But Rhoda could not answer. Naught was heard
Except the gurgling of the silver spring,
When thus in saddest accents he resumed:
"Rhoda, you see in me a man sore smitten,
Whose youth and spring were buried long ago—
One who has had no summer in his heart,
Whose autumn days are lonely, and who prayed
(Till you relumed the sunshine of his life)
For the swift-closing winter of the grave.
Long have I kept my secret to myself—
From no mean shame, my girl; for well I know,
Were you my wife, mine were the gain, not yours;
But silver hairs blend ill with waving gold,
Nor would I bring a blight upon your life.
Why have I spoken? 'Twas a selfish thought
To share with you the burden of my gloom,
O'ershadowing your young years—an idle dream
That one so old and desolate as I
Could stir the heart of blessed youthfulness.
There—you have heard my secret. Pity me:
I know you will not mock me. So, farewell!
Go, Rhoda, with my blessing on your head!
I to my loveless life return alone,
Forlorn, but uncomplaining."
He turned to go,
But Rhoda, who had heard him to this word,
Could now endure no more; she caught his arm,
She gazed at him with fond eyes full of tears.
"Oh! not alone!" she said "we go together;
If a poor girl like me—" She said no more,
But turned and hid her face upon his heart.
He clasped her, looking thankfully to heaven,
Then stooped and kissed her: "Rhoda, my own wife,
Bear with me for my love!" The trees stood still,
Yielding no faintest whispering. They came forth
Out of the solemn grove into the sun;
The soft blue sky had not one film of cloud;
And as they walked in silence, they could hear
Far off the happy stockdove's brooding note.
And so Sir Richard won his lovely wife.
Once more the old house brightened; stately rooms
Rang with the unaccustomed sound of mirth:
And still as years went on, Sir Richard wore
Always an air of serious cheerfulness;
While baby voices gladdened all the place,
And Rhoda's lovely face was never sad.
Let the grim rock give forth a living stream,
And still boon nature crowns its ruggedness
With flowers and fairy grasses.
Near the park
Towers up a tract of granite; the huge hills
Bear on their broad flanks right into the mists
Vast sweeps of purple heath and yellow furze.
It is the home of rivers, and the haunt
Of great cloud-armies, borne on ocean blasts
Far-stretching squadrons, with colossal stride
Marching from peak to peak, or lying down
Upon the granite beds that crown the heights.
Yet for the dwellers near them these bleak moors
Have some strange fascination; and I own
That, like a strong man's sweetness, to myself
Pent in the smoky city, worn with toil,
When the sun rends the veil, or flames unveiled
Over those wide waste uplands, or when mists
Fill the great vales like lakes, then break and roll
Slow lingering up the hills as living things,
Then do they stir and lift the soul; and then
Their colors, and their rainbows, and their clouds,
And their fierce winds, and desolate liberty,
Seem endless beauty and untold delight.
So was it with Sir Richard: from the park
And from the cares of state he often went
With Rhoda, to enjoy some happy hours
There face to face with nature—far away
From all the din and fume of human life,
From paltry cares and interests, that corrupt
Or keep the soul in chains. They may be seen
On a great hill, on cloudless summer days,
Or when the sun in autumn melts the clouds,
Gazing on that magnificent region, spread
In majesty below them: teeming plains
And wood-clothed gorges of the hills in front;
Behind them sea-like ridges of bare moor,
Some in brown shade, some white with blazing light;
Above, enormous rocks piled up in play
By giants; all around, authentic relics
Of those drear ages, when half-naked men
Roamed these dim regions, waging doubtful war
With wolves and bears; and on the horizon's verge
The pale blue waste of ocean. There they sit,
Sir Richard and his Rhoda, side by side
Their hearts aglow with love, their souls bowed down
In thankful adoration, scarce recalled
From musings deep and tender, by the shouts
Of two fair children playing at their feet.
October, 1866.
Original.
Protestant Attacks Upon The Bible. [Footnote 298]
[Footnote 298: Liber Librorum: Its Structure, Limitations, and Purpose. A Friendly Communication to a Reluctant Sceptic. New-York: C. Scribner & Co. 1867.]
The work, the title of which we subjoin, though pretending on the surface to be an appeal, in favor of the Bible, is, in truth, one of the most serious attacks made upon it that has come under our notice; and would be, for a Protestant, one of the most dangerous books he could read. With a Catholic its arguments would have no force whatever, being based upon the unphilosophical principle of private judgment on revealed truth. We should say that, take it as a whole, it is a very clever attempt to found a purely subjective religion, which might call itself Christianity with equal consistency as do many so-called Christian denominations of our day, and which would consequently ignore all dogmatic authority and make use of the Holy Scriptures only as a means of edification.
We cannot see how a Protestant can escape the conclusions drawn by the author, unless he abandons his Protestantism for Catholic authority or for the most irresponsible individuality; and, if the author has really been sincere in his professed desire to reassure the troubled mind of his reluctant sceptic, and inspire him with respect for the Bible as the revealed word of God, we cannot but think he counts upon his sceptic's possessing very limited reasoning powers. His entire argument throughout is based upon postulates which we are sure no sceptic and certainly no Catholic is prepared to grant. For it is assumed both that we are, or ought to be, Christians as a matter of course, independent of authoritative teaching, and that the inspiration of the Bible is to be taken for granted without extrinsic proof. Moreover, that each individual is possessed of a verifying faculty which enables him to appropriate of its contents just so much and in so far as God wishes it to be true to him.
To assert that a man can be or has become a Christian without having been so taught is simply absurd. That Christianity is, of all religious systems, the most perfectly conformable to the reason and spiritual needs of mankind, fulfilling, perfecting, and completing human nature, is indisputable; but a man is not born a Christian any more than he is born a Mohammedan or a Buddhist. What the author of this work seems contented to take as Christianity will be found broad enough to suit any one who has a fancy to dignify the mutilated traditions to which he yet clings by that title; but we think very few will consent to accept their own convictions as sufficient proof of the divine truth of what they believe, or bow to the Holy Scriptures as the inspired word of God upon no other authority than a sense of its harmony in doctrine and morals with what they individually hold. The stream is not the cause of the fountain. That the stream of Christian truth, nay, that the stagnant puddles which are the result of an erratic overflow of its waters, are the cause of its fountain-head of credibility is what this unphilosophical writer takes for granted on every page of his book. Of course it is both foolish and arrogant presumption in the church to claim infallibility, but the most reasonable thing in the world for each and every human being to claim this prerogative as a natural-born characteristic. However, we do not wonder at this; it is but the logical consequence, ridiculously absurd as is the conclusion, of the rejection of the principle of divine authority. It is the conclusion forced upon its adherents by Protestantism, and shows its fruits in the present wide-spread scepticism and infidelity in the countries where it has been the dominant religion. Never did any system prepare more surely the weapon of its own destruction than that which promulgated to the world the principle of private judgment. The cry of revolt is raised in the Protestant camp, and alarming its teachers—Rome or Reason—by which is too plainly meant, "Either a divinely constituted authority, or the divine authority of the individual soul." A choice that leaves all the sects which have sprung from the Reformation out in the cold.