of freedom, pursued my course. I laughed defiantly as the rain drops pelted my umbrella and the long grass draggled my short walking-dress. N'importe: for months I had been subject to the tender surveillance of a husband or brother; the former was now miles away, and the latter had just left me, from inability to proceed, and I almost exclaimed, with Adele, in my sensation of recovered liberty, "I am not married-I am not married to-day." My spirits, however, subsided a little as, having crossed the third very slippery stile, where the sticky mud almost pulled off my over-shoe, I noticed a herd of fine cattle a few feet from me, who seemed to observe my motions with suspicious intentness. However, there was the church a few hundred yards before me, a light wire fence only separated the gravecovered slope on which it stood from the field I was in.. Far into the night we sat and talked of strength of will than strength of body, and the many illustrious ones who, from time to he concluded to return and take a carriage, time, have visited, with deeper reverence urging me to do the same, as the rain was and simpler faith than "e'er Moslem turned now falling steadily and rapidly. But the to Mecca," this birth and burial-place of the church spire was already in sight, and I most illustrious of all, of him who towered longed for a stroll across those green fields; head and shoulders above all in genius, like so leaving me, with a protest at my impruSaul among his fellows. When at last our dence, he turned back, and, after watching weary heads were laid on snowy, sleep-invi-, him till the hedge hid him from view, I ting pillows, the busy brain refused to yield, leaped the stile, and, with a delicious sense to the gentle power of tired nature's sweet restorer, and the dawning day was peeping with half-closed eyelids through the grey curtains of morning before our own tired eyelids closed over tired eyes. The short season of forgetfulness was broken by the monotonous drip, drip, drip of the falling rain which announced to our eagerly expectant senses that marplot of all out-of-door sports in England-a rainy day. Too bad! Were we never to have one fair day for sight-seeing in this murky isle? It certainly was a "misty, moisty morning-the weather it was wet," if those three little letters, so combined, can express that concentration of saturating, all-pervading moisture which drips from every point and angle in sight, and seems to penetrate through every protection of gutta-percha, "water-proof," and flannel, and threaten a very softening of the bones. But we were too accustomed by this time to the eccentricities of this delightful climate to be dismayed, so dispatching a hasty breakfast, and fortifying with galoshes and umbrellas, we sallied forth, gallantly ig-walls of the old church, which now stood a noring the invitations of cabmen and flydrivers. In spite of mud and rain, we determined to approach the church by the most romantic route, and chose the riverside. Crossing the rapid waters of the Avon by one of those substantial, yet picturesque, bridges so common in England, we inquired of a woman on the other side if this path led across the meadows to the church. "Oh, yes," was the reply, "but you will find it very damp." Not discouraged by this, we hurried on by the green hedge-rows till a gate stopped our progress. Easily surmounting this difficulty, we crossed a field of fresh, waving grass, in whose damp greenness our feet sank ankle deep at every step, and reached a stile. Here the strength of my companion failed, he having risen the day before from a sick bed, more through Faster and faster down came the rain, but relieved of my fears, it could not damp the enthusiasm with which I gazed on the grey few yards from me, and thought with reverence of the noble dead lying around, and of him whose harp has thrilled the souls of thousands, and will stir thousands yet unborn; who, now "life's fitful fever o'er, sleeps well" beneath this sacred roof. Eagerly I pressed forward to ascend the little slope, but alas, “l'homme propose, le Dieu dispose." I stood still in dismay, for rolling at my feet were the turbid, rain-swollen waters of the Avon! One moment of discomfiture, and I turned cheerily to find the bridge, which, of course, crossed the stream somewhere near. Ah! who has not learned that disappointments "come not as single spies, but in battalions." A bridge there was some yards below, but beyond my reach, for a deep, ugly, and to me, impassible ditch crossed the meadow, and cut off my approach to it. In vain I called till I was hoarse to a but the fact of its being colored and round, wagoner driving his team slowly along the full and life-like, disenchants the visitor, who road on the other side. The roaring of a has formed his idea of the great poet from mill near the bridge kept him from hearing the pale marble casts, with broad, spiritume. In vain I waved my handkerchief to a elle brows, and long, pointed, knightly busy angler sitting on the river bank far Beard-all far-removed copies of this same above me. He was either too much inter-bust, but the likeness gradually filtered out ested in his occupation, or too ungallant, (I | of them by passing through so many heads was spiteful enough to think the latter,) to notice my signal of distress. To aggravate my grievances, I saw a fly at the churchyard gate deposit my companion at the head of the avenue of noble elms, and as he sauntered slowly to the church door he nodded and beckoned me to come on, quite unconscious that I could not come. I saw him lift his hat and reverently enter the door, and my last hope was gone. I turned to retrace my steps through the beating rain, cold, wet, discouraged. I spare the sympathetic reader a detailed account of my walk back. How long that mile through the soaking meadows seemed-how closely the whole herd of cattle had gathered to the very stile I had to cross-how inquisitively they stared at me as I stooped to recover a lost over-shoe, convincing me that there is no clause in the cows' code of etiquette impressing on the vaccine mind the important truth that it is exceedingly impolite (not to say cruel) to stare at strangers. At last I reached the inn, was refreshed by a glass of wine and a biscuit, and, without waiting to dry feet or clothes, proceeded in a carriage to the church. As my companion met me at the porch I humbly said: "Peccavi, I'll always follow your advice strange, glorious dreams, we turned from hereafter." He was too generous to utter even an "I told you so," but led me reverently under the massive arches of the dim old building, up the middle aisle into the chancel, and I stood, with hushed voice and fast beating heart, before the Tomb of Shakspeare. As I raised my eyes from the much-worn, rude stone at my feet, with its simple name and date, and that fierce inscription, " Cursed be he who moves these bones," &c., to the bust above it, shall I confess that my first feeling was one of disappointment. Can this ruddy, full face of the true John Bull type belong to that master-mind, before which the whole world has bowed in homage. The bust is said to be an exact likeness of the original; and hands, till merely an ideal is left. Now standing and studying the magnificent original, even the most careless reader of Shakspeare can soon discern in the full, lofty temple that "airiness of genius" (does not Coleridge so name it?) which could conceive even such a sprite as Ariel, or Puck, or the fairy grace of fair Titania; while in the deep blue eye lurks the humor to limn a Falstaff, half concealed under the exquisite tenderness from which alone could spring a Desdemona, Imogen, or Cordelia, while the sweet, ripe lips, half hidden by the soft moustache, look as if they were yet tasting the love upwelling from the passion-freighted heart of Juliet. Is sadness the inevitable accompaniment of genius? We feel it is so, for this whole face wears the pitying, Godlike sympathy we might imagine stormed the poet's soul at the sorrows of “poor despised Lear." Oh, glorious art, that has thus preserved in everlasting marble the changing, speaking graces of that grand head and countenance to gladden and elevate the hearts of those who have learned like holy prayers the "words, words, words" which centuries ago the hand now dust set down to be the joy of all ages. Dreaming tomb and church, and sought our carriage, all the solemn scenery of church yard, river and distant fields dimmed by a mist which did not all come from the clouds. We were whirled through the muddy streets, the low quaint houses on either side looking as if they were going to let fall their projecting second stories upon us, and from every window, almost, busts of Shakspeare, in marble, in plaster, in clay, and in every other. imaginable material, looked out at us, all more or less like the one we had just left, till we came to that low, insignificont structure of rude logs and rough plaster in Henley street, beneath which humble roof the immortal bard drew the painful breath of this checkered life. But of this more anon. DUE FIDES. An occasional Poem, read before the Society of the Alumni of St. Charles College, Mo., 1860. If I could tell you some heroic story BY N. C. K. Of how a King in a far distant clime Had conquered mighty realms, and won such glory As shall outlast the monuments of time, Your hearts would not receive that song sublime With half the depth of feeling ye would know If I should say that at the vesper's chime, When the red sun was sinking large and slow, Your neighbor's child had died and filled his home with woe! Why if two stars, the largest worlds that race And hurl wild ruin o'er some unknown sky, But if two men, your friends tried, true as steel, Should meet upon your streets to-night and die Each by the other's hand, would you not feel A horror, grief and pain which time alone could heal? Most surely so 1-and why? Because the soul Is sun-like. From its central, silent deeps Flows the calm, clear intelligence; thence roll The pure, warm streams of feeling, and thence leaps The tiger, Passion; and all thro' it sweeps A universe of beautiful thoughts that take Their pilgrimage to Memory, that keeps A perfect record of the thoughts that make A soul's existence, as those thoughts to life awake. Hence, what your souls have loved, yourselyes, your friends, Your families, your country-what appears Involved with your life's being, strifes and ends What wings your hope, or agitates your fears, Or moves your eyes to gladness or to tears, Each thing that with your own quick spirit blends, Is more to you than distant fields of stars 1 The little, mighty chord, one's self, subtends Infinite arcs of thought and life that never ends. Then let the little space allotted to me Be free from other thoughts-now the large Earth Reels onward in the path of destiny, And what new theories have daily birthThese things dismiss :-They be of little worth: And let us now pursne some home-like themeAs far from cynic satire as from mirth For the great man saw that the earth was vile, And he prayed the Gods for a better life, While want of Faith in that terrible strife Had blinded his eyes to the Father's smile! But list with what anguish his spirit cried: "To raise up temples, or to push a war Through Macedonia to Barbarian lands? Or sweep Earth southwardly to where the sands Blaze 'neath the burning tropics like a star? "Or dine with Appicus on costly meat? Or clothe this frame with purple? or to bathe In cool and gurgling waters ? or to swathe Our brows with Bacchic wreathes against the heat? "Is there no nobler life than this, to lay Munificent Nature bound 'neath the control Of sensuous persons, while the orphaned soul Weeps for its promised good, and pines away? "Let the world rush on nameless ruin I-I Further he could not go:—within, without, Like shoreless space past a remotest star, But while his feet were planted on the Earth, And somewhere on the uttermost dim shore Brave, beautiful Plato!-Listen how he prays! A theme thro' which your own strong hearts may "O, rise, thou golden Æon!-let me see seem To hear their echoed wants like dreams within a dream! Back in the Past, three thousand years, More brightly still the mystery sublime O, brave enthusiast !-Listen to his dream!- 'On thoughts remotest verge came out like flame "Of Plato's coming Man! and taught mankind "Truth, first-born of belief the pure, the blest- Thus Plato dreamed dreams beautiful and grand, And all the while, With a scornful smile, The men of the world mocked the brave old man. Everything good I would get if I could, To a world's bright throne; "Let him dream," said one. What care I for father or mother- O, I'd wear on my heart the worm of the Nile, And toil like a slave From my birth to my grave, "Let him dream," cried one. Let my soul fall like a leaf on a stream Bring a royal feast-bring wine-bring girls! Let me never sigh. Let my soul as a ship driven on O'er a crystal sea 'neath a summer sun, Rock on pleasure's eddies and whirls, Till the battle of life is lost and won." "Let him dream," cried all. Like a maniac star 'mid the stars! All that makes or mars The life of a man is the man's own doing. Let us work in the world and make it better- And work our destiny out And not like Plato be praying and suing Let us make the most of this life that we can- And the fine-spun thoughts of this crazy old man? "Acting is better than thinking— A thirsty man had better be drinking "Can his faith build up Athens, or make Can it conquer the tribes in the north, or take Or what good thing, if true, does it yield? The gospel of liberty." But Plato died! All spiritual life Seemed dead with him and in his tomb inurned. The tides of being foamed, and shrieked, and burned Five centuries of shame, and grief, and glory Utilitarianism, the hard creed Of temporal, earthly uses, had controlled The mind and heart of man, and made them bleed, Since then long centuries have passed, and earth To demon theories which sought to bind The soul to creeds and systems that decried denied. But like a hell of angry dreams that drive Thus from the earliest annals of mankind, Two creeds, two faiths, have swayed the human mind: One learns what is, and what its uses are- That other faith which floated in thought's skies, Earth's battle-fields of strife, and toil, and pain. But of intense reality and power. It marks the spirit's doing hour by hour, Now, through a blatant land, From where the Atlantic surges break in thunder To where the mountains stand In cold and calm, eternal, silent wonder Above another moaning ocean From where the winds upon the northern pines 'Mid hurry, rush, and strife, And the wild conflict for succession doing, Or victor. or undone, Man, vain man, is every one renewing Two gospels are proclaiming, two faiths are taught, Two giant-battles for the mastery of thought. One deifies the mind and body-one requires A spiritual life whose purifying fires "O, higher life! O, life pure and sublime, "O, peace, that passeth knowledge-that like a river One talks of immortality or hell, In clarion tones to sensuous hearts appealing, "The multitudinous laughter of the waves "Till I launched a ship out on the pathless waves, And the wild billows, where barque never rode, Broke from their thick ranks like troops of frightened slaves, And fled as if my vessel were a god, "And when o'er the silver, laughter-loving waves "Like a bomb through a crowd, Bearing a thousand sheaves of golden grain. "Toiling, toiling on forever, Hark! how the heavy hammer clashes! White and incandescent plashes In its sand-bed, writhing, glowing, Like a fiery scorpion showing Till its heart is full and cold. Shall cleanse the soul from sin and sift its foul de- Now again 'tis red and burning, sires. Tortured, twisted, writhing, turning, 19 |