Gifts of Genius Part 1

Gifts of Genius.

by Various.

TO THE PUBLIC.

At the desire of MISS DAVENPORT, for whose benefit this collection of original Miscellanies by American authors has been made, I write this brief Preface, without having had time to read the contributions which it is designed to introduce. The names of the writers, however, many of which are among the most distinguished in our literature, and are honored wherever our language is spoken, will suffice to recommend the volume to the attention of the reading world.

If this were not enough, an inducement of another kind is to be found in the circ.u.mstances of the lady in whose behalf the contents of this volume have been so freely contributed. A few years since, she was a teacher in our schools, active, useful, and esteemed for her skillful communication of knowledge. At that time it was one of her favorite occupations to make sketches and drawings from nature, an art in which she instructed her pupils. A severe illness interrupted her duties, during which her sight became impaired, and finally lost. A kind of twilight came over it, which gradually darkened into utter night, shutting out the face of nature in which she had so much delighted, and leaving her, without occupation, in ill health. In this condition she has already remained for five years.

To this statement of her misfortunes, which I trust will commend her to the sympathies of all who are made acquainted with them, as one who was useful to society while Providence permitted, I have only to add the expression of her warmest thanks to those who have generously furnished the contents of the volume she now lays before the public.

W.C. BRYANT.

NEW YORK, _June, 1859_.

INTRODUCTORY.

This volume speaks so well for itself that it does not need many words of preface to commend it to a wide circle of readers. Its rich and varied contents, however, become far more interesting when interpreted by the motive that won them from their authors; and when the kindly feeling that offered them so freely is known, these gifts, like the pearls of a rosary, will be prized not only severally but collectively, because strung together by a sacred thread.

The story of this undertaking is a very short and simple one. Miss Davenport, who had been for many years an active and successful teacher in our schools and families, especially in the beautiful arts of drawing and painting, was prostrated by a severe illness, which impaired her sight and finally terminated in blindness.

The late Benjamin F. Butler, in a letter dated October 13, 1858, which will have peculiar interest to the many readers who knew and honored that excellent man, writes thus:

"Miss Davenport has for several years been personally known to me. She is now blind and unable to follow the calling by which, before this calamity befell her, she obtained her living. Having lost her parents in early life, and having few relatives, and none able to a.s.sist her, she is dependent for her support on such efforts as she is still capable of making. These, were she a person of common fort.i.tude, energy and hopefulness, would be very small, for to her great privation is added very imperfect general health. Yet she has struggled on in the hope of gaining such a competency as should ultimately secure 'a home that she may call her own.' I commend Miss Davenport to all who feel for the afflicted and who wish to do good."

The Rev. Dr. S. Storrs writes: "Miss Davenport is a Christian woman, of great excellence of character, and of many accomplishments, whom G.o.d in his providence has made totally blind within a few years past."

We need add but two remarks to these statements--one in reference to the volume itself, and the other in reference to her for whose welfare it is contributed.

The volume is one of the many proofs which have been gathering for years, of the alliance between literature and humanity. Every good and true word that has been written from the beginning has been a minister of mercy to every human heart which it has reached, whilst the mercy has been twice blessed when the word so benign in its result has been charitable in its intention, and the author at once yields his profits to a friend's need, and his production to the public eye. Thackeray has written well upon humor and charity, but should he undertake to carry out his idea and treat of literature and humanity in their vital relations, he would have his hands and heart full of work for more than a lifetime. Princes who give their gold to generous uses are worthy of honor; but there is a coinage of the brain that costs more and weighs more than gold. The authors of these papers would of course be little disposed to claim any high merit for their offerings, yet any reader who runs his eye over the list of contributors will see at once that they are generally writers whose compositions are eagerly sought for by the public, and among them are some names whose pens can coin gold whenever they choose to move. All these articles are original, and nothing is inserted in this book that has been before published. We are confident that it deserves, and will command wide and choice circulation.

A word as to the lady for whose benefit these gifts are brought together.

The preface of Mr. Bryant and the letter of Mr. Butler, tell her story with sufficient distinctness, and the readiness with which our men and women of letters have so generally complied with her request, shows what eloquence she bears in her presence and statement. Some certificates from her pupils in drawing, who testify to her love of nature and her delight in sketching directly from nature, so greatly to their improvement in this beautiful art, give peculiar pathos to her case. The organ that was the source of her highest satisfaction is closed up by this dark sorrow, and the gate called Beautiful, to this earthly temple no longer is open to scenes and faces of loveliness. What a fearful loss is this loss of sight--on the whole the n.o.blest of the senses, and certainly the sense of all others most serviceable, alike to the working hand and the creative imagination. The eye may not be so near the fountains of sensibility as the ear, and no impression reaches the sympathy so profoundly as the pathos of living speech, but the eye has a far wider range than the ear and fathoms the heavens and sweeps the earth and sea, whilst the ear hears distinctly but within a very narrow limit, hardly a stone's throw. When the eye, then, loses its marvellous faculty and sees no longer the light of day and the countenances of friends, let the ear do what it can to make up for the loss by every cheering word of sympathy and hope. In G.o.d's Providence there is a principle of compensation that aims to balance every privation by some new privilege, as for instance by giving new acuteness to the senses which are called to do the work of the senses lost. But genial humanity is the great principle of compensation, and by this G.o.d's children glorify the Father in Heaven. May this volume serve his merciful will, and may the light shed from the stars of our literary firmament do something to lessen the night upon every dark path.

S.O.

GIFTS OF GENIUS.

OUT AT ELBOWS.

THE STORY OF ST. GEORGE CLEAVE.

BY JOHN ESTEN COOKE, OF VIRGINIA.

I.

How good a thing it is to live! The morn is full of music; and Annie is singing in the hall!

The sun falls with a tranquil glory on the fields and forests, burning with the golden splendors of the autumn--the variegated leaves of the mighty oaks are draped about the ancient gables, like a trophy of banners.

The landscape sleeps; all the world smiles--shall not I?

I sat up late last night at my accounts; to-day I will take a holiday. The squire has bidden me good morning in his courteous, good-humored way, and gone in his carriage to attend a meeting of his brother magistrates:--I am away for the time from my noisy courts--the domain is mine--all the world is still!

No;--Annie is singing in the hall.

She sings to herself, I think, this autumn morning, and would not like to be interrupted. I will therefore take a ramble--and you shall accompany me, O friend of my youth, far away in distant lands, but beside me still!

Whither shall we go? It is hard to decide, for all the world is lovely.

Shall we go to my favorite woodland? It skirts the river, and I love the river; so we pa.s.s into the forest.

How regal is the time of the fall of the leaves! A thousand brilliant colors charm the eyes--the eyes of their faithful lovers. How the mighty oaks reach out their knotty, muscular arms to welcome us!--how their ponderous shoulders bear aloft the imperial trappings--trappings of silk and velvet, all orange, blue, and purple! The haughty pines stand up like warriors--or call them spears of nordland heroes, holding on their summits emerald banners! The tulip-trees are lovely queens with flowers in their hair, who bend and welcome you with gracious murmurs; the slender elms sway to and fro, like fairest maidens of the royal blood; and sigh, and smile, and whisper, full of the charming grace of youth, and tenderness, and beauty.

I salute my n.o.blemen, and queens, and princesses; they bow in return to me, their king. Let us wander on.

--Ah! that is well; my river view! Of all my broad domain, I think I like this part the best. Is it not beautiful? That clump of dogwood, however, obstructs the view somewhat; I must cut it down. Let us move a little to the right. Ah! there it is! See my lovely river; surely you must admire my swan-like s.h.i.+ps, flying, with snowy canva.s.s spread, before the fresh breeze. And see that schooner breaking the little waves into foam. Is that a telescope which the captain of my vessel points toward us? He salutes me, does he not? But I fear the distance is too great; he could hardly recognize me. Still I shall bow--let us not neglect the laws of courtesy.

My s.h.i.+p is sailing onward. In earlier days I had many barks which sailed from sh.o.r.e; they were freighted with the richest goods, and made me very anxious. So my argosies went sailing, but they never came again. One bore my poem, which I thought would make me very celebrated, but the s.h.i.+p was lost. Another was to bring me back a cargo of such beautiful things--things which make life delightful to so many!--pearls, and silks, and wines, and gold-laced suits--garters, rosettes, and slips of ribbon to be worn at the b.u.t.ton-hole. This, too, was lost, and yet it did not grieve me much. The third caused me more regret; I do not think I have yet wholly recovered from its loss. It bore a maiden with sunny hair, and the tenderest, sweetest eyes! She said she loved me--yes a thousand times! and I--I loved her long and dearly. But the s.h.i.+p in which she sailed went down--the strong, good s.h.i.+p, as I regarded it. She died thus,--did she not?--or is it true that she was married to a richer suitor far away from me in foreign lands?... These are foolish tears--let me not think of her with want of charity; she was only a woman, and we men are often very weak. ONE over all, is alone great and good. So, beautiful s.h.i.+p!--I say--that sailed across my path in youth, sail on in peace and happiness! A lonely bark, lonely but not unhappy, sees you, on the distant, happy seas, and the pennon floats from the peak in amicable greeting and salute. Hail and farewell! Heaven send the s.h.i.+p a happy voyage, and a welcome home!

This little soliloquy perhaps wearies you; it is ended. Let us sail for an hour or so on the silver wave; my new pleasure-boat is rocking here beneath in the shadow of the oak. She is built for speed. See how gracefully she falls and rises, like a variegated leaf upon the waves--how the slender prow curves upward--how the gaily-colored sides are mirrored in the limpid surface of the joyous stream! Come, let us step into the little craft, and unfurl the snowy sail.... How provoking! I have left my boat key at the hall; another day we will sail. Let us stroll back to the good old house again.

Are not my fields pleasant to behold? They are bringing in my wheat, which stretches, you perceive, throughout the low-grounds there, in neatly arranged shocks. My crops this year are excellent--my servants enjoy this season, and its occupations. They will soon sing their echoing "harvest home"--and over them at their joyous labor will s.h.i.+ne the "harvest-moon,"

lighting up field and forest, hill and dale--the whole "broad domain and the hall." The affection of my servants is grateful to me. Here comes Cato, with his team of patient oxen, and there goes Caesar, leading my favorite racehorse down to water. Cato, Caesar, and I, respectively salute each other in the kindest way. I think they are attached to me. Faithful fellows! I shall never part with them. I think I will give this coat to Caesar; but, looking again, I perceive that his own is better. Besides, I must not be extravagant. The little money I make is required by another, and it would not be generous to buy a new coat for myself. This one which I wear will do well enough, will it not? I ask you with some diffidence, for 'tis sadly out at elbows, and the idea has occurred to me that the coolness and neglect of certain visitors to the hall, has been caused by my coat being shabby. Even Annie----, but I'll not speak of that this morning. 'Twas the hasty word which we all utter at times--'tis forgotten.

Still, I think, I will give you the incident some day, when we ramble, as now, in the fields.

From the fields we approach the honest old mansion, across the emerald-carpeted lawn. The birds are singing, around the sleepy-looking gables, and the toothless old hound comes wagging his tail, in sign of welcome.

'Tis plain that Milo has an honest heart. I think he's smiling.

II

My ancestors were gentlemen of considerable taste. I am glad they built me that wing for my books; my numerous children cannot disturb me when I am composing, either my speech to be delivered in the Senate, or my work which is destined to refute Sir William Hamilton.

Let us stroll in. A strain of tender music comes from the sitting-room, and I recognize the exquisite air of "Katharine Ogie" which Annie is singing. Let us look, nevertheless, at the pictures as we pa.s.s.

What a stately head my old grandfather had! He was president of the King's Council, a hundred years ago--a man of decided mark. He wears a long peruke descending in curls upon his shoulders--a gold-laced waistcoat--and snowy ruffles. His white hand is nearly covered with lace, and rests on a scroll of parchment. It looks like a Vand.y.k.e. He must have been a resolute old gentleman. How serene and calm is his look!--how firm are the finely chiselled lips! How proud and full of collected intelligence the erect head, and the broad white brow! He was a famous "macaroni," as they called it, in his youth--and cultivated an enormous crop of wild oats. But this all disappeared, and he became one of the st.u.r.diest patriots of the Revolution, and fought clear through the contest. Is it wrong to feel satisfaction at being descended from a worthy race of men--from a family of brave, truthful gentlemen? I think not. I trust I'm no absurd aristocrat--but I would rather be the grandson of a faithful common soldier than of General Benedict Arnold, the traitor. I would rather trace my lineage to the Chevalier Bayard, simple knight though he was, than to France's great Constable de Bourbon, the renegade.

So I am glad my stout grandfather was a brave and truthful gentleman--that grandma yonder, smiling opposite, was worthy to be his wife. I do not remember her, but she must have been a beauty. Her head is bent over one shoulder, and she has an exquisitely coquettish air. Her eyes are blue--her arms round, and as white as snow--and what lips! They are like carnations, and pout with a pretty smiling air, which must have made her dangerous. She rejected many wealthy offers to marry grandpa, who was then poor. As I gaze, it seems scarcely courteous to remain thus covered in presence of a lady so lovely. I take off my hat, and make my best bow, saluting my little grandmamma of "sweet seventeen," who smiles and seems graciously to bow in return.