1. I.
There is nothing more touching in the history of
human affections than the hopelessness of youth. Hope
and youth would seem to have been twins—they belong
naturally to one another. Their separation is one of the
most painful subjects of mental contemplation. We
cannot help but weep when we survey it. It does not
seem so hard or so improper, the parting of age with
hope. It is for age to despair. When the sap runs
slowly, when the branches are dead, when the trunk is
withering, and the green honours no longer come forth
in the pleasant springtime to adorn the tree, the axe of
the destroyer is then fitly laid to its root! We are then
reconciled to its overthrow, and, indeed, recognise a sort
of propriety in the event, even though it brings a sorrow
to our hearts. But it is far otherwise when the young
plant is doomed to perish—when the warm sap suddenly
withers on its passage up—when life's currents are destined
to be prematurely frozen—when the spring, which is
its life and lovely emblem alike, deigns it no glance and
brings it no nourishment. Hope is the spring season to
the youthful breast, and love is the fruitage which it
brings to bless it. Alas if the one comes unattended
by the other! Alas for love! alas for youth!—they
must both perish!
The last time that we looked upon the Jewish maiden
Thyrza, she had been sleeping in the chamber of the
Prince Pelayo. His noble courtesy and honourable forbearance
were duly written upon her heart. Poor maiden!
Her heart had been equally tenacious of his virtues
in all other respects, and the page was full of records.
His manly beauty, his bold demeanour, his patriot
love of country, his delicacy, and his wisdom—his
beauty free from effeminacy, his boldness from brutality,
his love of country without ostentation, his delicacy unaffected,
and his wisdom beyond the time, yet adapted
to its necessities—all constituted him a being singular in
the sight and supreme in the heart of Thyrza. She
was too full of thoughts of him to speak of him; and
when Melchior pronounced his praises, she was silent—
she was speechless—she could only smile and weep.
It did not now escape the penetration of her father
that the affections of his daughter were irretrievably
given where they could look for no return. His heart
shuddered with the conviction. He attended her home
from the dwelling of Pelayo the morning after her rescue
from the attempts of Amri, with a bosom lightened,
it is true, of the heavier fear which had possessed it during
the preceding night, but full of sorrow at the new
conviction which filled his mind.
“Thyrza,” he said to her, when they had reached the
seclusion of his own apartments in the house of Samuel,
“Thyrza, my child, it had been far better for thee and
for me if we still had lingered upon the desert, and dwelt
until the coming of the death-angel in the tents of the
Saracen.”
“Oh, wherefore, my father—wherefore dost thou say
so?” she replied, affectionately and earnestly.
“For thee—for thy sake and safety, far better, Thyrza,
I am sad to feel. Thou wert a blessed and a happy,
though a solemn-thoughted child when we dwelt in the
solitude and enjoyed the freedom of the desert. Thou
hadst no hope beyond thy aim, or out of the attainment
of thyself or me. Thy dream was humble, thy thought
was fetterless, like a bird's wing. To be with me, to
pour forth thy heart in music, and to sweeten our solitude
with our mutual sighs, when thy wild song was
ended, was thy greatest care, as it was my happiest enjoyment.
Thyrza, it is otherwise now. Thy heart has
other hopes—it is not so happy now. Thy voice is no
longer airy like the bird's—thy footsteps are light no
longer.”
The maiden hung down her head, and her breathing
was suspended. Melchior bade her approach him; and
not daring to look him in the face, and with eyes still
drooping and downcast, she did as he commanded her.
He took her within his arms, and seated her upon his
knee. She was still silent. He continued—
“Thou art changed, my child. A sad change has
come over thee, and a new sorrow is in thy heart, gathering
strength with thy thoughts, and taking the strength
from thee while it does so.”
“Alas! my father,” she exclaimed, and her face
was hidden in his bosom.
“It is written, my child. Thou art chosen—thou art
doomed! I know thee too well to believe that thou
canst feel the searching thirst of love for a moment only
—it is a life with hearts like thine, and it will exhaust thy
life ere it will leave it. Thou art not the one to devote
thyself, and, after a brief season, depart from thy devotion.
Alas! no! Would it were so, though it might
make thee less worthy in my sight. Would that thy
soul were of that lighter temper, which, like the insect-bird
of Cashmere, may spring away from the flower it
has all day sought with a wing lighter and more capricious
as the evening cometh. Were it so, I should
have better hope of thee. Then might I rejoice still in
the thought that thou wouldst be spared to my old heart,
though I might then regard thine own as far less worthy
of its love. But such is not thy nature, Thyrza. Thy
affections have hands that cling, not wings that fly.
They cling but to one altar, and they perish there—they
cannot be torn away.”
“Alas! my father, of what is it you speak?” demanded
the maiden, her sobs striving with her speech
for utterance.
“Thy tears answer me, Thyrza—and if they did not,
my child, dost thou think me so blind now, or so indifferent
through the long sweet years when it has been
my joy to watch thy infancy and growth, that I know
not the signs of feeling within thee? It is vain, Thyrza,
that thou wouldst hide thy heart from my sight. I
have learned to read it. I read it now. It is open before
me like a book. I read it in thy pale cheek—thy
upturned eye—thy bosom troubled and shaken with convulsive
heavings. Seek not to deceive me, my child—
thou canst not, and I so love thee that I would not have
thee strive. Thy woman nature, I know, must shrink
and labour for concealment of its weakness—it has but
little strength else! But the veil must be removed from
thy bosom as it is removed from thy face. Thou shalt
speak to thy father for thy peace, my child, and that he
may the better console with thee, and teach thee, though
it be beyond his art to save thee.”
“Do I not, my dearest father? Have I not told thee
all? What have I kept from thee which has happened
unto me? When Amri came and approached me—”
“No more, my child—thou dost still deceive me,
though, I trust, only because thou dost still deceive thyself.
Why shouldst thou speak to me of Amri and of
thy heart in the same moment? It needs no word from
thee to assure me that they have no thought, no feeling,
no sentiment in common which should bring them together.
I speak of thy affections, Thyrza. Alas for
thee, my child, I speak of thy fruitless affections!”
A heavy sigh escaped from the lips of the maiden,
but she made no other answer.
“Thou lovest, Thyrza, and thou lovest one who is
worthy, but whom I would not have thee to love as
thou dost.”
“Alas! my father—speak no more of this—spare me
—in pity spare me—I have not strength to bear with thy
reproaches.” She sank down in his embrace as she
spoke—her knees upon the floor, and her face buried in
his lap.
“Thou errest, my child. I have no reproaches for
thee. Thou art good, and pure, and innocent in this of
any wrong. Thou art guilty of weakness only—of a
proper and a sweet, though, for thee, an unhappy weakness—a
weakness belonging to thy nature, and given
thee by Heaven as a blessing, but which man, with
trick, and false standard, and foolish contrivance, has
turned into a bitterness and a blight. If there be error,
it is my error. I should have known thee too well to
have put thee where thou mightst behold, and study,
and love the nobility of soul and of performance which
I have taught thee so greatly to admire, but which was
yet to thee unattainable. I should have known thy
quickness to love that which is lofty, and manful, and
true. Had I but thought of thee, my child, with a
proper thought, I should have kept thee from danger.
But my heart was too much possessed by the wrongs of
my people, and my head too much given to plans for redressing
them, to think of my own blood, and of one so
close to me as thou! I have erred in exposing thee to
the danger—I may now only grieve for my blindness,
and sorrow at thy fortune—I cannot blame thee that
thou art overcome!”
“Speak not against thyself, my father. There is no
danger that I fear—I have suffered nothing. I am not
overcome, for my heart is strong for resistance,” said
the maiden.
“There is danger, and thou hast suffered, my child.
Seek no longer to deceive me. Know I not that thy
heart is given to the Prince Pelayo—that thou lovest him?
That he is all in thy thought and thy estimation, and
that thou hast no affections now which are not given in
tribute unto him?”
“Forgive me, oh, forgive, my father—thou hast spoken
but the truth. I feel it, though I have not dared to say
so much, even to myself.”
“I believe thee, my child, for I know thy purity and
meekness. Thy cheek, which now burns like fire
upon my hand, is a proof to me that thou hast not been
wanton in thy regards and thoughts.”
“I have not, I have not, my dearest father, believe
me.”
“Thou hast loved unhappily, but not unworthily, my
Thyrza. I trust me, my child, that thou also knowest
that thou hast loved hopelessly.”
“I do—I do, my father!” she replied, with broken accents
and a choking voice.
“The God of Abraham look down upon thee in
mercy, my beloved, for thou needest his blessing. Thou
lovest deeply; thou hast set all thy heart upon the one
object, and in thy affections is all thy life. Thou lovest
hopelessly, my Thyrza, and I fear me thou wilt die.”
She clasped her hands between his knees, and his
hands were folded above her head, and they both prayed
in silence, and both hearts were softened to resignation
by their prayer.
