THE WINTER ROSEBUD. BY LILY GRAHAM. It is a tiny rosebud, Fit for a fairy queen, It grew not in a garden, Nor 'neath the forest eaves, Are pale transparent leaves; It is a tiny rosebud, Wrapp'd in a pale-green shroud, Nor 'neath the tempest bowed; Where gloomy walls look down, What care I for rich jewels, Or seas where pearls have birth? I would not give my rosebud, For the costliest gem on earth; Soon will its tiny leaflets, From every noisome thing, Until its blossoming! Albany, Christmas Eve, 1847. THE TRUE STORY OF MY LIFE. BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. Translated by Mary Howitt. Boston: James Munroe & Company, 1847. What luxury can bring so rare a pleasure as a beautifully written book. It is a mine of joy. It not only contains new and beautiful thoughts itself, but suggests many others to us, and thus elevates us in the scale of intelligence by making us conscious of our own capacities. And though these thoughts may never be uttered, they enter into our being and we impress them upon the world by our lives. Who has told as it deserves the praises of a beautiful book? Who has lauded as he should the merit of its author? We hardly dare do it. We are afraid of being called extravagant. Extravagant about a book! in this age of propriety and decorum that would not do. In it we may find an oblivion for hunger and cold, for sickness, sorrow, loneliness, neglect, or any of the ills of life. We may laugh, weep, aye pray over it, and in the sincerity and fervency of those prayers receive strength for the days which are to come. It may enter with us into our secret chamber-the watches of the night may find us bending over it— its burning words may be graven upon our very soul, and yet if we met the writer of that book, we would touch his hand with cold civility, we would not dare to embrace him and weep upon his breast our gratitude and praise. And he will die, and never know his influence upon the eternal destiny of another. And thus in this world our warmest impulses are repressed. And why? Because sin is in the world and ere those words of gratitude could pass from our lips to the ear of another, they would he tainted by its breath, and he for whom it was intended, would repel it as fulsome flattery. Thus while love and sympathy are all around him, the author often accuses the world of coldness, and he thinks that he is right. He must look to the future life for the true revealings of the heart of man. And after all the railings which are cast upon it, the world though slow in rendering in its verdict, is just at last. He who panders to the prejudices of a clique, may become its pet, and in that he has his reward, while he who speaks the truth boldly, relying upon God for strength, though he may be persecuted and neglected, and be compelled to walk through the "way which is desert," will eventually have justice, even from the world; and though he may not see it in the flesh, the truths which he utters will shine onward and add a lustre to the crown of glory which he wears above. But how few authors can look forward to such a future, how few seem conscious of the great tribunal before which they are to be judged. And yet there are some such, and among them is HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. In the work which suggested these remarks, "The True Story of My Life," he says " There is something elevating, but at the same time terrific, in seeing one's thoughts spread so far and among so many people; it is indeed almost a fearful thing to belong to so many. The noble and the good in us becomes a blessing; but the bad, one's errors shoot forth also, and involuntarily the thought forces itself from us: God! let me never write down a word of which I shall not be able to give an account to Thee." And we believe him. He has such a childlike confidence in the world to which he tells his story, that we should condemn ourselves did we doubt a syllable. There is a moral beauty in the simplicity of a soul like his, upon which it is delightful to dwell. He reveals his lowly origin and the poverty of his childhood with the same ingenuousness with which he records the homage of princes. How many creations of beauty he gives to us without once entering the realms of the imagination. How many chords of the lyre within the poet's heart too often die away unuttered, and that too, in consequence of a pride which is sinful as it is vain. It is because he is a coward. He dare not tell how his mother was once a beggar and his father was poor, and how he was left with God for his only friend, and bore the ridicule and contempt which is ever the penalty for being cradled in poverty. And yet it is struggles and trials like these which make the greatest men. He who has met and conquered them, need not repine that he was poor. He has a moral wealth which gold can never measure, a patent of nobility greater than was ever issued by an Emperor, for it is sealed by the hand of God. This pride is the rock upon which so many souls of our own country split. Here where there are no hereditary titles, there is perhaps as great a veneration for them and hankering after them as in any other land. A good name is the best heritage which a parent can bequeath to a child, and we respect the feeling which would cherish it. But there are not a few among us who make themselves ridiculous by a vain boasting about ancestors whoin nobody knew and for whom nobody cares; who were of no advantage to their country, spending neither their blood nor their money for her in her greatest need. They seem anxious to impress the world with the idea that they had fathers, a fact which, none are disposed to dispute. We do not wish to be mistaken, pride of family is not condemned and poverty is no honor to a man, but there are many who stand high in the council chamber, and in the church, of whom this comtemptible boasting is the glaring foible. Are there not teachers of democracy who would shrink from associating with the obscure apprentice, though he might recognize in him the incipient poet or philosopher.? Are there not preachers of the gospel of Christ, who would blush to be called a "carpenter's son," and while in public they teach humility to the poor, did we judge them by their words in private would not sooner forfeit their title to the kingdom of Heaven, than to the aristocracy of this republic? We first see our poet in the hour when he first woke to light in the shoemaker's room at Odense. The room where his childhood was passed, and where his mother told him he lived like a nobleman's son. From thence we see him borne away in a ship from his native island. On the morning of the 5th of September, 1819, he arrives at Copenhagen. There his singularly unsophisticated deportment causes him to be ridiculed by all whom he approaches, and he thinks of death as the only thing, and the hest thing for him; but" says he, "even then my thoughts rose upwards to God with all the undoubting confidence of a child in his father, they rivetted themselves upon Him. I wept bitterly, and then I said to myself, when every thing happens really miserably, then He sends help. I have always read so. People must first of all suffer a great deal before they can bring any thing to accomplishment." Twenty-five years from that day, we see him seated at the royal dinner table, a constant guest. Then his whole former life passes in review before his mind and he says, "I was obliged to summon all my stength to prevent myself bursting into tears. There are moments of thankfulness in which as it were we desire to press God to our hearts. How deeply I felt at this time my own nothingness; how all, all had come from Him." As a book of travels alone this would be invaluable. Truly "his journeys are made up not out of books but out of life." A few dashes of his pencil, and the peculiar scenery and social life of Denmark and Sweden arise before us. The islands of the North sea and the Baltic spring up in all their summer beauty. And he gives such delightful sketches of those stars that glitter in the galaxy of European art. We see Tieck embracing him with a kiss; we see Chamisso "the grave man with long locks and honest eyes" open the door to receive him and take him to his heart with a perfect understanding.* We are introduced into the circle of Parisian wit and talent. At Berlin, Oldenberg, Wiemar and Vienna, we mingle familiarly with those whose names will go down to posterity the beacon lights of the age in which we live. We become intimate with Thorwaldsen and feel for him all the enthusiasm of a friend. How in harmony with his life are his feelings when for the third time he approaches Rome. He says, "I felt so happy, so penetrated with thankfulness and joy; how much more God had given me than a thousand others, nay than to many thousands! And even in this very feeling, there is a blessing, where joy is very ⚫He afterwards records Chamisso's death, and also that of Thorwaldsen. great, as in the deepest grief, there is only God on whom we can lean!" And then too it is so interesting to trace the influence of circumstances upon his intellectual character. His father wept when the youth from the grammar school who came to be measured for boots, showed them his books and told him what he had learned. "My father wept" says he, "and kissed me and was silent the whole evening." This simple incident speaks volumes, and in the name and character of the son, we see a glorious temple, which like that of Solomon, it was in the heart of his father to build. At one period of his life, his writings became satirical. Satire is natural to none. It is the refuge of a proud but wounded heart. It is a dangerous art, and one in which none but those of deep and keen feelings can excel. Morbidly sensitive and really humble he had been scourged as the gifted too often are with the imputation of vanity; "and when those whom we love smite us, scourges become scorpions." But the sentiment which he had derided was avenged. A new an immense world opens before him. The poet loves, but the lady loves another. He tells not the name nor the abode of the fair one. With true delicacy he devotes but half a page to this great event of his life. Yet we see its influence upon every other page. This trial swallows up all the lesser ones, and that past the light breaks upon him, and his life grows brighter and brighter until the day of popular and poetic favor is full upon him. The memory of Collin, Count Rantzau and his many benefactors will always be cherished by us for his sake, and among these the names of women shine transcendent. We remember his old grandmother "with mild eyes and fine figure, bringing him flowers every Sunday evening. She loved him with her whole soul, and he understood it, he felt it." It was Madame Bunkeflod from whose lips he first heard the word poet, and Mrs. Von Colbjornson first called him by that sacred name, and though she was half in jest "it went through him body and soul and filled his eyes with tears." One after another he meets those whose encouraging smile is a light unto his pathway. But it is to one for whom the world is now weaving its most graceful garlands, to Jenny Lind, that "vestal" in the sanctuary of art, that he reserves his warmest enthusiasm "that he values with the full affection of a brother." Upon her brow he places a crown in the fragrance of which those of the world are forgotten. It is the most glorious which can be worn by a woman until she receives that which fadeth not away eternal in the heavens. He says, "through Jenny Lind, I first became sensible of the holiness there is in art; through her I learned that one must forget oneself in the service of the Supreme. No books, no men have had a better or more ennobling influence on me as a poet than Jenny Lind. She who on the stage is the great artiste rising above all around her, at home a sensitive young girl with all the humility and piety of a child." How beautiful is the friendship between two such gifted beings. |