousand pounds.
Lord Reginald, his son, as little understood retrenchment as his father; for the very necessity of retrenchment was new to the De Lacys, and though Lord Reginald yearly paid the interest of the mortgage, which to him was curtailment enough, he discharged not a farthing of the principal debt.
Matter.s, liowever, went along without further embarrassment until young Frederick reached the age of fifteen, when a train of circumstances came along which first pointed to the black, loom- ing clouds gathering over the De Lacy house. The firm which held the mortgage of of the estates became bankrupt and the mortgage was required to be taken up. This put Lord Reginald to his wits' end; but at the very crisis came one to his help whom it were better had he never seen.
At the date of Lord Reginald's difficulties General Blakely had just returned from India. The history of this personage is briefly as follows:
The General was by birth a plebeian. His father, a clerk of a large banking company, was sent by the firm to India, at a time when it was beginning to be the El Dorado of the world. He was a sharp, industrious, money scraping little man; and, in a few years, he became principal of a firm himself. He might not have been too strict in his principles, nor too scrupulous in his honesty, but this stood not in the way of his becoming immensely rich. His wife and son soon followed him to India, and the former dying in a year, left her husband free to marry the daughter of a poor General in the service of the East India Company. When the son of the banker and money-lender reached maturity, his father ob- tained for liim a commission in the service, and the young man became a military jirotege of General Maitland, the poor father- in-law of the ricli Simon Blakely.
Blakely jr., was not without courage, though of plebeian origin; nor is this very remarkable, for the lower classes can fight as well as the "upper.tcn." In fact, pluck is ciuite a quality of the An- glo-Sa.xon race. There was no reason, therefore, why young Blakely, as an officer of the East India service, should not distin- guish himself, and in time, with the advantages of favor and wealth, become what he now was — himself a General.
After an absence of twenty-five years. General Blakely returned to his native land, wliich lie left as a boy from the people ; but now he was no longer one of the vulgar populace — he returned to enter the circles of the elite of the land, having the passport of high military rank and the reputation of an Indian nabob.
Now- the General rode a high hobby-horse. His ambition was to found a family, and he was in search of some broken-down noble house. The declining family of the De Lacys threw into his hands the winning card of the stakes for which he played. His banker introduced him to Lord Reginald at the crisis of that nobleman's difficulties; and, though with much reluctance on the part of De Lacy, a transfer of the mortgage was made to the wealthy General. Thus was further paved the ruin of an ancient stock.
Soon after this event. General Blakely paid a visit to Lord Reg- inald ; and so subtly did he play the part which he had taken for the utter ruin of the declining fortunes of the De Lacys, that he eifectually wormed himself into the good graces of Lord Reginald, and obtained his entire confidence. Thus was a great part of the game won, for the noble lord had previously felt toward the wealthy mortgagee of his family estates, something akin to dis- trust. Of this the General was aware, and played his cards ac- cordingly. He put himsell under many obligations to the proud
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THE HEBREW MAIDEN.
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but generous De Lacy. It was Lord Reginald's tenantry tlial sent the General to tlie Engli^<l^ I'arliiiment, audit was Lord Reginald's hand tliat opene<l tlic slately doors of England's select aristocracy to one who, tliough he held liigh ujililary rank in the East India Company's service, liad no ancient family to claim, nor a single relative to be found in any branch of the hereditary gentlemen of the land. But the friendsliip and countenance of his patron was to the wealthy plebeian in aristocratic circles what among the moneyocracy of the present day it would be to a commercial nuin to be seen on 'Change, arm-in-arm, in close fellowship with King Rothschild. The General was, therefore, under very great obligation to the De Lacy — indeed more deeply indebted to him than was the nobleman himself to his scheming creditor; for Lord Reginald's friendship and support obtained for him what all his wealth could not have purcliased. Now the General was very fsunk and constant in his acknowledgment of tlie great favors conferred upon him bj' his noble friend, and would not hear from Lord Reginald anything touching the mortgage upon his estates. He insisted that he was vastly iudelited to tlie De Lacys, and not they to him — that tlirougli their representative he had been ad- vanced in social and political position, more than all his wealth alone could have secured; and the General was irresistible in the sophistry that he had personally plucked the fruits of the prince- Ij' state of the De Lacy family. When Lord Reginald was in the humor to contemplate retrenchment, lilakely was at hand to com- bat the design, which he declared was unkin<l to himself. The nobleman, however, was not too proud to receive an acknowledg- ment in words; it was the sii/jsliiiiliol one which his wealthy cred- itor ottered that ho was so nice upon. But the General urged that he also had his pride and was as tender as the De Lacy upon a point of honor. If Lord Reginald would not condescend to a reci- procity of friendship and favors with him, then he would owe to the De Lacys as little as possible, and pay off a portion of his own debt to them by destroying the mortgage which he held against their estate. He oven went so far in consummation of his deep- laid plot as to send the mortgage deeds to Lord Reginald, which that nobleman returned, as the General well knew he would.
Thus it was, the General's course being so jdavisihle, and what ho urged so true in point of fact and honor, that the nobleman committed the grave error of allowing his political protege to treat the mortgage as a simple reciprocity of favors, and to carry his point in his determined refusal to receive the yearly interest, thus humoring what his own sensitive mind acknowledged to be a just aversion to the base character of a money-lender. It was a deep-laid plot of one who was at once the moral debtor though legal creditor of the De Lacy, wlio fell into the arch-schemer's trap. General Blakely was too great a tactician to hurry his issues. It had taken him several years of cunning management and high- toned special pleading to place the mortgage so far as the inter- est went upon the ground of mutual favors and friendship; and it was not until years afterwards that it suited his purpose to dis- close the denouement. Xor was the last act in the consummation of the deep-laid plot less masterly than any which preceded. The General brought with him a candidate into the field at an election, whom he knew to be not only personally obno.\ious to his patron, but who was politically on the other side. The Gen- eral also himself left Lord Reginald's party knowing that this would bring matters to a close, and to the unscrupulous Blakely one party was as good as another so long as they served his am- bitious ends. Moreover, with his usual subtilty, he put a great deal of principle into his political metamorphosis. Villainy is never so securely encased in impenetrable armour, nor endowed with such Herculean prowess as when it wears the armour of the noble and good and lights with their weapons. Satan is never Arch-Ficnd pre-eminently only when he appears as '• Angel of Light."
For the first time Lord Reginald began to realize that he was betrayed, but he dreamt not to how fearful an extent. General Blakely contrived to work up strong and bitter antagonism be- tween himself and his noble patron's party, whom he had deserted, thus preparing for the great blow against the betrayed nobleman, and entrenching himself and treachery behind politics and the party whom he had joined.
tin the other hand Lord Reginald set about clearing off the mortgage, and then, to his horror and dismay, he discovered that legally the debt had assumed the huge proportions of nearly half a million. At a glance he saw that the moral aspect of the case would not bear a moment's practical consideration, and he felt that he had been, from the beginning, the victim of a deep-laid plot. This was substantiated by his son Frederick's relation of the threat of Herbert Blakely, whom he had defeated in a fight at Eton. Lord Reginald was too proud to complain or advertise how he had been duped and how unwise, in a business point of view.
he had been in allowing the arch-schcmcr to so easily accomplish his ruin. The De Lacy, therefore, accepted the issue without complaint, but with a broken heart, and died a few months be- fore the death of his son. Lord Frederick, at the mansion of Sir Richard Courtney, as related in our first chapter.
But one of the last acts of the mortal life of Lord Reginald and his son was a striking example of the high character and proud sense of family honor, which gave the distinguishing feature of their race. They cut ofl' the entail of their estates so that they could be sold if it came to the worst, to wipe out their obligations to tlie Blakelys. They refused, however, to sell to the General, who oft'cred terms which would have partly redeemed his treachery, but Lord Reginall made a compromise and placed into his liands the estates until the original mortgage, with the accumulated in- terest, was paid, and thus was transmitted to the heir of the De Lacys, their family inheritance. The General would have fore- closed and forced the sale had it not been that Sir Richard Court- ney and his brother-in-law. Sir Edmund Templar, declared that they would redeem the estates themselves at any sacrifice if the General persisted in his design.
The friends of the De Lacys considered that Blakely had be- trayed his patron, but so much of a political character was given to the affair by the master-schemer that those of the opposition wlio had received the votes once in the gift of Lord Reginald, not only feigned blindness to unfair play, but for their own sakes de- fended him. The General had calculated the efficacy of self-in- terest and found that he had not over-estimated its virtue. Vir- tue'? Aye, virtue! Charity covers a niultilude of sins, and /( is a virtue. Go and encase in the self-interest of others, and it shall cover for you ten mulliltidcs of loud-clamoring sins.
After he became the possessor of the De Lacy estates, until the time of their redemption, the General commanded half a dozen seats in the House of Commons, which he licld in his gift through his immense wealth and large landed influence, whicli he had now obtained in 'Wiltshire and Kent. No I'ailiamentary candidate could run against his nominees where his landed power dominat- ed, and as the General was insanely ambitious to found a family, he spared nothing to compass that end. He spent his vast income, derived from landholds in two counties, monies invested in stocks and large properly in India, yet he made every farthing tell to gain political power and to raise his family among the aristocracy. He was ever ready to come to the help of men in pecuniary difE- culties, providing, always, that they had votes at their command. At first, after the advantage taken of Lord Reginald, men in em- barrassment were shy of him, but this soon wore off, for after all, on the outside of the matter, in a business point of view, there was not much to complain of; moreover, farmers, tradesmen and all who could command votes and place them at his disposal in the two counties wherein lay his large estates, found the General the easiest of money-lenders and the most generous of mortgagees. Petty usurer he was not, neither a tyro in policy, but rather of the genus Macchiavelli. He wove the meshes of his net with the strongest principles and the finest feelings and sentiments ; and held as the doctrine of his life that in liberal policy and schemes of benevolence the very best investments were to be made. He coined capital out of gratitude and devotion, and prided himself that he had purchased more services, votes and political power by well-timed acts of help, loans and gifts, thon he could by the most lavish direct bribery.
You subtle apostles of the black art of human motives, every- where, hold the Talleyrandian doctrine that every man has his price, and the political party whom the General helped into the ministry, knew A/s /)r/d' — a baronetcy — and gave it to him. But no sooner had he obtained the object which he had in view from boyhood, and which his father — the wealthy usurer and banker — had first pointed out to him, than he became melancholy and lost all interest in things generally. In gaining the object of his life he had lost the aiming for it, and from that point had no object for the future. Perhaps, also, his treachery to the De Lacy helped to make up his discontent, for it was one of the few acts of his life which his sophistry could not justifj-. Even the General was not all dross and, as we have seen, usually accomplished his deep-laid plots by the best of means. Indeed he had often observed to the vindictive Herbert, who was ever drinking gall from his defeat at Eton, that Lord Reginald was such a true gentleman, and he indebted to him so much, that was he not bent upon the possession of the estates, he would not supplant the De Lacy family to establish his own. There was no disagreement, however, between the father and son in their determination to hold what they had obtained, and one of the last charges of the General to Herbert, was to leave no stone unturned to make the Blakelys the actual owners of the De Lacy estates.
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jg^ A COMPLETE STORY W^ITH EVERY NUMBER OF THIS MAGAZINE,
>^,
MAY 15, 1869.
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VOL. 3.
mm
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^tOPLE.
I3E"VOTEI3 TO
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E. L, T. HARRISON AND W. S. GODEE, PROPRIETORS.
«! «» jM" '-W -mi iw or i« =
-1 OiT AT THE Casemknt (Poetry,) by Miss Anmk Lockhart.
How TO Lose a Lover. (Complete Story.) - - . . - -
Lost in the Woods. (An Adventure.) -------
(>i:r Woman's Platform, — -Women ani> 1\it.itios. - - - .
Music -\n'd the Drama. - -
The Honest Working 5L\n. (Poetry.) by Wm. Willis.
Eliza R. Snow, - -
History of the World Illustrated in its Great Characters. Continued
Sketch of Edinburgh, by .John Nicholson. - . . - -
How the World has Grown, by P]li B. Kelsey, Continued,
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A Trip to The Terminus — The Track etc. by .Jin({o - - - -
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Manufacturci- ajid Importers of
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F. W. DEVOE k CO,, NEW YORK.
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s 2
THE UTAH
With The Family New York LcdL'cr. f
MAGAZINE, WITH ANY OF HARPERS PERIODICALS, $7 50;
Ih'nild, B(iw-Bellb. The London -lournal. Frank Leslie's Illustrated, or The Chimney Corner. S8 ; with the ir The Seicntific American, S7; with Demorest's Monthly, 86 50; with The American'Agrieultiirist, 85 50.
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DEVOTED TO
LITEI^/^TTJR.E, JLI^T, SOIElSrOE J^JSTJD EIDTJO^TIOItT.
No. 2]
SALT LAKE CITY, MAY 15, ISfiO.
[Vol. 3
OUT AT^THE CASEMENT.
BY MISS ANNIK I.OCKIIART.
A face at tlic casement, peering out :
Two briglit brown eyes gazing wistfully ilown: 'wo beautiful brows just arched with delight, As 7ic ] ■ '
Twobeautiiui uiu»:? .ii»>^' uivi.v.. .. — — ^
I rides with his soldiers through the town.
A face eager and older looking forth — A wee sweet darling head, nestling mild :
"The war is ended; his work is done; He lives, he lives, for his wife and child I
"Ride quickly, O steed! that boars my love.
Speed, speed him along his happy fliglit — He has fought for his country's common wcal-
Ah ! give him rest in my arms to-night."
0 praying soul! thy desire is heard;
The rest, is given, the haven is reached ; Not in thy arms is that haven found.
On the'shore eternal his bark is beached.
0 sad, sad face! from no casement gaze — " Shut it close; let me see no more Where once my warrior proudly rode,
Let me forget what has gone before.
"Why was he taken? my hero — mine;
Coi'ild not my love have power to save The life that was all the world to me
From out the jaws of the cruel grave?''
All sudden a shaft of radiant light, A glory of brightness lit the gloom,
A sense of his presence her being tilled ; "He is not shut in that dreary tomb!"
E'en as of old from the casement out
Her fair youug face beamed down on him,
So now from the portals of heaven high He gazed upon her with no vision dim.
" I wait for you on these shores supernal. This is no fancied vision wild,
1 see you — I love you — I'll welcome you — I live for my darling wife and child."
HOW :to lose a lover.
fe_
It was a chill tenipe.stiious evening;' in aiitumu. The wind rose in fitful gusts, now uttering a long, low wail, like the voice of human suffering, antl again swelling into the loud, fierce tone of threatened wrath, while the dead leaves, whirled from the dry branches by the force of the tempest,
swept by with the rushing sound of some winged creature, and the sudden bursts of rain dashed with the force of hail- stones against the unsheltered casement. It was a night when the poor man's cold hearthstone and scantily-spread board look doubly desolate — a night when the child of for- tune gathers around him all the comforts and luxuries of life, feeling their value increased ten-fold by the force of contrast.
In a luindsimie apartment, whose rich carpet, silken hang- ings, and costly i'urniture, bore witness to the presence of wealth — while the gilt harp, the open piano, the well-bound books, and the objects of verlu scattered around spoke no less of taste and elegance — sat two persons who seemed pecu- liarly well-fitted to dwell amid such scenes.
The laily was yduiig and very beautiful. Her simple but carefully arranged dress disjilayed the contour of a superb figure, while her attitude, as she bent over the harp, was one of exijuisite grace. In seeming idleness of mood, she lightly touched the strings, and murmured rather than sang the touching words of an old b;illad. Her eyes, downcast and sh.rotided frcmi view by her heavy black la.shes, were never once raised to the face of her companion, although the rich color which gradually deepened in her cheek might have betrayed her consciousness of his ardent gaze.
It was a subject for a painter — that stateh' roum, with its picturesque ad(iniments. visible by the soft moonlight of a shaded lamp, while the beautiful creature who occupied the foreground of the picture was not more worthy of the artist's pencil than was the thmightful. noble-looking man. who, half-reclining on a sofa, watched her every movement with a loving eye.
Indeed, charming as was tlic lady, there was far more for both painter and poet to study in the face and mind of her companion. Charles Lilbournehad been all his life a dream- er rather than a student. A large fortune, which he inher- ited at an early age had enabled him to shun the sordid paths of worldlj' business, and the gratification of his intel- lectual tastes had occupied his early manhood. Gifted with fine talents, he also possessed those strong passions which are ever the attendants on mental vigor; but his noble eleva- tion of soul guarded him from the errors that often await an excitable and impulsive youth. His intellect seemed to purify the .-itmospherc of his moral nature. He had been a traveler in all lands, and had dwelt amid all nations. He had ripened his fancies and feeling-s beneath the sunshine of all climes; and now, unsatisfied and lonely, he had returned to breathe once more his native air, in the vain hope of re- newing the simple tastes and habits of his boyhood.
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THE UTAH MAGAZINE
May 15,
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AVhen Charles Lilbounie went abroad, his cousin Julia was i a child, a pretty, pettish little creature, who sat on his knee , and teased him tor bonbons. After ten years of absence, he ! returned, to find his plaything transformed into the elegant and admired woman. True to bis susceptilde nature, whilst he fimeicd that be was only watching the ])bases of a new character, be became a lover anil a worshipper; yet his idola- try, unlike the homage of a common mind, rendered him doubly sensitive to any defect in the object of his devotion. Julia Grey possessed no extraordinary mental or mural gifts. With some talent, but much more tact, she adapted herself to the tastes of others, with a degree of skill .scarcely compati- ble with perfect truthfulness. 8be was a cheerful, intelli- gent, agreeable girl, without any fixed purpo.sc in life, except to marry when she should become satiated with tlu" pleas- ures of society; witbiiut any fixed jirineiples iif action, except of pleasing and the fear of oft'ending conventional rules. Such was Julia Orev; such are most women when tlieir scholastic education is eonijileted. and tbey are sent into society to be molded or remodeled by circumstances.
(^n the evening already alluded to, Charles Lilbourne was in one of his most dreamy moods. Fearful of disturbing the current of vague, sweet fancies, be spoke not, stirred not; and even the entrance of a servant with some me.s.sage. which caused Julia to Itreak the chain of a gentle melody, scarcely aroused bini.
••How beautiful she isl" sighed be, as (be door closed behind (be fair gii'l; -bow beautiful and bow goodl Can it be that the happiness of winning suc-b a heart is reserved for me'/"
Just at this moment, bis ear caught the low. jileading tone of some one speaking in the hall.
'•Indeed, Miss Grey," said the person, ''it was impossible to finish the dress this evening; I have been obliged to make up mourning for a lady who has just lost her only ch.ild. and I knew yon would not mind the disappointment of a few hours."
•■But I do mind it." was the sharp reply of .1 nlia (.!rey. '•It seems to me that somebody is sure to die when 1 want any work done. I am sure there is no necessity for any great ha.ste in making up mourning; people don't want to go out at such times, and they need not be so particidar about the color of their dresses."
'■I can have vour dn-ss eonipleted by ^\'(•llnes(lay." said the first speaker.
■■That will not answer; 1 must have it to-morrow evening; I want it in time for a party at 3Irs. Lawton's "
'•I shall scarcely l)e able to get it done without working all night, but 1 will do my best."
■■Well, let me have it at any rate, by eight o'clock to-min'- row evening, and be sure not to disappoint me. I will send you the lace trimming in the morning; the weather is so dark and stormy, I am afraid tu trust you with it to-night, for you might lose or be robbed of it on your way home. Why didn't you come before dark'/"
'■Mother was not well, and I could not leave her sooner. "
"Oh, I renieml)er she is blind and gives you a great deal of trouble. I will .send the lace in the morning, and you know bow I want it laid on the skirt and sleeves."
Ijilbourne heard tlu^ ball-door close; and the next moment. with a smile of gentle benignity, Julia re-entered the room.
■■I am completely cbillrd!" she exclaimed, as she drew her chair to the fire.
Charles bad risen I'rom bis indolent pusiticju, and now, with knit brow and folded arms, stood leaning against the chimney-piece.
'•With whom were you talking'/" be coldly asked, while the glance of his dark eyes betrayed his interest in the answer.
Piqued at his unwonted indifference. Julia sought to arouse his jealousy, and, accordingly, she assumed all her bril- liancy, and never forgot that her chief object was to increase the power of her spells over her cousin. She bad studied his pccidiarities; she had adopted his tone of thought; and already her work was half done, when one little trait, so haVjitual as entirely to escape her own attention — one evi- dence of selfishness and unwomanly disregard to the comfort of another, spoiled her plans. nw\ marred her happi- ness.
••It was a poor drc.'<sniaker whom I employ out of charity," said Julia, with a meek air of conscious rectitude. ••She is poor, and supports her blind mother, and I therefore patron- ize her instead of employing a more fashionable modiste."
•I dare say ycni arc (juitc satisfied with her skill, or else your taste would overcome your eharityr'
■■I believe you are right, cousin Charles, was the appar- ently frank reply; 'but Clara certainly has an innate idea of the 'fitness of things.'
•■Is the poor girl pretty'/"
••Quite so; with soft, dove-like eyes and beautiful brown hair; but she is pale and thin, and lacks the roundness of healthful synnnetry."
••Where does she live/ "
•Somewhere in Blank street, just behind your hot(^l. I believe."
•■Have von evi'r \ isiteil her in the course of your patron- age'/"
'•Certainly not; J always send for her to come to me; I would not for the world enter one of those close and crowded places where poor people huddle together; I am sure I should catch some frightful fever."
Charles Lilbourjie was silent; and as Julia drew her harp again toward her. he fell into another tit of musing. But now bis thoughts were apparently less agTceable, for the ex[)rcssion of languid enjoyment in his Coiuitenance had given place to a stern coldness, wbi<-b Julia could neither comprehend nor dissijiate.
That night he returned, sad and dissatisfied, to his hotel. Captivated by Julia's beauty, he had. as usual, believed her gifted with all womanly feelings and sympathies; and now, like all seekers after perfection, the discovery of a single flaw in the diamond uuidc him re.gard it as utterly false and worthless; Indeeil, Julia could scarcely have done anything wbieh would so suddenly have disenchanted him. lie had witnessed her selfish gratification of her ow'u whims even at the expense of another's comfort — he had listened to a false- hood from her lijis, i'or he well knew that the party for which she rc((uire<l the dress wouhl not take place till the day after which she ha<l named, and that therefore the re(p.iisition which would deprive the poor seamstress of her nightly rest was as unnecessary as it was cruel — be had seen her shrinking from a moment's exposure to that incleuieney from which she had not sought to screen a woman as deli- cate as herself — he had heard her express fears for the safety of a paltry lace trinnning, while .she scrupled not to suffer the unprotected and timid girl to return alone through the darkness and tempest to her distant home: in tine, he bad rliscovered a want of womanly tenderness in the character of bis lovely cousin; and when a man has learned the falselmod of a single attribute with which bis fancy has invested the lady of bis love, it is wonderful bow acut^' be becomes in his scrutiny of all her gil'ts.
As be entered his well-i'urni.shed bed-chamber, at the hotel, be approached the window, intending to close the cur- tains previous to retiring for the night, when his eye fell upon a solitary taper twinkling in an apartment of a neigh- boring al)ode. . The bouse-s in the street behind the hotel
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HOW TO LOSE A LOVER,
19
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faced his wiiulnw, ;is liis bcd-rciuiii was in the back. It was in Olio of these doniiciles. the attic casement of which was scarcely thirty feet from liim, tliat he now saw tlie li,L;lit. So c<immon and trivial a circumstance, at any other time, would scarcely have claimed a thouirht; but, in his present state of mind, it was calculated to interest him deeply.
He remeudjered his cousin'.s allusion to the dressmaker's abode; and he felt an innate conviction that the lonely taper was liiihting her to her weary task. His curiosity was fully awakened. He saw a .shadow upon the muslin curtain which .shrouded the window; and as a change in her position brought the occupant (jf the room directly before the case- ment, the fiiiure of a woman bending low over a piece of needlework was clearly defined. As he gazed, a feeling of benevolent indignation took possession of his mind. A de- gree of interest, so strong that he might have attributed it to the secret influence of some mysterious magnetism, if he had not been fully aware of the wonderfully attractive power of sympathy, chained him to the spot.
With his eyes fi.xcd on that solitary taper, and the .shadow of that weary watcher, he dreamt away the hours, weaving a mingled web of sorrow and romance, until the gra^' dawn of morning flecked the dark vault of heaven. Then, and not till then, was the taper extinguished, and a pale, wan face approached the casement. Lilbourne gazed unseen upon the fragile-looking i-roature; who. thnjwing aside the curtain, raised the window, and leaned forth, as if to catch one breath of fresh, unpolluted air. He .saw much beauty in the pallid countenance; but he also read the lines of habitual suffering; he observed the traces of exhaustion, and he felt disposed to curse the selfish vanity of those who win the flattery I'f i'ools at the price of a sister's health and life.
It was lat« in the atternoon when liilbourne entered the drawing-room where his beautiful cousin awaited him. His manner was abstracted and cold; and Julia, vexed by his pertinacious resistance to her wiles, became exacting and petulant. It was evident to both that s(jmething had weak- ened the spell — that some ingredient had been mixed in the Circean cup wdiich had been so carefully mingled by b(^auty's hand. Lilbourne was disappointed, and, of course, unrea- sonable. A man of more frankness would have disclosed his feelings, and .sought to awaken a better s]iirit in the woman he loved; but Charles only felt that he had been deceived, and he scorned the idea of teaching her that which ought to be the habitual rule of her conduct.
His mood was but little changed when, on the following night, he accompanied .Julia to the party for which the new- dress had been prepared. Never had she lo<iked more beau- tiful— never had her superb flgure been more finely displayed, never had her attire been more tasteful and elegant. But Ijilbourne looked on the rich garb only to remember the soli- tary watcher; and the single taper which had burnt through that long night, in order to complete these trappings of vanity; he gazed on the fair face only to recall the attenuated features of the less fortunate woman who was at once the priestess and the victim at the shrine of Fashion.
That evening and that dress completed his disenchant- ment.
•^ -^ •:■: :;; ^
Simie two years afterward, the cousins were again seated in the apartment where we first found them. The .same rich decorations were around them; the piano was open, as if the lady had just turned from it; but the harp stood silent in its nook, and something seemed to tell of change in the hearts and minds of both. There was a mournfulness in Julia's eye, as she glanced round the room, and the change- ful color on her cheek told oi' .some suppressed emotion; but her brow was calm, and her beautiful lip displayed a placid
smile, as if slie had worn the mask of fashion so Img that her features had become molded into its fdse ex]ir(;ssion. Charles Lilbourne was grave and thoughtful as usual, but there was a fire in his eye, and and a nervous movement of his heavy brows, as if some hidden feeling was at work within him.
•■To-morrow, Julia, to-morrow," said Lilbourne, "you will be another creature — to-morrow you will a.ssumc the duties and responsibilities of a wife — you will take upon yourself the keeping of another's happiness. Are you not startled when you reflect upon the magnitude of your life-long task'/"
■•It is too late to reflect now." replied Julia, while a laugh of forced gayety echoed strangely from her lijis. ■■! dare say I shall be very happy; I have outlived the age of romance, and, as I expect little sympathy. I shall meet with few disa]ipointments. Mr. Dale is rich, comjilaisant, and kind; he loves to spend his vast fortune, and he will be as proud of his wife as of his blood-horses."
•'For heaven's sake, Julia, how can you talk in so frivol- ous a strain'/"
'■I tell you. Charles, I have survived my own aff'ection. The time has been when I could have given up wealth and fashion, and all the homage of society, for the love of one true heart — but the hour is gone by. I respect Mr. Dale's virtues, I am willing to tolerate his eccentricities and defects, and I have a UKJSt decided jireference for his large est:ite. I expect niithing beyond what his fortune and good temper insure to me, and I have very philosophically adopted my ideas of hapjiiness to my capacity for obtaining it. Now, say no more on the subject, Charles; you know not, you can- not know, how painful are the feelings you awaken. T have chosen my path, and mean to pursue it fearlessly."
■■Yiiu are a strange creature; I wish I could understand you."
■■You might once have fathomed the depths of my nature, Charles. Init you scorned to do so. The weeds thrown up to the surface deterred you from seeking the ]iearls that might have been found beneath; and now they will never be brought to light. Leave me to be happy in my own way, and heaven grant that j'ou may find greater happiness in yours."
•Julia, do you know that I also am engaged to be mar- ried'/"
■■To whom/" was the earnest, almn.-^t pa.ssionate ijuestion; for no Woman ever listens coldly to such tidings respecting one whom she has loved.
■■Do you remendier the dress you wore at .Mrs. ].,awton's party'/"
■■Perfectly well; more especially, too, that it enabled me to attract the admiration of the somewhat fastidious Mr. Dale."
■■Indeed! Well, that confirms my belief in the doctrine of com])ensations, for as that dress won you a husband, it certainly lost you a lover. When I heard you coldly con- demn your sister-woman to unbroken labor and privation, in order that you nught obtain the trappings of vanity, I felt that you were not all my fancy had painted — not all that I desired in woman. I watched from my window the pro- gress (jf that solitary task; I saw the gray dawn of morning break upon the sleepless eyes of that pale girl, who toiled for a blind and helpless mother; and when I saw you robed as the idol of fashion, my thoughts went back to her who was the victim as well as the priestess of your vanity, and the spell of your beauty became powerless. I .sought out the aid of a friend, an aged and benevolent lady, who might be my agent in rescuing your dependent from the thraldom of necessity. For the girl's sake, no less than for my own. I avoid- ed all personal interference; and when I found that her father's bankruptcy and sudden death had thus reduced the family to poverty, I feigned to have discovered that I had been long
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THE UTAH MAGAZINE,
May 15,
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indebted to the deceased parent; I immediately transferred to theui the sum of one thousand pounds, and fancitMl that I had managed most adroitly to secure them, at least, from want. But what was my surprise, when I learnt that the noble girl, iumiediately upon receiving the money, had handed it over to her father's creditors, believing it to be their just due. This awakened'a new and more elevated interest in my heart; and, in company with my old lady-friend, I visited her hum- ble abode. I shall never forget the picture of that small room, so pour and yet so cleanly; the bed where lay the sightless mother, and the little table covered with the rich silks, which Avcre tn minister to the wants of the poor by pampering the pride of the rich. I saw the pale work- woman— I watched the hectic flush on her thin cheek! Will you forgive me, Julia, if T add that, as I compared the pa- tient sufferer with the brilliant belle, I accused you of the selfishness and cruelty whicli had reduced her to the brink of the grave? You were only one of the many who had thus tasked her strength, but you should have known better."
"I see it all. Charles; but you should have remembered that we sometimes sin through ignorance rather than willfulness. Go on."
''I found refinement, good sense, delicacy of perception, and high-mindedness beneath the garb of poverty. By the aid of the old lady, Clara Wilmot was placed in a situation which secured her from such hard tasks; and, as the govern- ess of uiy friend's grandchildren, she assumed a position bet- ter suited to her talents and virtues. I assure you, cousin, she understands the 'fitness of things' no less in intellectual than in personal graces."
•■And so you are going to marry her. AVho could have supposed that, after all your fastidious notions about women, you would lind perfectinn in the character ofapdorwork- girlr"
"I have not hiund perfection, Julia; but 1 have learned to be satisfied with less. Clara has none of the brilliant beauty which once captivated my fancy; but her soft, sweet eyes arc full of womanly tenderness, and her brow wears the serenity of high thoughts. She understands the waywardness of my susceptible nature; .she knows how to modulate the harmony, as well as to soften down the discords which such a ]ieculiar temperament as mine awakens. She docs not in the least resemble my beau-ideal of a wife; but she is somcthiTig bet- ter, for she is a tender, truthful, devoted woman."
"Yon have my be!<t wi.shcs for your happiness," said Julia, while a gu.'ili of irrepressible tears burst from her eyes. "Since to you good has come (jut of evil; and my faults have led to your happiness, think of me, Charles, with kindness — as one who carries beneath the trappings of wealth a lonely but not an un.symjiathizing heart."
"What can she mean';'" thought Charles, as he left the room; "can it be that ,shc once loved me?"
"Good heavensi" exclaimed Julia, as in bitterness of spirit she entered her own chamber, where the morrow's array of bridal spleiuhir met her view; "how little do we know of the undercurrent cif life, which, while we seem gayly floating in one direetiim. slowly bears onward to an opposite eoursel Whii eimld have lielieved that a careless word, an act of mere thdUglitlessness. Cduld have deprived me cif life-long liappiness?"
LOST IN THK WOODS.
^
About ninety years ago the events of this story com- menced. It was in \'ermont. within the limits of the town- ,«hip of Kockinghani or Springfield, it is impossible to say which, that the log cabin, which was the home of the hero- ine, stood surrounded by a forest.
"I have finished my spinning, Robert, and I shall carry the yarn home. I think I shall spend the day with Mrs. (xreen, and I wi.sh you would come and meet me and bring the baby home," said the young wife, taking the linen in her apron and the baby in her arms.
'■A'ery well," replied the hu.sband, giving his crowing child a kiss, as he started off, with his hoe on his shoulder, to the wheat field. His land had been burned over and sown with wheat; but the huge, stumps of the old trees and the thick nnderground roots prevented the use of the plow.
All day he worked busily in the fresh soil, eating his lunch at noon from the little basket, until the lengthened shadows of the forest around his clearing betokened sunset. Then he started off to meet his wife. A mile or two in the forest his neighbor (ireen had made his clearing. He went on without meeting his wife and baby, nntil he got to his neighbor's door.
"Why," said Mrs. Green, in answer to his inquiries, "did'nt you meet her? She hasn't been gone long — only a few minutes."
''Can she possibly have missed the marked trees?" asked Bobert Harris, aghast.
The two men went together through the forest, which every moment grew darker and drearier. They called Mrs. Harris's name aloud at intervals, but there came no answer. They kept saying to each other, "We may find her at home;" but they were heavy at heart.
The log house was reached; but the mother and babe were not there. The cow lowed to be nnlked, and the pigs who ran in the woods all day and came home at night, clamored for their usual feeding; but the men took no notice of them. Back again through the woods, with a lantern, calling and hallooing. Then they went to the next clearing and the
IR^Xt.
"A woman lost I"
What telegram in the exciting days of battle ever fell more thrillingly on human ears than those words, going from mouth to mouth among the homesteads of the new country? With iron muscles and determined wills the warm-hearted settlers set out.
"We will scour the woods; we will find her, never fear!" According to a custom they had at such times, they blew horns, made fires, and shouted till they were hoarse. No tidings of the lost ones on that night. All the next day they searched, and day after day as long as possible. Fires were left smouldering among the trees; men who knew the woods kept resolutely to the search; but the budding April had its own secrets.
When iMrs. Harri."; started, with her babe in her arms, from Mrs. Green's, expecting momentarily to meet her hus- band, .she went on carelessly, her attention being directed in part to the child, when suddenly looking up, she discovered no white scar of an ax on any tree in sight. But she tlnnight she had only stepped out of the track and might in a moment regain it. A vain fancy. She went on, but noth- ing familiar met her eyes.
The night came on. The song birds went to rest, and the owls commenced their doleful hooting. She was alone with her infant in a great sea of forest, where never woodman's ax had echoed. She was lost. She sat down faint and tired, and, womanlike, began to cry. Hark! That was a human shout! She arose and turned her course breathlessly to- wards it. And now, she thought, she heard it again, farther off. Many hours of the night were spent in running with hy.stcrical sobs and palpitating heart towards the voices of her friends, so near that she covdd hear them, but so far away that no effect of her frenzied strength could enable her to reach their protecting presence.
M
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1869.
LOST IN THE WOODS.
21
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1'ijwards luuniiiiii slie Kle|it, leaiiiiii;' auaiiist a tree, with | the baby on her bosom. She started nervously in her dreams, and at first bird-song awoke to full conseiousncss. She would not willingly give up and die. Her friends would find them. She saw near her some of last year's ber- ries, and tough leaves of wintergreen. and a few aeorns. A poor breakfast, but she ate whatever she eould find, for the sake of her child more than her own.
This day also she ran wildly through the tangle of dead brakes and briars, growing from the decay of centuries over the gullies and jagiied rocks, past rude branches that caught and rent her dress till she came to the dying embers of a fire. Here she lingered Icjug. Her friends had been here; perhaps Robert had kindled this tire with his own hands, and for her. Hark againi the search has commenced this morning. Echoing through the woods comes the prtilonged shriek of the horn. She called with all the desperation of one drowning — she rushes forward — but tlni ground is rough, and, alasl how heavy the baby grows. She is giddy from the loss of sleep and want of food.
The baby moans and will not be comforted. In this way she spends the day and another dreadful night. She finds another fire; she stays by it and keeps it btu'ning through the night, for she is afraid of wolves. Another morning, and she is almost hui)eless. Oh, will not heaven ])ity lier' The little one grows weaker; he cannot now hold up his head.
Another terrible night! baby moans piteously; he falls in- to convulsions; the next day he dies. All day she carries the lifeless body in her arms, and all night beneath the un- pitying stars she holds it to her bosom.
She carried the little burden day after day. till the purple hue of decay was settling rapidly over it; and she I'elt. with a pang at her heart, that she must Iniry it. 'J'hen she looked about for a. spot where she might dig the tiny grave so deep that the wild cat and wolf would not scent it out. Weak as she was, this was no easy task; but in her wandering she came upon a giant tree torn up by a hurricane. Tn the soft eartli where the roots liad lain, she scooped out the baby's resting place; and, making it soft with moss, she covered the cold little form for ever from her sight. Then she sat down by the grave in a stupor of grief. n<iur after hour passed. How to commence the dreadful jnlgrimage? Then she noted everything about the spot. There was a rock, there stood an immense hemlock. Yes, .she would know the place. She could find it easily with Kobert.
Then began again the struggles through the wilder- ness. Day after day, week after week, she passed on. Her sboes were torn to fragments, and fell from her feet. Her garments were torn to tatters. liut the days grew warmer, and the fever that was burning in her veins made the soft showers that fell upon her welcome. First she ate the buds of trees and the bark of the birch. Presently she began to find the young checkerberry leaves; and now and then .she found a partridge's nest, and greedily sucked the eggs. After a time there were red raspberries and black thimbleber- ries in the woods; and then she knew it was July.
The trees had now put on afresh their beautiful garments. she saw nothing but trees in intermediate succession. It seemed years — yes, ages ago that she swept the heartii with a bircli broom, and sung tlie baby to sleep in Robert's cabin. Her mind grew bewildered; still she went on, on, on. When she came to a large stream, she went up towards its source until she could wade across it. So she said; and she affirmed that she never crossed a stream wider than a brook. She paid no attention to sun or moon as a guide, or indication of the points of the compass; but she must have taken a north- westerly direction, there was Black River, Mill River, Wa-
te
ter(|ueeeliy. and W'liite Wait's Well flowing into the Con- necticut Kiver from the \'ermont side; but she constantly a.sserted that she saw none of them.
Througli duly and .\ugust there were berries of various kinds; and by these, she sustained what little life was left. And now the maple began to take on its gorgeous crimson. and the silver birches to wear their pale gold of September; the birds were leaving the forest. Occasionally she had glimpses of a black bear, human voices liad ceased to <>all her name.
\\'as slie alone on the earth, and was the earth on<; vast wilderness without i>utlel. without a clearing (U- a settlement? Tramping, tramping, with her feet bleeding and cracked at first; and afterwards completely hardened; nearly naked; knowing nothing of time or place, she was fast becoming idi- otic. When she was hungry, she sought for food, but the great idea lingered in her mind was that of pressing on. Since the luxuriance of summer had tilled the forest with ferns and new growth of briar and underbrush, there was more trouble in passing through. But she had become ((uite accustomed til the rough' work; and the frenzy at last became a steady, cmistanl habit, almost the lalior of life to her.
One day in Oetobei-. tlie inliabilants of the village of Charleston, in New Hamjishire. were startled into the wild- est excitement by seeing a nearly naked emaciated woman, with her hair streaming upon her shoulders, walked with be- wildered ga/e along their streets. She told them she was lost.
•■Robert Harris's wife, who disappeared from the opposite sidi> of the river in April!" exclaimed the villagers. "How had she cros.sed the Connectieuty Where had she been all the time'/"
Hut she told tliem she had never crossed the Connecticut, and that .she had been lost in the woods all this time. There was no lack of hospitality: the wanderer was immediately clad, fed, and cared for to the utmost. A'olunteers went at once and brought her husband; for the story of his bereave- ment was well known on the Charleston side of the river.
We can only imagine the meeting, and the tears that were shed at the thought of the little forsaken grave by the up-rooted tree. The joy-bells were rung in the village; and the poor woman, a living skeleton, was nursed and petted — every woman vicing witli her neighbor to lavi.sh every good thing upon her — until her weakened mind recovered its tone again.
As she constantly asserted that she had never crossed the river, it is supposed she wandered into Canada, and going round the Connecticut at its source, or crossing where it was a brooklet, passed down on the New Hampshire side until she reached a district just oppo.site that from which she started.
When she began to grow strong again, hei- mind recurred constantly to the grave in the wilderness. She described to her husband its surroundings; and he went and searcheil for it, but without success. As soon as she was able, she went out with her husband and other friends, to search; liut the Ijaby's grave was never fijund.
It was thought very strange that she, in all her wander- ings, never met a roving Indian; but so it was. The Indian tribes had perhaps nearly disappeared from New England since the French and Indian war; but however that may be. the first human being she saw, after the burial of her infant, was in Charleston.
This singular legend has descended to the writer from a descendant of hers who was the third child born in the town of Roekinuiiam. Vermont, and the story is an undoubted fact.
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22
THE UTAH MAGAZINE.
May 15,
'^
THE UTAH MAGAZINE.
Iiitrllrrtiial .§^ofial, |)olitiTal anb OE'ljcologital.
SATURDAY, MAY 15, 1869.
OUR WOMEN'S PLATFORM.
CHAPTPni II.
WOMEN AND POLITICS.
fe
As far as our individual opinion respecting tlie actual participation of women in scenes of political strife is con- cerned, we believe that practically they can never be brought to delight in it. In the essential quality of their mental and physical organization, women are non-combatants and non-assertive ; while man is combative and glories in the excitement of political contest. Women prefer to attain their ends another way. They have tools of a sharper edge but not of so massive a form. The greatest opponents to the exercise of political duties by women will always be women themselves. Individual women would, doubtless, glory in it, but you could not force it upon the mass of the sex. They would sooner be wronged and keep so than fight in the political arena for their rights ; and on this very account they have been politically wronged for ages and have kept so ; while they have convulsed courts — and by connection kingdoms — over a silk dress or a love-token. The only reason why women have not been politicians in the past is because they have not wanted to be such; for there is no instinct of their true nature but they have made men feel and succumb to long ago. Had women possessed half as much of an instinct for politics as they have for love, and been deprived of it for six thousand years, they would have shattered the constitution of society and introduced chaos a thousand times over.
So ftxr as equality of the sexes is concerned, we hold that surroundings being equal, the womanly brain is in no way inferior to man's in the extent and variety of its capabilities; but its activities and powers run altogether in another direc- tion. There can, therefore, be no fear entertained of the mass of women, enfranchised or not, stooping to mingle in political aftraj'. They have too keen a sense of their greater influence in another direction to throw themselves away on so unprofitable a business; but this in no way touches the question of their right to be recognized as of equal political value before the law. As far as our own community is concerned, in ecclesiastical matters — and with us they in- clude politics and everything else — the perfect equality of women to vote for officers is practically allowed. Should God in his providence, for gre.it and special ends, extend to women similar rights all over the Union, we are satisfied that the true instincts of the sex will be sufficient guarantee that women will never unduly leave their own sphere for that of man's. Water cannot run up hill, and women can no more resist their native propensity for more congenial pursuits than the Earth can resist the gravitating influence of old Father Sol and take a run off to Jupiter. The (jues- tion stands pretty much like this : men, and women too, want a recognition of their right to do a tiling Avhether they intend ever tu do that thing or not. Men do not want to be, and never will make, good nurses ; but they would indig- nantly oppose any law forbidding them to practice in that or any other delicate calling if they wanted to do so. Forbid to any human being any particular course and it immedi- ately wants to peruse it. This is natural to the human
spirit, and an outgrowth of the unsubduable deity embosomed in every soul. As to the true sphere of women, speaking in the abstract, we are all agreed that it is spirituality, beauty, refinement, tenderness, love and hope. Once elevated to their true position — that of priestesses of heaven-born influ- ences and graces, and they will never — speaking of the mass — stoop to the labored ett'orts of lumbering legislation. They will see a diviner and a speedier road to their object. They will discover that they need not our clumsy weapons. They can do more with a fencing foil than a broadsword any day. But this question is not one of seemliness or adaptation, it is one of the right of human beings of either sex to choose their own guides, spiritual and temporal, and determine their own conditions.
^n$tc*
CONGREGATIONAL SINGING.
ORcilESTn.lL Music. — lu tbid bniiicU of the ui-t IJtali has reachiiil a liiglier cxcellL'Ucu tliau iu the vocal dt'iiartiuoiit. The orchestra of our theatre, for instance, has at tiuies compared with titc very be^t metropolitau orchestras, tliuiigli at i)reseut its mombers are not so iiuincroiis as they ouce were. They are, however, very efficient, and often " discourse most eloquent music." In- deed, the bjmd pei'formance is sometimes the best of the evening's entertainment. Professor George Careless is the leader. He has hebl that posititm fur four yeai-s, with credit to himself and satisfaction 1o tlir imldic.
Abstractly speaking we are in favor of congregational singing. How delightful it would be to hear at the General Conferences of the Saints ten thousand voices of the congre- gation join in the praises of God in some soul-stirring hymn of Zion. Of course for such a jubilee of congregational praise it would presuppose some musical education among the entire people, but especially a general familiarity with I our own hymns and anthems selected for Tabernacle service, i But it is not at all too much to hope that the time will come when musical culture will form a branch of school ed- ucation among our children, and then congregational singing will be quite practicable. There is, moreover, another phase of this subject of congregational singing led by a trained choir, rather than exclusive choir singing amid the silence and general apathy of the assembly. Let Zion have her own musical service, her own set hymns, anthems and psalms, and all the people would soon become familiar with the same and a thousanti voices every Sabbath could join in the praises and glory of God, led by the regular choir. It would then require but little or no scientific musical training to reach this simple form of congregational singing, and it would only be on the occasion of the choir performing some grander chorus or anthem that the general assembly would be required to be silent, and then their silence would be simply from the reason that they could not join in the per- formance ; and hence the choir would always have the honor of leading and the mission of educating the congregation in their musical services. It would, moreover, be found that even in these extra performances the assembly, after a few repetitions, would take a part, and their hearts would sing- when their voices were silent. This congregational singing is no new-fangled problem. Formerly the Saints were more given to the use of their own hymns, adapted to their own familiar tunes. Though they were neither expressly set to music by our own composers, nor sometimes very happily allied to the old clothing of popular songs, yet sung by the Saints with full hearts and vigorous voices, they were very inspiring. For our part, to this day we would sooner hear '-The spirit of God like a fire is burning" sung well by the congregation than an anthem badly sung by a choir. More upon this subject hereafter.
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1869.
THE DRAMA— REVIEW OK T.OOKS,
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(_'A1'[\IN riiUXVl.l.S MVUTIVI, liAM).— Till- rclrl. nit inn nl' I ]i:i I I I i II III |>ll mI IIu'
!iy,L' — tliL- L-umifl(.'tinii mC till- ]'ii<.iri.' Kailn.ail— ill Salt Lalv Cilu Mav Intli. -;ivr iUi I'piioitmiity for Caiitain Croxall's raitiitii> iiiai tial l-aml In il^iilay the iiistni- iiifutal iil.ilit.v i.r Us iiii-iiiIk-is. Tlir l.iui.l .l.li\.ir.l s..im.> ulili.. very best (.f tin- speeches at tin- iiia-;^ imi-tiiiK, ami il< iicrrnniinu'r'. sinjke a ^emiiiie exuHatii»u that fduiiil an e< h.. in llii- hearts (tf the thuii,-*anils present. Cai>tnin Mark Crtixall hinisilf is a j;eni ul" tlie lir-t \\at'-|-, arnl his niarlial haml !< a eruu ii in wliiih hi- has a Iu--I roil-S sellini;.
^13C (i>i<'VCima.
I'ROsi'EfTiVE.— We uniler»tanil that Miss Annie l.nrkliarl will run a luujc •'»- giigement here. This, we think, will he very ph-asinx '"' Ihe imhiie. It is a Inippy circnrnstance Id havi- a htily si. .salisfaitMry in all her parts as Miss Li.ekhart. Hlie wins npun the ptihiie Jiiiinl. This is rare. Arti-ti-s ;_'.nerally live out in their engageinrms tin- int. -i.^l whi.h 1 hey at lifslireal.-. But this i-s nut tlie ease with the laily in ijmslion : u. ^hall hav.- ilif ..ppmt unity, then- I'oi-e, of devoting a sjn-eial piige nf ri-vi«u in h.i In-n allii .
Nell Owvxxe.— TIk-si- nhl Knglisli i-uiiKili.-^ ami plays re.iniiv the very hest of rendering, lu Iti.- haiuis ol" imliner.-ut pi-iiurnn-rs the east is lust. Nell (Iwyiino is uik- uf Ihns,. phiys in iinc^liMn. On W.-.lniM<lay evening last this heantifnl piece was presi-nteii hy Ilir mana-ennnl. ami the leailing nienihers of the company pluyeil ailmirahly. S'lne i.f Ihe niinur tharaeteis, huwrver, were out of time. Fanny Morgan I'helps well snstiUneil the gelieruiis-liearted Nell, hut the gem uf the rvetuug was Vramis Stewart, persunateil hy Miss Luekhart. It was a very ehaste i-\|.nsition ..f a mai.l.ii nl h.-nm-. in the li.cntions eniirl uf
Th.
is path.
an<l
1.1. 111.
lhi> la.irs p.
,-1'ugiii', \\aK a niastel'-piece of '(' is vim in his action ami nistiinl in his illi.iin.y. always n-aily in his ;. This is a.lmiiahh-. Wr wmihl a.ivi^- ..iir II Ihi^. ami .-v.-r aim In k.-.p up lla- cn-.lit ..1
Charles II. uf Knglaml. fmniance.
Alwavs Kfficiest. — Mr. .I.'liii S. himlsay has ireate.l us t.i sunie very tin playing uf late. Ilis Michael Ke.i.ey, iu Arrah-N its kin.i. Hut hruther Juhii .ver plays will. Th.' force in his cliaracteis. lie is n scenes, never lacking in liis part minor actor,-i to pattern ati.r liim i the house hy etJiri(.-n.y.
A Ul.siN.1 M\N-.— Jaim-s M. llanlio i^ ,ir. i.|.JI> a rising aetur. M'e expect t.. see hiiu make a name in thewuilii. Tlnue i-. in liiui metaphysical furce and jihysical weight, cumhiuing n tine appearance. Tn heroic parts he can reach the "top of the tree."' He miisi aim fur piufessiunal perfection. That is a work ul art. Nature has given him all Ih.- f.'iie. A chaste study of Ihe sentiimntal and the iutellectiial will gi\e tin- i\.iiii-itc liiiish necessary to the artt'sti:.
John C. (iRAUAM.— This g.uHeman is still a pnt)lic favorite. His line i-- varied. Ho is at boino in the lilghi-r walks "i' cuinedy, is uuiijue iu low cumedy. and plays with grace and dignity su. h .hanuier- as fharles II., in Nell (iwyune.
The Life of the Stage.— .SikIi is Mr. Marg.-ll-. He ha- h.hl the inihlic min.l for a series of years, and no man to-day of our company can command so large a beuetit as he. This is the people's critique, and a very satisfactory estimate, indeed. The stage is never .leiol wlien Mr. Margetts is in the .scene.
llEMEMBEREn. — Messrs. Thnjiie. t'lv.w th.T im.l Mcliitosh deserve notice, for they are useful. Mr. Th.iriie. in particular, i.s in leinemhrance. Mr. Crowthi-r sometinu's [days well. The ..hi .Kw in llie Child Steal. -r, for instance, was very good.
The Last Week.— Fanny M.ugau I'helj.s close. 1 her eugagcineut ht^t week. Ou the whole it has been a t-uccess, ami during her term a great variety of lday> have hcen produced. We look forwar.l with interest to Manager Caiue's next card.
A Welcome to the 1'acifc It \.ilrovi>. — Manager Caine did honor to the great event of the ago hy a grand enteilainiiu-nt Monday evening. At the close of the play of the Octoroon, the andieuce was treated to a ininiaturo representation of the laying of the last i*ail, after which the train dashed across the stage and the taldi-anx WiU illuminated with lireworks and haile.l with joyons shont-*.
-#. ■^. .
Hi-vtctt^ of ^ooHs, ^U^
>'KluK llLGu'.s IjA.st XuVkl. — Tllf writiiiii- "I llii> i;lr;il Ill:^^U■l■ iHL- nut llu^^.■l-
L'ttfs: tliey iii-f works ..[' ait. I[i> tliaiitrtv aif ncatii'iis ol' tlu- puefti suul — liU
novel, A'ictMi- ltiijiu"s liouk 111* illu-tralivm- nl liunianil\. A\'i- i\iui liis work as
\VL* funtuinplato catlieihal aivliitcfturc. Tt is ji labr'n- of ga-aiul conceptions
liarinonizcd; comliinatioiis of inuueusities arc )ironij;Iit witliin tlie focus of a
liniitcil view. In that vii-w wc have nianifesteit the nioml niatcrialistic of lingo's
i^cnins. which has inilnccil a ciini[iarisiiii hctwccn him anil Michael Angclo. lie
llews out his cunceptions in collosal forms, ami scnllitnrcs his tlionghts in
autiiiue colniiositiolis. They bring lis into the Jircsellce of solemn sniiliniities.
: as do the ruins of ages, or the caverns of the shores, which we imagine the sea
' gods built ten thoil^aml years ago. Indeed. Hugo ill this materialistic mood is
I thoroughly ancient, tlioriiiiglily (.irecian. His jilastic or lirccian genius is ever
working \\ itli its might to interpret itself in /inm:<, iiutl they are antiiiue and
collosal. But lie has al!?o his siiiritiiali.stic liKtod. His book has a dispensation
of subject, it is pregnant with a grand superstition of faith and mistrust. Ilngn
I is as religions and reverent as the old cathedral builders, a.s cynical and (hiring
j as modern inlidelity. He is an iconoclast to beat down kingcraft and priestcraft ;
yet he works with the grim sublimity of au ancient throwing down one temple
to erect another. As for his sermous upon man, they are as sombre as those of
an> I allii-.lial <li\ 'I'al.i il piiiiic^ of I lie la-l iiomI nl ilie great Kreiich
patiii.t. .Mai k In- -I iil|iliii .|\li-, and thai ,.n|iii >1 il imi nf lailli and nlihtru^t which ilniilii-. Ml riiiil- a ill ill ill ibi- \ci> iiahiii i.f ihiunlf Till- man .and
the llnll all Ibi' lit-1 III r iilinli llir ~iilic. ami till \ I iiliie ill imilig i-n|iipail-
initsliip. With what I iiiiial alVeclion. yet with what supreme trust in .Nature's good iiilcnfs III- iiilrnducis llii-ni liigether, traiispiising even their names. The
man ili~ilaiiiriill\ I hi If with Ihe naiue nf bear, palhetically degrades
the imlf Milb Ibr ii: f mall.
ell il'iKli I.— I list s.
1 i>ii- ami lliiiiio wi-ie fa.st friends. Ursiis was a man; liomn was a wolf. Their ili-iin-itiniis urn- cniigenial. It was the man who liiid christened the Willi. I'inbablv he had abn cbiisin the name; having fniinil tV.iii.i good fur liiiM-ilf. he had fniinil l/,iwn gnnd for the beast. The association of this man and thi^ iinlf was |ii-i,liiab|i. .,1 lairs, at parish b'slivals, at the e..rii.-is of streets when- pas-,-r-by gather tngelhel. ami lllleleler the people give way 1" their need of lisleniiig lo nnnseiiM- and bill iiig orvielan. This w oil. docile, ami siib- nii7->i\e Willi a lini.il mace, was acceptable tn the criiwcl. it is a pleasant thing lo note the elbi 1 of lamiii..;. \\ i- lal,.' -iipniiu- dilighl in -iiing all varieties nf
.1 sliialinll. 11 i- till Ibi- lia-nli Ihal ao.l pi-l > liali h llie limgless of
Inyal iirnci-siiin-.
I'lslls and llniiin Weill liniii si|iiaie lii -iiiiale, ll 1 Ihe public places of Call-
lerbiiry 111 the jiiibjic place, nl llla-giiw. from cniinly tn ciinnly, from town to town. One niai Uel (xbaii^led. tliev pa>.-eil on to aimliier. Vrsus lived in a crib
111 wheels, which llnmii, Milliiiiliilv ciiilizeil. driiv liv day and guarded by
liiglil. When till, riiail wa, dihiciill. in gniiig mi-liill, wlieii there iieie tun many
ruts and Inn 1 ll iiiiiil. the man biickled tin- sliap In his neck. and lug.iicd aiiay
fraternally. -side bv sid,. ,iiil, lli,. wnll. In this lashimi tliey had grnwii old
togidlier. Thei caui]iiil iinl.ac ding In chance, on a bil of wasle giiiund.at the
inleiM-i lion of ir,i,-ing rnad,. at the approach to a hamlet, at llie gates nf markel-lniiiis, in ||„i niai I.el-iilacis. in tin- public malls, on the skirlM.fa park.
nil the .-pail- liebile a i lllllvh. When the tilled cart sU.pped ill s e field
wlierea lair was held, when the irossipini: old women Iiiinicd np i.pen-nnintheil.
ulieii the cncknev- dieiv inuiid llnlii III a circle, b rsiis >peechilied and Hi 1
appinved. H 1. ivilb a w l.>nbnwlili his jaws. ]inlitelv made a cnllectinn.
Til. v gained their liv.dil 1. Theu.df Mas iell.-ied. and the mail tun. The
wolf liail li.-eli trained liyllie maii.nr lia.l trained him-. If abiile. tn varinus
pretty wnlliiii- wa\. Unit ailgmellteil llieir li i| 1-. ■Almve all things, said
hi, friend lo him. ■■ilmi't degenerate into man !"
fisiis pr. f.-rrcil Hnnio. as a biasl of biird.ii. In an as,. To iiiak.- an a-s draw his .rib wiillbl liave been lepubive In him ; he set ton high a \alue Upmi tin- ass fi.rlhat. ll.-,iiles. he had remarked Ihat the ass. a f.iur-binled thinker, little nmlcislnnd nf men. has .■.oi.Hlim.-s an iiiniuiet pricking up of tlie cars, when
|iliiln-ii]iheis >a,\ binli-li tilings. Ill life, between oiir llii.iiglits alid ■-elves. an
a— i- a lliiid pallv; 1 hi- i- aniiiii iiig. .Vs a fri.-lnl. f r-i|s plererreil llnnin to a dug. believing that ihe iMilTs appn'iai ll In Iriendl im-s is Imni a gr.ater distance.
Thi- is why llniiiu -iilliced tu l'i-u>. llmiin wa- I'm I'r.-ns mure than a cuni-
pauiuli ; he iia, an aiialngu.i. I'rsiis lapped bin his lean Hank- with the
iiiiiark : ■■ I have fuiiinl m\ -ecuinl vuliime."
He said fiirlbi T •■ : ■■When 1 am dead, wlinever ih-Mic- tu Kimw me. will
niily have tu sillily Huiiin. 1 shall leaic llilli after me as my e.viict cupy. "
A -iipreine cyuici-m i- in the adiice ul I'rsiis tu the \iolf: " Abore (ill lliiiu/s i/nii'f 'Ififftimil'- inl'i >.uie .'■ Itiit bull nmch there is al-u <^f supreme trust uf the man in nature, uhiii he lliii- elevates wolf-natule :
'I'lie -rcniid funii nf hi- iinM I i- nil the English I'ecnigc. dramatically clilna\e.l by the reliublican- a-piratiun bu a higher nubility .iml a divimr object fur man', idulatiy :
-A plebeian, win. -IriKi- a Imd. ha- hi- mi-l ml nit.
■The lord i- alinu-t king.
■The king is almost lluil.
-The wurbl is a Inr.Uhip.
■■The English address (lu,l a- mi, I.., ,1 ."
We will, iliiring its publication, give to our readers au occasional illustration from Victor Hugo's great last novel, entitled, "The Man Who Liiilgbs."
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THE HONEST WORKING MAN.
IIHI'ICVTED 111 THE WORKlNt; MEN' Or I TAIL
TliL-y'xc >iiiig of lie;ue> luave and >trung.
On (loud an.l battle-lield ; Orjtoets. too, a nnmerons throng.
Which history's pages yield. Of kings and emiierors, mighty lords,
M'ho o'er the world held sway. And iiiled the millions with tlieir ewurds
In their great, little day.
lint I will sin- nl biin wlm .stan.l-
Tlie first un Cn.rs own jilan- In every age, in many lauds.
The Iionest working man. Then let ns treat him as we shoiihl.
Ami belli hini all we can ; The briglite-t gem in nature's crown
I- the Imne^t working man.
We liail all Workers, great an.l isuiall.
As well as those who pbin ; Be ready at the Master's call.
Ami be a working man ; F.ir, though hi.s hands be rough and luuwu.
His features worn and wan. He's proof against a smile or frown.
The honest working- man. ,Si.ilt Luh Ci(>/, Morr/i "JS, ISO'.i. Wa
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ELIZA R. SNOW.
"ZIOX'S POETESS."
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As a fit illustration of the subject of woman and her sphere, we could not find one more acceptable than our beloved sister. Eliza K. Snow — Zion's Poetess. Her influ- ence in the Church of the Saints, through the medium of her holy sentiments and elevated thoughts, has been like a pure stream from a heavenly fountain. Her life has been of the divine cast in all its ])ha.ses. and her sublime devotion to her God. coupled with that saintly meekness which has ever characterized her, is, like her poetic genius, Hebraic in tone and quality. Mark this Hebraic constitution of mind in the poem of her opening life as a Saint :
My heart is fixed — I know in whom I trust.
'Twas not for wealth — 'twas not to gather heaps
Of perishable things — 'twas not to twine
Around my brow a transitory wreath,
A garland deck'd with gems of mortal praise,
That I forsook the home of ehildhood : that
I lel't the lap of ease — the halo rife
With friendship's richest, soft and mellow tones;
Aft'eftion's fond caress, and the cup
O'crflowiug with the sweets of social life
With high refinement's golden pearls eurich'd.
The proclamation sounded in my ear —
It reached my heart — I listened to the sound —
Counted the cost, and laid my earthly all
Ujion the altar, and with purpose fixed
Vualterably, wliile the spirit of
Elijah's God within my bosom reigned, .
Embraced the Everlasting Covenant ;
And am determined now to he a Saint
And numbered with the tried and faithful ones.
Whose race is measur'd with their life ; whose prize
Is everlasting, and whose happiness
Is God's approval : and to whom 'tis more
Than meat and drink to do llis righteous wiU.
The entire poem from which these lines are copied is very illustrative of the life and character of Sister Eliza. In thus aifectionately speaking of her by her Christian name, a suggestive note comes upon the page. Our heroine is the " Sister Eliza " of every Latter-day Saint in the world. This extensive kinship is wonderfully expressive, for it is very uncommon. There is a volume to be read in the mere note of it.
Eliza K. Snow has obtained this universal kinship with the Saints by being in her life, her inspirations and her subjects their own poetess. But she is in fact something- more than a mere poetess. She is also of the prophetess and priestess type, and hence, as we have said, she is Hebraic in her genius. She is this in her essential nature. The Jewish genius blends that of poetry, prophecy and priestly calling. It is a unique tj'pe, diflering somewhat from the genius of every other nation. There are only two of the Latter-day Church who pre-eminently possess this triple quality, and they are — Parley P. Pratt, who may be termed the 3Iormon Isaiah, and Eliza R. Snow. The type is very rare, for although among the great (ientile authors we have poetic natures of the most transcendent excellence, we have seldom met the pure Hebrew cast. We have Shakspeare, Byron. Shelley, Burns ; but they are both Gentile and modern in their variety and tone. There is only one of the great P^nglish poets who stands boldly as an example of that peculiar poetic genius manifested in the inspired writings of the prophets and psalmists of ancient Israel, and that one is the " divine Milton." This Hebrew genius is pregnant with prophetic subjects, for from it comes its inspirations, and not from the exuberant richness of passionate natures. Its written manifestations abound with elevated spiritual thoughts, its style is that of vigorous simplicity, and its tone of supernatural sublimity. It is therefore eminently spiritualistic in its essence and religious in its very consti- tution. When found in man it will manifest itself in divine epics, as in " Paradise Lost," or in such writings as those of
the apostle. Parley P. Pratt, whose very prose works are poems with the prophetic cast and quality. When found in woman, which is very rarely the case, we have an inter- blending of the poetess, prophetess and priestess.
The difference between this Hebrew genius and that of the Grecian or Roman is strikingly illustrated in Eliza R. Snow, a daughter of Zion through her fiiith and spiritual instincts, and the gifted Sarah E. Carmichael. The latter is much more luxuriant in imagination and elaborate in her treatment and harmonies of verse ; the former more divine in subject and loftier in her in.spiration. Miss Carmichael is by far the most passionate writer of the two. Indeed, she is nearly the equal of auy " Gentile " poetess living, and her nature and gifts are of the Gentile quality. But Eliza Snow soars to a higher sphere than that of earth, and God, not Nature, is the source of her inspirations. She is well illustrated in her celebrated •' Invocation to the Eternal Father and Mother"-God, commencing :
" 0 my Father, Thon that dwellest."
The most stirring poem of her life is that written upon the martyrdom of the prophet and patriarch Joseph, and Hyrum Smith. This terrible event disturbed for a moment the current of her gentle spirit, which burst forth into passionate verse.
Sister Eliza R. Snow in her life has been a constant influ- ence for womanly civilization. No woman in the Church of Latter-day Saints is more universally beloved. Even her own sex envy her not.
THE WORLD'S HISTORY Dliistrated in its Great Characters.
CHAPTER II.
THj; POPES TO COXSTANTINE.
Before referring to some of the world's great characters in detail, we shall give a brief epitome of the first centuries of the Christian era, both descriptive of their spiritual and their temporal phases. The former will give a view of the transition of the Church from its spiritual state to that of temporal dominion, which opened to it in the reign of Con- stantine the Great ; and the latter a view of that other half of the world's dominion — the Roman Empire under its emperors, thus completing the links of history in the reader's mind.
From the low degree of meek followers of the Lamb, the successors of the Saints became the very lions of the earth : from fishermen-apostles they sprang into sovereign pontiffs. Religious aspirations were transformed into worldly ambi- tions, and the successors of sainted martyrs vied with each other to win their crowns in heaven as the exterminators of heretics. Though Jesus opened his dispensation with the suggestive annunciation : " My kingdom is not of this world!" a clause of his testimony which he immediately after sealed with his blood, yet those who followed as his vicegerents set themselves up above kings and emperors. Arrogance, not meekness, was their cardinal virtue ; abso- lutism, not love, was the sceptre by which they ruled the earth. There is, in these facts, a severe commentary embod- ied which need not be written here. The temporal dominion of the Popes commenced with the reign of Constantine, was firmly e.stablished in that of the imperial Charlemagne, and was consummated by the fierce crusaders of Christen- dom. The Gospel of the sword prevailed over the Gospel of Peace, and the '• dominion was given to the Saints " of the Clatholic church. But before this was achieved there was a long warfare between the Popes and Emperors of Rome, in which the early Christians showed themselves
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THE WORLD'S HISTORY.
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worthy the title of Saints, and even their pontift's that of holy martyrs in the iiiissi<m of .Jesus.
The second century opened with the iiontificates of Anaclet, St. Evaristus. and Alexander, the fifth, sixth and seventh Popes of Home. They sustained the (Uiiirch during' tieree persecutions from the p]uiperors and the birtli of schisms among the early Fathers. Sixtus, Telesphorus, Hyginus and Pius succeeded, and Anicet, the twelfth pope, com- menced his pontificate A. D. 167. At this period came to Rome the venerable St. Polycarp, Kishop of Smyrna, the disciple of .John the Divine. Between the Pope and his reverend visitor there was a general agreement ujion the doctrines and discipline of the Church, but they disagreed as to the apostolic time for the observance of the festival of Easter. The opinion of the venerable disciple of St. .John was not allowed by the Church to bo .set aside by the I'ope of Rome, but St. I^olycarp, on his part in a true Christian spirit, affirmed that the discipline of the Church ought not to be arbitrary, and that the nations who received the Gospel ought to be permitted to serve God in accordance with such rites as they thought most pleasing to the Supreme Being. Doubtless in this view St. Polycarp enunciated the wise policy of the Apostles themselves, who, having to open a dispensation to all the (xentile nations as well as to those of the house of Israel who wcjuld receive it, sought to harmonize the whole with as much tolerance for diversity of national customs as the fundamental laws of their mission wimld permit. Mosheim, in his history, says : ■■ The churches iu those early times were entirely independent; none of them subject to any foreign jurisdiction, but each one governed by its own rulers and its own laws. Por though the churches founded by the apostles had this particular deference .shown them, that they were consulted in difficult and doubtful cases, yet they had no juridical authority, no sort of su- premacy over the others, nor the least right to enact laws for them. Nothing, on the contrary, is more evident than the perfect equality that reigned among the primitive churches ; nor does there even appear in the first century the smallest trace of that association of provincial churches from which councils and metropolitans derive their origin. It was only in the second century that the custom of holding councils coumienced in (xrcece, from whence it soon spread through the provinces.''
But it was not until the close of the second century and the beginning of the third that the Popedom may properly be said to have had any existence. It dates from the pon- tificate of Saint Victor' (A. D. 194) and Zephyrinus. (A. D. 203 ) the fifteenth and sixteenth Popes. Up to the period of the discussion concerning the festival of Easter between Anicet and St. Polycarp, (A. D. 1G7) nothing had disturbed the peace and equality of the Christian churches ; but from that time there was a struggle on the part of the popes for the universal supremacy of the Bishopric of Rome. St. Victor, who was an African by birth, after his elevation boldly claimed this supremacy, and he sent to the churches of Asia his manifestoes, in which he threatened them with excommunication if they did not conform to his judgment. But this usurpation of supremacy (for it was then considered usurpation,) met with resolute opposition from the bishops generally, and even those who diffijred from the views of their brethren in Asia refused to sanction the judgment and action of the Pope, who was by th-^m regarded simply as the chief Bishop of Rome. They also, in sharp terms and forceful spirit, reprimanded him for his presumption. St. Ireneus, also, in the name of the Christians of Gaul, censured him for his usurpation ; and thus overruled by the remon- strances and censures of the bishops of the West, St. Victor Was forced to submit.
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iJut the wedge of the supremacy of Rome once entered, each succeeding pontiff drove it farther in until Pcipedom became a mighty power beyond all parallel in the history of enquires. Nor can we wisely say that this was contrary to the dispensations of Providence. In the general balancing of the world's affairs we must reverently acknowledge with the poet. "^Vhatever is, is right." God in his wisdom and intentions is best interpreted in history in the harmonized issues of ages. It was necessary and for the good of all humanity that a popedom should grow up to bring forth a Christendom to succeed the Roman empire in the dominion of the earth. A grander dispensation shall yet consummate the whole — one truly Catholic — embracing and blending all the civilizations from the beginning of time. Then shall .Jesus reign in the hearts of the people of every luition. and his spiritual empire be over all the earth; but to bring this to pass a I'opedom and a reformed Christendom was first ordained to rise to make Jesus (in name at least, ) the Prince of the Earth, even as he is the Prince of the Heavens.
Zephyrinus. the sixteenth pope, succeeded in establishing the su])remacy of Rome. During the persecutions against the Christians, by order of the emperor Sevcrus. he fled from the charge of the Church to avoid martyrdom, but return- ing when the storm had subsided to regain favor among the orthodiix. he persecuted the '■ heretics." In the assertion of the supremacy of the pontiffs of Rome he exc(immunicated the Montanists. among whom was the celebrated Tertullian, one of the most eminent fathers of the Church. The fall of this great man, it is said, deeply affected the faithful, who attributed his apostacy to the bad treatment he suffered and the envy of the ecclesiastics. This excommunication excited general indignation against the Pope, and the evil reputation which his clergy luid acijuired brought upon him universal blame.
The famous Origen was another great chief of these here- tics. He was a pupil of the erudite Clement, the fourth pope, whose writings on Christianity are the most ancient, and ranked next to the canonical books. Origen. his pupil, was equally eminent as a commentator on the scriptures. He kept seven notaries, who wrote at his dictation, and twenty librarians made fair copies of his works, while female calligraphers transcribed them for the other churches. Thus we see how learned and worthy were these great chiefs of heresies — Tertullian, the most distinguished of the Latin Fathers and a powerful writer, and Origen, next to Clement the most distinguished of the Greek Fathers I Says De ('ormenin, in his '• History of the Popes :" " On this subject we will remark, thai the fathers of the Church have ahnod all of them been heretics."
As for ourselves we would rank these men called heretics, both of ancient and modern times, among the world's great- est characters, to whom humanity owes more than to any other class of men. What, pray, were .Jesus and his apostles but heretics in the judgment of the Chief Priests of .Judah — those orthodox interpreters of an economy of ages past ?
Callistus, the seventh pope, was permitted by the emperor Alexander Severus to build a temple. This was the first Christian church erected in Rome. The cemetery which still bears the name of Callistus, and in which this pope was buried, is said to have received the relics of sixty-four thou- sand martyrs and forty-six popes. In the days of Callistus, also of Urban, the eighteenth pope, the Christians numbered among them many persons of rank among whom was Mam- mea, the mcither of the enqieror Alexander Severus.
In the year 250 of our era there was a vacancy in the Holy See for several years, and in the interval, to the eleva- tion of St. Cornelius, the twenty-second pope, the clergy took charge of the Church. So violent were the persecutions of
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THE UTAH MAGAZINE,
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tliis pL'riod tluit siniic uf (lie umst luilrd ami wnitliy nl' (lu' bishops had to fly ""'I ahaiidnn their di(it'csc.s; and thcro is a story of St. ( J roiiory 'riiauiiialurcs and his Deawm l)t'iiiu preserved by a uiirack' iii liis fliiiht very similar to the one rehited )iy Moslem writers ol' .Mohaninied and Abn Becker, when they liid from their ]iursncrs in a cave. a( tlie period of their flijiht from ^leeea to Medina.
Dnrinp the poiidHeati; of St. ('(irncliu>. an aiiti-l'o]ie arose and drew away many, iiiereasinji the troubles of the faithful. I^er.secntinn .■<till iaj;ed and Cornelius was lian- ished by the em))ei-or (iallus. and a larae nund)er of Chris- tians fled from tlic em)iire. inauv of whom ^icrished, and those who escaped. peiipliMl tlic Sdlitudc dl' (lie Tlicb.-iis ami became Ercnutes."
A few years later, at the martyrdom of Sextus the Iwcoty- fifth pope there was another vacancy in the Holy See (.v. H. 258). At tliis periiid. took ])lace the famous martyrdom of iSt. Laurence, who was roasted ou aj:ridiron. ■Aiieut of the devil." said the martyr to the ]irefectof Komc. -cause them to turn my body on the other >idc." Tt was done; and then he add^d. "As 1 am now cooked, you can oat mel"
Nearly all the po]ies. u]i to the ojieninLr of the fourth cen- tury, ai'e classed by the Catholic church as martyrs. Then came the