and this long swell, that now are here at work, have been ere
now at home in the great inland sea of Europe, breathed on by
soft, warm winds from fruit-groves, vineyards, and wide fields
of flowers,—have sparkled in the many-colored lights, and felt
the trivial oars and dallying fingers of the loiterers, on the
long canals of Venice,—have quenched the ashes of the
Dutchman's pipe, thrown overboard from his dull, laboring
treckschuyt,—have wrought their patient tasks in the dim
caverns of the Indian Archipelago,—have yielded to the little
builders under water means and implements to rear their
towering altar, dwelling, monument.
"These little waves have crossed the ocean, tumbling like
porpoises at play, and, taking on a savage nature in the Great
Wilderness, have thundered in close ranks and countless numbers
against man's floating fortress,—have stormed the breach and
climbed up over the walls in the ship's riven side,—have
followed, howling and hungry as mad wolves, the crowded
raft,—have leaped upon it, snatching off, one by one, the
weary, worn-out men and women,—have taken up and borne aloft,
as if on hands and shoulders, the one chance human body that is
brought in to land, and the long spur, from which man's dancing
cordage wastes by degrees, find yields its place to long, green
streamers, much like those that clung to this tall, taper tree
when it stood in the Northern forest.
"These waves have rolled their breasts about amid the wrecks
and weeds of the hot stream that comes up many thousands of
miles out of the Gulf of Mexico, as the great Mississippi goes
down into it, and by-and-by these waves will move, all numb and
chilled, among the mighty icebergs and ice-fields that must be
brought down from the poles."
* * * * *
"She asked, 'Have you given up being a priest, Mr. Urston?'
"'Yes!' he answered, in a single word, looking before him, as
it were along his coming life, like a quoit-caster, to see how
far the uttered word would strike; then, turning to her, and in
a lower voice, added, 'I've left that, once and forever.'"
* * * * *
"He stood still with his grief; and, as Mr. Wellon pressed his
honest, hard hand, he lifted to his pastor one of those
childlike looks that only come out on the face of the true man,
that has grown, as oaks grow, ring around ring, adding each
after-age to the childhood that has never been lost, but has
been kept innermost. This fisherman seemed like one of those
that plied their trade, and were the Lord's disciples, at the
Sea of Galilee, eighteen hundred years ago. The very flesh and
blood inclosing such a nature keep a long youth through life.
Witness the genius, (who is only the more thorough man,) poet,
painter, sculptor, finder-out, or whatever; how fresh and fair
such an one looks out from under his old age! Let him be
Christian, too, and he shall look as if—shedding this
outward—the inward being would walk forth a glorified one."
* * * * *
"As he mentioned his fruitless visits, a startling, most
repulsive leer just showed itself in Ladford's face; but it
disappeared as suddenly and wholly as a monster that has come
up, horrid and hideous, to the surface of the sea, and then has
sunk again, bodily, into the dark deep, and is gone, as if it
had never come, except for the fear and loathing that it leaves
behind. This face, after that look, had nothing repulsive in
it, but was only the more subdued and sad."
The author's mind so teems with images, that he does not always discriminate between the good and the bad. Occasionally we find some that are manifestly faulty and overstrained.
"It is one on which the tenderness of the deep heart of the
Common Mother breaks itself; over which the broad, dark,
silent wings of a dread mystery are stretched."
* * * * *
"Her voice had in it that tender touch which lays itself,
warm and loving, on the heart."
* * * * *
"And then her voice began to drop down, as it were, from
step to step,—and the steps seemed cold and damp, as it went
down them lingeringly:—'or for
trial,—disappointment,—whatever comes!'—and at the last, it
seemed to have gone down into a sepulchral vault."
We do not admire any one of the above,—least of all the last, in which the human voice is embodied as a sexton going down the steps of a tomb. Why, too, as a matter of verbal criticism, should the author use such words as "tragedist," "exhibitress," and "cheaty?"
In the delineation of character the author shows uncommon power and is entitled to high praise. His portraits are animated, life-like, and individual. Father Terence is drawn with a firm and skilful touch. The task which the author prescribed to himself—to present an ecclesiastic without learning, without intellectual power, without enthusiasm, and with the easy habits of a careless and enjoyable temperament,