International Weekly Miscellany of Literature, Art and Science - Volume 1, No. 5, July 29, 1850

"On working days, this vista was almost a desert, but when Sunday came, it was made lively by groups of sailors, rich and idle citizens, and whole families of mercantile men who came to bathe or rest themselves, there enjoying the luxury both of the shade and of the sea. The mingled murmur of the voices both of men, women and children, enchanted with sunlight and with repose, united with the babbling of the waves which seemed to fall on the shore light and elastic as sheets of steel. Many boats either by sails or oars, were wafted around the extremity of Cape Notre-Dame de la Garde, with its heavy grove of shadowy pines; as they crossed the gulf, they touched the very margin of the water, to be able to reach the opposite bank. Even the palpitations of the sail were audible, the cadence of the oars, conversation, song, the laughter of the merry flower and orange-girls of Marseilles, those true daughters of the gulf, so passionately fond of the wave, and devoted to the luxury of wild sports with their native element were heard.

"With the exception of the patriarchal family of the Rostand, that great house of ship-owners, which linked Smyrna, Athens, Syria and Egypt to France by their various enterprises, and to whom I had been indebted for all the pleasures of my first voyage to the East; with the exception of M. Miege, the general agent of all our maritime diplomacy in the Mediterranean, with the exception of Joseph Autran, that oriental poet who refuses to quit his native region because he prefers his natural elements to glory, I knew but few persons at Marseilles. I wished to make no acquaintances and sought isolation and leisure, leisure and study. I wrote the history of one revolution, without a suspicion that the spirit of another convulsion looked over my shoulder, hurrying me from the half finished page, to participate not with the pen, but manually, in another of the great Dramas of France.

"Marseilles is however hospitable as its sea, its port, and its climate. A beautiful nature there expands the heart. Where heaven smiles man also is tempted to be mirthful. Scarcely had I fixed myself in the faubourg, when the men of letters, of politics,—the merchants who had proposed great objects to themselves, and who entertained extended views; the youth, in the ears of whom yet dwelt the echoes of my old poems; the men who lived by the labor of their own hands, many of whom however write, study, sing, and make verses, come to my retreat, bringing with them, however, that delicate reserve which is the modesty and grace of hospitality. I received pleasure without any annoyances from this hospitality and attention. I devoted my mornings to study, my days to solitude and to the sea, my evenings to a small number of unknown friends, who came from the city to speak to me of travels, literature, and commerce.

"Commerce at Marseilles is not a matter of paltry traffic, or trifling parsimony and retrenchments of capital. Marseilles looks on all questions of commerce as a dilation and expansion of French capital, and of the raw material exported and imported from Europe and Asia. Commerce at Marseilles is a lucrative diplomacy, at the same time, both local and national. Patriotism animates its enterprises, honor floats with its flag, and policy presides over every departure. Their commerce is one eternal battle, waged on the ocean at their own peril and risk, with those rivals who contend with France for Asia and Africa, and for the purpose of extending the French name and fame over the opposite continents which touch on the Mediterranean.

"One Sunday, after a long excursion on the sea with Madame Lamartine, we were told that a woman, modest and timid in her deportment, had come in the diligence from Aix to Marseilles, and for four or five hours had been waiting for us in a little orange grove next between the villa and the garden. I suffered my wife to go into the house, and passed myself into the orange grove to receive the stranger. I had no acquaintance with any one at Aix, and was utterly ignorant of the motive which could have induced my visitor to wait so long and so patiently for me.

"When I went into the orange grove, I saw a woman still youthful, of about thirty-six or forty years of age. She wore a working-dress which betokened little ease and less luxury, a robe of striped Indienne, discolored and faded; a cotton handkerchief on her neck, her black hair neatly braided, but like her shoes, somewhat soiled by the dust of the road. Her features were fine and graceful, with that mild and docile Asiatic expression, which renders any muscular tension impossible, and gives utterance only to inspiring and attractive candor. Her mouth was possibly a line too large, and her brow was unwrinkled as that of a child. The lower part of her face was very full, and was joined by full undulations, altogether feminine however in their character, to a throat which was large and somewhat distended at the middle, like that of the old Greek statues. Her glance had the expression of the moonlight of her country rather than of its sun. It was the expression of timidity mingled with confidence in the indulgence of another, emanating from a forgetfulness of her own nature. In fine, it was the image of good-feeling, impressed as well on her air as on her heart, and which seem confident that others are like her. It was evident that this woman, who was yet so agreeable, must in her youth have been most attractive. She yet had what the people (the language of which is so expressive) call the seed of beauty, that prestige, that ray, that star, that essence, that indescribable something, which attracts, charms, and enslaves us. When she saw me, her embarrassment and blushes enabled me to contemplate her calmly and to feel myself at once at ease with her. I begged her to sit down at once on an orange-box over which was thrown a Syrian mat, and to encourage her sat down in front of her. Her blushes continued to increase, and she passed her dimpled but rather large hand more than once over her eyes. She did not know how to begin nor what to say. I sought to give her confidence, and by one or two questions assisted her in opening the conversation she seemed both to wish for and to fear."

[This girl is Reine-Garde, a peasant woman, attracted by a passionate love of his poetry to visit Lamartine. She unfolds to him much that is exquisitely reproduced in Genevieve. The romance bids fair to be one of the most interesting this author has yet produced.]

"Madame ——," said I to her. She blushed yet more.

"I have no husband, Monsieur. I am an unmarried woman."

"Ah! Mlle, will you be pleased to tell me why you have come so far, and why you waited so long to speak with me? Can I be useful to you in any manner? Have you any letter to give me from any one in your neighborhood?"

"Ah, Monsieur, I have no letter, I have nothing to ask of you, and the last thing in the world that I should have done, would have been to get a letter from any of the gentlemen in my neighborhood to you. I would not even have suffered them to know that I came to Marseilles to see you. They would have thought me a vain creature, who sought to magnify her importance by visiting people who are so famous. Ah, that would never do!"

"What then do you wish to say?"

"Nothing, Monsieur."

"How can that be? You should not for nothing have wasted two days in coming from Aix to Marseilles, and should not have waited for me here until sunset, when to-morrow you must return home."

"It is, however, true, Monsieur. I know you will think me very foolish, but ... I have nothing to tell you, and not for a fortune would I consent that people at Aix should know whither I am gone."

"Something however induced you to come—you are not one of those triflers who go hither and thither without a motive. I think you are intellectual and intelligent. Reflect. What induced you to take a place in the diligence and come to see me? Eh!"

"Well, sir," said she, passing her hands over her cheeks as if to wipe away all blushes and embarrassment, and at the same time pushing her long black curls, moist as they were with perspiration, beyond her ears, "I had an idea which permitted me neither to sleep by day nor night; I said to myself, Reine, you must be satisfied. You must say nothing to any one. You must shut up your shop on Saturday night as you are in the habit of doing. You must take a place in the night diligence and go on Sunday to Marseilles. You will go to see that gentleman, and on Monday morning you can again be at work. All will then be over and for once in your life you will have been satisfied without your neighbors having once fancied for a moment that you have passed the limits of the street in which you live."

"Why, however, did you wish so much to see me? How did you even know that I was here?"

"Thus, Monsieur: a person came to Aix who was very kind to me, for I am the dressmaker of his daughters, having previously been a servant in his mother's country-house. The family has always been kind and attentive, because in Provence, the nobles do not despise the peasants. Ah! it is far otherwise—some are lofty and others humble, but their hearts are all alike. Monsieur and the young ladies knew how I loved to read, and that I am unable to buy books and newspapers. They sometimes lent books to me, when they saw anything which they fancied would interest me, such as fashion plates, engravings of ladies' bonnets, interesting stories, like that of Reboul, the baker of Nimes, Jasmin, the hairdresser of Agen, or Monsieur, the history of your own life. They know, Monsieur, that above all things I love poetry, especially that which brings tears into the eyes."

"Ah, I know," said I with a smile, "you are poetical as the winds which sigh amid your olive-groves, or the dews which drip from your fig trees."

"No, Monsieur, I am only a mantua-maker—a poor seamstress in ... street, in Aix, the name of which I am almost ashamed to tell you. I am no finer lady than was my mother. Once I was servant and nurse in the house of M.... Ah! they were good people and treated me always as if I belonged to the family. I too thought I did. My health however, obliged me to leave them and establish myself as a mantua-maker, in one room, with no companion but a goldfinch. That, however, is not the question you asked me,—why I have come hither? I will tell you."

Truth is altogether ineffably, holily beautiful. Beauty has always truth in it, but seldom unadulterated.

The poet's soul should be like the ocean, able to carry navies, yet yielding to the touch of a finger.

Original Poetry

AZELA

BY MISS ALICE CAREY

From the pale, broken ruins of the heart, The soul's bright wing, uplifted silently, Sweeps thro' the steadfast depths of the mind's heaven, Like the fixed splendor of the morning star— Nearer and nearer to the wasteless flame That in the centres of the universe Burns through the o'erlapping centuries of time. And shall it stagger midway on its path, And sink its radiance low as the dull dust, For the death-flutter of a fledgling hope? Or, with the headlong phrensy of a fiend, Front the keen arrows of Love's sunken sun, For that, with nearer vision it discerns What in the distance like ripe roses seemed Crimsoning with odorous beauty the gray rocks Are the red lights of wreckers! Just as well The obstinate traveler might in pride oppose His puny shoulder to the icy slip Of the blind avalanche, and hope for life; Or Beauty press her forehead in the grave, And think to rise as from the bridal bed. But let the soul resolve its course shall be Onward and upward, and the walls of pain May build themselves about it as they will, Yet leave it all-sufficient to itself. How like the very truth a lie may seem!— Led by that bright curse, Genius, some have gone On the broad wake of visions wonderful And seemed, to the dull mortals far below, Unraveling the web of fate, at will. And leaning on their own creative power, As on the confident arm of buoyant Love. But from the climbing of their wildering way Many have faltered, fallen,—some have died, Still wooing from across the lapse of years The faded splendour of a morning dream, And feeding sorrow with remembered smiles. Love, that pale passion-flower of the heart, Nursed into bloom and beauty by a breath, With the resplendence of its broken light, Even on the outposts of mortality, Dims the still watchfires of the waiting soul. O, tender-visaged Pity, stoop from heaven, And from the much-loved bosom of the past Draw back the nestling hand of Memory, Though it be quivering and pale with pain; And with the dead dust of departed Hope Choke up and wither into barrenness The sweetest fountain of the human heart, And stay its channels everlastingly From the endeavor of the loftier soul. Nay, 'twere a task outbalancing thy power, Nor can the almost-omnipotence of mind Away from aching bind the bleeding heart, Or keep at will its mighty sorrow down. And, were the white flames of the world below Binding my forehead with undying pain, The lily crowns of heaven I would put back, If thou wert there, lost light of my young dream!— Hope, opening with the faint flowers of the wood, Bloomed crimson with the summer's heavy kiss, But autumn's dim feet left it in the dust, And like tired reapers my lorn thoughts went down To the gloom-harvest of a hopeless love, For past all thought I loved thee: Listening close From the soft hour when twilight's rosy hedge Sprang from the fires of sunset, till deep night Swept with her cloud of stars the face of heaven, For the quick music, from the pavement rung Where beat the impatient hoof-strokes of the steed, Whose mane of silver, like a wave of light, Bathed the caressing hand I pined to clasp! It is as if a song-lark, towering high In pride of place, should stoop her sun-bathed wing, Low as the poor hum of the grasshopper. I scorn thee not, old man; no haunting ghost Born of the darkness of thy perjury Crosses the white tent of my dreaming now But for myself, that I should so have loved!— The sweet folds of that blessed charity, Pure as the cold veins of Pentelicus, Were all too narrow now to hide away One burning spot of shame—the wretched price Of proving traitor to the wondrous star That with a cloud of splendor wraps my way. And yet, from the bright wine-cup of my life, The rosy vintage, bubbling to the brim, Thou With a passionate lip didst drain away And to God's sweet gift—human sympathy— Making my bosom dumb as the dark grave, Didst leave me drifting on the waste of life, A fruitless pillar of the desert dust; For, from the ashes of a ruined hope There springs no life but an unwearied woe That feeding upon sunken lip and cheek Pushes its victims from mortality. Vainly the light rain of the summer time Waters the dead limbs of the blasted oak. Love is the worker of all miracles; And if within some cold and sunless cave Thou hadst lain lost and dying, prompted not My feet had struck that pathway, and I could, With the neglected sunshine of my hair, Have clasped thee from the hungry jaws of Death, And on my heart, as on a wave of light Have lulled thee to the beauty of soft dreams. Weak, weak imagination! be dissolved Like a chance snowflake in a sea of fire. Let the poor-spirited children of Despair Hang on the sepulchre of buried Hope The fadeless garlands of undying song. Though such gift turned on its pearly hinge Sweet Mercy's gate, I would not so debase me. Shut out from heaven, I, by the arch-fiend's wing, As by a star, would move, and radiantly Go down to sleep in Fame's bright arms the while Hard by, her handmaids, the still centuries Lilies and sunshine braided for my brow. Angel of Darkness, give, O give me hate For the blind weakness of my passionate love! And if thou knowest sweet pity, stretch thy wing, Spotted with sin and seamed with veins of fire, Between the gate of heaven and my life's prayer. For loving, thou didst leave me; and, for that The lowly straw-roof of a peasant's shed Sheltered my cradle slumbers, and that Morn, Clasping about my neck her dewy arms, Drew to the mountains my unfashioned youth, Where sunbeams built bright arches, and the wind Winnowed the roses down about my feet And as their drift of leaves my bosom was, Till the cursed hour, when pride was pillowed there, Crimsoned its beauty with the fires of hell. God hide from me the time when first I knew Thy shame to call a low-born maiden, Bride! Methinks I could have lifted my pale hands Though bandaged back with grave-clothes, in that hour To cover my hot forehead from thy kiss. For the heart strengthens when its food is truth, And o'er the passion-shaken bosom, trail And burn the lightnings of its love-lit fires Like a bright banner streaming on the storm. The day was almost over; on the hills The parting light was flitting like a ghost, And like a trembling lover eve's sweet star, In the dim leafy reach of the thick woods, Stood gazing in the blue eyes of the night. But not the beauty of the place nor hour Moved my wild heart with tempests of such bliss As shake the bosom of a god, new-winged, When first in his blue pathway up the skies He feels the embrace of immortality. A little moment, and the world was changed— Truth, like a planet striking through the dark, Shone cold and clear, and I was what I am, Listening along the wilderness of life For faint echoes of lost melody. The moonlight gather'd itself back from me And slanted its pale pinions to the dust. The drowsy gust, bedded in luscious blooms, Startled, as 'twere at the death-throes of peace, Down through the darkness moaningly fled off. O mournful Past! how thou dost cling and cling— Like a forsaken maiden to false hope— To the tired bosom of the living hour, Which, from thy weak embrace, the future time Jocundly beckons with a roseate hand. And, round about me honeyed memories drift From the fair eminences of young hope, Like flowers blown down the hills of Paradise, By some soft wave of golden harmony, Until the glorious smile of summers gone Lights the dull offing of the sea of Death. And though no friend nor brother ever made My soul the burden of one prayer to Heaven, I dread to go alone into the grave, And fold my cold arms emptily away From the bright shadow of such loveliness. Can the dull mist where swart October hides His wrinkled front and tawny cheek, wind-shorn, Be sprinkled with the orange fire that binds Away from her soft lap o'erbrimmed with flowers, The dew-wet tresses of the virgin May? Or can the heart just sunken from the day Feed on the beauty of the noontide smile?— O it is well life's fair things fade so soon, Else we could never take our clinging hands From Beauty's nestling bosom—never put The red wine of love's kisses sternly back, And feel the dull dust sitting on our lips Until the very grass grew over us. O it is well! else for this beautiful life Our overtempted hearts would sell away The shining coronals of Paradise. In the gray branches of the oaks, starlit, I hear the heavy murmurs of the winds, Like the low plains of evil witches, held By drear enchantments from their demon loves. Another night-time, and I shall have found A refuge from their mournful prophecies. Come, dear one, from my forehead smooth away Those long and heavy tresses, still as bright As when they lay 'neath the caressing hand That unto death betrayed me. Nay, 'tis well! I pray you do not weep; or soon or late, Were this sad doom unsaid, their light had filled The empty bosom of the waiting grave. There, now I think I have no further need— For unto all at last there comes a time When no sweet care can do us any good! Not in my life that I remember of, Could my neglect have injured any one, And if I have by my officious love, Thrown harmful shadows in the way of some, Be piteous to my natural weakness, friends: I never shall offend you any more! And now, most melancholy messenger, Touch my eyes gently with Sleep's heavy dew. I have no wish to struggle from thy arms, Nor is there any hand would hold me back. To die, is but the common heritage; But to unloose the clasp that to the heart Folds the dear dream of love, is terrible— To see the wildering visions fade away, As the bright petals of the young June rose Shook by some sudden tempest. On the grave Light from the open sepulchre is laid, And Faith leans yearningly away to heaven, But life hath glooms wherein no light may come! The night methinks is dismal, yet I see Over yon hill one bright and steady star Divide the darkness with its fiery wedge, And sprinkle glory on the lap of earth. Even so, above the still homes of the dead The benedictions of the living lie. Gatherers of waifs of beauty are we here, Building up homes of love for alien hearts That hate us for our trouble. When we see The tempest hiding from us the sun's face, About our naked souls we build a wall Of unsubstantial shadows, and sit down Hugging false peace upon the edge of doom. From the voluptuous lap of time that is, Like a sick child from a kind nurse's arms, We lean away, and long for the far off. And when our feet through weariness and toll Have gained the heights that showed so brightly well, Our blind and dizzied vision sees too late The cool broad shadows trailing at the base. And then our wasted arms let slip the flowers, And our pained bosoms wrinkle from the fair And smooth proportions of our primal years, And so our sun goes down, and wistful death Withdraws love's last delusion from our hearts, And mates us with the darkness. Well, 'tis well!