I send my communication to the press, as speedily as possible, lest he also should be off, before I can publish.
No. XLVI.
A few days ago, I saw, in the hands of the artist, Mr. Alvan Clarke, a sketch, nearly completed, from Stuart’s painting of John Adams, in his very old age. This sketch is to be engraved, as an accompaniment of the works of Mr. Adams, about to be published, by Little & Brown. I scarcely know what to say of this sketch of Mr. Adams. His fine old face, such as it was in the flesh, and at the very last of his long and illustrious career, is fixed in my memory—rivetted there—as firmly as his name is bolted, upon the loftiest column of our national history. Never have I seen a more perfect fac simile of man, without the aid of relief—it is the resurrection and the life. If I am at a loss what to say of the sketch, I am still farther at fault, what to say of the artist. Like some of those heavenly bodies, whose contemplation occupies no little portion of his time, it is not always the easiest thing in the world, to know in what part of his orbit he may be found; if I desire to obtain a portrait, or a miniature, or a sketch, he can scarcely devote his time to it, he is so very busy, in contriving some new improvement, for his already celebrated rifle; or if it is a patent muzzled rifle that I want, he is quite likely to be occupied, in the manufacture of a telescope. Be all these matters as they may, I can vouch for it, after years of experience, Alvan Clarke is a very clever fellow, Anglice et Americanice; and this sketch of Mr. Adams does him honor, as an artist.
It was in the year 1822, I believe, that a young lady sent me her album, with a request, that I, of all people in the world, would occupy one of its pages. Well, I felt, that after all, it was quite in my line, for I had always looked upon a young lady’s album, as a kind of cemetery, for the burial of anybody’s bantlings, and I began to read the inscriptions, upon such as reposed in this place, appointed for the still-born. I was a little startled, I confess, at my first glance, upon the autograph of the late Bishop Griswold, appended to some very respectable verses. My attention was next drawn to some lines, over the name of Daniel Webster, manu propria. I forget them now, but I remember, that the American Eagle was invoked for the occasion, and flapped its wings, through one or more of the stanzas. Next came an article in strong, sensible prose, from John Adams, written by an amanuensis, but signed with his own hand. Such a hand—the “manu deficiente” of Tibullus. The letters, formed by the failing, trembling fingers, resembled the forked lightning. A solemnizing and impressive autograph it was: and, under the impulse of the moment, I had the audacity to spoil three pages of this consecrated album, by appending to this venerable name the following lines:—
High over Alps, in Dauphine,
There lies a lonely spot,
So wild, that ages rolled away,
And man had claimed it not:
For ages there, the tiger’s yell
Bay’d the hoarse torrent as it fell.
Amid the dark, sequestered glade,
No more the brute shall roam;
For man, unsocial man, hath made
That wilderness his home:
And convent bell, with notes forlorn,
Is heard, at midnight, eve, and morn.
For now, amid the Grand Chartreuse,
Carthusian monks reside;
Whose lives are passed, from man recluse,
In scourging human pride;
In matins, vespers, aves, creeds,
With crosses, masses, prayers, and beads.
When hither men of curious mood,
Or pilgrims, bend their way,
To view this Alpine solitude,
Or, heav’nward bent, to pray,
Saint Bruno’s monks their album bring,
Inscrib’d by poet, priest, and king.
Since pilgrim first, with holy tears,
Inscrib’d the tablet fair,
On time’s dark flood, some thousand years,
Have pass’d like billows there.
What countless names its pages blot,
By country, kindred, long forgot!
Here chaste conceits and thoughts divine
Unclaim’d, and nameless, stand;
Which, like the Grecian’s waving line,
Betray some master’s hand.
And here Saint Bruno’s monks display,
With pride, the classic lines of Gray.
While pilgrim ponders o’er the name,
He feels his bosom glow;
And counts it nothing less than fame,
To write his own below.
So, in this Album, fain would I,
Beneath a name, that cannot die.
Thrice happy book! no tablet bears
A nobler name than thine;
Still followed by a nation’s pray’rs,
Through ling’ring life’s decline.
The wav’ring stylus scarce obey’d
The hand, that once an empire sway’d!
Not thus, among the patriot band,
That name enroll’d we see—
No falt’ring tongue, no trembling hand
Proclaim’d an empire free!—
Lady, retrace those lines, and tell,
If, in thy heart, no sadness dwell?
And, in those fainting, struggling lines,
Oh, see’st thou naught sublime!
No tott’ring pile, that half inclines!
No mighty wreck of time!
Sighs not thy gentle heart to save
The sage, the patriot, from the grave!
If thus, oh then recall that sigh,
Unholy ’tis, and vain;
For saints and sages never die,
But sleep, to rise again.
Life is a lengthened day, at best,
And in the grave tir’d trav’llers rest;
Till, with his trump, to wake the dead,
Th’ appointed angel flies;
Then Heav’n’s bright album shall be spread,
And all who sleep, shall rise;
The blest to Zion’s Hill repair,
And write their names immortal there.
I had as much pleasure, in composing these lines, as I ever had, in composing the limbs or the features of a corpse; and now that they are fairly laid out, the reader may bury them in oblivion, as soon as he pleases. The lines of Gray, referred to, in the sixth stanza, may be found in the collections of his works,