SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE.
Reading edition
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
“Among the writers who have done much to refine and elevate American literature, Thomas Bailey Aldrich should have the brightest place of one who has wrought equally well in prose and poetry. Among his early efforts ‘Baby Bell’ will longest hold its place in poetry.”—Henry James, Jr.
It is the vision of a gentle, tender spirit, and many eyes unused to tears will grow moist over the delicate lines. We have not room for the whole.
“Baby Bell.”
Have you not heard the poets tell, How came the dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar; With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even— Its bridges, running to and fro, O’er which the white-winged angels go, Bearing the holy dead to heaven. She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet, So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels. They fell like dew upon the flowers; Then all the air grew strangely sweet! And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours. … O, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes; What poetry within them lay! Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright, As if she yet stood in the light, Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more; Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born; We felt we had a link between This real world and that unseen— The land beyond the morn. And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth (The mother’s being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise), For love of Him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, Dear Christ! our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. … It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow ere it fell— The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, “O, smite us gently, gently, God! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, And perfect grow through grief.” Ah, how we loved her, God can tell; Her heart was folded deep in ours; Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell! At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands; And what did dainty Baby Bell? She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair; We parted back her silken hair, We wove the roses round her brow— White buds, the summer’s drifted snow— Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of ours.
Some of Aldrich’s descriptions of oriental scenery are richer in color and more luxurious, but he is more at home and more captivating with familiar themes drawn from every day life. We are charmed with such simple pictures as
“Before the Rain.”
We knew it would rain, for all the morn A spirit on slender ropes of mist Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens, Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, Dipping the jewels out of the sea, To sprinkle them over the land in showers. We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind—and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain.
BAYARD TAYLOR.
North from Jerusalem.
We left Jerusalem by the Jaffa Gate. Not far from the city wall there is a superb terebinth tree, now in the full glory of its shining green leaves. It appears to be bathed in a perpetual dew; the rounded masses of foliage sparkle and glitter in the light, and the great spreading boughs flood the turf below with a deluge of delicious shade. A number of persons were reclining on the grass under it, and one of them, a very handsome Christian boy, spoke to us in Italian and English. I scarcely remember a brighter and purer day than that of our departure. The sky was a sheet of spotless blue; every rift and scar of the distant hills was retouched with a firmer pencil, and all the outlines, blurred away by the haze of the previous few days, were restored with wonderful distinctness. The temperature was hot, but not sultry, and the air we breathed was an elixir of immortality.
Through a luxuriated olive grove we reached the Tombs of the Kings, situated in a small valley to the north of the city. Part of the valley, if not the whole of it, has been formed by quarrying away the crags of marble and conglomerate limestone for building the city. Near the edge of the low cliffs overhanging it, there are some illustrations of the ancient mode of cutting stone, which, as well as the custom of excavating tombs in the rocks, was evidently borrowed from Egypt. The upper surface of the rocks was first made smooth, after which the blocks were mapped out and cut apart by grooves chiseled between them. I visited four or five tombs, each of which had a sort of vestibule or open portico in front. The door was low, and the chambers which I entered, small and black, without sculptures of any kind. There were fragments of sarcophagi in some of them. On the southern side of the valley is a large quarry, evidently worked for marble, as the blocks have been cut out from below, leaving a large overhanging mass, part of which has broken off and fallen down. The opening of the quarry made a striking picture, the soft pink hue of the weather-stained rock contrasting exquisitely with the vivid green of the vines festooning the entrance.
From the long hill beyond the tombs, we took our last view of Jerusalem, far beyond whose walls I saw the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. Notwithstanding its sanctity, I felt little regret at leaving Jerusalem, and cheerfully took the rough road northward over the stony hills. There were few habitations in sight, yet the hillsides were cultivated, wherever it was possible for anything to grow. After four hours’ ride we reached El Bireh, a little village on a hill, with the ruins of a convent and a large Khan. The place takes its name from a fountain of excellent water, beside which we found our tents already pitched. The night was calm and cool, and the full moon poured a flood of light over the bare and silent hills.
We rose long before sunrise and rode off in the brilliant morning—the sky unstained by a speck of vapor. In the valley, beyond El Bireh, the husbandmen were already at their plows, and the village boys were on their way to the uncultured parts of the hills with their flocks of sheep and goats. The valley terminated in a deep gorge, with perpendicular walls of rock on either side. Our road mounted the hill on the eastern side, and followed the brink of the precipice through the pass, where an enchanting landscape opened upon us.
The village of Zebroud crowned a hill which rose opposite, and the mountain slopes leaning toward it on all sides were covered with orchards of fig trees, and either rustling with wheat or cleanly plowed for maize. The soil was a dark brown loam, and very rich. The stones have been laboriously built into terraces; and, even where heavy rocky boulders almost hid the soil, young fig and olive trees were planted in the crevices between them. I have never seen more thorough and patient cultivation. In the crystal of the morning air the very hills laughed with plenty, and the whole landscape beamed with the signs of gladness on its countenance.
The site of ancient Bethel was not far to the right of our road. Over hills laden with the olive, fig and vine, we passed to Aian el Haramiyeh, or the fountain of the robbers. Here there are tombs cut in the rock on both sides of the valley. Over another ridge, we descend to a large, bowl-shaped valley, entirely covered with wheat, and opening eastward toward the Jordan. Thence to Nablous (the Shechem of the Old and Sychar of the New Testament) is four hours through a winding dell of the richest harvest land. On the way, we first caught sight of the snowy top of Mount Hermon, distant at least eighty miles in a straight line. Before reaching Nablous, I stopped to drink at a fountain of clear sweet water, beside a square pile of masonry, upon which sat two Moslem dervishes. This, we were told, was the tomb of Joseph, whose body, after having accompanied the Israelites in all their wanderings, was at last deposited near Shechem.
There is less reason to doubt this spot than most of the sacred places of Palestine, for the reason that it rests not on Christian, but on Jewish tradition. The wonderful tenacity with which the Jews cling to every record or memento of their early history, and the fact that from the time of Joseph a portion of them have always lingered near the spot, render it highly probable that the locality of a spot so sacred should have been preserved from generation to generation to the present time.
Leaving the tomb of Joseph, the road turned to the west and entered the narrow pass between Mounts Ebal and Gerizim. The former is a steep, barren peak, clothed with terraces of cactus, standing on the northern side of the pass. Mount Gerizim is cultivated nearly to the top, and is truly a mountain of blessing, compared with its neighbors. Through an orchard of grand old olive trees, we reached Nablous, which presented a charming picture, with its long mass of white, dome-topped stone houses, stretching along the foot of Gerizim through a sea of bowery orchards. The bottom of the valley resembles some old garden run to waste.
CELIA THAXTER.
Her home is by the sea, and she gives us some vivid glimpses of ocean scenes. Occasionally a joyous phrase is delicately presented, but the prevailing tone of her verse, on whatever subject, is in the minor. Perhaps “Beethoven” shows most imagination and insight, as well as felicity of expression.
Beethoven.
If God speaks anywhere, in any voice, To us his creatures, surely here and now We hear him, while the great chords seem to bow Our heads, and all the symphony’s breathless noise Breaks over us, with challenge to our souls! Beethoven’s music! From the mountain peaks The strong, divine, compelling thunder rolls; And “Come up higher, come!” the words it speaks, “Out of your darkened valleys of despair; Behold, I lift you upon mighty wings Into Hope’s living, reconciling air! Breathe, and forget your life’s perpetual stings— Dream, folded on the breast of Patience sweet, Some pulse of pitying love for you may beat!”
Faith.
Fain would I hold my lamp of life aloft Like yonder tower built high above the reef; Steadfast, though tempests rave or winds blow soft, Clear, though the sky dissolve in tears of grief. For darkness passes; storms shall not abide, A little patience and the fog is past. After the sorrow of the ebbing tide The singing flood returns in joy at last. The night is long and pain weighs heavily; But God will hold His world above despair. Look to the east, where up the lucid sky The morning climbs! The day shall yet be fair!
The Sandpiper.
Across the narrow beach we flit, One little sandpiper and I; And fast I gather, bit by bit, The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. The wild waves reach their hands for it, The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, As up and down the beach we flit— One little sandpiper and I. Above our heads the sullen clouds Scud black and swift across the sky, Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds Stand out the white light-houses high. Almost as far as eye can reach I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach— One little sandpiper and I. I watch him as he skims along, Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; He starts not at my fitful song, Or flash of fluttering drapery; He has no thought of any wrong, He scans me with a fearless eye. Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, The little sandpiper and I. Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night When the loosed storm breaks furiously? My driftwood fire will burn so bright! To what warm shelter canst thou fly? I do not fear for thee, though wroth The tempest rushes through the sky; For are we not God’s children both, Thou, little sandpiper and I?
