which
welcomes
another day.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v18 - Mom to Old
The difficulty was
## p. 10717 (#597) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10717
the greater from the height of the walls from which the dome
must spring. No Gothic builder had vaulted such an area as
this. Since the Pantheon was built, no architect had attempted
a dome with such a span; and the dome of the Pantheon itself,
with a diameter of one hundred and forty-three feet, rose from
a wall that was but seventy-two feet in height. The dome of
St. Sophia, the supreme work of the Byzantine builders, with the
resources of the Empire at their command, had a diameter of
but one hundred and four feet, and the height from the ground
to its very summit was but one hundred and seventy-nine feet.
The records of architecture could not show such a dome as this
must be. Where was the architect to be found who would
venture to undertake its construction? What were the means he
could employ for its execution? Such were the questions that
pressed upon those who had the work in charge, and which
busied the thoughts of the builders of the time.
It cannot now be determined, and it is of little importance,
whether Brunelleschi's object in going to Rome was as distinctly
defined beforehand in his own mind as Vasari declares in the
statement that he had two most grand designs: one to bring to
light again good architecture; the other to find the means, if he
could, of vaulting the cupola of St. Mary of the Flower, "an
intention of which he said nothing to Donatello or any living.
soul; "or whether, as the anonymous biographer implies, this
object gradually took shape in his thought as he studied the
remains of Roman antiquity, acquainting himself with the forms
and proportions of classic buildings, and with the unsurpassed
methods of Roman construction. But this journey of Brunelles-
chi and Donatello, that they might learn, and learning revive, "the
good ancient art," is one of the capital incidents in the modern
Renaissance. These were the two men in all Florence, at the
beginning of the fifteenth century, of deepest nature, of most
various and original genius. They were in little sympathy with
the temper of the Middle Ages. For them the charm of its
finest moods was lost. The spirit that had given form to Gothic
art had always been foreign to Tuscan artists. The traditions of
an earlier time had never wholly failed to influence their work.
And now the worth and significance of ancient art, first recog-
nized by Niccola Pisano a century and a half earlier, were felt
as never before. The work of the scholars of the fourteenth
century, in the collection and study of the fragments of ancient
.
## p. 10718 (#598) ##########################################
10718
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
culture, was bearing fruit. For a hundred years the progress in
letters and the arts in Italy had been quickened by the increas-
ing knowledge of the past; and with each step of advance men
had not only felt deeper and more inspiring delight in the ideals
of the classic world, but had found more and more instruction
in the models which its works presented. Through the creations
of the art of former days nature herself was revealed to them in
new aspects. Their reverence for the teachings of the ancients
was often uncritical and indiscriminate, but the zeal with which
they sought them was sincere and invigorating. It was not till
a later time, when the first eagerness of enthusiasm had given
place to a dry pedantry of investigation, that the study of classic
models allured a weaker generation from the paths of nature and
independence into those of artificiality and imitation.
Brunelleschi was the first artist to visit Rome with fully open
modern eyes.
From morning till night, day after day, he and
Donatello were at work unearthing half-buried ruins, measuring
columns and entablatures, digging up hidden fragments, search-
ing for whatever might reveal the secrets of ancient time. The
common people fancied them to be seekers for buried treasure;
but the treasure for which they sought was visible only to one
who had, like Brunelleschi, as his biographer says, "buono occhio
mentale," a clear mental eye.
For many years the greater part of Brunelleschi's life was
spent in Rome. He had sold a little farm that he owned at
Settignano, near Florence, to obtain the means of living; but
falling short of money after a while, he turned to the art in
which he had served his apprenticeship, and gained his livelihood
by work as a goldsmith. The condition of Rome at this time.
was wretched in the extreme. Nothing was left of the dignity
of the ancient city but its ruins. There was no settled civic
order, no regular administration of law or justice. Life and
property were insecure. The people were poor, suffering, and
turbulent. Rome was the least civilized city of Italy. Its aspect
was as wretched as its condition. Large tracts within its walls
were vacant. Its inhabited portions were a labyrinth of filthy
lanes. Many churches, built in earlier centuries, were neglected
and falling to ruin. There was no respect for the monuments
of former times. Many were buried under heaps of the foul-
est rubbish; many were used as quarries of stone for common
walls; many were cumbered by mean buildings, or occupied as
―
## p. 10719 (#599) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10719
strongholds. The portico of the Pantheon was filled with stalls
and booths; the arcades of the Colosseum were blocked up with
rude structures used for the most various purposes; the Forum
was crowded with a confused mass of low dwellings. Ancient
marbles, fragments of splendid sculpture, were often calcined for
lime. The reawakening interest in antiquity which was inspiring
the scholars and artists of Florence, and which was beginning
to modify profoundly the culture and the life of Europe, was
not yet shared by those who dwelt within the city which was its
chief source, and reverence for Rome was nowhere less felt than
in Rome itself.
But the example and the labors of Brunelleschi were opening
the way to change. He was the pioneer along a path leading
to modern times. In the midst of conditions that must have
weighed heavily upon him, he continued the diligent study of
the remains of ancient art, investigating especially such struct-
ures as the Pantheon and the Baths, for the purpose of learning
the methods adopted in their construction.
Meantime his repute was slowly advancing at home; and
when at intervals he visited Florence, he was consulted in re-
spect to the public and private buildings with which the flour-
ishing city was adorning herself. The work on the Duomo was
steadily proceeding. The eastern tribune was finished in 1407;
the others were approaching completion. The original plan of a
dome springing from the level of the roof of the nave had been
recognized as unfit for the larger church. Such a dome would
have had too heavy and too low a look. It had been decided
that the dome must be lifted above the level of the roof upon a
massive octagonal drum; and already in 1417 the occhi, or round
lights, of the drum were constructing, and the time was close at
hand when the structure would be ready for the beginning of
the dome itself. The overseers of the work were embarrassed
by the difficulty of the task by which they were confronted,
and knew not how to proceed. If a framework for the centring
of the dome were to be built up from the ground, they stood
aghast at the quantity of timber required for it, and at the enor-
mous cost; so that it seemed to them well-nigh an impossibility,
or to speak more truly, absolutely impossible.
«<
The Board of Works sought advice from Brunelleschi. But
if the master builders had seen difficulties, Philip showed them
far more. And some one asking, Is there, then, no mode of
## p. 10720 (#600) ##########################################
10720
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
-
erecting it? Philip, who was ingenious also in discourse, replied
that if the thing were really impossible, it could not be done:
but that if it were not so, there ought to be some one in the
world who could do the work; and seeing that it was a religious
edifice, the Lord God, to whom nothing was impossible, would
surely not abandon it. " Further consultations were held; and on
May 19th, 1417, the Opera voted to give Philip di Ser Brunellesco
"pro bona gratuitate" — for his labors in making drawings and
employing himself concerning the cupola - ten golden florins.
No more characteristic or remarkable design was pro-
duced during the whole period of the Renaissance than this with
which its great architectural achievements began. It was the
manifesto of a revolution in architecture. It marks an epoch
in the art. Such a dome as Brunelleschi proposed to erect had
never been built. The great domes of former times- the dome
of the Pantheon, the dome of Santa Sophia-had been designed
solely for their interior effect: they were not impressive or noble
structures from without. But Brunelleschi had conceived a dome
which, grand in its interior aspect, should be even more superb
from without than from within, and which in its stately dimen-
sions and proportions, in its magnificent lift above all the other
edifices of the city of which it formed the centre, should give
the fullest satisfaction to the desire common in the Italian cit-
ies for a monumental expression of the political unity and the
religious faith of their people. His work fulfilled the highest
aim of architecture as a civic art, in being a political symbol,
an image of the life of the State itself. As such no other of the
ultimate forms of architecture was so appropriate as the dome.
Its absolute unity and symmetry, the beautiful shape and pro-
portions of its broad divisions, the strong and simple energy
of its upwardly converging lines, all satisfied the sentiment of
Florence, compounded as it was of the most varied elements,-
civic, political, religious, and æsthetic.
At last, in 1420, all these masters from beyond the mountains
were assembled in Florence, together with those of Tuscany, and
all the ingenious architects of the city, among them Brunelleschi
himself. On a certain day they all met at the works of S. Maria
del Fiore, together with the consuls and the Board of Works
and a choice of the most intelligent citizens; and then one after
another spoke his mind as to the mode in which the dome might
be built. "It was a fine thing to hear the strange and diverse
## p. 10721 (#601) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10721
opinions on the matter. " Some advised to build up a structure
from the ground to support the cupola while it was in process of
building. Others, for the same end, proposed heaping up a high
mound of earth, in which pieces of money should be buried, so
that when the work was done the common people would carry
away the earth for the sake of what they might find in it. Others.
again urged that the cupola be built of pumice-stone, for the
sake of lightness. Only Philip said that the dome could be
built without any such support of timber or masonry or earth,
and was laughed at by all for such a wild and impracticable
notion; and growing hot in the explanation and defense of his
plan of construction, and being told to go but not consenting,
he was at last carried by main force from the assembly, "fu
portato di peso fuori," - all men holding him stark mad. And
Philip was accustomed to say afterwards that he was ashamed at
this time to go about Florence, for fear of hearing it said, "See
that fool there, who talks so wildly. " The overseers of the work
were distracted by the bewildering diversity of counsels; and
"Philip, who had spent so many years in studies for the sake
of having this work, knew not what to do, and was oftentimes
tempted to depart from Florence. Yet, wishing to win his
object, he armed himself with patience, as was needful, having
so much to endure; for he knew the brains of that city never
stood long fixed on one resolve. Philip might have shown a
little model which he had below, but he did not wish to show
it; being aware of the small understanding of the consuls, the
envy of the workmen, and the little stability of the citizens, who
favored now this, now that, according to their pleasure. What,
then, Philip had not been able to do in the assembly he began
to try with individuals; and speaking now to this consul, now to
this member of the Board of Works, and in like wise to many
citizens, showing them part of his design, he brought them to
determine to assign the work either to him or to one of the
foreigners. Whereby the consuls and the Board of Works and
the citizens being encouraged, they caused a new assembly to be
held, and the architects disputed of the matter; but they were
all beaten down and overcome by Philip with abundant reasons.
And here it is said that the dispute about the egg arose in this
manner. " The other architects urged him to explain his scheme
in detail, and to show them the model he had made of the
structure; but this he refused, and finally proposed to them that
XVIII-671
## p. 10722 (#602) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10722
the man who could prove his capacity by making an egg stand
on end on a smooth bit of marble should build the cupola. To
this they assented. All tried in vain; and then Philip, taking
the egg and striking it upon the marble, made it stand. The
others, offended, declared they could have done as much. "Ay,"
said Philip, "and so, after seeing my model, you could build the
cupola. "
It was accordingly resolved that he should have charge of the
conduct of the work; and he was directed to give fuller infor-
mation concerning his plans to the consuls and Board of Works.
Towards the end of the year 1425, in January (it is to be
remembered that the Florentine year began in March), Brunelles-
chi and Ghiberti, together with one of the Officials of the Cupola
and the head-master of the works, united in an important report
to the Board, as to the work in progress and that which was
to be next undertaken. It is plain from it that the difficulties
of building such a vault without centring were increasing as the
curve ascended. On the inner side of the vault a parapet of
planks was to be made, to protect the scaffolding and to cut off
the sight of the masters from the void beneath them, for their
greater security. "We say nothing of centring," say the builders:
"not that it might not have given greater strength and beauty
to the work," which may well be doubted; "but not having been
started with, a centring would now be undesirable, and could
hardly be made without armature, for the sake of avoiding which
the centring was dispensed with at the beginning. " Brunelles-
chi's genius was sufficient to overcome all the difficulties met
with in accomplishing the bold experiment which he had devised,
and which in its kind still remains without parallel.
Many entries in the records afford a lively impression of
scenes and incidents connected with the building. With all the
precautions that could be taken, the exposure of the workmen to
the risk of falling was great. Two men were thus killed in the
first year of the work. As the dome rose, the danger increased;
and a provision was made that any of the masters or laborers
who preferred to work below might do so, but at wages one
quarter less.
Brunelleschi, finding that owing to the vast height
of the edifice, the builders lost much time in going down for
food and drink, arranged a cook-shop and stalls for the sale of
bread and wine, in the cupola itself. Thenceforth no one was
## p. 10723 (#603) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10723
allowed to go down from his work oftener than once a day. But
the supply of wine in the cupola caused a new danger; and an
order was issued by the Board, that "considering the risks which
may daily threaten the master masons who are employed on the
wall of the cupola, on account of the wine that is necessarily
kept in the cupola, from this time forth the clerk of the works
shall not allow any wine to be brought up which has not been
diluted with at least one third of water. " But the workmen
were reckless; and amused themselves, among other ways, in let-
ting themselves and each other down on the outside of the dome
in mere sport, or to take young birds from their nests, till at
length the practice was forbidden by an order of the Board.
So year by year the work went on; the walls slowly rounding
upwards.
·
The work on the Duomo was now actively pushed forward.
The second chain to resist the thrust of the inner cupola was
constructed; and in 1432 the dome had reached such a height
that Brunelleschi was ordered to make a model of the closing of
its summit, and also a model of the lantern that was to stand on
it, in order that full consideration might be given to the work,
and due provision for it made in advance. Two years more
passed, years in which the city was busied with public affairs of
great concern both at home and abroad; when at length, on the
12th of June, 1434, just fourteen years from its beginning, the
cupola closed over the central space of the Duomo. It had
grown slowly, marvelous in the eyes of all beholders, who saw
its walls rise, curving over the void without apparent support,
held suspended in the air as if by miracle. Brunelleschi's fame
was secure; henceforth his work was chief part of Florence.
## p. 10724 (#604) ##########################################
10724
NOVALIS
(FRIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG)
(1772-1801)
RIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG, better known under the pseudonym
of Novalis, was born upon the family estate of Wiederstedt,
Mansfeld, Germany, May 2d, 1772. His early education and
environment were conducive to the development of the best that was
in him. His father, the Baron von Hardenberg, was in every respect
an exemplary man and a wise father; his mother was loving and
pious: and the family circle, which included
seven sons and four daughters, was bound
together by the closest ties of affection and
congeniality.
As a lad, Novalis was delicate and re-
tiring, and of a dreamy disposition. He
withdrew from the rough sports of his
companions, and amused himself by read-
ing and composing poetry. He wrote po-
etical plays, in which he and his brothers
enacted the characters of the spirits of
the earth and air and water. His parents
were Moravians; and the strict, religious
character of his training had a deep effect
upon his sensitive nature. His thoughts
dwelt constantly upon the unseen. His eyes burned with the light
of an inward fire, and he wandered about in a kind of day-dream, in
which the intangible was more real than his material surroundings.
A more healthful change took place during his ninth year. A severe
attack of illness seems to have aroused his dormant powers of resist-
ance; and after his recovery he was not only better physically, but
brighter and more cheerful, and far more awake to temporalities.
His education now began in earnest. He applied himself diligently
to his studies, and entered the University of Jena in 1789. Here he
met Fichte and Friedrich Schlegel; an acquaintance that was fruit-
ful of results, for with Novalis a friendship was an epoch, and his
ardent spirit readily yielded itself to affinitive influences. His pas-
sionate friendship for Schiller, whom he also met at Jena, and later
NOVALIS
## p. 10725 (#605) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10725
for Goethe, were molds for his plastic nature. He remained at
Jena until 1792, when he went to the University of Leipsic with his
brother Erasmus; and the following year he finished his studies at
Wittenberg.
The future character of his pursuits indicates his intention of fol-
lowing a business career. He went to Arnstadt, where, under the
instruction of Just, the principal judiciary of the district, he applied
himself to practical affairs. In 1795 he was appointed to a position.
in the Saxony salt works, of which his father was director. In the
mean time, early in the spring of 1795, he had made the acquaintance
of Sophie von Kuhn, a beautiful child of thirteen, for whom he at
once conceived a poetic passion. In spite of her youth, they were
betrothed; but Sophie died just after her fifteenth birthday, and
Novalis entered upon a period of darkness and despair that threat-
ened to engulf him. Shortly after her death, his brother Erasmus
died at Weissenfels; and this double grief seemed to transfigure No-
valis. For him the boundary line between the seen and the unseen
disappeared. He longed for death, and yet was in a state of exalta-
tion. He wrote to his brother Charles: "Be comforted. Erasmus has
conquered. The flowers of the beloved wreath here drop off one by
one, in order that there they may be reunited into one more beauti-
ful and eternal. "
It was during this time and a little later that he wrote some of
the most beautiful and spirituel of his compositions, notably Hymnen
an die Nacht' (Hymns to the Night). These fragmentary pieces of
prose are the breathings of a poet's soul. "I turn aside to the holy,
ineffable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world submerged in the
deep vault of heaven. Waste and lonely is her place. The chords
of the bosom are stirred by deep sadness. I will descend in dew-
drops and mix myself with the ashes. Distances of memory, wishes
of youth, dreams of childhood, the short joys and vain hopes of a
whole long life, come in gray apparel, like the evening mist after the
sunset. In other spaces Light has pitched its joyful tents. Will it
never return to its children who await it with the faith of innocence ? »
With the intention of diverting his mind from his sorrow, his
parents persuaded him to carry out a plan of his younger days, and
undertake a course of study in the Mining School of Freiburg. Here,
amid congenial friends and in the interests of his pursuits, he grad-
ually recovered health and cheerfulness. He loved again, and shortly
became engaged to Julie, the daughter of the famous mineralogist
Charpentier. Novalis remained in Freiburg until the summer of
1799, when he returned to Weissenfels, where he was made assessor
and was appointed under his father chief judiciary of the Thurin-
gian district. He now visited often at Jena, where he established
## p. 10726 (#606) ##########################################
10726
NOVALIS
the warmest relations with Ritter, Schelling, Wilhelm Schlegel, and
Tieck; of whom the last, in connection with Friedrich Schlegel, be-
came his biographer and literary executor.
Always delicate, always spiritually toying with death, at last the
invincible forces that had so long held aloof descended upon him.
In August of the year 1800 he became very ill; and though he still
attended to the duties of his office, and wrote constantly, his weak-
ness increased, and on the 25th of March, 1801, he died at the house
of his parents in Weissenfels, not quite twenty-nine years of age.
The influence of Novalis was due more to the time of his ap-
pearance than to his power as a writer; and it is as a factor in the
evolution of German literature, rather than by the amount or even
the quality of his work, that he is to be judged. His entire writings
are comprised within two or three small volumes, and the years of
his literary activity were but six, included in the period between the
close of his student days and his death; and yet the name of Nova-
lis is the brightest of the old Romantic school. Although his early
death precluded the possibility of his fulfilling the expectations of his
friends, who regarded him as the torch-bearer in the struggle against
the materialism of the "Enlighteners," yet his union of religion and
poetry, his philosophy, and his deep faith in Christianity, made him
a power quite unique in the world of letters. 'Geistliche Lieder'
(Spiritual Songs) are matchless of their kind; and all his poems have
an illusive beauty and fragrance quite impossible to translate.
A great part of the works of Novalis are made up of miscellaneous
fragments, philosophical reflections, aphorisms, and irrelevant thoughts
set down in disconnected sentences. Many of these were published
in the Athenæum under the title of Blumenstaub' (Flower-Dust),
and many more were collected from his papers after the death of the
author. Die Lehrlinge zu Sais' (The Disciples at Sais) is a frag-
ment of an unfinished psychological romance, which in its vagueness
and philosophical speculation has many points of resemblance to his
later and also unfinished work, Heinrich von Ofterdingen. '
A new art, before its limitations have been reached, and before it
has definitely assumed its ultimate shape, may develop many extrav
agances. Novalis was a leader in the new school of Romanticism,
and 'Heinrich von Ofterdingen' was a protest against rationalism.
This allegorical romance, if indeed what is pure allegory may be
called a romance, was written during the last months of Novalis's
life. It was intended to be an apotheosis of poetry, and in this
phenomenal piece of literature there existed no law either human or
divine. The poet's fancy is all supreme. Dreams and allegories may
transcend all laws of mind and matter; nothing astonishes, nothing
is impossible. Heinrich von Ofterdingen in his search for the Blue
## p. 10727 (#607) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10727
Flower, the absolute ideal, represents the struggle of the spirit of
poesy against the environment of the material. Part first, 'Expecta-
tion,' which is completed, describes the gradual preparation of the
hero for the reception of this ethereal essence. Part second, The
Fulfillment,' has been completed in outline by Tieck, the author's
intimate friend and literary confidant, and is supposed to represent
the full blossoming of the poet's soul. "To the poet who compre-
hends the nature of his art to its centre, nothing appears contradict-
ory and strange. To him all riddles are solved. By the magic of the
imagination he can unite all ages and all worlds. Miracles disappear,
and everything transforms itself into miracles. " And so throughout
the tale the marvels advance by gigantic strides, until at the end it
only dimly stirs us to learn that "Heinrich plucks the Blue Flower
and releases Matilda from her enchantment, but she is again lost to
him. He becomes insensible through pain, and turns into a stone.
Edda (the Blue Flower, the Eastern Maiden, Matilda) sacrifices her-
self upon the stone, which is then transformed into a melodious tree.
Cyane hews down the tree and burns it, and herself with it. He
now becomes a golden ram which Edda - that is, Matilda-must sac-
rifice, when he again becomes man," etc.
'Heinrich von Ofterdingen' as a romance is unworthy of the place
assigned it by contemporary critics. Although full of passages of
rare beauties, and ideas which outstrip their time, it is nevertheless
vague, obscure, and chaotic. Its importance lies in its effect as the
leaven of the new literature just springing into being. It embodies
all the beauties, as well as all the faults and extravagances, of the old
Romantic school, before time had pruned its growth and developed it
into a fruitful maturity.
HYMNS TO THE NIGHT
WHAT
HAT living, feeling being loves not the gorgeous hues which
proclaim the dawn of day?
The ever-moving stars, as they whirl in boundless.
ether, hail the dawn-bright herald of the day, the glistening
rocks hail its rays, the tender growing plants raise their pure
eyes rejoicing, and the wild animal joins in the happy chorus.
which welcomes another day.
More than all these rejoices the glorious Being, the Monarch
of the Earth. His deep, thoughtful eyes survey his creation.
His melodious voice summons nature to resume her magic works.
He binds or looses a million ties, and stamps all earthly life with
## p. 10728 (#608) ##########################################
10728
NOVALIS
some impress of his power. His presence reveals the marvels
of the Kingdom of Earth.
But sacred Night, with her unspoken mysteries, draws me to
her. The world is far, far away, buried in a deep and lonely
grave. My heart is full of sadness. Let me dissolve in drops
of dew, and join the beloved dust. Long past memories, youth-
ful ambitions, childhood's dreams, a long life of brief joys and
blighted hopes, pass before me-dusky forms, like evening mist.
In another region merry day returns triumphant. Will it
never return to us, its children, who await its coming in child-
like trust?
What stirs this weary heart, and banishes my sorrow? Dost
thou feel pity for us, O holy Night?
What soothing influence pervades my being? What hand
sheds costly opiate on my throbbing heart? The wings of fancy
no longer droop, fresh energy arises within me. In joyful sur-
prise I see a calm, grave face bend lovingly over me; the face
of a tender mother, beaming with eternal youth. How poor and
childish in comparison are the joys of day, how blessed and con-
soling the return of night!
The active work of day is over; the boundless ocean of space,
with its lustrous spheres, proclaims Night's eternal power and
presence.
The eyes of the Night are countless hosts of glittering orbs,
a glory far exceeding that of Day. They see far beyond the
most distant of those countless hosts; they need no light to
perceive the unfathomable depth of that loving Spirit who fills
boundless space with happiness.
All hail, Queen of the Earth! thou herald of holier worlds,
thou revealer of holy love! Much-loved sun of the night, thou
art her gift.
My whole being awakes. I am thine, and thou art mine.
Night has aroused me to life and manhood. Consume my earthly
frame, draw me into deeper and closer union, and may our
bridal night endure for ever.
MUST Day return again? Will earthly influences never cease?
Unholy toil desecrates the heavenly calm of Night. When shall
the mystic sacrifice of love burn for ever? Light has its own
fixed limits, but Night has a boundless unfathomable dominion;
the reign of Sleep has no end. Holy Sleep! shed thy blest balm
## p. 10729 (#609) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10729
on the hallowed Night of this earthly sphere. Only fools fail
to understand thee, and know of no other sleep than the shades
which the actual night casts over us in kindly pity. They see
thee not in the purple blood of the grape, in the golden oil of
the almond, in the dusty sap of the poppy. They guess not that
it is thou who hoverest around the tender maiden, making her
heart the temple of Heaven; nor dream that it is thou, heavenly
messenger, who bearest the key which opens the dwellings of the
Blessed.
I KNOW when the last day shall come when Light no longer
shall be scared by Night and Love: then slumber shall not cease,
and existence shall become an endless dream. Heavenly weari-
ness oppresses me, long and dreamy was my pilgrimage to the
Holy Grave, crushing was the cross I bore. He who has drunk
of the crystal wave which wells forth from the gloomy grave
on which earth's billows break, he who has stood on earth's
border-land and perceived that new country, the dwelling of
Night, returns not to the tumult of life, to the land where light
reigns amid ceaseless unrest.
―――
He builds himself a refuge far from the tumult-a peaceful
home, and awaits the welcome hour when he too shall be drawn
into the crystal wave. All that savors of earth floats on the
surface, and is driven back by tempests; but what love has hal-
lowed flows in hidden channels, to another region where it min-
gles- a fragrant essence—with those loved ones who have fallen
asleep.
Ah! merry Light, thou still arousest the weary to their task,
and strivest to inspire me too with cheerful life; but thou hast
no charm to tempt me from my cherished memories. With
joy I watch the busy hands, and look around to fulfill my own
duty; I praise thy glorious works, admire the matchless blending
of thy cunning designs, watch the varied workings of the busy
hours, and seek to discover the symmetry and laws which rule
the marvels of endless space and measureless ages.
But my heart remains ever true to Night and her daughter,
creative Love. Canst thou show me one ever-faithful heart?
Has thy sun a friendly glance for me? Do thy stars hold out a
welcoming hand? Do they return the gentle pressure and the
caressing word? Hast thou clothed them in color and beauty?
What joys or pleasure can life offer to outweigh the charm of
## p. 10730 (#610) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10730
death? Does not all that inspires us bear the colors of Night?
Night bears thee gently like a mother; to her thou owest all thy
glory. Thou wouldst have sunk into endless space had not Night
upheld thee, and bound thee, till earth arose. Truly I existed
long ere thou wert: I and my sisters were sent to dwell in thy
world, and hallow it with love, to make it an enduring memorial;
to plant it with unfading flowers. Not yet have these blossoms
opened, few are the traces which mark our way. But the end
of time is at hand; then thou wilt rejoin us, and gently fade
away, full of longing and fervent desire. All thy busy restless-
ness will end in heavenly freedom, a blessed home-coming. With
bitter grief I acknowledge thy forsaking of our home, thine un-
conquered hatred to the old glorious heaven.
But in vain is thy wrath and fury. The Cross stands firm
for ever, the banner of our race.
souls.
THE many scattered races of mankind lay bound for ages in
the grasp of an iron fate. Light was hidden from their weary
The eternal world was the home and dwelling of the
Gods. Its mysterious form had existed from eternity. Over
the glowing mountains of the East abode the Sun, with its all-
pervading heat and light. An aged Giant bore the Earth on his
shoulders. The Titans, the first children of Mother Earth,- who
had waged impious war against the new glorious race of Gods
and their kinsfolk, the merry race of men,-lay fast bound under
the mountains. The dark green depths of Ocean was the lap of
a Goddess. A gay, luxurious race dwelt in the crystal grottoes.
Beasts, trees, flowers, and animals had the gift of speech. Richer
was the flavor of the grapes, for a God dwelt in the luxuriant
vine; the golden sheaves took their birth from a loving motherly
Goddess; and love was the sweet service rendered to the dei-
ties. Age followed age, a ceaseless spring; and the happy life
of Earth's children was ever enlivened by celestial presences.
All races honored the flashing, many-hued flame, as the highest
manifestation in life.
Only one shadow obscured the common joy-the cruel spectre
of Death. This mysterious decree-separation from all that
was loved and lovely-weighed heavy on the hearts of all; even
the Gods could find no remedy for this evil. Unable to over-
come the menacing fate, man strove to cast a glamour of beauty
over the ghastly phantom, and pictured him as a lovely youth
## p. 10731 (#611) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10731
extinguishing a torch, and sinking to rest. Still the cruel
enigma remained unsolved, and spoke of the irresistible might
of some unknown power.
The old world waned; the flowers of the first Paradise faded
away; and the race of men, casting off their early innocence,
strayed into a wild, uncultivated desert. The Gods and their
retinues vanished from earth. Nature stood lonely and lifeless,
bound in the iron chains of custom and laws. The bloom was
brushed from life. Faith took flight from the dreary scene; and
with her fled her heavenly companion Fancy, who could cast
over all things her magic vesture. A cruel north wind swept over
the barren waste, and the devastated wonder-home was blown
into space.
Heaven's blue ocean showed new dazzling spheres,
and the Spirit of the World withdrew to higher regions to
await the dawn of a renewed earth. Light ceased to be the
abode and the symbol of the Gods; they covered themselves
with the veil of Night. Night was the cradle of the coming age;
in it the Gods took refuge, and sleep came upon them, until a
new era should call them forth in new and more glorious forms.
The new era arose at last amidst a nation scorned and
despised, a people who had cast off their native innocence. In
poverty was born the son of the first Virgin Mother, myste-
rious offspring of heavenly origin. The wise sons of the East
were first to acknowledge the commencement of the strange new
epoch, and humbly bent their way to worship the King in his
lowly cradle; a mystic star guided their wandering steps. They
did him homage, offering him the sweetness and brightness of
the earth, the gold and the perfume, both miracles of nature.
The Heavenly Heart unfolded slowly-a flower chalice of Al-
mighty love, with eyes upturned to a Divine Father, while his
head rested on the tender bosom of a loving earthly mother.
With prophetic eye and godlike zeal, the blooming Child, despis-
ing the cruel days of earthly conflict before him, looked far ahead
to the future of his beloved race, the offshoots of a divine root.
Soon he gathered around him a loving band of childlike hearts.
A strange new life arose, like that of the flowers of the field;
unceasing words of wisdom and utterances of deepest love fell
from his lips, like sparks of divine fire.
From the far shores of Hellas and her sunny skies, a poet
came to Palestine, and laid his heart at the feet of the Wonder-
Child.
## p. 10732 (#612) ##########################################
10732
NOVALIS
Oh! thou art he who from unending years
Hast looked with pity on our earthly tomb;
Thou gav'st a sign of life in deepest night,
And thou wilt bring our higher manhood home.
Thou hast upheld us here, mid grief and tears.
Lead thou our nobler longings up to heaven:
In death alone eternal life is found,
For thou art death, and thou our life hast given.
Full of joy, his heart beating with new love and hope, the
singer bent his way to Hindustan, pouring out under its cloud-
less sky such burning songs that myriads of hearts turned to
him, and the joyful news spread far and near. Soon after the
poet left, the precious Life fell a sacrifice to fallen man: he
died young, torn away from the much-loved earth, his weeping
mother, and his faint-hearted friends. The moment of anguish,
the birth of the new world was at hand. He fought with the
old dreaded form of death; struggled hard to shake off the clutch
of the old world; his sweet lips drained the bitter chalice of
unspeakable anguish. Once more he cast a loving glance at his
mother; then came the delivering hand of Mighty Love, and
he fell asleep. For many days a thick mist lay on the raging
waters and the quaking earth; countless were the tears shed by
those who loved him; the secret of the grave was made clear,
and heavenly spirits rolled away the heavy stone from the tomb.
Angels watched by the slumbering Form: rising in new godlike
glory, he soared to the heights of the newly made world, buried
the old earthly shape in the depths of a cavern, and laid his
mighty hand on it, so that no power might ever move it.
The loving ones still wept by his grave, but they wept tears
of emotion and gratitude. Again they see thee and rejoice at
thy resurrection; they see thee weeping on thy mother's sacred
bosom; they walk once more as friends, listening to words like
leaves fluttering from the Tree of Life; they behold thee hasten
with untold longing to the Father's arms, bearing aloft the new
manhood and the victorious chalice. The mother soon hastened
to join thy triumph; she was the first to enter the New Home.
Long years have passed since then, and thy new creation soars to
higher powers; thousands and thousands drawn by thee from
bitter grief and pain now roam with thee and the heavenly
Virgin in the Kingdom of Love, serve in the Temple of Divine
Death, and are thine eternally.
## p. 10733 (#613) ##########################################
10733
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
(1828-1862)
F THAT company of brilliant if not always prosperous fellows
who kept the echoes of "Bohemia" busy with the laughter
and the sighs of spendthrift wit in the New York of the
decade of '50, Fitz-James O'Brien was a fascinating and admired com-
rade. This restless Gaelic spirit was like the Irish river beside which
he was born: sometimes turbulent in flashing cascades, beating and
bullying the stolid rocks; again spreading under the sun through
bright and placid lakes, or dancing gayly by the low and rose-
perfumed meadows. In the power of this lad from Shannon side,
Thomond's bardic birthright infused its bold and tender soul into a
facile pen, and with drama, song, and story lifted up the weary soul
of the workaday world.
O'Brien was of that strangely endowed race which furnished Lever
with the heroes of his military novels,- the Englished Irishmen. He
was born in the County Limerick, Ireland, about the year 1828.
Educated at Dublin University, he went to London, where he amused
himself for a time with the easy task of making "ducks and drakes"
of a comfortable patrimony. About 1851 he sought relief from the
importunities of declining fortune in a sea voyage, which landed him
in New York with a few purse-burning shillings and some letters of
introduction to distinguished Americans in his pocket. He soon be-
came a favorite with the gay and gifted autocrats of the New World
Grub Street, and strolled along the fashionable side of Broadway,
and about the nooks of Printing-House Square, with the confidence
of vested rights. From 1853 to 1858 O'Brien was one of the most
valued contributors to Harper's Magazine and Harper's Weekly. He
wrote for the stage several pretty comediettas, which are numbered
in that exclusive list called the Standard Drama.
With his story
'The Diamond Lens,' published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1858–9, a
new and dashing pace was set in the fiction of the period.
O'Brien was neither prosperous nor thrifty, and lived with splen-
did and careless irregularity, sometimes in great want and hardship;
but keeping always a seemingly exhaustless buoyancy of heart. The
Civil War sent him, in April 1861, with the ranks of the New York
Seventh Regiment, to the defense of Washington. The war spirit
took possession of him; and after his term of enlistment with that
## p. 10734 (#614) ##########################################
10734
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
regiment had expired, he sought eagerly for a chance to return to
the army.
He was appointed to the staff of General Lander in Jan-
uary 1862, and immediately thereafter went through a gallant action
at Bloomery Gap. In a skirmish on the morning of February 16th,
1862, he was in a desperate hand-to-hand encounter with the Confed-
erate Colonel Ashley, and received a shot in the left shoulder. He
rode twenty-four miles with a shattered scapular, and lay two months
in battle for life at the house of George A. Thurston, in Cumberland,
Maryland. Unskillful surgery, rather than the original wound, was
the cause of his death. It was not until the 20th of March, too late,
that he came into the charge of an able surgeon. In spite of a suc-
cessful operation, by which the arm was removed at the shoulder, he
succumbed to lockjaw, and died suddenly on the morning of Sunday,
the 6th of April, 1862. His ashes were laid in the earth of Green-
wood in November 1874. O'Brien's only real monument is a limited
edition, now scarce, of his collected works, edited by William Winter,
and published in 1881 at Boston.
THE GREAT DIAMOND IS OBTAINED AND USED
From The Diamond Lens, with other Stories. ' Copyright 1881, by James R.
Osgood & Co. ; 1885, by Charles Scribner's Sons
ITH
WITH
an uneasy look in his eyes, and hands unsteady with
drink and nervousness, Simon drew a small case from his
breast and opened it. Heavens! how the mild lamp-
light was shivered into a thousand prismatic arrows, as it fell
upon a vast rose diamond that glittered in the case! I was no
judge of diamonds, but I saw at a glance that this was a gem
of rare size and purity. I looked at Simon with wonder, and—
must I confess it? -with envy. How could he have obtained
this treasure? In reply to my questions, I could just gather
from his drunken statements (of which, I fancy, half the inco-
herence was affected) that he had been superintending a gang
of slaves engaged in diamond-washing in Brazil; that he had
seen one of them secrete a diamond, but instead of informing
his employers, had quietly watched the negro until he saw him
bury his treasure; that he had dug it up and fled with it, but
that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose of it publicly,— so
valuable a gem being almost certain to attract too much atten-
tion to its owner's antecedents,- and he had not been able to dis-
cover any of those obscure channels by which such matters are
## p. 10735 (#615) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10735
conveyed away safely. He added that in accordance with Ori-
ental practice, he had named his diamond with the fanciful title
of "The Eye of Morning. "
While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded the great
diamond attentively. Never had I beheld anything so beautiful.
All the glories of light ever imagined or described seemed to
pulsate in its crystalline chambers. Its weight, as I learned
from Simon, was exactly one hundred and forty carats. Here
was an amazing coincidence. The hand of destiny seemed in it.
On the very evening when the spirit of Leeuwenhoek communi-
cates to me the great secret of the microscope, the priceless means
which he directs me to employ start up within my easy reach!
I determined, with the most perfect deliberation, to possess myself
of Simon's diamond.
I sat opposite to him while he nodded over his glass, and
calmly revolved the whole affair. I did not for an instant con-
template so foolish an act as a common theft, which would of
course be discovered, or at least necessitate flight and conceal-
ment, all of which must interfere with my scientific plans. There
was but one step to be taken,- to kill Simon. After all, what
was the life of a little peddling Jew in comparison with the in-
terests of science? Human beings are taken every day from the
condemned prisons to be experimented on by surgeons. This
man Simon was by his own confession a criminal, a robber, and
I believed on my soul a murderer. He deserved death quite as
much as any felon condemned by the laws: why should I not,
like government, contrive that his punishment should contribute
to the progress of human knowledge?
The means for accomplishing everything I desired lay within.
my reach. There stood upon the mantelpiece a bottle half full
of French laudanum. Simon was so occupied with his diamond,
which I had just restored to him, that it was an affair of no dif-
ficulty to drug his glass. In a quarter of an hour he was in a
profound sleep.
I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond from the inner
pocket in which he had placed it, and removed him to the bed,
on which I laid him so that his feet hung down over the edge.
I had possessed myself of the Malay creese, which I held in my
right hand, while with the other I discovered as accurately as I
could by pulsation the exact locality of the heart. It was essen-
tial that all the aspects of his death should lead to the surmise
## p. 10736 (#616) ##########################################
10736
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
of self-murder. I calculated the exact angle at which it was
probable that the weapon, if leveled by Simon's own hand, would
enter his breast; then with one powerful blow I thrust it up to
the hilt in the very spot which I desired to penetrate. A con-
vulsive thrill ran through Simon's limbs. I heard a smothered
sound issue from his throat, precisely like the bursting of a large
air bubble sent up by a diver when it reaches the surface of the
water; he turned half round on his side, and as if to assist
my plans more effectually, his right hand, moved by some mere
spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle of the creese, which it
remained holding with extraordinary muscular tenacity. Beyond
this there was no apparent struggle. The laudanum, I presume,
paralyzed the usual nervous action. He must have died instantly.
There was yet something to be done. To make it certain
that all suspicion of the act should be diverted from any inhab
itant of the house to Simon himself, it was necessary that the
door should be found in the morning locked on the inside. How
to do this, and afterwards escape myself? Not by the window:
that was a physical impossibility. Besides, I was determined
that the windows also should be found bolted. The solution
was simple enough. I descended softly to my own room for
a peculiar instrument, which I had used for holding small slip-
pery substances, such as minute spheres of glass, etc. This
instrument was nothing more than a long slender hand-vise,
with a very powerful grip, and a considerable leverage, which
last was accidentally owing to the shape of the handle. Nothing
was simpler than, when the key was in the lock, to seize the end
of its stem in this vise, through the keyhole, from the outside,
and so lock the door. Previously, however, to doing this, I
burned a number of papers on Simon's hearth. Suicides almost
always burn papers before they destroy themselves. I also
emptied some more laudanum into Simon's glass,- having first
removed from it all traces of wine,- cleaned the other wine-
glass, and brought the bottles away with me. If traces of two
persons drinking had been found in the room, the question
naturally would have arisen, Who was the second?
## p. 10717 (#597) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10717
the greater from the height of the walls from which the dome
must spring. No Gothic builder had vaulted such an area as
this. Since the Pantheon was built, no architect had attempted
a dome with such a span; and the dome of the Pantheon itself,
with a diameter of one hundred and forty-three feet, rose from
a wall that was but seventy-two feet in height. The dome of
St. Sophia, the supreme work of the Byzantine builders, with the
resources of the Empire at their command, had a diameter of
but one hundred and four feet, and the height from the ground
to its very summit was but one hundred and seventy-nine feet.
The records of architecture could not show such a dome as this
must be. Where was the architect to be found who would
venture to undertake its construction? What were the means he
could employ for its execution? Such were the questions that
pressed upon those who had the work in charge, and which
busied the thoughts of the builders of the time.
It cannot now be determined, and it is of little importance,
whether Brunelleschi's object in going to Rome was as distinctly
defined beforehand in his own mind as Vasari declares in the
statement that he had two most grand designs: one to bring to
light again good architecture; the other to find the means, if he
could, of vaulting the cupola of St. Mary of the Flower, "an
intention of which he said nothing to Donatello or any living.
soul; "or whether, as the anonymous biographer implies, this
object gradually took shape in his thought as he studied the
remains of Roman antiquity, acquainting himself with the forms
and proportions of classic buildings, and with the unsurpassed
methods of Roman construction. But this journey of Brunelles-
chi and Donatello, that they might learn, and learning revive, "the
good ancient art," is one of the capital incidents in the modern
Renaissance. These were the two men in all Florence, at the
beginning of the fifteenth century, of deepest nature, of most
various and original genius. They were in little sympathy with
the temper of the Middle Ages. For them the charm of its
finest moods was lost. The spirit that had given form to Gothic
art had always been foreign to Tuscan artists. The traditions of
an earlier time had never wholly failed to influence their work.
And now the worth and significance of ancient art, first recog-
nized by Niccola Pisano a century and a half earlier, were felt
as never before. The work of the scholars of the fourteenth
century, in the collection and study of the fragments of ancient
.
## p. 10718 (#598) ##########################################
10718
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
culture, was bearing fruit. For a hundred years the progress in
letters and the arts in Italy had been quickened by the increas-
ing knowledge of the past; and with each step of advance men
had not only felt deeper and more inspiring delight in the ideals
of the classic world, but had found more and more instruction
in the models which its works presented. Through the creations
of the art of former days nature herself was revealed to them in
new aspects. Their reverence for the teachings of the ancients
was often uncritical and indiscriminate, but the zeal with which
they sought them was sincere and invigorating. It was not till
a later time, when the first eagerness of enthusiasm had given
place to a dry pedantry of investigation, that the study of classic
models allured a weaker generation from the paths of nature and
independence into those of artificiality and imitation.
Brunelleschi was the first artist to visit Rome with fully open
modern eyes.
From morning till night, day after day, he and
Donatello were at work unearthing half-buried ruins, measuring
columns and entablatures, digging up hidden fragments, search-
ing for whatever might reveal the secrets of ancient time. The
common people fancied them to be seekers for buried treasure;
but the treasure for which they sought was visible only to one
who had, like Brunelleschi, as his biographer says, "buono occhio
mentale," a clear mental eye.
For many years the greater part of Brunelleschi's life was
spent in Rome. He had sold a little farm that he owned at
Settignano, near Florence, to obtain the means of living; but
falling short of money after a while, he turned to the art in
which he had served his apprenticeship, and gained his livelihood
by work as a goldsmith. The condition of Rome at this time.
was wretched in the extreme. Nothing was left of the dignity
of the ancient city but its ruins. There was no settled civic
order, no regular administration of law or justice. Life and
property were insecure. The people were poor, suffering, and
turbulent. Rome was the least civilized city of Italy. Its aspect
was as wretched as its condition. Large tracts within its walls
were vacant. Its inhabited portions were a labyrinth of filthy
lanes. Many churches, built in earlier centuries, were neglected
and falling to ruin. There was no respect for the monuments
of former times. Many were buried under heaps of the foul-
est rubbish; many were used as quarries of stone for common
walls; many were cumbered by mean buildings, or occupied as
―
## p. 10719 (#599) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10719
strongholds. The portico of the Pantheon was filled with stalls
and booths; the arcades of the Colosseum were blocked up with
rude structures used for the most various purposes; the Forum
was crowded with a confused mass of low dwellings. Ancient
marbles, fragments of splendid sculpture, were often calcined for
lime. The reawakening interest in antiquity which was inspiring
the scholars and artists of Florence, and which was beginning
to modify profoundly the culture and the life of Europe, was
not yet shared by those who dwelt within the city which was its
chief source, and reverence for Rome was nowhere less felt than
in Rome itself.
But the example and the labors of Brunelleschi were opening
the way to change. He was the pioneer along a path leading
to modern times. In the midst of conditions that must have
weighed heavily upon him, he continued the diligent study of
the remains of ancient art, investigating especially such struct-
ures as the Pantheon and the Baths, for the purpose of learning
the methods adopted in their construction.
Meantime his repute was slowly advancing at home; and
when at intervals he visited Florence, he was consulted in re-
spect to the public and private buildings with which the flour-
ishing city was adorning herself. The work on the Duomo was
steadily proceeding. The eastern tribune was finished in 1407;
the others were approaching completion. The original plan of a
dome springing from the level of the roof of the nave had been
recognized as unfit for the larger church. Such a dome would
have had too heavy and too low a look. It had been decided
that the dome must be lifted above the level of the roof upon a
massive octagonal drum; and already in 1417 the occhi, or round
lights, of the drum were constructing, and the time was close at
hand when the structure would be ready for the beginning of
the dome itself. The overseers of the work were embarrassed
by the difficulty of the task by which they were confronted,
and knew not how to proceed. If a framework for the centring
of the dome were to be built up from the ground, they stood
aghast at the quantity of timber required for it, and at the enor-
mous cost; so that it seemed to them well-nigh an impossibility,
or to speak more truly, absolutely impossible.
«<
The Board of Works sought advice from Brunelleschi. But
if the master builders had seen difficulties, Philip showed them
far more. And some one asking, Is there, then, no mode of
## p. 10720 (#600) ##########################################
10720
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
-
erecting it? Philip, who was ingenious also in discourse, replied
that if the thing were really impossible, it could not be done:
but that if it were not so, there ought to be some one in the
world who could do the work; and seeing that it was a religious
edifice, the Lord God, to whom nothing was impossible, would
surely not abandon it. " Further consultations were held; and on
May 19th, 1417, the Opera voted to give Philip di Ser Brunellesco
"pro bona gratuitate" — for his labors in making drawings and
employing himself concerning the cupola - ten golden florins.
No more characteristic or remarkable design was pro-
duced during the whole period of the Renaissance than this with
which its great architectural achievements began. It was the
manifesto of a revolution in architecture. It marks an epoch
in the art. Such a dome as Brunelleschi proposed to erect had
never been built. The great domes of former times- the dome
of the Pantheon, the dome of Santa Sophia-had been designed
solely for their interior effect: they were not impressive or noble
structures from without. But Brunelleschi had conceived a dome
which, grand in its interior aspect, should be even more superb
from without than from within, and which in its stately dimen-
sions and proportions, in its magnificent lift above all the other
edifices of the city of which it formed the centre, should give
the fullest satisfaction to the desire common in the Italian cit-
ies for a monumental expression of the political unity and the
religious faith of their people. His work fulfilled the highest
aim of architecture as a civic art, in being a political symbol,
an image of the life of the State itself. As such no other of the
ultimate forms of architecture was so appropriate as the dome.
Its absolute unity and symmetry, the beautiful shape and pro-
portions of its broad divisions, the strong and simple energy
of its upwardly converging lines, all satisfied the sentiment of
Florence, compounded as it was of the most varied elements,-
civic, political, religious, and æsthetic.
At last, in 1420, all these masters from beyond the mountains
were assembled in Florence, together with those of Tuscany, and
all the ingenious architects of the city, among them Brunelleschi
himself. On a certain day they all met at the works of S. Maria
del Fiore, together with the consuls and the Board of Works
and a choice of the most intelligent citizens; and then one after
another spoke his mind as to the mode in which the dome might
be built. "It was a fine thing to hear the strange and diverse
## p. 10721 (#601) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10721
opinions on the matter. " Some advised to build up a structure
from the ground to support the cupola while it was in process of
building. Others, for the same end, proposed heaping up a high
mound of earth, in which pieces of money should be buried, so
that when the work was done the common people would carry
away the earth for the sake of what they might find in it. Others.
again urged that the cupola be built of pumice-stone, for the
sake of lightness. Only Philip said that the dome could be
built without any such support of timber or masonry or earth,
and was laughed at by all for such a wild and impracticable
notion; and growing hot in the explanation and defense of his
plan of construction, and being told to go but not consenting,
he was at last carried by main force from the assembly, "fu
portato di peso fuori," - all men holding him stark mad. And
Philip was accustomed to say afterwards that he was ashamed at
this time to go about Florence, for fear of hearing it said, "See
that fool there, who talks so wildly. " The overseers of the work
were distracted by the bewildering diversity of counsels; and
"Philip, who had spent so many years in studies for the sake
of having this work, knew not what to do, and was oftentimes
tempted to depart from Florence. Yet, wishing to win his
object, he armed himself with patience, as was needful, having
so much to endure; for he knew the brains of that city never
stood long fixed on one resolve. Philip might have shown a
little model which he had below, but he did not wish to show
it; being aware of the small understanding of the consuls, the
envy of the workmen, and the little stability of the citizens, who
favored now this, now that, according to their pleasure. What,
then, Philip had not been able to do in the assembly he began
to try with individuals; and speaking now to this consul, now to
this member of the Board of Works, and in like wise to many
citizens, showing them part of his design, he brought them to
determine to assign the work either to him or to one of the
foreigners. Whereby the consuls and the Board of Works and
the citizens being encouraged, they caused a new assembly to be
held, and the architects disputed of the matter; but they were
all beaten down and overcome by Philip with abundant reasons.
And here it is said that the dispute about the egg arose in this
manner. " The other architects urged him to explain his scheme
in detail, and to show them the model he had made of the
structure; but this he refused, and finally proposed to them that
XVIII-671
## p. 10722 (#602) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10722
the man who could prove his capacity by making an egg stand
on end on a smooth bit of marble should build the cupola. To
this they assented. All tried in vain; and then Philip, taking
the egg and striking it upon the marble, made it stand. The
others, offended, declared they could have done as much. "Ay,"
said Philip, "and so, after seeing my model, you could build the
cupola. "
It was accordingly resolved that he should have charge of the
conduct of the work; and he was directed to give fuller infor-
mation concerning his plans to the consuls and Board of Works.
Towards the end of the year 1425, in January (it is to be
remembered that the Florentine year began in March), Brunelles-
chi and Ghiberti, together with one of the Officials of the Cupola
and the head-master of the works, united in an important report
to the Board, as to the work in progress and that which was
to be next undertaken. It is plain from it that the difficulties
of building such a vault without centring were increasing as the
curve ascended. On the inner side of the vault a parapet of
planks was to be made, to protect the scaffolding and to cut off
the sight of the masters from the void beneath them, for their
greater security. "We say nothing of centring," say the builders:
"not that it might not have given greater strength and beauty
to the work," which may well be doubted; "but not having been
started with, a centring would now be undesirable, and could
hardly be made without armature, for the sake of avoiding which
the centring was dispensed with at the beginning. " Brunelles-
chi's genius was sufficient to overcome all the difficulties met
with in accomplishing the bold experiment which he had devised,
and which in its kind still remains without parallel.
Many entries in the records afford a lively impression of
scenes and incidents connected with the building. With all the
precautions that could be taken, the exposure of the workmen to
the risk of falling was great. Two men were thus killed in the
first year of the work. As the dome rose, the danger increased;
and a provision was made that any of the masters or laborers
who preferred to work below might do so, but at wages one
quarter less.
Brunelleschi, finding that owing to the vast height
of the edifice, the builders lost much time in going down for
food and drink, arranged a cook-shop and stalls for the sale of
bread and wine, in the cupola itself. Thenceforth no one was
## p. 10723 (#603) ##########################################
CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
10723
allowed to go down from his work oftener than once a day. But
the supply of wine in the cupola caused a new danger; and an
order was issued by the Board, that "considering the risks which
may daily threaten the master masons who are employed on the
wall of the cupola, on account of the wine that is necessarily
kept in the cupola, from this time forth the clerk of the works
shall not allow any wine to be brought up which has not been
diluted with at least one third of water. " But the workmen
were reckless; and amused themselves, among other ways, in let-
ting themselves and each other down on the outside of the dome
in mere sport, or to take young birds from their nests, till at
length the practice was forbidden by an order of the Board.
So year by year the work went on; the walls slowly rounding
upwards.
·
The work on the Duomo was now actively pushed forward.
The second chain to resist the thrust of the inner cupola was
constructed; and in 1432 the dome had reached such a height
that Brunelleschi was ordered to make a model of the closing of
its summit, and also a model of the lantern that was to stand on
it, in order that full consideration might be given to the work,
and due provision for it made in advance. Two years more
passed, years in which the city was busied with public affairs of
great concern both at home and abroad; when at length, on the
12th of June, 1434, just fourteen years from its beginning, the
cupola closed over the central space of the Duomo. It had
grown slowly, marvelous in the eyes of all beholders, who saw
its walls rise, curving over the void without apparent support,
held suspended in the air as if by miracle. Brunelleschi's fame
was secure; henceforth his work was chief part of Florence.
## p. 10724 (#604) ##########################################
10724
NOVALIS
(FRIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG)
(1772-1801)
RIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG, better known under the pseudonym
of Novalis, was born upon the family estate of Wiederstedt,
Mansfeld, Germany, May 2d, 1772. His early education and
environment were conducive to the development of the best that was
in him. His father, the Baron von Hardenberg, was in every respect
an exemplary man and a wise father; his mother was loving and
pious: and the family circle, which included
seven sons and four daughters, was bound
together by the closest ties of affection and
congeniality.
As a lad, Novalis was delicate and re-
tiring, and of a dreamy disposition. He
withdrew from the rough sports of his
companions, and amused himself by read-
ing and composing poetry. He wrote po-
etical plays, in which he and his brothers
enacted the characters of the spirits of
the earth and air and water. His parents
were Moravians; and the strict, religious
character of his training had a deep effect
upon his sensitive nature. His thoughts
dwelt constantly upon the unseen. His eyes burned with the light
of an inward fire, and he wandered about in a kind of day-dream, in
which the intangible was more real than his material surroundings.
A more healthful change took place during his ninth year. A severe
attack of illness seems to have aroused his dormant powers of resist-
ance; and after his recovery he was not only better physically, but
brighter and more cheerful, and far more awake to temporalities.
His education now began in earnest. He applied himself diligently
to his studies, and entered the University of Jena in 1789. Here he
met Fichte and Friedrich Schlegel; an acquaintance that was fruit-
ful of results, for with Novalis a friendship was an epoch, and his
ardent spirit readily yielded itself to affinitive influences. His pas-
sionate friendship for Schiller, whom he also met at Jena, and later
NOVALIS
## p. 10725 (#605) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10725
for Goethe, were molds for his plastic nature. He remained at
Jena until 1792, when he went to the University of Leipsic with his
brother Erasmus; and the following year he finished his studies at
Wittenberg.
The future character of his pursuits indicates his intention of fol-
lowing a business career. He went to Arnstadt, where, under the
instruction of Just, the principal judiciary of the district, he applied
himself to practical affairs. In 1795 he was appointed to a position.
in the Saxony salt works, of which his father was director. In the
mean time, early in the spring of 1795, he had made the acquaintance
of Sophie von Kuhn, a beautiful child of thirteen, for whom he at
once conceived a poetic passion. In spite of her youth, they were
betrothed; but Sophie died just after her fifteenth birthday, and
Novalis entered upon a period of darkness and despair that threat-
ened to engulf him. Shortly after her death, his brother Erasmus
died at Weissenfels; and this double grief seemed to transfigure No-
valis. For him the boundary line between the seen and the unseen
disappeared. He longed for death, and yet was in a state of exalta-
tion. He wrote to his brother Charles: "Be comforted. Erasmus has
conquered. The flowers of the beloved wreath here drop off one by
one, in order that there they may be reunited into one more beauti-
ful and eternal. "
It was during this time and a little later that he wrote some of
the most beautiful and spirituel of his compositions, notably Hymnen
an die Nacht' (Hymns to the Night). These fragmentary pieces of
prose are the breathings of a poet's soul. "I turn aside to the holy,
ineffable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world submerged in the
deep vault of heaven. Waste and lonely is her place. The chords
of the bosom are stirred by deep sadness. I will descend in dew-
drops and mix myself with the ashes. Distances of memory, wishes
of youth, dreams of childhood, the short joys and vain hopes of a
whole long life, come in gray apparel, like the evening mist after the
sunset. In other spaces Light has pitched its joyful tents. Will it
never return to its children who await it with the faith of innocence ? »
With the intention of diverting his mind from his sorrow, his
parents persuaded him to carry out a plan of his younger days, and
undertake a course of study in the Mining School of Freiburg. Here,
amid congenial friends and in the interests of his pursuits, he grad-
ually recovered health and cheerfulness. He loved again, and shortly
became engaged to Julie, the daughter of the famous mineralogist
Charpentier. Novalis remained in Freiburg until the summer of
1799, when he returned to Weissenfels, where he was made assessor
and was appointed under his father chief judiciary of the Thurin-
gian district. He now visited often at Jena, where he established
## p. 10726 (#606) ##########################################
10726
NOVALIS
the warmest relations with Ritter, Schelling, Wilhelm Schlegel, and
Tieck; of whom the last, in connection with Friedrich Schlegel, be-
came his biographer and literary executor.
Always delicate, always spiritually toying with death, at last the
invincible forces that had so long held aloof descended upon him.
In August of the year 1800 he became very ill; and though he still
attended to the duties of his office, and wrote constantly, his weak-
ness increased, and on the 25th of March, 1801, he died at the house
of his parents in Weissenfels, not quite twenty-nine years of age.
The influence of Novalis was due more to the time of his ap-
pearance than to his power as a writer; and it is as a factor in the
evolution of German literature, rather than by the amount or even
the quality of his work, that he is to be judged. His entire writings
are comprised within two or three small volumes, and the years of
his literary activity were but six, included in the period between the
close of his student days and his death; and yet the name of Nova-
lis is the brightest of the old Romantic school. Although his early
death precluded the possibility of his fulfilling the expectations of his
friends, who regarded him as the torch-bearer in the struggle against
the materialism of the "Enlighteners," yet his union of religion and
poetry, his philosophy, and his deep faith in Christianity, made him
a power quite unique in the world of letters. 'Geistliche Lieder'
(Spiritual Songs) are matchless of their kind; and all his poems have
an illusive beauty and fragrance quite impossible to translate.
A great part of the works of Novalis are made up of miscellaneous
fragments, philosophical reflections, aphorisms, and irrelevant thoughts
set down in disconnected sentences. Many of these were published
in the Athenæum under the title of Blumenstaub' (Flower-Dust),
and many more were collected from his papers after the death of the
author. Die Lehrlinge zu Sais' (The Disciples at Sais) is a frag-
ment of an unfinished psychological romance, which in its vagueness
and philosophical speculation has many points of resemblance to his
later and also unfinished work, Heinrich von Ofterdingen. '
A new art, before its limitations have been reached, and before it
has definitely assumed its ultimate shape, may develop many extrav
agances. Novalis was a leader in the new school of Romanticism,
and 'Heinrich von Ofterdingen' was a protest against rationalism.
This allegorical romance, if indeed what is pure allegory may be
called a romance, was written during the last months of Novalis's
life. It was intended to be an apotheosis of poetry, and in this
phenomenal piece of literature there existed no law either human or
divine. The poet's fancy is all supreme. Dreams and allegories may
transcend all laws of mind and matter; nothing astonishes, nothing
is impossible. Heinrich von Ofterdingen in his search for the Blue
## p. 10727 (#607) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10727
Flower, the absolute ideal, represents the struggle of the spirit of
poesy against the environment of the material. Part first, 'Expecta-
tion,' which is completed, describes the gradual preparation of the
hero for the reception of this ethereal essence. Part second, The
Fulfillment,' has been completed in outline by Tieck, the author's
intimate friend and literary confidant, and is supposed to represent
the full blossoming of the poet's soul. "To the poet who compre-
hends the nature of his art to its centre, nothing appears contradict-
ory and strange. To him all riddles are solved. By the magic of the
imagination he can unite all ages and all worlds. Miracles disappear,
and everything transforms itself into miracles. " And so throughout
the tale the marvels advance by gigantic strides, until at the end it
only dimly stirs us to learn that "Heinrich plucks the Blue Flower
and releases Matilda from her enchantment, but she is again lost to
him. He becomes insensible through pain, and turns into a stone.
Edda (the Blue Flower, the Eastern Maiden, Matilda) sacrifices her-
self upon the stone, which is then transformed into a melodious tree.
Cyane hews down the tree and burns it, and herself with it. He
now becomes a golden ram which Edda - that is, Matilda-must sac-
rifice, when he again becomes man," etc.
'Heinrich von Ofterdingen' as a romance is unworthy of the place
assigned it by contemporary critics. Although full of passages of
rare beauties, and ideas which outstrip their time, it is nevertheless
vague, obscure, and chaotic. Its importance lies in its effect as the
leaven of the new literature just springing into being. It embodies
all the beauties, as well as all the faults and extravagances, of the old
Romantic school, before time had pruned its growth and developed it
into a fruitful maturity.
HYMNS TO THE NIGHT
WHAT
HAT living, feeling being loves not the gorgeous hues which
proclaim the dawn of day?
The ever-moving stars, as they whirl in boundless.
ether, hail the dawn-bright herald of the day, the glistening
rocks hail its rays, the tender growing plants raise their pure
eyes rejoicing, and the wild animal joins in the happy chorus.
which welcomes another day.
More than all these rejoices the glorious Being, the Monarch
of the Earth. His deep, thoughtful eyes survey his creation.
His melodious voice summons nature to resume her magic works.
He binds or looses a million ties, and stamps all earthly life with
## p. 10728 (#608) ##########################################
10728
NOVALIS
some impress of his power. His presence reveals the marvels
of the Kingdom of Earth.
But sacred Night, with her unspoken mysteries, draws me to
her. The world is far, far away, buried in a deep and lonely
grave. My heart is full of sadness. Let me dissolve in drops
of dew, and join the beloved dust. Long past memories, youth-
ful ambitions, childhood's dreams, a long life of brief joys and
blighted hopes, pass before me-dusky forms, like evening mist.
In another region merry day returns triumphant. Will it
never return to us, its children, who await its coming in child-
like trust?
What stirs this weary heart, and banishes my sorrow? Dost
thou feel pity for us, O holy Night?
What soothing influence pervades my being? What hand
sheds costly opiate on my throbbing heart? The wings of fancy
no longer droop, fresh energy arises within me. In joyful sur-
prise I see a calm, grave face bend lovingly over me; the face
of a tender mother, beaming with eternal youth. How poor and
childish in comparison are the joys of day, how blessed and con-
soling the return of night!
The active work of day is over; the boundless ocean of space,
with its lustrous spheres, proclaims Night's eternal power and
presence.
The eyes of the Night are countless hosts of glittering orbs,
a glory far exceeding that of Day. They see far beyond the
most distant of those countless hosts; they need no light to
perceive the unfathomable depth of that loving Spirit who fills
boundless space with happiness.
All hail, Queen of the Earth! thou herald of holier worlds,
thou revealer of holy love! Much-loved sun of the night, thou
art her gift.
My whole being awakes. I am thine, and thou art mine.
Night has aroused me to life and manhood. Consume my earthly
frame, draw me into deeper and closer union, and may our
bridal night endure for ever.
MUST Day return again? Will earthly influences never cease?
Unholy toil desecrates the heavenly calm of Night. When shall
the mystic sacrifice of love burn for ever? Light has its own
fixed limits, but Night has a boundless unfathomable dominion;
the reign of Sleep has no end. Holy Sleep! shed thy blest balm
## p. 10729 (#609) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10729
on the hallowed Night of this earthly sphere. Only fools fail
to understand thee, and know of no other sleep than the shades
which the actual night casts over us in kindly pity. They see
thee not in the purple blood of the grape, in the golden oil of
the almond, in the dusty sap of the poppy. They guess not that
it is thou who hoverest around the tender maiden, making her
heart the temple of Heaven; nor dream that it is thou, heavenly
messenger, who bearest the key which opens the dwellings of the
Blessed.
I KNOW when the last day shall come when Light no longer
shall be scared by Night and Love: then slumber shall not cease,
and existence shall become an endless dream. Heavenly weari-
ness oppresses me, long and dreamy was my pilgrimage to the
Holy Grave, crushing was the cross I bore. He who has drunk
of the crystal wave which wells forth from the gloomy grave
on which earth's billows break, he who has stood on earth's
border-land and perceived that new country, the dwelling of
Night, returns not to the tumult of life, to the land where light
reigns amid ceaseless unrest.
―――
He builds himself a refuge far from the tumult-a peaceful
home, and awaits the welcome hour when he too shall be drawn
into the crystal wave. All that savors of earth floats on the
surface, and is driven back by tempests; but what love has hal-
lowed flows in hidden channels, to another region where it min-
gles- a fragrant essence—with those loved ones who have fallen
asleep.
Ah! merry Light, thou still arousest the weary to their task,
and strivest to inspire me too with cheerful life; but thou hast
no charm to tempt me from my cherished memories. With
joy I watch the busy hands, and look around to fulfill my own
duty; I praise thy glorious works, admire the matchless blending
of thy cunning designs, watch the varied workings of the busy
hours, and seek to discover the symmetry and laws which rule
the marvels of endless space and measureless ages.
But my heart remains ever true to Night and her daughter,
creative Love. Canst thou show me one ever-faithful heart?
Has thy sun a friendly glance for me? Do thy stars hold out a
welcoming hand? Do they return the gentle pressure and the
caressing word? Hast thou clothed them in color and beauty?
What joys or pleasure can life offer to outweigh the charm of
## p. 10730 (#610) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10730
death? Does not all that inspires us bear the colors of Night?
Night bears thee gently like a mother; to her thou owest all thy
glory. Thou wouldst have sunk into endless space had not Night
upheld thee, and bound thee, till earth arose. Truly I existed
long ere thou wert: I and my sisters were sent to dwell in thy
world, and hallow it with love, to make it an enduring memorial;
to plant it with unfading flowers. Not yet have these blossoms
opened, few are the traces which mark our way. But the end
of time is at hand; then thou wilt rejoin us, and gently fade
away, full of longing and fervent desire. All thy busy restless-
ness will end in heavenly freedom, a blessed home-coming. With
bitter grief I acknowledge thy forsaking of our home, thine un-
conquered hatred to the old glorious heaven.
But in vain is thy wrath and fury. The Cross stands firm
for ever, the banner of our race.
souls.
THE many scattered races of mankind lay bound for ages in
the grasp of an iron fate. Light was hidden from their weary
The eternal world was the home and dwelling of the
Gods. Its mysterious form had existed from eternity. Over
the glowing mountains of the East abode the Sun, with its all-
pervading heat and light. An aged Giant bore the Earth on his
shoulders. The Titans, the first children of Mother Earth,- who
had waged impious war against the new glorious race of Gods
and their kinsfolk, the merry race of men,-lay fast bound under
the mountains. The dark green depths of Ocean was the lap of
a Goddess. A gay, luxurious race dwelt in the crystal grottoes.
Beasts, trees, flowers, and animals had the gift of speech. Richer
was the flavor of the grapes, for a God dwelt in the luxuriant
vine; the golden sheaves took their birth from a loving motherly
Goddess; and love was the sweet service rendered to the dei-
ties. Age followed age, a ceaseless spring; and the happy life
of Earth's children was ever enlivened by celestial presences.
All races honored the flashing, many-hued flame, as the highest
manifestation in life.
Only one shadow obscured the common joy-the cruel spectre
of Death. This mysterious decree-separation from all that
was loved and lovely-weighed heavy on the hearts of all; even
the Gods could find no remedy for this evil. Unable to over-
come the menacing fate, man strove to cast a glamour of beauty
over the ghastly phantom, and pictured him as a lovely youth
## p. 10731 (#611) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10731
extinguishing a torch, and sinking to rest. Still the cruel
enigma remained unsolved, and spoke of the irresistible might
of some unknown power.
The old world waned; the flowers of the first Paradise faded
away; and the race of men, casting off their early innocence,
strayed into a wild, uncultivated desert. The Gods and their
retinues vanished from earth. Nature stood lonely and lifeless,
bound in the iron chains of custom and laws. The bloom was
brushed from life. Faith took flight from the dreary scene; and
with her fled her heavenly companion Fancy, who could cast
over all things her magic vesture. A cruel north wind swept over
the barren waste, and the devastated wonder-home was blown
into space.
Heaven's blue ocean showed new dazzling spheres,
and the Spirit of the World withdrew to higher regions to
await the dawn of a renewed earth. Light ceased to be the
abode and the symbol of the Gods; they covered themselves
with the veil of Night. Night was the cradle of the coming age;
in it the Gods took refuge, and sleep came upon them, until a
new era should call them forth in new and more glorious forms.
The new era arose at last amidst a nation scorned and
despised, a people who had cast off their native innocence. In
poverty was born the son of the first Virgin Mother, myste-
rious offspring of heavenly origin. The wise sons of the East
were first to acknowledge the commencement of the strange new
epoch, and humbly bent their way to worship the King in his
lowly cradle; a mystic star guided their wandering steps. They
did him homage, offering him the sweetness and brightness of
the earth, the gold and the perfume, both miracles of nature.
The Heavenly Heart unfolded slowly-a flower chalice of Al-
mighty love, with eyes upturned to a Divine Father, while his
head rested on the tender bosom of a loving earthly mother.
With prophetic eye and godlike zeal, the blooming Child, despis-
ing the cruel days of earthly conflict before him, looked far ahead
to the future of his beloved race, the offshoots of a divine root.
Soon he gathered around him a loving band of childlike hearts.
A strange new life arose, like that of the flowers of the field;
unceasing words of wisdom and utterances of deepest love fell
from his lips, like sparks of divine fire.
From the far shores of Hellas and her sunny skies, a poet
came to Palestine, and laid his heart at the feet of the Wonder-
Child.
## p. 10732 (#612) ##########################################
10732
NOVALIS
Oh! thou art he who from unending years
Hast looked with pity on our earthly tomb;
Thou gav'st a sign of life in deepest night,
And thou wilt bring our higher manhood home.
Thou hast upheld us here, mid grief and tears.
Lead thou our nobler longings up to heaven:
In death alone eternal life is found,
For thou art death, and thou our life hast given.
Full of joy, his heart beating with new love and hope, the
singer bent his way to Hindustan, pouring out under its cloud-
less sky such burning songs that myriads of hearts turned to
him, and the joyful news spread far and near. Soon after the
poet left, the precious Life fell a sacrifice to fallen man: he
died young, torn away from the much-loved earth, his weeping
mother, and his faint-hearted friends. The moment of anguish,
the birth of the new world was at hand. He fought with the
old dreaded form of death; struggled hard to shake off the clutch
of the old world; his sweet lips drained the bitter chalice of
unspeakable anguish. Once more he cast a loving glance at his
mother; then came the delivering hand of Mighty Love, and
he fell asleep. For many days a thick mist lay on the raging
waters and the quaking earth; countless were the tears shed by
those who loved him; the secret of the grave was made clear,
and heavenly spirits rolled away the heavy stone from the tomb.
Angels watched by the slumbering Form: rising in new godlike
glory, he soared to the heights of the newly made world, buried
the old earthly shape in the depths of a cavern, and laid his
mighty hand on it, so that no power might ever move it.
The loving ones still wept by his grave, but they wept tears
of emotion and gratitude. Again they see thee and rejoice at
thy resurrection; they see thee weeping on thy mother's sacred
bosom; they walk once more as friends, listening to words like
leaves fluttering from the Tree of Life; they behold thee hasten
with untold longing to the Father's arms, bearing aloft the new
manhood and the victorious chalice. The mother soon hastened
to join thy triumph; she was the first to enter the New Home.
Long years have passed since then, and thy new creation soars to
higher powers; thousands and thousands drawn by thee from
bitter grief and pain now roam with thee and the heavenly
Virgin in the Kingdom of Love, serve in the Temple of Divine
Death, and are thine eternally.
## p. 10733 (#613) ##########################################
10733
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
(1828-1862)
F THAT company of brilliant if not always prosperous fellows
who kept the echoes of "Bohemia" busy with the laughter
and the sighs of spendthrift wit in the New York of the
decade of '50, Fitz-James O'Brien was a fascinating and admired com-
rade. This restless Gaelic spirit was like the Irish river beside which
he was born: sometimes turbulent in flashing cascades, beating and
bullying the stolid rocks; again spreading under the sun through
bright and placid lakes, or dancing gayly by the low and rose-
perfumed meadows. In the power of this lad from Shannon side,
Thomond's bardic birthright infused its bold and tender soul into a
facile pen, and with drama, song, and story lifted up the weary soul
of the workaday world.
O'Brien was of that strangely endowed race which furnished Lever
with the heroes of his military novels,- the Englished Irishmen. He
was born in the County Limerick, Ireland, about the year 1828.
Educated at Dublin University, he went to London, where he amused
himself for a time with the easy task of making "ducks and drakes"
of a comfortable patrimony. About 1851 he sought relief from the
importunities of declining fortune in a sea voyage, which landed him
in New York with a few purse-burning shillings and some letters of
introduction to distinguished Americans in his pocket. He soon be-
came a favorite with the gay and gifted autocrats of the New World
Grub Street, and strolled along the fashionable side of Broadway,
and about the nooks of Printing-House Square, with the confidence
of vested rights. From 1853 to 1858 O'Brien was one of the most
valued contributors to Harper's Magazine and Harper's Weekly. He
wrote for the stage several pretty comediettas, which are numbered
in that exclusive list called the Standard Drama.
With his story
'The Diamond Lens,' published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1858–9, a
new and dashing pace was set in the fiction of the period.
O'Brien was neither prosperous nor thrifty, and lived with splen-
did and careless irregularity, sometimes in great want and hardship;
but keeping always a seemingly exhaustless buoyancy of heart. The
Civil War sent him, in April 1861, with the ranks of the New York
Seventh Regiment, to the defense of Washington. The war spirit
took possession of him; and after his term of enlistment with that
## p. 10734 (#614) ##########################################
10734
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
regiment had expired, he sought eagerly for a chance to return to
the army.
He was appointed to the staff of General Lander in Jan-
uary 1862, and immediately thereafter went through a gallant action
at Bloomery Gap. In a skirmish on the morning of February 16th,
1862, he was in a desperate hand-to-hand encounter with the Confed-
erate Colonel Ashley, and received a shot in the left shoulder. He
rode twenty-four miles with a shattered scapular, and lay two months
in battle for life at the house of George A. Thurston, in Cumberland,
Maryland. Unskillful surgery, rather than the original wound, was
the cause of his death. It was not until the 20th of March, too late,
that he came into the charge of an able surgeon. In spite of a suc-
cessful operation, by which the arm was removed at the shoulder, he
succumbed to lockjaw, and died suddenly on the morning of Sunday,
the 6th of April, 1862. His ashes were laid in the earth of Green-
wood in November 1874. O'Brien's only real monument is a limited
edition, now scarce, of his collected works, edited by William Winter,
and published in 1881 at Boston.
THE GREAT DIAMOND IS OBTAINED AND USED
From The Diamond Lens, with other Stories. ' Copyright 1881, by James R.
Osgood & Co. ; 1885, by Charles Scribner's Sons
ITH
WITH
an uneasy look in his eyes, and hands unsteady with
drink and nervousness, Simon drew a small case from his
breast and opened it. Heavens! how the mild lamp-
light was shivered into a thousand prismatic arrows, as it fell
upon a vast rose diamond that glittered in the case! I was no
judge of diamonds, but I saw at a glance that this was a gem
of rare size and purity. I looked at Simon with wonder, and—
must I confess it? -with envy. How could he have obtained
this treasure? In reply to my questions, I could just gather
from his drunken statements (of which, I fancy, half the inco-
herence was affected) that he had been superintending a gang
of slaves engaged in diamond-washing in Brazil; that he had
seen one of them secrete a diamond, but instead of informing
his employers, had quietly watched the negro until he saw him
bury his treasure; that he had dug it up and fled with it, but
that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose of it publicly,— so
valuable a gem being almost certain to attract too much atten-
tion to its owner's antecedents,- and he had not been able to dis-
cover any of those obscure channels by which such matters are
## p. 10735 (#615) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10735
conveyed away safely. He added that in accordance with Ori-
ental practice, he had named his diamond with the fanciful title
of "The Eye of Morning. "
While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded the great
diamond attentively. Never had I beheld anything so beautiful.
All the glories of light ever imagined or described seemed to
pulsate in its crystalline chambers. Its weight, as I learned
from Simon, was exactly one hundred and forty carats. Here
was an amazing coincidence. The hand of destiny seemed in it.
On the very evening when the spirit of Leeuwenhoek communi-
cates to me the great secret of the microscope, the priceless means
which he directs me to employ start up within my easy reach!
I determined, with the most perfect deliberation, to possess myself
of Simon's diamond.
I sat opposite to him while he nodded over his glass, and
calmly revolved the whole affair. I did not for an instant con-
template so foolish an act as a common theft, which would of
course be discovered, or at least necessitate flight and conceal-
ment, all of which must interfere with my scientific plans. There
was but one step to be taken,- to kill Simon. After all, what
was the life of a little peddling Jew in comparison with the in-
terests of science? Human beings are taken every day from the
condemned prisons to be experimented on by surgeons. This
man Simon was by his own confession a criminal, a robber, and
I believed on my soul a murderer. He deserved death quite as
much as any felon condemned by the laws: why should I not,
like government, contrive that his punishment should contribute
to the progress of human knowledge?
The means for accomplishing everything I desired lay within.
my reach. There stood upon the mantelpiece a bottle half full
of French laudanum. Simon was so occupied with his diamond,
which I had just restored to him, that it was an affair of no dif-
ficulty to drug his glass. In a quarter of an hour he was in a
profound sleep.
I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond from the inner
pocket in which he had placed it, and removed him to the bed,
on which I laid him so that his feet hung down over the edge.
I had possessed myself of the Malay creese, which I held in my
right hand, while with the other I discovered as accurately as I
could by pulsation the exact locality of the heart. It was essen-
tial that all the aspects of his death should lead to the surmise
## p. 10736 (#616) ##########################################
10736
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
of self-murder. I calculated the exact angle at which it was
probable that the weapon, if leveled by Simon's own hand, would
enter his breast; then with one powerful blow I thrust it up to
the hilt in the very spot which I desired to penetrate. A con-
vulsive thrill ran through Simon's limbs. I heard a smothered
sound issue from his throat, precisely like the bursting of a large
air bubble sent up by a diver when it reaches the surface of the
water; he turned half round on his side, and as if to assist
my plans more effectually, his right hand, moved by some mere
spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle of the creese, which it
remained holding with extraordinary muscular tenacity. Beyond
this there was no apparent struggle. The laudanum, I presume,
paralyzed the usual nervous action. He must have died instantly.
There was yet something to be done. To make it certain
that all suspicion of the act should be diverted from any inhab
itant of the house to Simon himself, it was necessary that the
door should be found in the morning locked on the inside. How
to do this, and afterwards escape myself? Not by the window:
that was a physical impossibility. Besides, I was determined
that the windows also should be found bolted. The solution
was simple enough. I descended softly to my own room for
a peculiar instrument, which I had used for holding small slip-
pery substances, such as minute spheres of glass, etc. This
instrument was nothing more than a long slender hand-vise,
with a very powerful grip, and a considerable leverage, which
last was accidentally owing to the shape of the handle. Nothing
was simpler than, when the key was in the lock, to seize the end
of its stem in this vise, through the keyhole, from the outside,
and so lock the door. Previously, however, to doing this, I
burned a number of papers on Simon's hearth. Suicides almost
always burn papers before they destroy themselves. I also
emptied some more laudanum into Simon's glass,- having first
removed from it all traces of wine,- cleaned the other wine-
glass, and brought the bottles away with me. If traces of two
persons drinking had been found in the room, the question
naturally would have arisen, Who was the second?
