The Continental Monthly, Vol 3 No 3, March 1863. Various

graves not far removed. The one records

      The 'genius of a Poet,' whose fitter fame

      Lies in the volumes which his facile pen

      Filled with the measure of redundant verse:

      Before this urn the oft frequented sod

      Is flattened with the tread of pensive feet.

      The other simply bears the name and age

      Of one who was 'a Merchant,' and bequeathed

      A fair estate with numerous charities:

      Before this urn the grass grows rank and green.

      I knew them both in life, and thus to me

      They measured in their lives their effigies:

      He who the pen did wield with facile power,

      Created what he wrote, and to the ear

      With tact, not inspiration, wrought the sounds

      To careful cadence; but the heart was cold

      As the chill marble where the sculptor traced

      Curious conceits of fancy. Let him pass,

      His name not undervalued, for his fame

      Shall in maturer ages lie as still

      As doth his neighbor's now.

      Turn we to him.

      He was a man to whom the general eye

      Bent with the confidence of daily trust

      In things of daily use: a man 'of means,

      —Sagacious, honest, plodding, punctual,—

      Revolving in the rank of those whose shields

      Bear bags of argent on a field of gold,

      His life, to most men, was what most men's are,—

      Unceasing calculation and keen thrift;

      Unvarying as the ever-plying loom,

      Which, moving in same limits day by day,

      Weaves mesh on mesh, in tireless gain of goods.

      But I, that knew him better than the herd,

      Yet saw him less, knew that in him which lives

      Still gracious and still plentiful to me

      Now he hath passed away from me and them.

      This man, whose talk on busy marts to men

      Teemed with the current coin of thrifty trade,

      —Exchanges, credits, money rates, and all,—

      Hath stood with me upon a silent hill,

      When the last flush of the dissolving day

      Fainted before the moonlight, and, as 'twere

      Unconscious of my listening, uttered there

      The comprehensions of a soul true poised

      With elemental beauty, giving tongue

      Unto the dumbness of the blissful air.

      So have I seen him, too, within his home,

      When, newspaper on knee, his earnest gaze

      Seemed scanning issues from the money list;

      But comments came not, till my curious eye

      Led out his meditation into words,

      Thought-winding upward into sphery light,

      So utterly unearthly and sublime,

      That all the man of fact fled out of sense,

      And visual refinement filled the space.

      Oft hath he told me, nothing was so blind

      As the far-seeing wisdom of the world,

      And none within it knew him, save himself,

      And that so scantily, that but for faith

      In a redeeming knowledge yet to come,

      He would lie down and let his weakness die

      In self-reclaiming dust.

      After his death,

      I searched his papers, vainly, for a scrap

      Whereon some dropped memento might record

      His inner nature; but he nothing left—

      Nothing of that deep life whose wondrous light

      Guided him onward through the realms of sense,

      And in a world of practical self-need

      Sustained him with a glory unexpressed.

      And thus it is that round the Poet's urn,

      The sod is beaten down with pensive feet:

      And thus it is that where the Merchant lies,

      The grass, untrodden, groweth rank and green.

      THE BLUE HANDKERCHIEF

      I had passed my last examinations, and had received my diploma authorizing me to practise medicine, and I still lingered in the vicinity of Edinburgh, partly because my money was nearly exhausted, and partly from the very natural aversion I felt from quitting a place where three very happy and useful years had been spent. After waiting many weeks—for the communication between the opposite shores of the Atlantic were not then so rapid as now—I received a large packet of letters from 'home,' all of them filled with congratulations on my success, and among them were letters from my dear father and a beloved uncle, at whose instance (he was himself a physician) my father had sent me abroad to complete my medical education. My father's letter was even more affectionate than usual, for he was highly gratified with my success, and he counselled me to take advantage of the peace secured by the battle of Waterloo to visit the continent, which for many years (with the exception of a brief period) had been closed to all persons from Great Britain; he enclosed me a draft on a London banker for a thousand pounds. My uncle's letter was scarcely less affectionate; my Latin thesis (I had sent my father and him a copy) had especially pleased him; and after urging me to take advantage of my father's kindness, he added that he had placed a thousand pounds at my disposition, with the same London banker on whom my draft was drawn. A letter of introduction to a French family was enclosed in the letter, and he engaged me to visit them, for they had been his guests for a long time when the first Revolution caused them to fly France, and they were under other obligations to him; which I afterward learned from themselves was a pecuniary favor more than once renewed during their residence with him. Ten thousand dollars was a good deal of money to be placed at the disposition of a young man as his pocket money for eighteen months, even after a large deduction had been made from it for a library and professional instruments.

      Before I quitted Edinburgh, I received a letter from the gentleman to whom my uncle had given me an introduction; he acquainted me that my uncle had informed him that I was about visiting France, and that he had taken the liberty of introducing me to him. The Marquis de – (such was his title—his name I omit for obvious reasons) expressed with great warmth his delight at having it in his power to exhibit the gratitude he felt to my uncle, and urged me with the most pressing terms to come at once to his home, and pass away there at least so much time as might accustom me to the spoken French language (I could easily read it), that my visit to Paris might be more profitable and agreeable—and it should be both, he was so good as to say, at least as far as it depended on himself and his friends. I wrote him by the return mail to thank him for his kindness, and to inform him that I should at once set out for his hospitable home. I shall never forget the six months I passed away in the Chateau de Bardy: the happiness of those days was checkered only by my departure and by the incident I shall presently relate. And even after I quitted that noble mansion, the kindness of its inmates still watched over me, and opened homes to me even in that great Maelstrom of life—Paris.

      It was toward the end of the month of October—the most delightful month of the seasons in France—as I was returning