Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. V, No. XXV, June, 1852

"This is indeed a tender harmony. Yes, love is every where. But," continued Bernardin, delighted at being understood; "but tell me, do you yourself write? With mental energies such as yours, why should you not cast upon the troubled waters of this age some thought that may yet be the fructifying seed to be found after many days. All soldiers write well."

"I do write a little, sir," and the young officer blushed as he answered; "since your kind encouragement has anticipated my request, and thus emboldened me to make it, I venture to ask you to cast your eye over a few pages written to beguile the hours of a lonely midnight watch. You will remember it is the book of a soldier, and one almost a foreigner."

"I thank you for the confidence reposed in me," said Saint Pierre, "and I am persuaded the friend will have no need to bias the judge in the impartial opinion that you have a right to claim from me."

The young officer now rose, and with a request to be allowed to repeat his visit, and a cordial, though respectful pressure of Saint Pierre's hand, took his leave, and long after the garden-gate had closed behind him, Bernardin stood watching the cloud of dust in which had disappeared his young visitor, and the steed on which he galloped back to Paris.

"So, then," thought the philosopher, as he re-entered his cottage, "there still exist some few minds free from the consuming toils of ambition. Who would ever have expected to find a lover of nature with a republican epaulet? There is a simplicity in this youth most attractive; how modestly did he speak of himself; how bitterly lament the horrors of war; and his enjoyment of this lovely, dewy morning, was that of a sage no less than of a poet. Doubtless the manuscript is some learned treatise on the art of war – the subject not his choice but the necessity of his position. The art of war! – art indeed – the art of killing the arts!"

Bernardin de Saint Pierre was mistaken. The manuscript was a pastoral romance – conceive his delight – A Pastoral Romance! "Yes!" he said, "the noble mind must let fly the falcon imagination to cater for it. It can not feed on the garbage around."

Day after day now elapsed without bringing his young visitor; but some months after, Bernardin, seated at a table placed under the shade of trees of his own planting, and covered with flowers gathered to serve as models for his word-paintings, was enjoying the soft evening breeze, when the visit of an officer was announced; and to his great surprise, instead of him whom he was eagerly advancing to welcome, he beheld a stranger. He had, indeed, the same black hair falling from his temples, the same dark eyes, the same olive hue of the man of the sun and the Mediterranean. But he saw not the same person; his new visitor was at least ten years older than the first.

"I am the elder brother, sir, of an officer who, some months since, did himself the honor of calling upon you."

"His visit still lives in my memory as one most pleasant. He confided to me a manuscript which I would be glad to take this opportunity of returning, with my assurances of entire sympathy in his love of nature, and still more in his noble indignation against tyrants, his eloquent invectives against ambition. Tell him, too, from me, how much I admire his style; its rich imagery – its – "

"I must not let you go on, sir, for such praise has already rendered it difficult to avow myself the author of the book. I had not courage to submit it to you myself, but my younger and more adventurous brother gladly availed himself of it as a plea for his intrusion."

After some courteous words interchanged between the new visitor and Bernardin, the latter pointed to the flowers and said, "I was at that moment thinking of your brother; he had told me of the names given by loving hearts in Italy to the stars, and I was reflecting that our associations with flowers were still trammeled by such a rugged nomenclature; it is enough to make the science of botany detestable."

"Ah, sir, you will teach all to love it; already has your Etudes de la Nature made it popular throughout Europe. I myself had formed a floral dial at a villa at Florence where my regiment was quartered; every hour of the night and of the day was marked by the opening of different flowers. I am passionately fond of them, and can well understand the Dutchman lavishing a fortune upon a tulip, and spending a life in giving it some new variety of tint."

"What a simple-minded family!" thought Bernardin. "One brother worships the starry splendor of the heavens, and the other luxuriates in flowers, and spends his idle garrison hours in watching them as they bud forth at every hour of the day; and these two young men are soldiers! War has not hardened their hearts, nor conquest made them despise simple pleasures." And now, Saint Pierre, leaning on his new friend, proceeded to show him his flowers, "which," he said, "though not like the lovely products of the fertile Italy you have conquered, yet, as my own planting are not without their fragrance for the old man;" and as they walked along, he repeated to himself rather than to his companion,

"Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas
Atque metus omnes et inexorabile fatum
Subjecit pedibus strepitumque Acherontis avari"

And in as low a voice, the officer went on – "Yes! happy the wise man who penetrates the arcana of nature, and who tramples under foot the world's prejudices." And as he stooped to pluck a daisy, he added, "who the calm votary of the silvan deities beholds with unenvious eye the consular pomp and the glittering diadem. Ah, sir! you, too, like Virgil – do you know he is my poet of all poets?" And before they had gone the round of the garden, the sage and the soldier had repeated almost the whole of the second book of the Georgics; and now, having begged and obtained a flower as a memento of his visit, the officer took his leave, with the promise of soon returning and bringing with him his brother.

"If all republicans," said Bernardin, "were like these two brothers, the republic would be heaven, and I need not so long to die."

And with fresh impulse, and an interest increased by the sympathy of his visitor in his love of flowers, Saint Pierre turned to his labors. The second part of his Harmonies de la Nature was finished, and he was now engaged upon the last division of his great work – "The Harmonies of Human Nature," when one day a knock at the door of his library made him raise his head to see, as he believed, the face of one of his two friends in the Italian army, though whether the elder or the younger he could not at once distinguish. On nearer survey, he discovered, to his great perplexity, that neither the one nor the other stood before him. The uniform of this third officer was exactly the same, he had the same masses of black hair, the same eyes, but though a little older than the first, and younger than the second of his former visitors, he seemed to bear more traces than either of the struggle and the vigil; and his brow was graver and more thoughtful. Still the triple resemblance was most striking, and for a moment Bernardin scarcely knew whether he was to greet him as a stranger; but before he could speak, the visitor introduced himself as the brother of the two officers, the kindness of whose reception had encouraged him to pay his respects to the friend of Jean Jacques Rousseau, to the illustrious author of the Etudes de la Nature, and to venture to offer the admiring homage of a blunt soldier.

Was it those lips with their Attic cut, and firm grace, which smile and threat seemed alike to become, or was it the deep voice, the piercing eagle glance, or his already high reputation as the greatest captain of the age, that riveted the attention of the philosopher upon this last of the three brothers, and indelibly impressed upon his memory every word of the conversation which now ensued?

But this third brother and the poet spoke not of scenery, nor stars, nor sun, nor streams, nor flowers. They spoke of human nature, of the universal brotherhood of mankind, of philosophy, and patriotism. They spoke, too, of the present evil days – the old man with some little bitterness and much indulgence, the young man with hopes aspiring and daring as his conquests; and while laying open future prospects with almost prophetic clearness, he showed the certain and impending destruction of all parties by each other, and the consequent and near approach of peace.

"God grant it;" cried Bernardin de Saint Pierre.

"God grants all to the firm will and the determined purpose," was the answer.

Some expressive pauses made breaks in a conversation which was less an interchange of words than of thoughts. Vainly did Bernardin several times attempt to introduce the subject of the campaigns in Italy, as an opening for some complimentary tribute to the courage, the presence of mind, the clear mental vision, the resolute powers of action, of his visitor; the latter as constantly evaded the subject, for with all the exquisite tact which was his great characteristic through life, he guessed the philosopher could accord but a reluctant homage to any triumph of the sword, even when not drawn in the service of ambition. He felt, too, that the warrior should be like a fortress, from whose strong, silent walls, is heard only in time of war the booming of its artillery.

Thus, therefore, ran the dialogue:

"Italy is on fire with your name."

"I have founded chairs of philosophy, of history, and oratory, in most of the conquered cities."

"Montenotte will ever be one of the most glorious monuments of French valor."

"I have pensioned all the savants of Bologna, Florence, and Milan."

"You have rivaled the renown of the immortal generals of antiquity."

"Whenever a city was taken, my first care was to command public monuments and private property to be respected, and to prohibit under pain of death all outrage to women, and before I allowed guards to be planted at my own door, I took care sentinels were at the gates of every church and hospital."

"How you must have longed for repose, were it only to indulge the bright dreams of the future."

"The actual and the real for me. I like best to shut myself up in my quarters to pursue my favorite studies of mathematics and history."

Struck with enthusiastic admiration of such simplicity, and such wise moderation, Bernardin ceased any longer to pay forced compliments to the military prowess with which he had no sympathy, and now poured out his whole heart in homage to his noble qualities as a legislator and as a man. Could he do less than read to him some few pages of his "Harmonies" – the winding-up of his "Harmonies of Nature." To one of the three brothers, worthy to comprehend the sublimity of the science of Heaven, he had shown the stars; to another, tender as Rousseau, the flowers; and now the graver pages of his book to a third – graver, wiser than either – as wise as Marcus Aurelius; "nay, wiser," said Bernardin, "for I am sure he never would consent to be made emperor."

And now, who were these three officers of the Italian army?

The first officer, who wooed the stars and the dewy morning, and who had no ambition, was Louis Bonaparte, afterward King of Holland.

The second officer, who delighted in flowers, and in floral dials, was Joseph Bonaparte, afterward King of the two Spains and of the Indies.

The third officer – the brother of the two others – who was a republican, a philosopher, a philanthropist, a lover of peace, and who had no ambition, was Napoleon Bonaparte, afterward Emperor of the French, and King of Italy!

What an eclogue for Bernardin de Saint Pierre – Two Kings and an Emperor!

A PRIMITIVE PEOPLE

The history of Transylvania is, perhaps, one of the wildest and most romantic that ever told the story of a nation. It describes a people perfectly primitive and pastoral, and living under institutions as patriarchal as those existing at the time of Lot or Abraham. Transylvania, long annexed to the Austrian monarchy, was in old times looked upon as the rightful prize of the strong hand; and was, by turns, seized and plundered by Turks, Austrians, and Hungarians. For a short time it chose its own princes, who aspired to be kings of Hungary. Their presumption met with the penalty of utter annihilation.

To understand these peasants properly, the reader may, perhaps, be allowed to compare them to the Highland clansmen of Scotland at the same period. Far before any authentic records, a people have dwelt in Transylvania, who knew nothing beyond the deep valleys in which they lived; they held no intercourse with the rest of the world, or even with their neighbors, the other inhabitants of the country; and they formed as many little separate republics as there were valleys. Each clan had, and even still has, its chief, who generally fills, also, the functions of judge and priest. In the morning and the evening they have public prayers; but, although like their lords, they belong to the reformed religion, they have no one among them specially intrusted with the cure of souls. When they marry their daughters, they make great ceremony and feasting, to which all comers are welcome. On these occasions, too, they sometimes pay a visit to the lord of the valley, that he may share in their simple rejoicing; but, at other times, they are shy of strangers, and few of them wander far beyond their native place. The agent, or the lord himself, usually visits them once a year; or, perhaps, more frequently the patriarch of the tribe goes to the lord and tells him of the number of his cattle, and of their increase, of what must be sold and what must be kept. Certain of the peasants leave the depths of their valley toward the end of summer, and drive their flocks and herds into Wallachia, along the banks of the mighty Danube. Here are found immense forests; and here, in spite of winter, the sheep may glean fresh and plentiful pasturage. The owners of the woods are paid, in return, a certain sum yearly. In the spring, merchants and cattle-dealers come down from Constantinople, who buy their sheep and goats; and it is to this sale that the lords of Transylvania look for the greatest part of their incomes.

Immediately after the shepherds have effected a sale, they dispatch a messenger to their lord who, in his turn, sends a trusty servant to receive the money. There are no bankers, no bills, no checks, no first and second of exchange, no post-office orders; the purchases are paid for in solid and very dirty silver, and it is carried through floods, rain, wind, and weather, to the lord with pastoral honesty and simplicity. All takes place with a good faith and punctuality, and an earnestness of purpose very touching to witness.

Besides this source of revenue, no sooner have the flocks and herds returned to the valley, than the lord sends in wagons to return laden with cheese, the produce of the year. These cheeses are some of them formed like loaves; and some, the most delicate, are pressed into the skins of young lambs, carefully prepared for the purpose by some primitive art. The third, and remaining portion, of a Transylvanian gentleman's income is derived from wool, which is as faithfully and punctually delivered to him as his cheeses, or the cash for his flocks.

There is neither corn nor wine in these valleys, and the dwellers in them live chiefly on a kind of thin paste and a fermented drink, in both of which the milk of sheep forms a very important ingredient. Sometimes they regale themselves with a lamb or a kid; but this is a rare festival. They make their own garments from the wool of their flocks, which they fashion into coarse thick cloths, mighty against snow, and rain, and sun, and wind, but not pretty. Their caps, too, are made of wool; and, with long, shaggy tufts hanging to them, look like weird, uncouth wigs. Their women and children are clothed in the same way, and all live together in caves cut in the mountain side, or formed by nature in the solid rocks.

I paid some of these people a visit, and found, in one of these cavern houses, an Englishman's hat and umbrella. These things interested me, because their possessors had a legend that they had been received from a demon, and I could not help fancying it more likely that they had belonged to some luckless wight, who might have wandered thither and been lost. Into the hat they had forced a cheese; but I fancied I detected a sort of superstitious reverence for the umbrella, and they evidently looked upon its mechanism with great wonder and respect. They asked eagerly for information upon the mysterious subject, and, after I had explained it (which I am now almost sorry I did), I fancy they looked upon me as we, in England, looked upon people who had a tendency for explaining things in the middle ages – as an unbeliever, a student in dark arts, a magician, in league with the Evil One. But I had an object to answer, and I entered into negotiations for getting the cheese out of the hat, and offered, what Mr. Trapbois calls a "con-si-de-ra-tion," to be allowed to examine both hat and umbrella nearer, to see if I could find any mark or initials, giving a clew to their former owner. For a long time my efforts were useless; the cheese in the hat was intended for the lord, and they were afraid of offending the umbrella by allowing me to take any liberty with it; but a good-temper, and a cheery way, gets on wonderfully with simple folk, and at length they listened to my wish, but refused my gift. I could not, however, find any thing to reward my search.

On returning to Vienna the mystery was cleared up. It appears, that an English traveler making a tour in those parts on foot, had been overtaken by a gaunt man in a strange costume. The uncouth figure addressed him in an unknown tongue; and all presence of mind, for a moment, deserted him. Without pausing to reflect if the greeting were friendly or hostile, he thought to conciliate his gigantic acquaintance (having no money about him) by offering the only things he could dispose of; so, taking off his hat, and resigning his umbrella with it into the hands stretched out in wonder to receive them, the English traveler took to his heels.

THE DAUGHTER OF THE BARDI

A TRUE OLD TALE

The Via Dei Bardi is one of the most ancient streets of Florence. Long, dark, and narrow, it reaches from the extremity of the Ponte Rubaconte to the right of the Ponte Vecchio. Its old houses look decayed and squalid now; but in former days they were magnificent and orderly, full of all the state of those times, being the residences of many of the Florentine nobility. How many struggles of faction, how many scenes of civil war, have these old houses witnessed! for in the period of their splendor, Florence was torn by intestine feuds; from generation to generation, Guelfs and Ghibelines, Bianchi, and Neri, handed down their bitter quarrels, private and personal animosity mingling with public or party spirit, and ending in many a dark and violent deed. These combatants are all sleeping now: the patriot, the banished citizen, the timid, the cruel – all, all are gone, and have left us only tales to read, or lessons to learn if we can but use them. But we are not skilled to teach a lesson; we would rather tell a legend of those times, recalled to mind, especially at present, because it has been chosen as the subject of a fine picture recently finished by a Florentine artist, Benedetto Servolini.

In the Via dei Bardi stood, probably still stands, the house inhabited by the chief of the great and noble family from whom it takes its name – we write of the period of the fiercest struggles between the Guelfs and Ghibelines; and the Bardi were powerful partisans of the latter party. In that house dwelt a young girl of uncommon beauty, and yet more uncommon character. An old writer thus describes her: "To look on her was enchantment; her eyes called you to love her; her smile was like heaven; if you heard her speak, you were conquered. Her whole person was a miracle of beauty, and her deportment had a certain maidenly pride, springing from a pure heart and conscious integrity."