Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 42, May, 1851
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Title: Godey's Lady's Book, Vol. 42, May, 1851
Author: Various
Editor: Sarah Josepha Buell Hale
Release date: September 23, 2010 [eBook #33983]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33983
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rose Koven, Emmy and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Music by Linda Cantoni
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK, VOL. 42, MAY, 1851 ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Rose Koven, Emmy and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Music by Linda Cantoni
GODEY'S
LADY'S BOOK.
PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1851.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
VOL. XLII.
A Hindoo Belle, by _J. E. P._, 322
A Spring Carol, by _Mrs. A. A. Barnes_, 326
Cottage Furniture, 329
Design for a Lady's Work-Box, 364
Develour, by _Professor Charles E. Blumenthal_,
51, 102, 182, 257, 323, 377
Editors' Table, 65, 134, 201, 266, 330, 391
Editors' Book Table, 66, 135, 202, 267, 332, 392
Etruscan Lace Cuff, 328
Fashions, 70, 140, 205, 270, 336, 396
Flowers, by _G. H. Cranmer_, 284
Garden Decorations, 251, 282, 372
Good For Evil, by _Angele de V. Hull_, 252, 285
Home; or, the Cot and the Tree, by
_Robert Johnson_, 295
Incidents in the Life of Audubon, by _the author
of "Tom Owens, the Bee Hunter,"_ 306
Knitted Flowers, 61, 199, 263, 328, 386
Model Cottages, 4, 126, 283
Moral Courage, by _Alice B. Neal_, 316, 367
Publisher's Department, 269, 334, 394
Sabbath Lyrics, by _W. Gilmore Simms_,
26, 109, 174, 366
Sonnet, by _Mrs. L. S. Goodman_, 281
Sonnets, by _William Alexander_,
42, 75, 169, 215, 277, 390
Spring, by _Fanny Fales_, 292
Spring--a Ballad, by _Mary Spenser Pease_, 278
Susan Clifton; or, the City and the Country,
by _Professor Alden_, 29, 93, 170, 246, 302, 360
Taking Care of Number One, by _T. S. Arthur_, 320
The Judge; a Drama of American Life, by
_Mrs. Sarah J. Hale_, 21, 88, 154, 237, 298
The Language of Flowers, by _Jno. B. Duffey_, 277
The Last of the Tie-Wigs, by _Jared Austin_, 296
The Tiny Glove--a May-Day Story, by _Blanche_, 280
The Young Enthusiasts, by _Frank I. Wilson_, 309, 346
To A. E. B., or Her who Understands it, by
_Adaliza Cutter_, 297
Undersleeves and Caps, 327
Various Useful Receipts, 69, 139, 205, 270, 335, 396
Women of the Revolution, by _Mrs. E. F. Ellet_, 293
Ye Come to me in Dreams, by _Nilla_, 279
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
MAY.
May-Day Morning.
The Language of Flowers.
Spring.
"Now be Careful."
Music, &c.
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.
BY JNO. B. DUFFEY.
(_See Plate._)
AS, wandering forth at rosy dawn,
When sparkling dew-drops deck the lawn,
From glen and glade, and river-side,
We bring young flowers--the morning's pride.
And, bound in wreaths, or posies sweet,
With flowers our favored ones we greet;
For flowers a silent language own,
That makes our maiden wishes known.
A language that by love was wrought,
And by fond love to mortals taught;
A language, too, that lovers know,
Where, watched by love, sweet flowers may blow.
A language richer, purer far
Than all the tongue-born dialects are;
And, as the flowers, devoid of art,
It is the language of the heart.
Thoughts that would perish all untold
Live on the tongues that flowers enfold:
Thus will the Tulip's crimson shell
The love of stammering youth unveil.
And happy will that trembler be,
If she, with cheek of modesty,
Shall give his soft avowal room,
And twine it with the Myrtle's bloom.
But, should her heart feel not his glow,
The mottled Pink may answer "No;"
Yet Friendship, in an Ivy wreath,
A balm upon the wound will breathe.
The Morning-glory's dewy bell
In mystic tones of hope may tell--
Tell of a struggle in the breast,
Where, warring, love 'gainst love is pressed.
The Heartsease, flower of purple hue,
Seeks an affection ever true;
And, in the Bay-leaf's still reply,
Speaketh a love will never die.
The little Daisy grows for her
Who heedeth not the flatterer;
And spotless Lilies love the breast
Where child-like Innocence is pressed.
Young Beauty's symbol is the Rose
Whose blushing petals half unclose;
And in the snowy Violet
Sweet Modesty her home hath set.
And thus of feeling, every shade
May be through voiceless flowers conveyed;
And all the fond endearments known
To deep-felt love, thus greet love's own.
[Illustration: THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS
Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by W. E. Tucker
Printed by H. Quig.]
SONNET.--AUDUBON.[A]
BY WM. ALEXANDER.
AH! is he blind, who erst, untiringly,
Searched wildwood, prairie, meadow, rock, and wold,
For you, sweet songsters, clad in yellow gold?
When comes spring's carnival, enchantingly
Sing ye to him, with sorrow in your song;
For that his sightless orbs now roll in vain,
No more to view your rainbow-tints again--
Love-lays in gratitude to him belong,
From matin Lark, loud herald of the day--
From Philomel, coy chorister of night:
Listens he yet, ye birds, with dear delight,
In rapture musing on your plumage gay,
Hoping to soar, when life's short day is done,
On eagle-pinions up to yonder central sun.
FOOTNOTE:
[A] Written previous to his death.
SPRING.--A BALLAD
BY MARY SPENSER PEASE.
(_See Plate._)
SPRING, with its glad influences
Stealing up from bosky dell,
Once more quickens Nature's heart-pulse
With its sunny, witching spell.
Each new morn the boughs hang thicker
With the leaves of Nature's book;
Each new eve adds a new chapter
To the life of bird and brook.
Each new morn the world is greener;
Age forgets its shriveled years
In the warmth and life upspringing
Out from Winter's chill and tears.
Each new morn the song grows sweeter--
Song of loving bee and bird;
Each new eve, from youth and maiden,
Softer cadences are heard.
Each new morn her heart beat warmer,
Dreaming o'er his tale of love;
Each new eve, that tale repeated,
Brighter spells around her wove.
At the early, early daybreak,
To caress her as she slept,
Greetingly, the light spring zephyr
Through her open lattice crept.
Roving mid the golden tangles
Of her tresses' braidless flow,
Nestling in the half-veiled dimples
Of her bosom white as snow.
Mingling with her fragrant breathing,
Closely to her ear it came,
Murm'ring to her gentle dreaming,
In sweet music, his dear name.
"Through the valley, o'er the mountain,"
Sang the zephyr in her ear,
"At my own sweet will, I wander
All the loving, livelong year.
"With the lowly, tender grass-blade,
With the solemn, stately trees,
With each swelling bud and blossom
Sport I ever as I please.
"All the humble wayside flowers--
Daisy, king-cup, light harebell;
All the tall and proud ones--Kalmia,
Rose, and orchis--know me well.
"Of the brightest, sweetest flower-buds,
Sheltered by the mountain's brow,
Blooming in the wide, wide valley,
Loveliest of them all art thou.
"That is why he loves thee dearly,
Modest, gentle as thou art,
The proud lord of wood and manor
The proud lord of thy young heart.
"Oh, I heard a song last evening,
Sung to tremulous guitar,
Through the yellow, mellow moonlight,
Floating on the air afar;
"Breathing warmest, truest passion
For one bearing thy sweet name,
Telling of that passion thwarted
Bending unto station's claim:
"Telling how the claim of station
Must at last be overborne,
By a will and faith unyielding,
By a love no time can turn.
"'I must see her at the day-dawn,'
Sighed he, at the ballad's close,
'By the brook in the still copse-wood,
Where the purple violet grows.'"
Rose the maiden from her slumbers,
Fresher than the break of dawn,
Binding up her heavy tresses,
Looked she out upon the lawn.
Like a shower of yellow guineas
Flashing back the morning sun,
Crocuses and dandelions
Half the golden fields had won.
From the green and yellow shining,
Flecking it with flakes of white,
Drooping lilies, palest snow-drops,
Spread their petals to the light.
Looking out upon the copse-wood,
As she clasped her simple dress,
Suddenly the thought came o'er her,
"I will seek its wilderness.
"By the brook down in its thicket,
Where the purple violet grows,
I shall find the wild sweetbriar,
And the wind-flower, and--who knows?
"Who knows but my Edgar Lincoln
May be wandering that way,
Tempted by this fragrant morning--
Brightest morning yet of May.
"Oh, I know he loves me dearly,
And he knows I love him well;
That my love is deep and boundless,
More than tongue of mine can tell."
On she wandered, singing lightly
Snatches of some olden song--
How a lord and lowly maiden
Loved each other well and long:
How the haughty claim of station
Came at last to be o'erborne
By a will and faith unbending,
By a love no time could turn.
Singing lightly, on she wandered
Over hill and meadow lone;
Said she "This broad wood and valley
Soon I'll proudly call my own.
"Not one beggar, not one hungered
Shall there be in all the land;
Not one loathing life from hardship,
When I'm lady proud and grand."
Wandering on, she plucked wild flowers,
Flowers filled with morning dew,
Looking backward ever, ever,
Listening for a step she knew.
Press the flowers to thy soft bosom,
Braid them in thy shining hair,
Love them while their tender petals
Fragrant life and freshness wear;
For too soon they'll droop and wither,
Plucked and worn but one short day,
And too soon thy youth and freshness
May, like them, be flung away.
Light of heart, she nears the copse-wood,
From its depths sweet voices throng;
Voices of the jay and blue-bird,
And the wild wood-robin's song.
By the water-brook she's standing,
Where the purple violets grow,
Where the wind-flower and sweetbriar,
And the starry woodbines blow.
By the water-brook she's standing,
And her heart begins to fail;
Still she watches, still she listens,
Hearing but the night-owl's wail.
Silent shadows flit around her,
Looming darkly, broad, and tall;
But one shadow well remembered
Sees she not among them all.
Ah, perhaps--perhaps he may be
To his vow a traitor base!
Down into the clear brook glancing
There she sees her own sweet face.
Down into the clear brook gazing
There she sees her own sweet face;
Sees she also there reflected
One of noble, manly grace.
"Effie! Effie! late last evening,"
Spake he, circling her soft waist,
"My proud sire--and soon thine, darling--
Read the lines thy hand had traced;
"Breathing of thy sweet self, Effie,
Full of tenderness and truth--
'Such a heart, such wit and wisdom
Must be cherished, by my sooth!'
"Thus my sire--the lines re-reading
Traced by thy beloved hand--
Still he spake, 'Such wit, such wisdom.
Would grace lady of the land!'
"Then it was, my darling Effie,
Pleaded I thy cause and mine--
'Yes, yes, yes, I've watched thee, youngster,
Watched thee sigh, and pale, and pine!'
"More he said, my darling Effie--
For he knew my death he'd mourn
That the haughty claim of station
Is at last by love o'erborne."
[Illustration: SPRING.
Engraved expressly for Godey's Lady's Book by J.B. Neagle.]
YE COME TO ME IN DREAMS.
BY NILLA.
YE come to me in dreams, baby,
In visions of the night;
Thy blue eye, full of blessedness,
Is glancing on my sight:
The music of thy breath, baby,
Is falling on my ear,
In those dear old-accustomed tones
I loved so well to hear.
Again upon my heart, baby,
Thy little hand is prest,
Again thy little nestling head
Is pillowed on my breast;
Again my lips are murmuring
Low words of love and prayer;
I strive to draw thee closer yet,
But clasp the vacant air;
And then I wake to weep, baby,
Rememb'ring thou art dead;
And never more can my poor heart
Pillow thy little head!
Yet I am happy even now--
This thought my grief disarms--
A few short months I fondly clasped
An angel in my arms:
That loftier minds than mine, baby,
Will now instruct thy youth,
And holier hearts will point the path
Of innocence and truth.
Thou wert my blessing here on earth,
And though tears dim my eyes,
I feel that I am richer far
To have thee in the skies!
THE TINY GLOVE.--A MAY-DAY STORY.
BY BLANCHE.
CHAPTER I.
BRIGHT, gladsome May-day!--the fairest maiden in all the train of the
merry "Queen of Seasons." May-day! what happy scenes this word
recalls--the day of all days for childhood's pleasures! I see the little
darlings tripping along the streets of my native town with baskets on
their chubby arms, smiles on their lips, and happiness in their eyes,
soon clustered in merry groups on some favorite spot in the suburbs,
laughing and chatting, arranging their pic-nic dinners, or sporting
beneath the shady trees.
But to my story. A mile or two from the village of A. were collected
some fifty or sixty little girls and boys, for the purpose of
celebrating their annual holiday. The May-pole, bedecked with flowers of
every hue and form, towered aloft, and around its base they frisked and
gamboled like so many little fairies. Some were "wafted in the silken
swing" high up among the boughs of the beech and elm; others sought the
brink of the rippling rivulet, and amused themselves with ruffling its
smooth surface or looking at their mirrored faces. Far down the
streamlet, and alone, was quietly seated a little girl, weaving into
garlands the buds and blossoms which grew around her in wild profusion,
caroling with a bird-like voice snatches of some favorite air, ever and
anon raising her violet eyes and looking round her in wondrous delight.
Her childish face was strikingly beautiful; around her small perfect
mouth there rested an angel smile, and her short brown curls were parted
on a forehead of matchless contour.
She wove and sang, and smiled a sunny smile, and seemed wholly
unconscious of a pair of bright black eyes fixed upon her from the
opposite bank. At length she turned, as if to listen; and soon upon the
air floated distinctly sounds of "Alice! little Alice!" and she bounded
away to her playmates. No sooner had she disappeared than the owner of
the black eyes--a boy, seemingly of twelve years, clad in a green jacket
ornamented with silver buttons, loose white trowsers, and wide-brimmed
straw hat, which but partly concealed his glossy black hair--sprang
across the water and possessed himself of the tiny glove which lay
forgotten on the bank, and which had once covered the hand of "little
Alice."
* * * * *
"Alice, my dove, you have brought but one glove from the May frolic."
"I lost the other one yesterday. I don't think I forgot it May-day,
mamma."
"Well, dear, go put this one away until you find the mate."
"Yes, mamma."
* * * * *
CHAPTER II.
'TIS night in a boarding-school. The doors of many small rooms open on
the dreary hall, and the glimmering light through the key-holes tells of
the fair students within. One is partly open, and through it we see two
young girls standing near a toilet: one is drawing a comb through a mass
of rich brown curls, which stray in playful wantonness about her snowy
shoulders. The other is rummaging amid the elegant trifles which
decorate the table.
"Alice," she began, "many, many times have I seen this beautiful little
glove among trumpery, and often thought I'd beg of you its history, but
always forgot it. Tell me now whose hand it once imprisoned."
"Mine, Kate, mine. When a little child of eight years old I lost the
fellow, and put this one away until I should find it. Years have rolled
away; but it speaks so eloquently of a happy May-day I then enjoyed,
that I have never been able to part with it, and still treasure it as an
index to the bright scenes of the past."
CHAPTER III.
AGAIN I beg the reader to pass over two years--short to you who possess
health and plenty, long to those in disease and want--and come with me
to the heights of the Alleghanies, crowded with stately trees all
covered with snow and ice, with here and there thick clambering
evergreens, looking all the richer for their bright unsullied winter
caps. Slowly and laboriously do the wheels of a heavy traveling carriage
wind along the rugged ascent, while the heaving flanks and dilated
nostrils of the noble steeds bear witness to the toilsome pathway.
Muffled in cloaks and furs, we scarcely recognize, in the inmates of the
coach, our two school-girls, lately emancipated from their narrow cell
and the thraldom of school-laws. We would willingly linger to admire
with them the grandeur and sublimity of these props of heaven; but we
will not attempt a description of that which was among the mightiest
works of Him, the Almighty; so we pass over the perilous and impressive
journey, nor pause until, again in her own village, again on the steps
of her dearly loved home, Alice Clayton is pressed to her mother's
bosom.
Now under her father's roof, she has become the glad child again. We see
her first with her companion, Kate Earle, wandering about the spacious
drawing-rooms, now tastefully arranging the folds of the heavy satin
curtains, or decorating the tables with rich bouquets; then trying the
full, clear tones of the piano; and at last, taking a delighted survey
of the whole, she trips away into the long dining-hall, contemplates a
moment the iced pyramids, foamy floats, transparent jellies, &c., then,
arm in arm, they seek their chamber, and are soon busily engaged in the
witching duties of the toilet.
Night hurries on, and the cold moon looks calmly down the quiet village:
but soon, no longer silent, we hear quickened foot-falls, rolling
carriages, the hum of busy tongues, and occasionally a silvery laugh
floats out upon the cool night air. Before the stately, and now
brilliantly-lighted, mansion of Mr. Clayton they pause, ascend the
steps, and are lost to view. But we will enter and look upon the happy
throng assembled here to welcome back their former playmate, sweet Alice
Clayton. Ah, how tenderly she greets them! Now do her soft eyes light up
and flash with intense joy as she receives her numberless guests with
unaffected grace, presenting many to her visitor, Kate Earle. The music
and the dance begin, youth and beauty eagerly join the circle, while the
older ones retire to the whist-tables, none marking the speedy flight of
the rosy hours. Some are there, strangers to the fair idol of the
brilliant concourse: one of these, a youth of striking mien and unusual
elegance, is now seeking a presentation from her father. With a
good-humored smile, he bows assent, and together they seek our heroine.
"Come, Alice dear, make your prettiest bow to my young friend, Percy
Clifford." Then, in a mock whisper, he added, "Guard well your heart,"
and left her, smiling maliciously at the painful blushes which his
remark had summoned to her cheeks.
However, the low, easy tones of Clifford's voice soon reassured her, and
a half hour glided away so pleasantly that her father's warning was
forgotten, or, if remembered, but too late. I don't mean to say that
Alice really gave her heart away before the asking; but that night when
she and Kate were repeating the sayings and doings of their late guests,
Percy Clifford's name was oftener on her lip, and when, with arms
entwined, they slept the sleep of innocence, Perry Clifford's musical
voice and captivating smile alone hovered round her pillow.
CHAPTER IV.
AGAIN and again they met; already had the finely-modeled features of
Alice Clayton gained an indescribable charm from the warm feelings of
her pure, ardent heart, which sprang up irresistibly to the surface. No
wonder that Percy Clifford yielded to the idolatrous affection which
grew and strengthened in his bosom for the fair girl. No wonder that his
passion knew no restraint when he pressed his lips on her innocent brow,
and drew in his clasp Alice, his betrothed.
* * * * *
"My sweet Alice!--my 'little Alice;' for so I love to call you. The dear
name recalls the little brown-haired beauty who sat upon the bank
weaving into garlands the bright flowers, none half so lovely as
herself, while from the depths of her gentle heart gushed out a song as
witching and melodious as the carolings of all the feathered tribe.
Then, a boy, did I first gaze enraptured on your infantile beauty; then
did my heart unclose to the lovely vision which it has since treasured
through years and absence, joy and sorrow. My father always granted my
request to prosecute my studies at his country seat near A., and,
unknown, unnoticed, I followed you through girlhood, and experienced my
first pang when you left me for the distant seminary.
"None can tell the overwhelming sorrow, the keen agony which succeeded
your absence; my only solace was to seek the streamlet and mingle my
boyish tears with its limpid waters. Again I met you; and I have since
wondered how I could so well act the stranger--how I could speak so
calmly when my heart was bursting. Soon all doubts and fears were
banished--_you loved me_! I saw it in the tearful eye, the flickering
cheek. And now, Alice, dearest one, _you are mine_! With this, you see
this little glove. It will tell you how you have _always_ reigned, as
now, in the heart of Percy Clifford."
And how can I describe _her_ joy as, half laughing, half crying, she
kissed again and again the little wanderer, and how that night she
placed it _mated_ in his hand, emblem of themselves?
SONNET
BY MRS. L. S. GOODWIN.
THE god of day hath laid ambition by,
And closely pressing to the fair west's side,
As ardent bridegroom to a beauteous bride,
Rests on her blushing cheek his lustrous eye.
List to the melody that floats adown
The aisles of yonder greenwood orchestra!
I fancy Nature's harp-strings lead the play,
Coveting for their mistress fresh renown.
And amorous zephyr, lo! with skillful touch,
Her music pages turns; the while he toys
With her vast wealth of fragrance. Naught alloys
The peace which seems to copy heaven o'ermuch;
Chaining the raptured spirit all too strongly here--
Teaching it to forget the higher, holier sphere.
[Illustration: GARDEN ORNAMENTS.]
IN the present number of the Lady's Book, we give a style of fountains
somewhat different from that given in our last.
Should the house be in a style suitable, a drooping fountain, like that
shown in the engraving, may be used; and the central part may be altered
to suit a Gothic or an Elizabethan house.
Whatever pattern may be adopted, there are certain rules to be attended
to in the construction of all fountains, in order to make them play. A
fountain may be formed wherever there is either a natural or artificial
supply of water some feet higher than the level of the surface on which
the fountain is to be placed. This supply of water is called the head,
and its height varies according to circumstances. Where a drooping
fountain is to be adopted, the head need be very little higher than the
joint from which the water is expected to issue; but where the fountain
is to form a jet, the head must be six inches, a foot, or more, higher
than the height to which the jet is expected to rise; the height
required varying according to the diameter of the jet. When the jet is
small, say about the eighth of an inch in diameter, the height of the
head above that to which the jet of water is expected to rise need not
be above six or eight inches.
In the mountainous parts of the country, ornamental fountains may be
constructed with very little trouble or expense. The water which flows
from springs in hill-sides may be made to form the head. It may be
conducted to the fountain through leaden or earthen pipes, or pipes made
of any material that is perfectly water-tight. If these pipes be
extended to the door of the dwelling, excellent water may be at all
times available--thus answering the double purpose of ornament and use.
MODEL COTTAGE.
[Illustration]
_A Dwelling of two stories._
This cottage contains, on the ground floor, an entrance lobby, _a_;
staircase, _b_; kitchen, _c_; parlor, _d_; tool-house, _e_; pantry and
dairy, _f_; back-kitchen, _g_; wood-shed, _h_; dust-hole, _i_;
water-closet, _k_; and cow-house, with brew-house oven, _l_.
The cow-house is connected with a court-yard, which contains a shed for
hay and straw, piggeries, with a manure-well connected with the
water-closet. The platform, on three sides of this dwelling, forms a
handsome walk, from which there is a door into the court-yard.
[Illustration]
The bed-room floor contains a best bed-room, _m_; a second bed-room,
_n_; a third bed-room, _o_; and a stair, _p_.
[Illustration]
_General Estimate._--14,904 cubic feet, at 10 cents per foot, $1,490.40;
at 5 cents, $745.20.
FLOWERS.
BY G. H. CRANMER.
What a volume of thought and feeling is contained in the simple flower!
As the lightnings which flash along the firmament of heaven, or the
thunders which startle the silence of eternity, are typical of His anger
and might--so are the beauty and simplicity of a flower typical of His
purity and mercy.
A flower is no insignificant object. It is fraught with many a deep
though mute lesson of wisdom. It teaches us that even itself, the
brightest ornament of the vegetable world, must fade away and die--and
the life which we prize so highly may be seen, as in a mirror, through
its different changes.
The withered leaflet is like unto a crushed and broken heart. Its fading
loveliness is like the approach of age as it throws its mantle of
wrinkled care over the form of some lovely specimen of humanity. Its
sweet fragrance is like the joys and pleasures of our breasts ere they
have been contaminated by the rude touches of the world.
The dew-drop which, at morning's dawn, rests upon the half-oped bud, is
like the tear which dims the infant's speaking eye when his childish
glee has been reproved by the voice of affection.
A flower represents mankind in the changes of infancy, youth, manhood,
and old age. The young bud is infancy; the bursting flower is youth; the
flower full blown is manhood, and the withered and tailing leaf is the
type of old age.
Its uses are various and manifold. Sometimes the promptings of affection
lead us to place it, in its purity and beauty, over the tomb of some
beloved friend, where, shedding around its fragrance, it steals upon our
senses like the memory of the departed being beneath. Sometimes the hand
of pride will pluck it from its stem, to deck the hair of the blooming
bride, or add by its odor to the festive scene. And not unfrequently it
is the mute bearer of some fond tale of love to the ecstatic sense of
her whose heart and feelings are at length justified, by its sweet
language, in the thoughts they so long have harbored. It soothes the
cares of the troubled soul, and alleviates the pangs of sorrow. It wins
upon us by its modest though blooming appearance, and its gentle
influence steals into our bosoms and softens our natures.
Study the flowers, and behold the wisdom, the goodness, and mercy of the
Almighty. Anatomize them, and behold the innumerable parts which form
and make up the whole, and the system and order with which they are
joined together.
Refinement dwelleth among the flowers. There the affections of our
hearts are given license to rove, and there the enthusiasm of our nature
overcomes the diffidence of our feelings. Voluntary homage arises to the
Maker of objects so fair and beautiful, and the soul in the
contemplation sighs itself away in a delicious reverie. Not less
beautifully than truly has it been said:--
"There is religion in a flower;
Its still small voice is as the voice of conscience.
Mountains, and oceans, planets, suns, and systems,
Bear not the impress of Almighty power
In characters more legible than those
Which He has traced upon the tiniest flower
Whose light bell bends beneath the dew-drop's weight."
_Wheeling, Va._
GOOD FOR EVIL
BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.
(Concluded from page 256.)
THEIR new home was a little bijou of a cottage, and Cora went to work
with a light heart. The furniture was of the very plainest kind; but
about the little rooms there was an air of comfort and refinement that
told of a woman's careful hand. Here and there hung pictures of her own
painting. In each apartment were one or two shelves, neatly stained and
varnished, on which were placed a few choice books. On the top stood the
nicely-trimmed lamp--thus making feminine ingenuity serve the double
purpose of library and bracket. The little octagon work-table, in one
corner, held a porcelain vase, daily ornamented with fresh flowers, for
in the sunny South the flowers bloom perpetually; and the white
counterpane on the small French bedstead in Cora's "spare room," tempted
one to long for an invitation from her sweet self to occupy it. How
proud and happy her husband felt as together they took their first
regular meal after the confusion was over, and Cora's housekeeping began
in good earnest!
A few weeks afterwards, she received a box containing her mother's
old-fashioned but costly set of China--and her tears fell fast and thick
as she looked once more on the well-known cups her childish lips had so
often pressed. No gift could have been so precious in her eyes, and she
kissed the souvenir of her early days with reverence. Many little
trifles had the good mother added to the welcome present--trifles that
Cora could not buy, because she could not afford it; and her heart
yearned towards her only parent, as she uncovered one after another of
the home treasures. An antique-looking silver coffee-pot, with cream-jug
and sugar-bowl, made Cora's little table look like the most _recherche_
in the land. Had Laura seen it, she would have cried with spite; for,
now that she had driven her sister-in-law from the house, the
remembrance of her own cruelty and injustice made her hatred more bitter
still. She had but one wish, and that was to see her brother and his
innocent wife in actual want!
Even in the street poor Cora was not safe from her violent rage. If by
chance they met, Laura's eye would flash, her cheeks grow pale, her lips
quiver, and she would pass, followed by Clara and Fanny, with a look of
scorn and gesture of defiance, which they would endeavor to imitate as
closely as they could, as a token of respect to their now wealthy
sister. Their father had long repented of his unkindness, but his weak
mind bent to that of Laura; and so they were as strangers--they who
should have been as closely united as God had made them! To Lewis they
made professions that disgusted him; but, at Cora's request, he still
paid Mr. Clavering the respect of calling occasionally. It was an
unhappy state of things indeed; but heartless, worldly people have no
ties, and easily sever the closest, should they bind inconveniently; so
it cost Laura and her sisters neither pang nor remorse to outrage a
brother's feelings. Margaret yearned towards Cora, and, as often as she
saw her, expressed the same unchanging affection, but dared not openly
avow her regret at her absence.
One day, as Cora sat in her room plying her needle, she heard some one
enter the back gate. In a moment Maggie was in her arms, weeping and
laughing by turns. She had stolen away, and came to spend the whole day.
"Darling Maggie!" said Cora, kissing her again and again, "how kind of
you to come! Lewis will be so happy, too!"
"Ah, Cora!" replied Margaret, untying her bonnet, "if you knew what a
time I had to get here! We were all invited out to dinner; I positively
refused to go--having laid my plans for you, sweetest! Laura was so
ill-humored, and the others so intent upon themselves, that they did not
remark my eagerness to remain. But they insisted on my going, until I
suggested that the carriage would not hold us all, large as it is, and
so they drove off to Rivertown in grand style, leaving me at length
alone. I danced with joy! I almost screamed. But I kept quiet enough
till T knew they were not going to return for some odd glove, a
handkerchief, or Fanny's eternal powder bag, and then started off."
"This shall be a _jour de fete_, then, my own Margaret; and I will put
up this work to show you my sweet little home. Oh, Maggie!" continued
Cora, clasping her hands, "were it not for the indifference of your
father and sisters to my poor Lewis, I would be the happiest woman on
the wide earth. He deserves so much affection, for he has given his own
so earnestly."
A few tears fell from her eyes, but she brushed them away and smiled
again. Margaret sighed, but was silent. This was a subject upon which
she never conversed, from her decided disapprobation of the course
adopted towards two beings so dearly loved. She remembered, with
bitterness and trembling, the thirty-sixth verse of the tenth chapter of
St. Matthew: "For a man's enemies shall be they of his own household,"
and pondered deeply over the means of reconciliation. But to-day she had
determined to be happy, and Cora was delighted at her open admiration
of their little _menage_. The China and silver particularly charmed
her--first, with their beauty; and secondly, with the air of luxury they
gave her brother's modest table. They were moreover, articles of real
value that were Cora's, no matter what the contingency; and Margaret's
gentle heart rejoiced at what she termed "their first piece of luck."
How these two chatted! How they valued each moment of the time allowed
them! Maggie drew out her thimble and insisted upon being employed, and
the hours flew lightly over their heads until noon, when Lewis entered.
"Maggie!" he cried, as she flew out from behind the door where she had
concealed herself. "This is indeed a pleasure."
This affectionate greeting made her burst into tears; and she held her
head, for a few moments, against his breast.
"How kind of you, dear sister, to brave all, and come to us at last! I
wish it were for ever; but we are such ungrateful mortals that we never
rest satisfied with present blessings. You have been happy to-day,
darling," continued Lewis, as Cora entered. "I can tell that by looking
at you."
"Ay, Lewis, as merry as a cricket ever since Maggie came before me, like
a good angel, this morning. Do get the girls to go out and spend the day
again, my own pet sister, and gleam on Lewis and me before we begin to
pine again for one of your soft kisses.".
"I wish you could put me in a cage, like a stray bird," said Margaret,
with a smile of love. "I think I should like a jailer like Cora, and be
content to stay captive for ever."
But, alas! dinner was over, and they had only the afternoon left them.
Maggie remained until it was nearly dusk, that she might get an early
cup of tea from Cora's pretty China; then, with Lewis and his wife at
her side, sauntered slowly home. The tears sprang into her eyes as she
bade them adieu, and she had just rung the bell when the carriage
containing her sisters drove up the street. Fortunately, it was too dark
for them to recognize her companions, and she succeeded in getting rid
of her bonnet and mantle before they had managed to get out, as Laura
insisted upon being carried in the parlor by poor Mr. Phillips, because
he had taken, at dinner, a little more wine than was positively good for
him. But he succeeded, in despite of occasional glimpses of two wives,
four sisters-in-law, and two Mr. Claverings. Laura was placed on a sofa,
where she lay until after the tea tray was carried out, and then,
calling her husband once more, desired to be taken to her room.
Fanny and Clara sat discussing the dinner, the furniture, and the
guests, and both seemed rather out of spirits. The old gentleman walked
up and down the piazza, thinking deeply, and Margaret alone looked fresh
and happy.
"Who was there, Fanny?" asked she, at length.
"Oh, a stupid set! Excepting ourselves and Mr. and Mrs. Denton, there
was not a decent creature there. Nearly all married people and old
bachelors. I declare, I have no patience with such incongruous
assemblies!"
"There was Mrs. Hildreth's brother! He is quite a beau, I'm sure; and
Clara expressed unbounded admiration of his mustaches and whiskers a few
days since."
"Yes, he was there, and is certainly a very unexceptionable young man.
But what is the use of one beau among four girls? The two Clays were
there, looking as forlorn as Shakspeare's nightingale: and Clara
monopolized Henry Bell, as though he belonged to her."
"Certainly I did," said Clara; "and so would you, if he had given you
the chance. Did you ever see such a dress as Betty Clay had on? She
looked like a buckwheat cake in it."
"And Mrs. Stetson's hair, Clara? Did you notice it? Screwed up behind
into an almost invisible little _catogan_, and put over her ears so
tight that she looked as if she had been in the pillory and came out
with her ears off."
"Was the dinner in good style?" again inquired Maggie.
"Yes, but too elaborate. Those people that have not always been upper
tens think it necessary to crowd their tables, and ruin one's digestive
organs. I declare, I thought I should swoon when that last course came
in. I was actually crammed with dinner, and looked forward to dessert
with a hope of relief!"
"And those two Charlotte Russes! As if one were not enough, with all
that ice-cream and jelly! Mrs. Hildreth said, at least half a dozen
times, how careful Soufflee was about having sweet cream, in spite of
the scarcity and expense. The idea of hinting to guests the cost of
their entertainment! These _parvenu_ people are _too_ absurd. I wish
they would learn _bienseance_ before they rise."
"So you had a dull day?" said Margaret, thinking of hers.
"Not precisely dull, but tedious. Laura does torment poor Phillips so,
that it makes us uncomfortable; and when people have to 'smile and
smile,' as we do, to gloss it over, it seems like that intense desire to
gap in stupid company, and the struggle to look as though you merely
meant to show now very wide awake you were. I do wish Laura would
confine her rudeness to ourselves; but no one ever dared tell her so but
Lewis, and he will never trouble himself to do it again."
"I wonder what he is doing now!" said Fanny. "I declare, I almost forgot
his existence. And that horrid woman, too! She had better do something
for herself, before she causes her husband to beg!"
"Depend upon it, Fanny, neither Lewis nor Cora would do _that_."
"Oh! you are their sworn champion, Margaret, we all know. But you cannot
do them any good, child--be sure of it. I wish she would go home, or
make Lewis mad, so that he could send her there."
"Fanny!" cried Margaret, shocked, "how unfeeling!"
"Pshaw! Did she not rob us of Lewis? Papa is poorer than ever; and we go
about dressed in shabby clothes, through her fault. Lewis used to pay
all our little bills, and now----."
"And now," interrupted Margaret, "instead of remembering his generosity
with gratitude, you abuse him for trying to be happy according to his
own ideas. You almost get on your knees to Laura if she but gives you a
cast-off ribbon. Be as full of deference to Lewis for past favors."
"We are obliged to curry favor with Laura," said Clara, lowering her
voice. "She has us all pretty much under her control since she promised
to live with us after her marriage."
"Excuse me," said Maggie, "but _I_ am not by any means under Laura's
dominion. She makes me no presents, and I make her no protestations. I
am civil to Mr. Phillips, however--and that is more than you are,
Clara."
"I am afraid," said she, laughing, "Laura is so _entichee_ of her love
that she does not like us to pay him attention. Cora won her eternal
hatred by speaking gently to him."
"How she must abuse us now!" exclaimed Fanny, after a pause. "I expect
Lewis is tired of our very names. She was always a vulgar thing, any
how."
"Vulgar!" cried Margaret. "You go rather too far, my dear sister. Cora
is as far from being vulgar as your own particular self--and you are not
sincere when you say so. Moreover, I believe she mentions our family as
seldom as possible. I wish that she could forget us, I am sure--for she
was brutally treated."
"Do hush, Maggie; here is papa, and you have half persuaded him to think
as you do. He seems actually conscience-stricken about Lewis's leaving
home. I would not be surprised to find him visiting Cora after a while."
"Where do they live, I wonder?" asked Fanny. "Laura will never let papa
know, if she can help it; and they might go to Kamschatka before we
Would discover it."
"Come, girls, go to your rooms," said Mr. Clavering, entering. "You talk
too much, and too lightly. Go to bed, and sleep if you can. It is more
than I have been able to do since you sent my poor boy from his father's
house."
The next morning at breakfast Laura seemed a little more amiable, and
began discussing plans for the summer excursions. Spring had set in, and
many were changing town homes for country ones.
"I vote for Dingleford," said Phillips, with a sudden burst of valor.
"You!" said his wife, with a look of scorn--"you!"
Mr. Phillips retired into himself, like Mr. Jenks of Pickwickian memory,
that being the only retirement _he_ was allowed; and Laura went on
without further notice.
"We will to Brooksford. The girls can come; for I will pay Clara's
expenses, and papa can easily do the rest. I heard the Martins, the
Hildreths, and the Fentons say they were going."
"Thank you for my share," said Margaret. "_I_ stay at home; your
fashionable friends are my aversion."
"You are so foolish, Maggie! You will never marry in the world."
"_Tant mieux_, I have no ambition to become _madame_. My tastes are very
simple, indeed. 'Liberty for me!' is my motto."
And it was arranged that Fanny and Clara should accompany Laura to
Brooksford to meet their friends, leaving Margaret and her father at
home to brave dust, heat, and musketoes as they could.
The old gentleman went to his counting-room to sit and think; Maggie
applied herself to some household occupation; Laura retired to her
chamber to fret like a peevish child; and Fanny and Clara prepared
themselves to go down to the front parlor to receive morning calls.
The bell rang, and the visits began. The consequence of each was easily
determined by the reception of the hostess, whose smiles were dispensed
more freely to some than to others. Mrs. Markham seemed determined to
outstay them all, and, being one of the "ultras," was encouraged to do
so. The dinner was once more discussed, as she had been one of the
invited, and Clara once more voted it a bore.
"I expected as much when I sent my refusal," said Mrs. Markham. "I hate
dinners; they are always dull and stupid. How can it be otherwise when
people meet expressly to eat?"
"And Mrs. Hildreth's piano is such an old kettle, too! I felt it almost
an insult to be asked to play on it."
"Yes; with such a sweet voice as yours, Clara, you ought to have a
perfect instrument. But where is Mrs. Clavering? She seems to have
withdrawn herself entirely from the world; we never see her now."
"She is not here," said Clara, coldly. "She does not live with us."
"No! Where is she then?" inquired Mrs. Markham, with more interest than
Clara liked. "She is a lovely creature. George fell quite in love with
her."
The girls seemed embarrassed; but Fanny's amiable expression advanced to
the rescue--
"The fact is, dear Mrs. Markham, we were somewhat disappointed in
Lewis's wife. She is very beautiful and accomplished, and, I dare say,
means well--in fact, I'm sure that her heart is very good, and all that;
but she hurt poor Laura's feelings so dreadfully one day that we really
had to notice it in spite of our love for Lewis. It almost breaks my
heart to think of it; but Cora was so violent after Laura once advised
her, in a mild, sisterly way, to be more economical (she _was_
extravagant), that we felt it our duty to rise against it; and she left
the house in great displeasure, making poor Lewis believe, of course,
what she liked. I _don't_ think she meant it," continued Fanny; "but it
_seemed_ unkind. I do not think she intended to be"--
"Then why did you notice it?" asked Mrs. Markham, abruptly. "I would
have found what palliation I could to prevent such a break up of ties."
This was something of a poser, and the two sisters exchanged glances;
but Fanny once more exerted her soft tones in behalf of "poor Laura."
"You know we could not hesitate between our own sister and Mrs.
Clavering. We could not have her insulted by a stranger, however
ignorant she may be of intentional wrong."
"But your brother is--your brother, is he not?"
Here Laura entered, and the conversation was stopped, to the infinite
relief of Fanny and Clara, who began to see that there was really
nothing to boast of in their treatment of Cora. The truth was, Mrs.
Markham had been on the opposite side of the street when they one
morning brushed against their sister-in-law with their usual
impertinence, and, amused at the scene, she tried to find out the cause
of it. On her return home, after her endeavors, she related what she
knew to her brother, and made her comments.
"Really, George, the idea of trying to persuade people that Cora
Clavering is a monster is, beyond everything, absurd; as if everybody
didn't see how unwelcome the poor thing was, how shabbily they served
her, and how they tried to hide her when she came among them. Why, they
never invited a soul to meet her as a bride; and when I asked for her
the day I called, you would have thought I mentioned a troublesome
animal."
"She is too pretty, Helen," said her brother. "That Mrs. Phillips is a
perfect tartar, and her sisters have no heart for anything but show.
They would sell their father for their love of fashion."
"All but Margaret, George."
"All but Margaret; and she is as far above them as heaven is above
earth. She must have had some other 'bringing up' than theirs. I would
swear that _she_ never ill treated Mrs. Clavering."
"Not she! Maggie loves her devotedly."
"Then that is sufficient proof to me of her perfect innocence and their
own falsehood. Mark that, Helen, Margaret's love proves that Mrs.
Clavering is worthy of kind and gentle treatment."
* * * * *
One day Cora looked through the blind and saw her father-in-law before
the gate. He looked wistfully in, and stood for a few moments with his
hand on the latch. She would have gone out to meet him; but, remembering
their parting, felt reluctant to expose herself to farther insult. But
her heart yearned towards the poor old man, as she looked at his bent
form and face of care. He _was_ her husband's father, and as such
excited her sympathy. On Lewis's return, she mentioned the circumstance
to him.
"I wish he had seen you, dearest; he is sorry for the past, and
doubtless wished to come in, but dared not. He and Maggie are alone at
the house. I met her to-day, and she told me she was coming soon to see
you."
Dear Maggie! She came soon, and announced her approaching marriage with
Mrs. Markham's brother, George Seymour. She, whose motto was "Liberty
for me!"
"But, you see, Cora, I could not resist George; and all this time I have
loved him without being certain how it would terminate. I want to be
married in church; so does he; and you and Lewis will come and sit near
me. Laura and the girls are coming home for a week, and I want to
persuade papa to return with them. He will be so lonely without me! We
leave an hour or two after the ceremony."
"And when will you be back?" asked Cora, as the tears fell from her
eyes. "How I shall miss you, darling!"
"We are going North to see George's mother, and, of course, will not be
back before the fall. You will write constantly, Cora?"
"Of course I shall; it will be one of my pleasures to do so. May you be
happy, dear Margaret--God knows you deserve it! Lewis and I will both be
at church, dearest, with hearts full of love for you and your future
husband."
Margaret blushed, and, kissing her, tripped away with a light heart.
A few days after, she was in church to have her destiny for ever
changed. The long bridal veil concealed her sweet face, but her low,
distinct tones reached the brother and sister, sending a prayer into the
heart of each for that young thing's future.
It was over--Margaret's vows were spoken; her husband led her from the
altar with a look of pride, and friends pressed forward to congratulate
her. Tenderly met she the warm embrace of the two that loved her so
well, and her last words to Cora were a low whisper--
"Take care of my father!"
The others passed their brother's wife unheeded, though they spoke to
him a few words. They had ceased to care for him, and he was no more
than an acquaintance.
The carriages whirled away, and the bride left her home to learn
another's ways and habits. Laura returned to Brooksford with her
sisters. They could not remain at home; nor would their father go with
them. He tired of the world, and felt how little they cared for his
comfort.
Soon he fell ill, and sent for Lewis. Cora was alone when the message
came, and flew to see him. She was shocked at the change, and insisted
upon removing him to her own home. Once in that dear little room, he
seemed better, and, when Lewis came in, fell asleep clasping his hand.
Kindly watched Cora by the old man, soothing him, reading to him, and
attending to his every want. He seemed so grateful, and would follow her
light form with his eyes until the tears flowed from them. But he
gained no strength; the doctor shook his head and thought this a bad
symptom. _He_ could not "minister to a mind diseased," and the cares of
business had shattered that weak spirit. Lewis wrote to his sisters; but
they thought he was only too easily alarmed, and wrote in return for
further tidings. Their letter came when their father lay speechless in a
state of paralysis.
Fanny arrived in haste. Mr. Clavering knew her; but his look turned from
her to Cora, who held out her hand to her sister with an expression of
earnest sympathy. Fanny saw it, and burst into tears. Lewis led her from
the room, and an hysterical fit was the consequence. Her screams reached
the old man's ear, for he looked troubled; but Cora signed to the
servant to close the door, while she sat down beside him, trying to
soothe him into sleep. He soon fell into a quiet slumber, and she then
went to Fanny's assistance.
Her quiet but efficient help succeeded in calming her, and together the
three watched all night by their father's bed. He looked so pleased as
he opened his eyes and saw them together. Cora bent down and kissed him,
as she read his look, and once more held out her hand to Fanny. He
signed for her to come nearer. She kneeled at his side, and laid her
young, sweet cheek to his, and once more he closed his eyes. Towards
morning he grew weaker, and a few hours after he had gently breathed his
last, Laura, her husband, and Clara arrived.
Their grief was loud and violent, and painful to witness. If any feeling
of remorse visited their hearts, none knew it, for no reproach escaped
their lips. Fanny alone seemed stricken, and turned to Cora for comfort.
Mr. Clavering was buried by the side of his wife. His children followed
him to the grave; but in all that crowd not one mourned him as Cora did.
She loved the poor old man that clung to her so like a child; and as she
looked at Lewis and beheld his manly grief, she grieved anew over their
short separation.
The most becoming mourning was chosen, and the most fashionable
bombazine bonnets ordered. Laura and Clara hated black, and thought it a
dreadful thing to wear such an uncomfortable dress in the summer. But
custom was not to be braved, and they all appeared at church the Sunday
after, looking very proper, having asked Cora into their pew. There was
no longer an excuse for refusing to speak to her, and they had requested
her to appear with them in public once more, thinking, perhaps, that the
world would expect it--the world, with its countless eyes, ears, and
tongues!
Poor Margaret! Sorrow came soon to disturb her newly-found bliss, and
she returned earlier than she had intended, to weep over her father's
grave. Her pale face bore witness to her suffering, and Seymour's
tenderness alone called her from her indulgence of her grief. How she
blessed Cora for her care of her father! How she loved her for her
forgiving spirit!
She saw her now almost daily, for they lived so near; and Cora had this
one cause for thankfulness as troubles gathered around _her_ little
fireside. Lewis had striven with superhuman strength to increase his
slender capital, but in vain. Cora, whose stout heart never failed her,
retrenched here and there, deprived herself almost of the necessaries of
life to try and stay the storm. When her husband remained at the office
instead of returning to tea, Cora's evening meal was a slice of dry
bread with a cup of weak Bohea. For him she prepared some dish set by
from dinner, which she had seen him relish.
Turning down the lamp that the oil might not waste, she would sit
wondering how she could help her darling Lewis. She knew how much he
would object to have her apply to her mother, and, hating to grieve that
tender parent's heart, she wrote cheerfully and hopefully when her heart
was weighed down by anxiety. Lewis was growing thin, his buoyant spirit
was gone, and she wept over that, indeed. Maggie dreamed not of the
cause, but she, too, remarked the change in both, and felt doubly uneasy
about these two so dear to her. She questioned Cora closely; but Cora
was a sealed book this time. Lewis was peculiarly sensitive upon the
subject of his poverty, and could not bear the thoughts of the triumph
it would occasion Laura when she knew that his wife was really in
distress. Slowly, but alas too surely, the little sum diminished, and
Cora would soon lose her dignity of banker. She opened the drawer and
counted the remainder with a deep sigh, and began to feel how terrible
it was to be poor. Not that she repined for herself--oh no!--but the
idea of her husband's wan face was like a dagger in her heart. She
looked around her; there was nothing within her modest dwelling that
could be parted with, nothing but her mother's gift, and she knew that
Lewis would not hear of that. In a few days, she would be forced to tell
him that the drawer was empty, and not a cent left to provide for even
their scanty wants. She buried her face in her hands.
She did not see the servant enter, and Nora stood some time at the door
watching her with a look of sympathy, for she knew a portion of her
mistress's sorrow, and felt it, too.
"Won't I put on some more coal, Mrs. Clavering?" at length she asked.
Cora looked up; the fire was quite out, and it was a cold night, but she
had not heeded it.
"Never mind, Nora; my husband will soon be home now, and it would be
useless. You know he never sits up long after he returns."
"But it is a cold, wet night, ma'am, and Mr. Lewis will want to dry his
clothes," persisted Nora.
"_Is_ it a wet night, Nora?"
"Lord bless you, Mrs. Clavering, it has been pouring down rain for an
hour past!" and she ran back to the coal house, returning in a second
with the scuttle. "You see, ma'am," continued Nora, as she lighted the
fire and the cheerful light filled the room, "you thinks too much. I've
been here half a dozen times to-night, and seen you a ponderin' on sad
things. It won't do, ma'am; thinking don't fatten folks."
Cora smiled, and Nora went on. She was privileged, for she had been a
servant in old Mrs. Clavering's family, and at her instance came to live
with Cora when her household cares began.
"You see, Miss Cora"--(Nora never said Mrs. Clavering more than once or
twice)--"I know what ails you, and you ought not to take on about it so.
The darkest hour's before the dawn, and _your_ dawn an't come yet."
"I wish it were, Nora," said Cora, smiling again. "But there is a hope,
at all events, for worse than I am. You say that you know why I am sad,
Nora, and I am sure that you feel for one whom you have served so long.
Now, is there nothing I can do to help Mr. Clavering that you know of?
Nothing that will enable me to keep _you_? for, as things are now, there
is no use in concealing that I could no longer afford to employ a
servant, were there no brighter prospect."
"Takes two to make a bargain, Miss Cora, and you couldn't send me off if
I didn't choose to go," said Nora, stoutly. "It's a hard thing to see
you work, but I s'pose it's got to be. Would you sew, ma'am? I'm sure I
could get plenty of that."
"Certainly I would, gladly I would," said Cora, eagerly. "So keep your
word, Nora, and bring me something to do as soon as you can. You know
how nicely I can do fine work."
But Nora was crying, and went out of the room. Her pride for "the
Claverings" was sadly humbled, and her "poor Miss Cora too unhappy!" She
kept her promise, however; and long after the portfeuille lay useless in
the drawer, Cora's busy fingers earned wherewith to supply the every-day
wants of the house. What mattered it if her bonnet grew rusty and her
gloves were mended? She was always pretty and neat, and had always that
sweet fresh color that a consciousness of right sent to her cheek. The
same glad smile ever welcomed her husband, the same rich, clear voice
sang the touching songs he loved, and he seemed to catch a portion of
her undying spirit.
He returned home one evening earlier than usual, and going up to Cora,
threw something into her lap.
"That is for the bank, my singing-bird: it is a long time since I made a
deposit, is it not? Oh, Cora!" and Lewis's deep voice faltered as he
said it--"oh, Cora, if you knew how I dreaded to have you tell me that
it was all gone, when I had no more to give! What hours of misery I have
endured, my darling, since I came so near actual want! And you, my
noble-hearted wife, how bravely you gazed at the coming clouds--how
firmly you awaited the storm!"
"And has the storm ceased, Lewis?--is the sunshine returning?"
"There is a glimpse of it shining through the crevice, Cora, and I dare
hope for better times, even with no prospects. I feared this, dearest,
when my poor father sent me on the wide world with the slender sum I
placed in your hands. It must be all gone now; is not your drawer empty?
for, with your strict economy, it has lasted beyond my expectations."
Cora smiled, and brought a little chair to sit beside him. Fondly he
stroked her shining hair as she leaned her head against him, and all
sense of sorrow left his breast as this, his treasure, was so near.
Holding one little hand, he watched the arch smile upon those beautiful
lips.
"Tell me, rose-bud, how is your bank now? Have you not also dreaded to
mention its emptiness to your gloomy husband?"
"I have, indeed, Lewis; but there is something yet in the drawer, and I
shall not touch your present supply for a while, as I do not need it."
"You do not need it, Cora! Surely, dearest, you must have used all that
I gave you at first; it was not even sufficient for our wants till now;
for I have often wondered at your ingenuity in providing as you have.
You have not parted with anything you valued, Cora?"
She shook her head--
"Not at all. Do you miss any of my pet china, my silver, or my cherished
books?" asked she, laughingly.
"Then how is it, Cora, that you have managed so well?"
"Oh, I was blessed by the fairies at my birth, and am a successful
mesmerizer, too. I have the power of making you see more than is before
you."
"Let me see your account book, then, queen of spirits. I had no idea
that I had married a banshee. Where is your book?"
"I keep my own accounts, Mr. Lewis, so please you. This is a liberty I
will not allow." And Cora ran to her drawer and turned the key, thus
preventing the discovery of her labor of love.
But she confined herself too closely, and it was not long before her
face began to grow pale and her temples throb through the night. Lewis
was alarmed, and sent a physician. He prescribed exercise, country air,
and quiet; three luxuries of which poor Cora had been deprived for
months, and Lewis was more wretched than ever.
In the morning early, before Cora had risen, Nora went to him and told
all. Her young lady should not work herself to death; hiding it from Mr.
Lewis was a sin, and so she made bold to betray her. Lewis bowed his
head and wept; she had, indeed, been firm in adversity; she had, indeed,
been true to her word, and kept a stout heart. How he loved her! how
willingly he could have knelt before her! The scene that passed between
them I could not think of describing; it must be imagined by the
kind-hearted reader, by the sacrificing wife, and the grateful, devoted
husband. One load was taken from the mind of Lewis, the absence of local
disease in his cherished one, and he thankfully turned his thoughts to
the Great Source of all his joys, blessing him for the trials he sent
that he might be purified. Poor as he was, destitute of expectation as
he felt himself to be, he left home with a light heart. His gem, his
bright, beautiful Cora was not threatened with a loss of health. She had
promised to rest, and now she would find her roses once more.
During all this time, Margaret had watched her brother and sister with
intense anxiety, and, suspecting the cause of their altered looks, set
her little head to work to find out more. On a visit to Laura, she
mentioned Lewis and his appearance of delicate health. Cora's name she
never breathed before her hard-hearted persecutor.
"Oh, they are so poor; no wonder!" cried she, with a look of scorn. "I
suppose they are starving. _I_ wonder they are not begging."
"God forbid!" said Margaret, earnestly. "Have you heard anything?"
"Yes; Phillips told me Lewis did not make a cent, and wondered how they
had lived till now. The other evening, Mr. Layton was here and asked me
about Lewis, saying he could not find his house. He wished to offer him
the situation of head clerk in the establishment of Layton, Finlay &
Co."
"And what did you tell him?" asked Margaret, breathlessly.
"Oh, I told him there was no use in doing anything of the kind, as he
would not be able to keep Lewis long, his habits of negligence were so
irremediable."
"Great God of heaven!" cried Margaret, starting up and standing before
her sister. "You did not tell him _that_, Laura!"
"Indeed, I did! I have no idea of seeing that wife of his benefited in
any way. She married him poor; let her remain so."
Margaret was gone in an instant. She almost flew down the street to her
husband's office, and, fortunately, met him on her way. In a few words,
she related to him what had passed.
His indignation was not less than hers; and, before a quarter of an hour
elapsed, George Seymour was closeted with Mr. Layton, his cheek flushed
and his eye bright with excitement, as, without one word of
circumlocution, he told the plain, unvarnished truth.
Mr. Layton was much shocked, and hastened to make his offer to Lewis
Clavering in "plain black and white." Before night, the note was
received, and Lewis and his inimitable Cora had the prospect of comfort
and happiness with the surely-coming salary of two thousand a year.
Their grateful reception of this intervention in their behalf, their
unmurmuring hearts at past suffering, would form a bright example to
hundreds possessing perfect independence and no cares.
Laura's disappointment knew no bounds. Margaret's joy was complete. How
she and Cora talked over this good fortune, and how silvery and sweet
their merry laughter seemed to Lewis and Seymour, who were listening to
every word these two said. They were now discussing a marriage on the
tapis.
Clara was fortunate enough to secure an offer from a widower with a son
older than his future stepmother. But Mr. Penrose was very rich, and
could be hid, like Tarpeia of old, under jewels and gold. Clara loathed,
and would often turn from him with disgust, as her eye fell upon his
great clumsy form "fitting tight" (as the mantua-makers say) to the
Louis Quatorze, in which he regularly ensconced himself. His false teeth
were unexceptionable; his cheeks round and shiny. He bore one
resemblance to poor Uncle Ned:
"For he had no hair on the top of his head,
The place where the hair ought to be;"
and, in case of any danger, Clara could easily screen herself behind him
and never be seen. He was in a melancholy state of extreme health,
though there was a hope of apoplexy in his case; and all that Clara
could rejoice at was his tendency to severe gout, which would prevent
his accompanying her upon many occasions in public.
Margaret ventured a hint upon the disparity of age and disposition, a
sad inequality to bring into married life. But Laura talked so loudly in
favor of wealth and Mr. Penrose's consequence, that she was forced to be
silent. Fanny, too, approved Clara's wisdom and prudence. It was an
excellent match; Clara had shown herself a woman of determination,
superior to the foolish girls who prated of love and cottages. Let a man
be esteemed before he was loved, and there would be no doubt of perfect
harmony afterwards.
"So write your cards for the reception-day, Clara, and we will have a
grand ball in the evening. You shall be married with _eclat_ becoming
your prospects."
"A ball, Laura!" cried Maggie. "Have you forgotten our mourning?"
"No, indeed; I wish I had. But, as we have worn it now nearly a year,
I'm going to take the opportunity of leaving it off on Clara's wedding
day. So will she and Fan."
"But, Clara," said Maggie, turning to her, "our father has not been dead
a year yet! Leave off mourning if you will; but, for mercy's sake, do
not outrage decency by going to a ball, even if you have no feeling on
the subject."
"I agree with Laura, Margaret. We have been in prison long enough. I do
not wish to begin my married life in seclusion. We have had _soirees_
only six or seven times since papa died, and I went to one polka party
at Mrs. Hildreth's. I'm sure I have been dull enough to suit any one."
"You do not pay our father the respect that Cora does, and she is only
our sister-in-law."
"Don't bring up _her_ name," said Laura; "I hate to hear it. Clara may
send her a piece of cake if she likes, but she shall not be asked here;
though I'm willing that Lewis should be invited, to show what I think of
_her_."
"They would not come, depend upon it," said Margaret; "nor shall I; so
do not expect me. You will be much blamed."
"Pshaw!" said Clara. And so she was married, having issued cards to all
her fashionable friends. Her reception-day was very brilliant, the
_fete_ the gayest of the season; and the bride and groom left the next
afternoon for their wedding tour, amid the applause of the waiters, who
regaled themselves on the scraps of the feast and the half bottles of
champagne that were left to evaporate.
A year after, no one would have recognized the gay and elegant-looking
Clara Clavering in the faded Mrs. Penrose. Her elephantine spouse was
not so amiable as before marriage; and the poor wife was heard to say
that, after all, wealth was not the principal thing in marriage; she
would prefer a competency and happiness.
Laura's health was much impaired by her unceasing fretfulness and ill
humor, and eventually her sight became affected. Sitting in a dark room,
unable to read or sew, deprived of every amusement, she wept herself
blind at last! Reduced to this melancholy state, Cora Clavering once
more stepped across the threshold from which she had been so rudely
thrust, and offered her aid to the sufferer. Her gentle hand applied the
cooling compressions to Laura's swollen lids; her noiseless footstep
could cross the room and not disturb her if she slept. That low sweet
voice never grated harshly on the sensitive ear of the invalid, and she
learned to long for her coming as a captive for freedom. Fanny clung to
her as a guardian angel; for from how many heartaches did Cora's
presence save her! Margaret watched with her, and together they
persuaded Laura to submit to an operation; and she requested that it
might not be delayed.
But on Cora she leaned for support in the hour of trial, and, clasping
her hand firmly, said that she was prepared. Faithful and true, that
voice encouraged her through the trying moments. That slender arm
supported her head, and seemed so strong; and until the bandages were
removed from her eyes, still that slight form glided about to supply her
bitter enemy's every want.
But at length Laura could see once more, and light had come, too, upon
her darkened soul. Sitting one evening in Cora's little parlor, she
glanced around with a look of admiration upon its plain furniture, its
absence of luxury, and remembered the perfect content of its happy
mistress. While she, surrounded by all that wealth could afford, had
made herself and everything around her wretched. Fanny had often dreamed
of flying to Cora for shelter from bitter words and reproaches, and
Clara had long since ceased to visit the sister from whose lessons she
had learned to be that misguided thing, a worldly woman.
"You may well love Cora, Lewis," said Laura, as she saw how fondly he
watched her every motion; "she seems to have the secret of exorcising
evil spirits, and replacing them with good ones, besides being the best
nurse, the best wife, and the most sunshiny soul that ever was on
earth."
"Don't flatter me, Laura," said Cora, laughing, and giving Margaret's
baby a toss that made the little creature clap its hands with delight.
"Lewis told me once he thought he _had_ married a banshee."
"He married what is as rare as a banshee," said Margaret, who had been
sitting at Laura's side, knitting a tidy for the arm-chair her skillful
fingers had embroidered to embellish Cora's little Eden. "He has the
brightest jewel in the world, in a wife that can forgive, forget, and
return, without even seeming to be aware of it, 'good for evil.'"
SPRING.
BY FANNY FALES.
SHE is with us! she is with us!
For I list her gentle sigh,
And her music tones of gladness,
Floating through the branches dry;
Now the south wind lifts the carpet
Spread beneath the forest old;
Waketh up the scented violet
From her bed of richest mould.
Softly trills the little sparrow,
Pecking seeds from out the sod;
And the robin, o'er me flying,
Lifts his anthem up to God.
To the dear old nest returneth,
Yet again, the bluebird bright--
To the hollow tree whence, yearly,
Azure birdlings wing their flight.
Now the brooklet is unfettered,
Swollen by the melted snow;
Shining like a thread of silver--
Singing through the vale below:
Tokens of the happy springtime,
On the hillside by the brook;
Emerald grasses, velvet mosses,
Smile from many a sunny nook.
On the cottage eaves alighting,
Swallows in the sunlight sing,
Filling all the air around me
With their joyous twittering.
O'er the deep blue upper ocean
Little white-winged barges fly;
Melting out, like fairy phantoms,
'Neath the Day-god's burning eye.
Sap is welling, leaf-buds swelling,
Springing towards their shining goal,
Bursting from their darkened dwelling,
Like the freed immortal soul.
Spring is with us! She is with us!
New life wakes in every vein;
Fresh hopes in my heart are welling,
As I welcome her again!
WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION.
BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.
MRS. LINCOLN.
THE following letter (never before published) from MRS. MERCY WARREN to
MRS. LINCOLN will be found interesting. Mrs. Lincoln was the eldest
sister of Josiah Quincy, Jr., to whom allusion is made in the letter.
Her husband, a brother of General Lincoln, died before the Revolution,
and she resided, during the war, with her father, Josiah Quincy, at
Braintree, now Quincy, in the mansion, now the summer residence, of
President Quincy. One of her letters to her brother, Samuel Quincy, who
left Boston with other loyalists, published in "Curwen's Memoirs" (page
562), is full of eloquence. She afterwards married Ebenezer Storer, of
Boston, and died, at the age of ninety, in 1826, a few weeks after the
decease of her early friend, John Adams. She was for many years a
correspondent of Mrs. Adams, and a life-long friendship subsisted
between them. They were often together at the family mansion at Quincy,
where, in 1824, she welcomed Lafayette to her father's residence. The
present Mrs. Quincy's mother, Mrs. Maria S. Morton, was there on that
occasion. This lady had resided at Baskenridge, New Jersey, during a
seven years exile from New York, where her husband, an eminent merchant,
left part of his property, devoting the profits of the sale of the rest
to the cause of American independence. He died during the war, leaving
Mrs. Morton with six children. Washington and all his officers were
frequent guests at her house, and some of the stirring incidents of the
campaign in New Jersey occurred in her immediate neighborhood. She was
born at Raub, on the banks of the Rhine, and lived to the age of
ninety-three, passing the last twelve years with her daughter. She
retained her powers to the last, and often beguiled the attention of
President Quincy's children with the narrative of the times when, as he
used to say, "the women were all heroines." She died at his residence at
Cambridge.
PLYMOUTH, _June 3, 1775._
DEAR MRS. LINCOLN: If the tenderest sympathy would
be any alleviation to your sorrow, when mourning
the death of a beloved brother, the ready hand of
friendship should soon wipe the starting tear from
your eye. Yet, while I wish to console the
disappointed father, the weeping sister, and the
still more afflicted wife, I cannot restrain the
rising sigh within my swollen bosom, nor forbear
to mix my tears with theirs, when I consider that,
in your valuable brother, America has lost a warm,
unshaken friend.[B] Deprived of his assistance
when, to all human appearance, had his life been
spared, he might have rendered his country very
eminent service.
By these dark dispensations of Providence, one is
almost led to inquire why the useful, the
generous, the spirited patriot is cut off in the
morning of his days, while the base betrayer of
his country, the incendiary, who blows up the
flames of civil discord to gratify his own mad
ambition, and sports with the miseries of
millions, is suffered to grow gray in iniquity.
But who shall say to the Great Arbiter of life and
death, to the righteous Sovereign of the Universe,
why hast thou done thus?
Not surely man, whose ideas are so circumscribed,
and whose understanding can grasp so little of the
Divine government, that we are lost at the
threshold, and stand astonished at the displays of
Almighty power and wisdom. But shall we not rely
on Infinite goodness, however severe may be our
chastisement, while in this militant state, not
doubting that, when the ball of Time is wound up,
and the final adjustment of the wise economy of
the universe takes place, virtue, whether public
or private, will be crowned with the plaudits of
the best of beings; while the vicious man, immured
in his cot, or the public plunderer of nations,
who riots on the spoils of the oppressed and
tramples on the rights of man, will reap the
reward of his guilty deeds?
The painful anxiety expressed in your last letter
for the complicated distresses of the inhabitants
of Boston, is experienced, in a greater or less
degree, by every heart which knows anything of the
feelings of humanity. But He who is higher than
the highest, and "seeth when there is oppression
in the city," I trust will deliver us. He has
already made a way for the escape of many, and if
speedy vengeance does not soon overtake the
wretched authors of their calamities, we must
consider them as the scourge of God, designed for
the correction of a favored people, who have been
too unmindful of his goodness; and when they shall
be aroused by affliction to a sense of virtue,
which stimulated their worthy progenitors to brave
the dangers of the sea, and the still greater
horrors of traversing a barbarian coast, in quest
of Freedom denied them on their native shore, the
modern cankerworms will, with the locusts and
other devourers which infested the nations of
old, be swept, with the besom of destruction, from
the face of the American World.
I hope my friend will not again be obliged to
leave her habitation for fear of the ravages of an
unnatural foe; yet I think we must expect
continual alarms through the summer, and happy
will it be for the British Empire, of which
America is a part, if this contest terminate then.
But, whether it be a season of war or the sunshine
of peace, whether in prosperity or affliction, be
assured Mrs. Lincoln has ever the best wishes of
her real friend,
MERCY WARREN.
REBECCA WILLIAMS.
One of the early adventurers in the Valley of Ohio River was Isaac
Williams. After he became a resident of the West, he explored its
recesses, traveling along the shores of the Mississippi to the turbid
waters of the Missouri. In 1775, he married a youthful widow, Rebecca
Martin, the daughter of Joseph Tomlinson, of Grave Creek. Her first
husband had been a trader with the Indians, and was killed in 1770. She
was born in 1754, on the banks of the Potomac, in Maryland, and removed
to Grave Creek with her father's family in the first year of her
widowhood. Since that time she had lived with her unmarried brothers,
keeping house for them, and would remain alone in their dwelling while
they were absent on hunting excursions. She was young and sprightly in
disposition, and had little knowledge of fear. In the spring of 1774,
she paid a visit to her sister, who had married a Mr. Baker, and resided
upon the banks of the Ohio, opposite Yellow Creek. It was soon after the
celebrated massacre of Logan's relatives at Baker's station. Rebecca
made her visit, and prepared to return home as she had come, in a canoe
alone, the distance being fifty miles. She left her sister's residence
in the afternoon, and paddled her canoe till dark. Then, knowing that
the moon would rise at a certain hour, she neared the land, leaped on
shore, and fastened her craft to some willows that drooped their boughs
over the water. She sought shelter in a clump of bushes, where she lay
till the moon cleared the tree tops and sent a broad stream of light
over the bosom of the river. Then, unfastening her boat, she stepped a
few paces into the water to get into it. But, as she reached the canoe,
she trod on something cold and soft, and stooping down discovered, to
her horror, that it was a human body. The pale moonlight streamed on the
face of a dead Indian, not long killed, it was evident, for the body had
not become stiff. The young woman recoiled at first, but uttered no
scream, for the instinct of self-preservation taught her that it might
be dangerous. She went round the corpse, which must have been there when
she landed, stepped into her bark, and reached the mouth of Grave Creek,
without further adventure, early the next morning.
In the ensuing summer, one morning while kindling the fire, blowing the
coals on her knees, she heard steps in the apartment, and, turning
round, saw a very tall Indian standing close to her. He shook his
tomahawk at her threateningly, at the same time motioning her to keep
silence. He then looked around the cabin in search of plunder. Seeing
her brother's rifle hanging on hooks over the fireplace, he seized it
and went out. Rebecca showed no fear while he was present; but,
immediately on his departure, left the cabin and hid herself in the
standing corn till her brother came home.
Her second marriage was performed with a simplicity characteristic of
the times. A traveling preacher, who chanced to come into the
settlement, performed the ceremony at short notice, the bridegroom
presenting himself in his hunting-dress, and the bride in short-gown and
petticoat of homespun, the common wear of the country.
This Rebecca Williams afterwards became famous among the borderers of
Ohio River for her medical skill, and the cure of dangerous wounds. She
was with Elizabeth Zane at the siege of Fort Henry, at Wheeling, and
there exercised the healing art for the benefit of the wounded soldiers.
In 1777, the depredations and massacres of the Indians became so
frequent that the settlement at Grave Creek was broken up. It was in a
dangerous locality, being on the frontier, and lower down the river than
any other.
* * * * *
In December, 1777, when the British army was in possession of
Philadelphia, and the Americans in winter quarters at Valley Forge,
Major Tallmadge was stationed for some time between the two armies, with
a detachment of cavalry, for the purpose of observation, and to
circumscribe the range of the British foraging parties. The horses of
his squad were seldom unsaddled, nor did they often remain all night in
the same position, for fear of a visit from the enemy.
At one time the major was informed that a country girl had gone into
Philadelphia with eggs, to obtain information. It is supposed she had
been employed for that purpose by Washington himself. Desirous of seeing
her, Tallmadge advanced towards the British lines, and dismounted at a
small tavern called "The Rising Sun," within view of their outposts. In
a short time, the young woman came from the city and entered the tavern.
She communicated the intelligence she had gained to the major; but their
conversation was interrupted by the alarm that the British light horse
were approaching. Stepping to the door, Tallmadge saw them riding at
full speed chasing in his patroles. No time was to be lost, and he threw
himself on his horse. The girl besought him to protect her: he told her
to mount behind him, which she did, and they rode three miles at full
speed to Germantown. There was much firing of pistols during the ride,
and now and then wheeling and charging; but the heroic damsel remained
unmoved, nor uttered one expression of fear after she was on horseback.
Tallmadge mentions her conduct with admiration in his journal.
* * * * *
On the approach of winter, when the British army retired from the active
service of the field, they were usually distributed, while in possession
of Long Island, in the dwellings of the inhabitants within the lines. An
officer, at first, visited each house, and, in proportion to its size,
chalked on the door the number of soldiers it must receive. The first
notice the good hostess commonly had of this intrusion was the speech,
"Madam, I am come to take a billet on your house." The best mansion was
always reserved for the quarters of the officers. In this way were women
forced into the society of British officers, and, in order to conciliate
their good will and protection, would often invite them to tea, and show
them other civilities.
* * * * *
The "New London Gazette," dated November 20, 1776, states that several
of the most respectable ladies in East Haddam, about thirty in number,
had met at the house of J. Chapman, and, in four or five hours, husked
about two hundred and forty bushels of corn. "A noble example," says the
journal, "and necessary in this bleeding country, while their fathers
and brothers are fighting the battles of the nation."
Lossing records a similar agreement on the part of the Boston women.
* * * * *
The "New York Spectator," April 13th, 1803, forty-seven years old,
announces the arrival in New York of Mrs. Deborah Gannett, the "Deborah
Samson" whose memoir appeared in a former number of the "Lady's Book."
It says: "This extraordinary woman served three years in the army of the
United States, and was at the storming of Yorktown under General
Hamilton, serving bravely, and as a good soldier. Her sex was unknown
and unsuspected, until, falling sick, she was sent to the hospital, and
a disclosure became necessary. We understand this lady intends
publishing her memoirs, and one or more orations which she has delivered
in public upon patriotic subjects. She, last year, delivered an oration
in the Theatre at Boston, which excited great curiosity and did her much
credit."
This curious confirmation of the account given of her in the memoir
alluded to should be a sufficient answer to the ill-natured criticism of
the "_London Athenaeum_," which, reviewing "The Women of the American
Revolution," endeavors to throw discredit on the whole story, by
ridiculing it as utterly improbable and romantic, though the critic does
not bring proof to controvert a single statement, nor assign any ground
for his doubt but "we surmise."
FOOTNOTE:
[B] Josiah Quincy, Jr., ob. 26 April, 1775.
HOME; OR, THE COT AND TREE.
BY ROBERT JOHNSON.
I KNOW a cot, beneath whose eave
There is a hawthorn tree,
Where playmates young were wont to weave
Spring's earliest flowers for me:
That old familiar cot and tree,
The oaken bench and shade,
Are ever present now with me
As when we met and played.
Beneath that ancient tree and cot
We lisped our earliest prayer,
And ours was then the happiest lot,
Blest by a mother's care;
Those gentle looks and tones still live--
Though time that group has riven--
As when we said "Father forgive,"
As we would be forgiven.
Home is a spot where memory clings,
As by a spell, through life;
For there's a voice whose tone still brings
Joy mid the world's dark strife:
We launch youth's bark and trim the sail,
Life's ocean o'er to roam,
But that same voice, throughout the gale,
Is whispering still of home.
Ask him, with sickness sore oppressed,
Who cheered his hope when dim,
He'll tell you _she_, in whose loved breast
Glowed sympathy for him:
The soothing voice, the gentle tread,
And ever silent prayer,
The pillow smoothed to ease the head--
All tell a mother's care.
Ask him who, on the ocean dark,
In unknown seas did roam,
When first he spied the nearing bark,
If he thought not of home?
He'll tell of thoughts that thrilled his heart
While bounding o'er the wave;
The joys that none but home impart
Lent courage to the brave.
He thought of her, his early choice,
The parting hour, the sigh,
The hand that pressed, the trembling voice,
Sad face, and tearful eye;
And while he walks the deck at night,
He ever sees that star
Whose beam reflects where joys more bright
Still win him from afar.
[Illustration]
COUNTRY CHARACTERS.
THE LAST OF THE TIE-WIGS.
BY JARED AUSTIN.
ONE of my earliest village reminiscences is a vision of old Captain
Garrow, in his old-fashioned, square-skirted coat, plush shorts, silk
stockings, shoe buckles, and, to crown the whole, his venerable tie-wig.
He was a character, the captain. He was a relic of a past age, an
antique in perfect preservation, a study for a novelist or historian.
Born in Massachusetts before the rebel times, he had taken an active
part in the Revolution; served as commissary, for which his education as
a trader had qualified him; and the rank of captain which was attached
to the office had given him the title he bore in his old age. When the
war was over, his savings (very moderate, indeed, they were, for the
captain was as honest as daylight) were invested in a stock of what used
to be called English goods, but what are now, through the increase of
manufactures in our own country, denominated dry goods; I think it
rather fortunate for our village that the worthy captain pitched upon it
for his residence, and for the sale of his well-selected English goods.
His strict old-fashioned notions of commercial honor and punctuality
gave a tone to the whole trade of the place, which lasted for a long
time. His modest shop was a pattern of neatness and economy. His
punctual attendance at all hours, his old bachelor gallantry to the lady
customers, and his perfect urbanity to all, furnished an example to
younger traders; while his stiff adherence to the "one price" system,
while it saved the labor and vexation of chaffering, gave a stability to
his establishment which made it respectable in the view of all sensible
people.
Worthy Captain Garrow! well do I remember you at the meridian of your
glory, the head "merchant" of our village, the acknowledged _arbiter
elegantiarum_ in all matters of chintz and linen, and lace and ribbons,
and all the _et ceteras_ of ladies' goods. Your opinion was law; for you
were known to be the soul of honor, and your word in all engagements was
reckoned as good as another man's bond.
But, in an evil hour, an invasion of Goths and Vandals came down upon us
in the shape of cheap English goods' merchants. They inundated the place
with gaudy, worthless trash at half price, gave unlimited credit, sold
at almost any price you would offer, and seemed only anxious to have all
the villagers' names in their books, and to double the consumption of
English goods. The consequence was that the thoughtless part of the
population deserted the worthy captain's shop, which henceforward
received the custom only of the old steady-going people. His
ancient-looking wooden tenement, with its weather-beaten sign, was put
out of all countenance by the new brick stores, and flaring gilt signs,
and plate glass windows of his rivals. The captain, however, foreseeing
the result, bore it all with a dignity and quiet worthy of his
character. He "guessed" that the importers in Boston and New York were
destined to suffer at a future day; and so it turned out; for, after
charging many thousand dollars in their books to people who were not
very punctual about payment, his rivals, one by one, all failed; their
stocks were sold out by the sheriff, and their book debts were handed
over to the lawyers by assignees.
After the lapse of a few months, a new swarm of cheap merchants
succeeded them, with precisely the same result. Meantime, the captain
kept the noiseless tenor of his way, and maintained the original
character of his own modest establishment. He had grown rich, but
exhibited none of the airs of a presumptuous millionaire. He was too
dignified to be insolent.
Well do I remember, on a certain day, when the captain, now quite an old
man, was near the close of his career, calling at his shop with my
cousin Caroline, commissioned by her mother to purchase with ready
money a piece of Irish linen. When she had examined the captain's stock,
and was about to make a purchase, she happened casually to remark that
Irish linen was sold sometimes at a lower price.
"O yes, my dear," answered the captain--he always called a lady, old or
young, "my dear"--"O yes; you can buy Irish linen over the way, where
the big sign is, for less money. They will sell it to you, I dare say,
at half price, and cheat you at that. But their goods are not like mine.
They will generally take less than they ask you at first; but I never
have but one price. I was bred a merchant before chaffering came into
fashion. You can go and trade with them if you like, however."
Poor Caroline, who had not been aware of the captain's weak point,
hastened to apologize, concluded her purchase, and was careful in future
to respect the captain's sensitiveness on the subject of cheap goods.
Ere I left my native village to become a wanderer over the wide world,
the captain had been gathered to his fathers. Having no relatives, he
directed the executors of his will to apply his handsome fortune to the
establishment of an asylum for orphans, which still remains a monument
of his sterling goodness and public spirit.
TO A. E. B., OR HER WHO UNDERSTANDS IT
BY ADALIZA CUTTER.
DEAREST, my sad and lonely breast
Is full to-night of thoughts of thee,
And as the tired dove seeks its nest,
With its dear little ones to be,
E'en thus my weary spirit turns
To thee, for whom it fondly yearns,
And flies unfettered o'er the sea:
Upon thy breast it folds its wing,
And there its sweetest song doth sing.
I am thinking of those twilight hours
When, hand in hand, we used to rove;
When little birds in sylvan bowers
Awoke the echoes of the grove;
When flowers closed up their dewy eyes,
And o'er us arched those cloudless skies,
Smiling upon our mutual love:
And oh, my heart doth sadly yearn
For hours that may no more return!
More and more sadly, day by day,
I miss thy gentle loving tone,
And long to soar far, far away,
To meet once more my loved, my own.
I sit to-night with tearful eye
Fixed on that star in yonder sky;
But oh, it shines on me alone!
For she who watched its pale soft beam
With me, has gone like some bright dream.
I sometimes take my lute to sing
The simple songs we loved so well;
But when I touch each quivering string,
Sad, mournful sounds arise and swell;
For she whose presence could inspire
My heart with such poetic fire
Has kissed her last, her sad farewell
Upon my cheek, and left me here
To shed alone the silent tear.
I take my books; but bard and sage
Have half their beauty lost for me,
And tears fall fast upon the page
That I so oft have read with thee.
And then I throw those books aside,
While faster still the tear drops glide,
That by my side thou canst not be.
Poor heart, be still, nor sigh in vain
For joys that may not come again!
Where, where art thou? Oh, well I know
What joy my presence would impart!
What rapture in thine eye would glow
To clasp me to thy loving heart!
For in that noble heart of thine
Beats the same love that throbs in mine;
Nor time shall bid that love depart.
Meet me in Heaven! my heart's warm prayer,
I _love thee here_--I'll _love thee there_!
THE JUDGE; A DRAMA OF AMERICAN LIFE.
BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.
(Concluded from page 245.)
ACT V.
SCENE I.--_Rose Hill. The garden before_ PROF.
OLNEY'S _house_. YOUNG HENRY BOLTON _and_
ISABELLE; _she is weeping_. TIME _morning_.
HENRY BOLTON (_aside_).
I cannot leave her in this agony,
(_looks at his watch_,)
And yet the hour is nearly out. O Time!
Turn back thy sands! take months from out my life
For moments spared me now. I cannot leave her.
(_To her._) Dear Isabelle, be comforted; I'll go
And tell my father this sad tale you've told me.
Fear not; he has a soul of nobleness--
He will consent; and, when you are my wife,
You'll have a host of friends.
ISABELLE.
No! no! dear Henry;
This must not, cannot be. I've given my word
To him who hitherto I deemed my father,
And who has been a father in his care--
He's dying now--that I will take his charge,
Will teach his pupils, and insure a home
To his poor wife and Alice, whom I love
As an own sister. They gave me a home,
Else I had been cast off e'en as the weed
Is cast to perish. No! I must be firm;
My duty is made plain; I must stay here.
HENRY BOLTON.
Oh! say not so, dear Isabelle! be mine.
Would you waste youth, and health, and loveliness
In this unthankful and laborious life?
No! no! It must not be; I will provide
For these.
ISABELLE.
Oh, Henry, torture me not thus
Forcing my heart to strive against my soul.
Your generous love but humbles me the more.
Do not mistake me: 'tis not pride, but duty,
That tells me we must part--and part for ever.
HENRY BOLTON.
And you say this to me! You never loved me--
While I have given to you my heart, soul, mind--
Made you the idol of my earthly hopes,
My dream of angel-blessedness above!
You never loved me!
ISABELLE (_weeping_).
Ah! it may be best
That you should thus believe--should doubt my love.
Tis but another grief for me to bear;
And I had rather suffer than inflict
A pang on you. But, Henry, if I were
An heiress, with a fortune and a name,
And friends to love and flatter me--I'd speak
Of my heart's love for you: I cannot now--
A nameless, homeless, and forsaken child.
Oh! let me be forgiven if I keep
The station heaven appointed me--alone!
Some must be sufferers in this world of care--
Victims for others, wearing out their lives,
Like the poor Greenlanders, in night and winter.
But God will strengthen all to bear their lot,
If patiently they take the burden up.
(_Weeping bitterly._)
HENRY BOLTON.
This must not, shall not be, dear Isabelle;
Hear reason, if you will not love. Last night
A vile attempt was made to burn this house,
And carry you away. Dare you live here,
When there'll be none to guard you? Isabelle,
You must be mine at once--give me the right
To keep you, like a jewel, in my bosom,
Where not an eye but loves you shall behold you.
Oh! say you will be mine.
ISABELLE.
It would be vain:
Your father never would consent. A year
You've promised him to wait--and, ere that time
Is passed, you may forget the nameless girl.
HENRY BOLTON.
I will not wait a day. My word was passed
When I believed this home of yours was safe
Now--not a day. I go to ask my father.
If he refuses me, I leave his house.
I am of age to answer for myself.
ISABELLE (_calmly_).
Oh! not for me and mine must this be done:
You must not leave your home and friends for me.
Your future would be marred for ever, Henry
No! leave me to the care of Providence.
HENRY BOLTON.
Dear Isabelle, with you I have the world.
I'll hire two cottages together, love--
And we'll have one--your friends shall have the other.
The garden-plots shall join, and you and Alice
May have the flowers in partnership, as here.
The flower of love will bloom spontaneously
Beneath your smiles--and fortune's smiles I win
In winning yours. Come with me to your father,
The good and honest Olney. He will consent.
[_Exeunt into the house. Scene, closes._
SCENE II.--_The drawing-room at_ JUDGE BOLTON'S.
_Enter_ JUDGE BOLTON.
JUDGE.
The day of destiny for me has come!
Strange how the aspect of the outer world
Changes beneath the changes of the soul!
This morning is a glorious one to sense!
But Hope, the sun that lights the inner man,
And warms the mind to noble energy,
Giving the will its giant power to sweep
The clouds of doubt and dark distrust away,
Even as the risen sun the morning mists--
Hope comes not to my soul!
(_Enter_ REV. PAUL GODFREY.)
Ah! Godfrey, welcome!
You look as you had brought her in your heart,
This truant Hope, to render her to me.
I never felt the worth of friends till now.
My life has been one long unclouded day.
I had almost forgotten my dependence
On Him who sends the sunshine as the storm.
GODFREY.
A dangerous state. The Bible tells us, truly,
That "They who have no changes fear not God."
And fear is the beginning of our love,
And love brings trust, and trust true confidence--
Not in our own deserts, or powers, or wealth,
But confidence, if we pursue the good
With firm resolve, that all will work for good.
This, the true wisdom, man but seldom learns,
Except 'tis taught him by adversity.
Thank God that this, your trial, has not come
As punishment of your misdeeds--but sent,
As 'twere, like Job's of old, to try your faith
In truth and justice and God's righteousness!
Keep your integrity--all will be well.
_Enter_ DR. MARGRAVE _hastily._
DR. MARGRAVE
Joy! joy!--the clue is found!
JUDGE.
What? Where's the child?
DR. MARGRAVE
The child! Inquire for the young lady now--
For such, I trust, you'll find your Isabelle.
I've seen the nurse who carried her away:
'Twas she who sent for me--that dying woman.
Let doctors take encouragement from this,
That in their duties they will gain rewards.
JUDGE.
But Isabelle, my ward--where is she now?
DR. MARGRAVE
I'd leave my bed again to-night to seek her,
Only it would be groping in the dark.
Pray, do not look so sad--we'll find her yet;
I have the clue, here is the deposition--
I took it from the dying woman's lips.
She died an hour ago. She hither came
To find you out and own her crime.
JUDGE.
The child--
Where did she leave her?
DR. MARGRAVE
Have a moment's patience.
The woman said she did not dare to carry
The child among her kindred at the West;
They would have found the imposition out,
As Isabelle resembled not her daughter.
And so the woman traveled to Virginia,
And there, with a kind family, she left
The orphan to her fate.
JUDGE.
With whom?
DR. MARGRAVE
The name
She has forgotten--but she left a token,
Half of this severed chain (_takes out half a necklace_),
with "Isabelle"
Engraven, as this has "De Vere" upon it.
JUDGE. (_snatching the chain_).
Ah! this was Isabelle's--her mother's, too!
This is a clue indeed. I'll go at once
To seek her out and find the other half.
GODFREY (_taking it out_).
'Tis here. And thus may Truth be ever found
By all who seek her earnestly, and wait
Her advent in the time and way appointed!
The way is righteousness--the time is God's.
JUDGE.
I am confounded by these miracles.
Explain--where did you find this precious token?
GODFREY
'Twas given me by Professor Olney--he
It was who took the little Isabelle
And reared her as his own.
JUDGE.
What Isabelle?
That daughter of the pedagogue my son
Is seeking for his wife?
GODFREY
The very same.
And Romeo did not love his Juliet more
Than your son loves this charming Isabelle;
And she, like Juliet, loves him in return.
JUDGE.
Thank Heaven for this!
(_Enter_ HENRY BOLTON.)
Ah! here he comes! Now, Henry,
What says your lady-love? Is she inclined
To trust your constancy for one long year?
HENRY BOLTON.
I cannot wait the term; and I have come
To ask your pardon, and retract my word.
Isabelle has no home; Professor Olney
Is not her father.
JUDGE.
Ay, I've heard the story.
And you resign her now?
HENRY BOLTON.
Not while I live!
I mean to marry her at once--to-day;
Before this only father she has known
Is dead:--he will die soon.
JUDGE.
Wed her! this unknown!
Ah! Henry, this to me! Why, you are mad!
HENRY BOLTON.
My father, I have told you my resolve;
You've heard me own my love for Isabelle;
To have your approbation of my choice
Would fill my cup of earthly happiness;
But I shall marry her e'en though the act
Bring banishment from you.
JUDGE.
You promised, Henry,
To wait a year.
HENRY BOLTON.
And so I would have done.
To gain your favor, I would suffer this
Delay and cross of love. But now I feel
That duty, honor, manly sentiment
Compel me to the side of Isabelle.
She is alone; I must and will protect her.
JUDGE.
She has no name.
HENRY BOLTON.
She shall have mine: a name
My father has made honorable.
JUDGE.
Henry,
You have no fortune. How support your wife?
HENRY BOLTON.
I'll work. I have been flattered for my talents,
But never yet have had an aim or motive
To test their worth and energy. I'll work.
The rich man's son may live in idleness,
The great man's son reflects his father's light,
And thus their genius and their noblest powers
Are often unemployed, obscured, and lost.
'Tis better I should have to make my way;
And with my guiding angel, Isabelle,
And the example of my noble father,
I surely shall succeed.
GODFREY.
Give me your hand.
You are God's noblest work, an honest man;
True to the witness your own spirit bears;
And so does every man's, would they but hear
And follow as you do--that worth is won,
And not inherited. 'Tis circumstance
That makes the difference in our mortal lot;
And Providence arranges this at will.
How kind the lot that gives you Isabelle!
JUDGE.
My son! my son! may you be worthy of her,
And love her alway. Know she is the one
That, in your boyhood, was your "little wife!"
The Isabelle De Vere we mourned as dead.
You stand amazed; but all shall be explained.
HENRY BOLTON.
Oh, let me go and tell her!
GODFREY.
I'll go with you:
And, as we go, will make the mystery plain.
JUDGE.
And bring her here. Order the carriage, Henry,
And bring her home with you. Tell her I long
To fold her to my heart and call her daughter.
[_Exit_ YOUNG BOLTON _and_ GODFREY.
DR. MARGRAVE.
How strangely and how wisely Providence
Directs the course of life! How oft we see
That bitter medicine was kindly given.
Had Isabelle remained your ward, brought up
With Henry here, they might, indeed, have married;
But never would have felt such certainty
Of true, unbribed affection as will be
The blessing and the memory of their life.
DENNIS _and_ MICHAEL _are heard singing as they enter._
DENNIS _and_ MICHAEL (_song_)
The rogue and the ruffian love darkness and night,
But we will go forth when the morning is bright,
And the joy of the world shall the happiness be
Of Dennis O'Blarney and Michael Magee.
DENNIS (_seeing the_ JUDGE).
Bless your honor's house--the rogues are taken.
MICHAEL.
They've taken Captain Pawlett and another.
DENNIS.
The other murdering villain entered here.
MICHAEL.
The officers are coming now to search.
(_As the_ OFFICERS _enter, the report of a pistol is heard._ LUCY BOLTON
_and the maid_ RUTH _rush in._)
JUDGE (_catching_ LUCY _in his arms_).
What is it, Lucy? What has happened, bird?
LUCY.
Oh, father, he is killed!
JUDGE.
Who? who?
LUCY.
Frederick!
He's shot himself, and in his mother's room. Oh!
(_Shrieks and faints._)
DR. MARGRAVE.
I'll go and see what can be done.
[_Exit_ MARGRAVE _and the_ OFFICERS.
JUDGE.
Lucy!
She is reviving! Quick, give me the cup.
Here, drink, my love; the water will revive you.
Nay, do not speak; be silent and be calm.
The angels, as they watch this guilty world,
See every day such sights of wretchedness
Think of the angels in that world of joy,
Where Death can never enter. Do not weep.
Ah, yes! you are a mortal and a woman,
And tears of pitying grief for other's woes
Are human offerings Heaven will ne'er reject.
Weep for Belinda's sorrow; weep for her.
_Re-enter_ DR. MARGRAVE.
DR. MARGRAVE.
'Tis over! He has gone to his account.
JUDGE.
Where human judgment never may intrude.
We'll leave him to the One who reads the heart,
And knows its wants, and woes, and weaknesses.
Lord, keep us from temptation!--this should be
The daily prayer of all--with thankfulness
For daily blessings given--and here come mine.
_Enter_ GODFREY, _followed by_ YOUNG BOLTON _and_ ISABELLE.
GODFREY (_to the_ JUDGE).
We bring you the lost pleiad of your heart.
HENRY BOLTON.
My father, Isabelle.
JUDGE.
And yours, my daughter!
(_Embracing her._)
Come to my arms, my long-lamented child;
I welcome thee as one restored from death.
This house and all I've called mine own are yours,
And now shall be restored.
ISABELLE.
Dear father, no
But take me as your own, and let me live
Thus in the warmth and light of this dear home:
I shall be rich, beyond my wildest dreams.
I only wished for wealth to give away
To those I loved, and those who were in need.
And now the world o'erflows with happiness.
I am so rich in friends and hopes, I feel
Half fearful it will prove a fairy tale;
It seems too sweet for earth.
MADAME BELCOUR _rushes in, her hair disheveled, followed by attendants._
MADAME BELCOUR.
He's dead! he's dead! I've murdered him!
He's dead!
My falsehood poisoned him; and so he died.
He did not kill himself! Say not a word.
My heart and brain are both on fire! His blood
Is here, and here! (_Sees_ ISABELLE.) Oh, save me! save me now!
She's come to witness here against my soul!
You cannot see her; she is like an angel!
I know her well! She's there! Begone! begone!
(_Faints exhausted on the stage. Attendants raise her._)
JUDGE.
Poor broken-hearted mother! Bear her in,
And tenderly. Her mind is quite o'erthrown.
[MADAME BELCOUR _carried in by the attendants._
DR. MARGRAVE.
These alternations make the sum of life:
Thus sorrow treads upon the steps of joy.
A bridal here; and from the neighboring door
Comes forth a funeral tram.
GODFREY.
And both are well.
We live to die, and die to live again;
And evermore the day succeeds the night.
And those who see the sunshine on their path
May walk in soberness and yet be glad.
JUDGE.
The cloud conceals, but never dims the star;
And Youth and Happiness will twine their wreath
Even on Thalia's brow. My children, come;
It is my birthday; all our friends are here,
And they return our smile of thankful joy
That Isabelle is found. Our task is done;
And, if approved by you, our cause is won.
END OF THE PLAY.
SUSAN CLIFTON OR, THE CITY. AND THE COUNTRY.
BY PROFESSOR AIDEN.
(Continued from page 250.)
CHAPTER XVI.
AFTER a partial recovery from the fatigues of the journey to the
homestead, Mr. Richard Clifton appeared to be much improved in health,
and strong hopes were entertained that his recovery would be complete.
He manifested the proper showings of regret for the loss of his
companion, though he had felt towards her none of that ardor of
affection, and had enjoyed with her none of those felicities which had
mingled in his visions of domestic life before he had become a
prosperous man of the world. It was sad to have death enter his
dwelling; it was sad to be left with no one whom he could call his own.
Some of that loneliness which had long preyed upon him was, perhaps,
unconsciously set to the loss of her who had filled but a small place in
his heart, though she had been the wife of his bosom for a score of
years, and had found in him all she expected in a husband; perhaps it
would be scarce too much to say--all she desired.
In a few days, he was able to leave his chamber and sit with the family,
though his feeble step and sunken eye contrasted strangely with the
proud bearing which he exhibited but a few weeks before.
Susan devoted herself to his care, and his attachment for her seemed to
increase daily. While her father was busy with the labors of the farm,
and her mother was occupied with household cares, she talked with him,
read to him, sung to him, and in every way strove to make the time pass
pleasantly, and to woo back to his veins the tide of health.
For a time there was an encouraging prospect of success, but the
prospect was soon overcast. After the first rallying, he remained
stationary for a time, and then began, almost imperceptibly, to decline.
The cough, that grew more and more distinct and hollow, and profuse
night sweats, awoke the most anxious solicitude on the part of his
loving friends. Susan had, from the first, feared that he would not
recover; but she had given no expression to her fears. Her father had
entertained the most confident hopes, till the symptoms above noticed
forced upon him the conviction that his brother was passing to the tomb.
The faithful physician could not lessen that painful conviction. If the
air of the country and careful nursing could not raise the patient, the
case was hopeless. The soft breezes of autumn, and the ministerings of
pure affection, seemed to be in vain.
"Brother," said Richard, one morning, "I should be glad to have you sit
with me to-day, if your business will permit. If you should suffer a
little loss thereby, it will be abundantly made up to you before long."
This was the first allusion he had made to the probable result of his
disease. A tear stood in every eye, but no word was spoken, except in
reply to his request.
"I will make arrangements in course of half an hour," said Henry, "that
will allow me to be with you."
He did so, and from that hour was seldom absent from his brother's side.
"What has become of Harry Ford?" said Richard as they were sitting in
the warm sunlight in the piazza, where they used to sit together long
years ago. Autumn was creeping on apace, but the air was still bland and
balmy. Harry was one of their early and most intimate playmates--a fine,
cheerful, open-hearted boy, whose parents were the practical advocates
of "the let-alone, do-nothing policy," in regard to education. Still, to
the surprise of many, Harry conducted himself well in boyhood, and gave
promise of becoming a worthy man.
"Harry Ford," replied Henry, "died a few years ago in the poor-house."
"Died in the poor-house! How came that to pass?"
"He became very intemperate, and, of course, very poor; and, in his last
days, he was so abusive to his family, that they were obliged to send
him to the poor-house."
"Whom did he marry?"
"Jane Sullivan. You remember her?"
"Yes, very well; though I do not know that I have thought of her for
twenty years. I remember we used to sit near each other in school, and I
could never whisper to her without causing her to blush."
"She has led a very unhappy life. Harry's prospects were good when she
married him, but he soon joined an infidel club in the next town, and
his course was then rapidly downwards till it ended in the drunkard's
grave."
"Jane was a lovely girl; next to"--. It was in his mind to say--next to
Margaret Gray, she was the finest girl in school. "What has become of
James Rogers?"
"He lives in the southern part of the township. He is poor, and lives by
days' work. He has a large family, and has had a great deal of sickness
in it; but he is one of the happiest men I know. He is poor in this
world's goods, but is rich towards God."
"He appeared to be one of the most promising young men in the place,
when I left it."
"He was; and, for a while, he was very successful in the business in
which he was engaged, but a reverse overtook him, and he lost all. He
paid all his debts, and since then has been very poor."
"A hard case!"
"He has often expressed joy at his failure."
"Is he insane?"
"By no means. This failure was the means of securing a title to a more
enduring inheritance."
"Is Amy Brace living?"
"Yes. She is also poor. Her husband is a well-meaning, but most
inefficient man."
"All my old acquaintances seem to be poor."
"None have been prospered in this world as my brother has. There are
some who are comfortably well off, and a few who have an undoubted title
to the riches of eternity."
The rich man sighed deeply, but made no reply. After a long interval of
silence, he remarked--
"Life has been, to most of us, a very different thing from what we
expected."
"You have realized your expectations as to wealth."
"Yes; but if I had my life to live over again, I would not pay the price
at which I gained it. I have never been happy, but only preparing to be
so. Sickness has come, and death is coming! What has all my life been
worth? The few hours that I have spent with your family this summer have
been almost the only happy ones I have passed for years, and they gave
me almost as much pain as pleasure, by making me feel that I had thrown
away my life."
"It is not too late to repair, in part, your error."
"I cannot live my life over again. Oh that I could!"
The emotion with which these words were uttered so deeply affected
Henry, that, for a moment, he could not speak. Hope sprung up in his
heart that the seed sown in early life, by a pious father's hand, might,
though long buried beneath the cares of the world, spring up and bear
fruit ere the winter of death should come.
"You cannot," said he, "undo what you have done; but you can repent and
receive the pardon of Him before whom we must all shortly stand."
"I am too proud, too hard-hearted, to repent. I have delayed it, or
rather, refused to do it, too long. I feel exhausted, and must retire to
my room."
He rose, and, leaning on the arm of his brother, Went to his apartment.
That brother retired to pour out his heart in prayer for the prodigal
who gave such hopeful indications of coming to himself.
CHAPTER XVII.
FOR a day or two subsequent to the conversation recorded in the last
chapter, the invalid was unable to leave his room. He seemed desirous of
being left alone. Henry was earnest in the hope that he was communing
with his own heart. When he again joined the family, it was with a paler
countenance, and yet there was an expression of peace resting upon it,
that led to the hope that he was beginning to contemplate without dread
the great change that was before him. He listened with attention as his
brother spoke of matters relating to the unseen world, and asked
questions which could be prompted only by an inquiring spirit. Still he
avoided any further expression of his feelings.
One evening, Horace Larned called to see Susan. She compelled him, as it
were, to spend half an hour in the society of her uncle, who scanned his
features with interest, and asked him a few courteous questions, and was
greatly pleased with the directness and manliness of his replies. When
Horace and Susan had withdrawn, he remarked to Henry--
"That young man is engaged to Susan?"
"He is."
"I like him. He appears well. I like him for his mother's sake. I wrote
to her, offering to assist him in his education, but the offer was
declined, and the money returned. Why was it? Does she retain a
prejudice against me?"
"I presume not. She is at peace with all mankind, and with her Maker.
The young man has a very independent, self-relying spirit. Probably he
dictated the letter you received."
"Was that before he was engaged to Susan?"
"When did you write her?"
"Immediately after my return to the city."
"They were not engaged then, at least not in form."
"As things now are, would he refuse to receive aid from me?"
"I do not know. Susan can probably tell."
"I must speak with her on the subject."
The next time he was left alone with Susan, he said--
"Susan, my dear daughter, for so I must call you, though you would not
give me leave to do so, I wish to do something for young Larned."
Susan made no reply, except by a crimson blush.
"Pardon me for speaking so abruptly. I have not a great while to stay
with you, and I must say what I have to say directly and without
preface."
"That is the way in which I would have every one speak to me," said
Susan.
"There is nothing which I can do for your welfare and happiness which I
do not desire to do. My property will soon be of no value to me, for I
shall shortly be in my grave. I wish to know if you cannot devise some
way by which I can assist young Larned in his education. Set your wits
to work, and, having succeeded, inform me. I am growing faint, and shall
require assistance to be enabled to reach my room."
Susan called her father, who was at hand, and, supported by them both,
the invalid succeeded in reaching his room. He then fainted quite away.
Susan was greatly alarmed, as she had never before seen one in a state
of temporary insensibility. So perfect an image of death could not be
witnessed for the first time without agitation and even terror. By a
prompt application of remedies, consciousness was soon restored. He was
feeble and dispirited, and Susan remained by his bedside. Unable or
disinclined to engage in conversation, he pointed to the Bible. She read
to him. He listened with interest, and when she paused would request her
to proceed. She read till the shadows of evening rendered it necessary
for her to lay aside the volume.
"There is much there," said he, "that I do not comprehend."
"Is there not much there that you can comprehend, and much that you can
believe, though it transcend your comprehension? Do you find any
difficulty in understanding this assertion, 'God so loved the world that
he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him might not
perish, but have everlasting life?'"
"I believe it. I do not doubt the truth of any declaration of the Bible;
but there is an air of unreality about the truths which prevents my
acting as I should, if I really felt them to be true. I find that, in
order to believe, one needs to have the heart of a little child. My
heart is soiled, and hardened, and chilled by the devotion of my life to
the world. I would that I could become a child again!"
"That very desire indicates that you are approaching the temper of mind
which will authorize you to rely on the Divine promises."
"Do you think so? Do not encourage me to hope unless you are sure you
are authorized to do so. Do you believe that one who has given himself
for a lifetime to the world, to the pursuit of that which he must leave
behind him when he enters another world--do you believe that one who has
been so unwise and so wicked can recover what he has wilfully, not to
say willingly, lost?"
"I do not think that one can, strictly speaking, recover what he has
lost. That is, he cannot be what he would have been, if he had rightly
employed his time and advantages. The hours that are passed can never be
recalled, nor the particular blessings of which they might have been
ministers. Still, provision is made for those who have pursued the
course you have described--provision whereby they may be made partakers
of the Divine mercy."
"But, in order that one may be a partaker of that mercy, he must have a
peculiar temper of mind. His heart must be delivered from the hardness
induced by a lifetime of neglect of duty. I am far from possessing that
temper."
"Your consciousness of want is a hopeful sign. Let me, my dear uncle,
presume to offer you advice. Do not strive to bring your mind into a
condition which you imagine will render you an appropriate object of the
Divine mercy, but go at once to your Heavenly Father and tell him all
your faults, and all your difficulties, and all your wants. A sense of
need is all the preparation that is necessary for our approach to him.
It was this sense of need that induced the prodigal to arise and go to
his father. The manner in which he was received teaches us in what
manner our Heavenly Father will receive us."
Richard Clifton listened to the words of that young girl with more
interest than he had ever listened to the report of the most successful
voyage. He was not in the least displeased at being compared to the
prodigal son. He determined at once to follow the advice so simply and
affectionately given. He closed his eyes and concentrated the energies
of his soul in mental prayer. The truths of the Bible were no longer to
him dim and unreal. They were distinct realities. He felt that it was no
vague desires and indefinite longings to which he was giving expression
in order to relieve his feelings. He was conscious of offering petitions
to a Being who was near at hand and not afar off.
The effort of mind and heart thus put forth was exhausting to his feeble
frame. It was followed by a quiet slumber. When Susan perceived that he
slept, she stole softly from the room, and hastened to acquaint her
father with her hopes respecting the preparation which her uncle was
making for his last journey.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHEN Richard Clifton awoke from that slumber, an expression of calmness
rested upon his countenance. It was plain that deep despondency was no
longer pressing upon his heart. His strength slightly increased, so
that, on a very mild day for the season, the brothers once more sat
beneath the walnut which had shaded their sports in childhood. The
direction which was given to their conversation by Richard was most
gratifying to his brother. They spoke of the blessed example and pious
teachings of their sainted father. Henry was astonished to find how
deeply those teachings had been engraven on his brother's memory. The
toils and cares of a life spent in neglect of them had not obliterated
them. The interest with which he dwelt upon them led to the hope that
they had now something more than a place in his memory.
"Is it not too much to believe," said Richard, in the course of their
conversation, "that one whose manner of life has been so different from
his"--alluding to their father--"should leave the world in peace and
meet him in a better one?"
"We are to believe the declarations of Holy Writ--its promises as well
as its denunciations."
"True, that is the only thing that can enable one to look into the
narrow house without a shudder. How mistaken are those who suppose life
is not lost, provided there is peace at its close! I have hope for the
future; but I still feel that I have lost my life."
Henry's heart was too full to allow him to make any reply to his
brother's declaration.
"We have passed many happy days in our youth under the shade of this
tree. We shall never sit together here again."
"We may."
"I am nearer the close of my journey than you are aware. I am warned by
a feeling here," laying his hand on his heart, "to regard every day as
my last."
"It gives me inexpressible joy to hear you speak thus composedly
respecting the trying hour."
"Brother, I should like to see Margaret Gray before I die." A smile was
upon his countenance as he spoke thus, but deep earnestness in his
tones.
"I will go and see her, and make known your request. She will not fail
to grant it, I am sure."
"Tell her I wish to see her as Margaret Gray. Help me now to my room,
when I have taken one more view of this scene, from which I do so
earnestly wish I had never departed."
He gazed for some moments on the landscape which had delighted his
youthful vision, and entered the dwelling with a tear in his eye and a
smile upon his lips. Henry repaired at once to the lone dwelling of the
widow, and made known to her his brother's request.
"I never expected to meet him again in this world. I cannot disoblige
him; nor would I fail to comply with his wishes; and yet I had rather
not meet him."
"He has but a few days to live. You have forgiven him; and I trust He,
to whom we must all look for forgiveness, has done the same."
"If that be the case, I shall be glad to meet him. I supposed he had
chosen his portion, and that it would be said of him, as of the rich man
of old, 'Son, thou hast had thy good things;' and yet I could never
fully believe that the child of so many prayers, the child of so
faithful a father, could perish at last; though I know that to his own
Master must each one stand or fall--that each one must give account of
himself to God. I will go with you at once."
When Mrs. Larned entered the room in which Richard Clifton was lying
upon a sofa, being too feeble to rise, he lifted up his voice and wept.
He extended his hand, which was taken in silence by Mrs. Larned, who sat
down by his side and wept with him.
"Margaret," said he--the word caused her to start as though a sword had
pierced her--"you have come to forgive me?"
"I have nothing to forgive. It is long since I had anything laid up
against any human being. I pitied you, and prayed for you; but I never
had anything laid up against you."
"I have always done you the justice to think so. I knew you were
incapable of cherishing unkindness towards any one, however unkindly you
may have been treated. You have been happy, and I have not. Do you
remember the time we last walked together by the streamlet that flows
from the rock spring?"
"I do."
"I enjoyed more happiness in that walk than I have enjoyed in the
possession of all my wealth."
"I should be ungrateful if I were to say that I have not been happy;
though I have had many trials. I learned long ago not to look for
happiness here, but to prepare for it hereafter."
"You have been what men call poor; but you have been far richer than I
have been. You have had treasures of the heart. You did not marry till
you had a heart which you loved as Margaret Gray was capable of loving;
and you have a noble boy."
"Richard Clifton is still, in part at least, what he once was!"
"You believed me changed into stone, or a bale of goods?"
"I certainly believed you changed. I supposed that you had taught your
heart to love that alone which you had made the chief object of your
pursuit."
"I tried to do so. I tried to persuade myself that I had done so. I
habitually used language which implied I had succeeded. I deceived
others; I could not deceive myself. I felt that I was not happy, despite
all my efforts to persuade myself that I was. I then tried to persuade
myself that I was not less happy than others. I have been acting a part
ever since I left this place. I have been unhappy, and I deserved to be
unhappy."
"God makes abundant provision for the happiness of his creatures."
"For time and for eternity. I have failed to avail myself of that made
for the former; I hope I shall not fail in respect to the latter. And
yet what right have I, who have caused much unhappiness and so little
happiness to others, to expect it hereafter?"
"None of us can enter heaven of right, but through mercy and the merits
of another."
"I wish your son had come with you. I wish to see him and Susan
together, and to charge them to hold the treasures of the heart in
higher estimation than all other treasures. I am sure they will do so.
It is a great comfort to me to know that my beloved Susan is to marry
the son of Margaret Gray."
"Horace will come and see you to-morrow," said she, rising and extending
her trembling hand. "I must not stay longer."
"Do not go yet."
"You are becoming exhausted."
"Read to me," pointing to the book.
She took the book and turned to a suitable portion.
"Sit where I can see your countenance, if you please."
She could not refuse his request. He gazed upon her as she read, in
tones which called vividly to remembrance those of other days, a
consoling portion of the Words of Him who brought life and immortality
to light. She then rose, wiped away a tear, silently pressed his hand,
and withdrew.
Horace called the next morning, but did not receive the expected charge.
During the silence of the night, Richard Clifton had ceased to be an
inhabitant of earth.
(To be continued.)
[Illustration]
INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF AUDUBON.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "TOM OWEN, THE BEE HUNTER."
NO department of natural history presents a more pleasing view than
ornithology. All the associations connected with it are beautiful and
inspiring. It takes its votary into the green fields and dark forests,
leads him to the mountain tops, and furnishes excitement among the quiet
retreats of the sequestered valley. Upon the feathered race have been
expended the richest adornments of nature. There are no precious metals,
no choice gems, no rare flowers, no rainbow tints that cannot find a
rival counterpart in the plumage of birds; and to this transcendent
beauty are added a varied, but always attractive form, a physiognomy
expressive of love, of power, of unshrinking bravery. They have also
voices almost human in their tones; voices that are associated with
every pleasing recollection of innocence and youth because of their
sweetness--and voices that startle because of their ferocity.
The habits of birds present examples of well-regulated, of almost
Christianized society. They are married, and are given _to_ marriage;
they set up a comfortable establishment, which is the result of their
own industry. They provide plentifully for their offspring, and educate
them in the way they should go, and when they are old they never depart
from it. The birds rise early to procure food, and retire with the
setting sun; as husbands they are gallant, as wives loving. All that
they do, or say, or look may be said to interest and form universal
theme for admiration. Birds rejoice in creation. In the solitary
fastnesses and eternal solitudes where the eye of man never penetrates
or his mind worships, the voice of the bird is heard caroling forth
praise. And what in the wide world is so hearty in its nature, or so
guileless, as the singing bird? How often has its innocent voice
awakened conscience in the mind of the depraved or reproved the
complaining spirit! Who can hear the caroling even of the tiny wren
without catching its exultant spirit? We have seen it on a Sabbath sunny
morning mounted upon a bud-crowded limb of the Cherokee rose, giving out
its song as if its heart and body would separate in its enthusiasm; and
when you thought it had soared to its highest note, it would begin
again, and pour forth a torrent of love, gratitude, praise, and prayer,
commingled in such varied and soul-thrilling ecstasy that the little
creature trembled and vibrated as if it were the chosen and valiant
exponent of some rapturous and mighty soul. Such are birds, the
intelligent and ornamental companions of man, the most prominent image
among the associations and pleasing recollections of childhood, and one
of the most admirable and wonderful beauties presented to his maturest
mind.
Scientifically speaking, it would seem that the birds, by their
familiarity, were prophets in their own country, and therefore very much
without honor. The poet mentioned them in his sonnets, and everybody
loved them; the gallant cock and the fierce eagle were honored as the
insignia of mighty nations; but the few who examined their history and
wrote of their habits were more readily satisfied with imperfect
illustrations and meagre descriptions than were those who devoted their
energies to exhibit the habits of animals, vipers, or fishes. It may be
stated as a remarkable fact that, until recently, the ornithologist was
incomparably behind his compeers in science in illustrating his
department, choicest of all though it be in the varied phase of animated
nature.
To Audubon is the world indebted, not only for the most magnificent work
on ornithology ever produced, but also for one of the most magnificent
monuments ever raised by industry and genius. Take his book, examine his
drawings, read his descriptions, ponder upon his reminiscences, and then
turn to the most eminent of those who have preceded him, and all
instantly become tame and commonplace. It is like going from the
primitive forests into the stove-heated library; it is like exchanging
the moving, living, teeming bird, fluttering and flying in its native
haunts, for the imperfectly preserved specimens of the museum; all is
motionless, eyeless--dead.
Of the mind that has accomplished so much it is difficult to speak in
exaggerated praise. It may be safely asserted that Audubon had one of
the most enduring that has left any impress upon the present century. He
is always clear and complete in everything he undertakes. He is profuse
in his originality, and yet boldly, at times, absorbs the labor of
others; yet he so entirely renovates, inspires, and makes their industry
his own, that his indebtedness is unthought of by the world.
The secret of Audubon's success will be found in his close pursuit of
nature; of her mysteries he has been of the truest, and therefore one of
her most favored priests. No labor by him was ever withheld, no toil
evaded. Turning over the pages of his works, you can trace him to the
tropics, where he worships and wonders; anon, he gives the witnessed
history of the solitary feathered life that inhabits those inhospitable
regions where the marble blue of the eternal snow scarcely ever reflects
a ray of sunshine. While you read with delight of the canvass-back duck
that fell beneath his rifle in the placid waters of the Chesapeake, he
is suddenly, upon another page, struggling with the gigantic albatros in
the surge-lashed waters of the Californias. You read on, and become lost
in the green field and gentle sloping hill; you wander beside the gently
running rivulet and inland lake, and rest in the shade of honeysuckle
bowers. Changing still, you are ushered into the miasmatic swamps and
dark fens in which only live the blear-eyed heron and repulsive bittern;
and then, lifted on the wings of imagination, you climb the embattled
rocks and precipices of the Cordilleras, dividing admiration of the
rising sun with the eccentric flights of the mighty vulture as he wheels
downward in his greetings of the god of day. Such is Audubon, who will
ever be remembered as long as mind answers in admiration and sympathy
with mind. He has stamped his memory in a work, and associated his name
with a family that will endure in freshness when the mightiest monuments
now existing will, like the pyramids, become unmeaning heaps; for his
name and immortality will ever be recalled by the fanning pinions of
every feathered inhabitant of the air.
The minute history of Audubon's remarkable work, from its conception to
its completion, would involve the recital of some of the most exalted
and interesting traits of character ever recorded. Audubon has slightly
touched upon one or two incidents of discouragement that would, of
themselves, have been sufficient to dishearten a less energetic being;
but the years of toil and sacrifice he endured, and the ten thousand
obstacles he overcame besides those he alluded to, will never be known.
The fair ladies who have, in the luxurious library, admired the
feathered songsters of our continent, that so gracefully sped their way
over the nature-illuminated page--who have seen so cunningly illustrated
the domestic life of the house wren and the wild home of the eagle--will
not be less interested if they know that to the enlightened assistance
of one of their own sex is the world greatly indebted for Audubon's
ornithology.
The early history of Audubon seems to be this: He grew up unconscious of
his powers, save as they were displayed in a genuine love of nature;
arriving at manhood's estate, he married a lady of rare accomplishments
and liberal fortune. With a growing family, he desired, through active
business, to increase his estate, and in a few years found himself the
victim of profitless mercantile speculations, and, pecuniarily, a ruined
man. At an age when others think of retiring from the active scenes of
life, Audubon started, not only anew, but upon an enterprise of doubtful
success, and one that demanded wealth and years of industry to
accomplish. Misfortune seemed to awaken the latent fire within him, and
his mind suddenly overflowed with spirit-images of the feathered race,
and his then comparatively unskilled fingers grasped the pencil to give
form and shape to the struggling thought--but alas! the possibility.
Where was the patron to cheer the seer upon this dreary pilgrimage? Who
would care for his beloved family through the long years of his
unfinished venture? Let the answer be found in our imperfect story.
Many years since, we were standing at the door of a country post office,
listening, with others, to the reader of the only "latest paper" that
had come to hand. He delivered the news, social and political, with a
loud voice, and finally, under the head of "items," struck upon
something as follows: "The Emperor of Russia, on his recent trip from
England homewards, took extreme pleasure in looking over Audubon's great
work upon the birds of America, and, as a token of his admiration, sent
the author a gold snuff-box studded with diamonds."
"What's that?" inquired an old but plain citizen. "The Emperior Roosia
give Audubon a diamond snuff-box studded with gold! Well, that is a good
one, and comes up to my understanding of these aristocrats. Why, I knew
Audubon for years, and a lazier, good-for-nothing, little bird,
double-bar'l shot-gun shooting fellow I never knew;" and, with another
broadside at the want of appreciation of character displayed by the
Emperor of Russia, and by royal personages generally, our well-meaning
friend walked away.
This familiar allusion to Audubon, for the first time, informed me of
the fact that, in the vicinity of my own home in Louisiana, had Audubon
and his family resided for years; and, as I became better acquainted
with his works, I could readily perceive that the rich and undulating
lands of the Felicianas, their primitive forests, their magnolia groves,
and ever-blooming gardens, suited well the taste and pursuits of the
naturalist; for the merry descendants of many of those immortalized
beauties that grace his book still, in congregated thousands, fill the
air with song and flight.
From few did Audubon attract attention; there was nothing in his seeming
wastefulness of time to command respect. The sportsmen with whom he was
surrounded seldom "sighted" their weapons on anything less than a lordly
buck, and as they saw nothing in Audubon but what appeared before their
eyes, they measured their own ambition with no little sarcasm against
one who "found game in the chickadee and humming-bird." But Audubon
lived in a world of his own; for weeks he slept in the forest, that he
might make himself acquainted with the habits of some, but for him
unknown, bird. For days, he hung like a spectre upon the margin of the
Dismal Swamp, until the flamingo, swan, and wild duck heeded not his
familiar presence. Placing a powerful telescope under the broad,
spreading tree, he drew the laborious and tiny birds, as they built
their nests, within his visual grasp, and counted each stick, and twig,
and moss, and hair, until the little fabric was complete. In time, he
returned to his charge, and, by the same artificial means, watched and
admired the growing family, saw the food that reared the young, admired
the tender endearments of the married birds, and recorded the whole with
the faithfulness of a Pepys, and with the pastoral sweetness of a
Collins or Shenstone.
"I remember, as if it were but yesterday, Audubon's first appearance in
New Orleans," said a now widely-distinguished gentleman to me; "and I
shall never forget," he continued, "his industry and enthusiasm, his
utter devotion to his favorite pursuit. In those days, many Indians
brought game to the city to sell, and Audubon soon had these wild sons
of the forest in his employ. Every farthing that the most
self-sacrificing economy could save went to purchase birds; and it was a
picturesque sight to see the then unknown naturalist surrounded by his
wild confederates, who, by the gratification of their natural habits,
brought him many of the rich-plumaged aquatic birds that first formed
subjects of his pencil. At this time, the courtly language of the
Tuileries was his familiar tongue; and although, with the heartfelt
approbation of the literary world, Audubon has placed himself among the
most pleasing and original of the 'prose writers of America,' yet his
first written descriptions were in a language foreign to that identical
with his fame, and many of these earliest and most happy essays were so
complete, that the finished student easily rendered them into our common
language, and, without effort, retained that freshness and beauty that
have since distinguished the English compositions of Audubon himself."
"In everything," said another of Audubon's most observing friends, "did
Audubon follow nature. If he shot a duck, the grasses and the weeds
among which it was found formed the accessories of his drawing. If he
brought an eagle down from his eyrie, the very deadened limb that last
bore the impress of his talons was secured at any sacrifice, and the
bird reappeared just as he first attracted the eye of the naturalist.
This care extended to the humblest of the feathered tribe; the
apple-tree blossom, the thorn, the ripe fruit, the gigantic caterpillar,
the variegated spider, the interlaced horse-hair, the soft down, the
fragrant woodbine, myrtle, and jasmine, the honeysuckle and sweet pea,
and a thousand other hints of rural life crowd in profusion the drawings
of his birds, until they appear complete pictures, stories perfectly
told."
Audubon, in jotting down his thoughts, has sometimes gone beyond the
office of ornithologist, and given us glimpses of life in the backwoods
that many have deemed exaggerations. Respectable authorities in other
matters have cautioned too ready credence to these strange tales, and
denied the truth of them, because not in the circle of his favorite
pursuit. Let these skeptics come to Louisiana and visit, as we have
done, among those who now remember his habits, and they will admit that
Audubon, by his solitary journeys, his long residence in the forests,
his keen eyes, and his intense industry, would unfold phases of the
great book of creation unrevealed to the less studious mass of mankind.
In the hospitable mansion of W. G. J., in the parish of West Feliciana,
if one will look into the parlor, they will see over the piano a
cabinet-sized portrait, remarkable for a bright eye and intellectual
look. The style of it is free, and there is an individuality about the
whole that gives security of a strong likeness. Opposite hangs "a proof
impression" of "the bird of Washington," a tribute of a grateful heart
to an old friend. The first is a portrait of Audubon, painted by
himself; the other is one of the first engravings that ever reached the
United States of that immortal series that now make up the great work of
the unsurpassed naturalist.
In the family holding these pleasing mementos, the "Audubons" lived for
many years. There were evidences of this constantly occurring from day
to day. It was with no ordinary interest that I examined a number of
rude and unfinished drawings, rough sketches, that formed the practice
that finally produced such perfection. Among the many was a charcoal
likeness of a great horned owl, whose light ashy plumage and socketless
eyes gave it a most ghastly appearance. Masterly as these sketches
were, yet there was an evident want of that strange symmetry and
correctness that mark Audubon's finished works. This I mentioned to J.
"Ah," said he, "I watched his improvement almost day by day; and how
could it be otherwise with one who was so entirely devoted to his
pursuits?" And then were poured forth a hundred reminiscences, alike
characteristic, and in the highest degree honorable to the heads and
hearts of the "family of Audubon."
And now was developed to me, until then unknown, an incident in the
unwritten part of Audubon's history. Here, in the bosom of a refined
family, lived for many years his accomplished wife, devoting her time to
the education of her own sex. Those thus under her charge are now in the
perfection of womanhood, and their superior manners and mental
cultivation speak of the care and devotedness of their instructor and
friend. Here it was that the wife of the great naturalist bid him go
forward with his work, and not only cheered him on, but threw the
acquirements of her own industry into the glory of the future. It was
her example, and her voice of encouragement, and her power to help that
enabled Audubon to triumph; and thus did she identify herself and her
sex "with the most splendid work which art has erected to the honor of
ornithology."
THE YOUNG ENTHUSIASTS.
BY FRANK I. WILSON.
CHAPTER I.
THE western portion of the State of North Carolina is by no means
densely populated even at this day, though much more so than it was half
a century ago, the time at which the principal incidents I am about to
relate occurred.
This part of the State is remarkable for the beauty and grandeur of its
mountain scenery, its fertile soil, and the salubrity of its climate.
The bracing mountain air has brought back the bloom of health to the wan
cheek of many an invalid; and rock, and stream, and waterfall have
filled many a heart with rapturous delight. The wild deer bounds through
the forest, and the hoarse bay of hounds, the encouraging shout of the
huntsman, and the shrill report of the deadly rifle are sounds that
frequently meet the traveler's ear. As in all mountainous regions, the
inhabitants are hospitable and generous almost to a fault. Their doors
are ever open to the stranger, and, in many cases, they take the offer
of payment for their accommodations as an insult. Most of the nobler
virtues are shrined in their honest bosoms; but such is the fertility of
their valleys, that very little labor is sufficient to procure them the
necessaries of life, and, as the quantity of labor is everywhere
proportioned to the necessity for it, we find them, in general, indolent
and careless--rich in that best of Heaven's gifts, contentment. The
facilities of this region for manufactories are, perhaps, unsurpassed by
any portion of the globe, and, with an energetic and industrious
population, it would soon become one of the most flourishing sections of
our Union.
But enough of this. I did not intend to enter into a minute description
of the country, and almost unconsciously penned the above. I proceed
with my story.
Among the mountains, not far from the line which separates North from
South Carolina, but on the side of the former State, stood, at the
period of which I write, a house built after a fashion still prevalent
in that region, and which is called a "double cabin." Two cabins, built
of logs, are erected ten or twelve feet apart, and generally two stories
high, and then connected under one roof, forming pleasant rooms, and
also a cool passage between the cabins, where the members of the family
usually spend their evenings during the summer months. In the house
above mentioned lived Amos Kelford, a hardy mountaineer, with a wife
and several children, of which Daniel, the hero of my tale, was the
eldest.
This Daniel was a strange youth, and, although now only twenty years
old, possessed a maturity of mind and a ripeness of intellect rarely to
be met with in one of his age. Having been reared among mountains, those
master efforts of Nature's handiwork, his ideas, even from childhood,
had ever blended with the beautiful and sublime. A glance at his
countenance, his broad pale forehead, his large and full blue eyes, and
light sandy hair, was sufficient to show to a physiognomist that his
intellectual predominated over his physical powers. His form was slight,
but perfectly symmetrical, and his features, but for a bold and full
developed line here and there, would have been considered feminine.
He had ever been considered an anomaly. From his earliest years, he had
loved to sit upon some gray old rock and gaze upon the towering peaks
around him, and see their summits glittering in the sun or wrapped in
mist that enfolded them like mountain robes. This latter he liked best;
for even then, in the sunny days of childhood, at an age when most
children care for nothing but romp and play, he leaned to the darker
side of Nature, and the blue mist, curling in a thousand fantastic
forms, or settling like a pall around the lofty summits of giant peaks,
had a charm for him which the sunshine failed to impart. He gazed upon
the falling leaves of autumn rather than the bursting buds of spring,
upon the gathering shades of night rather than the blushing beams of the
morning sun.
As he grew up and learned to read, nothing accorded so well with his
disposition as to take a volume and wander off beside some waterfall, or
ascend some peak, or, when the sun was hot, to retire into some cave or
crouch beneath some overhanging rock, and there read and ponder whole
days together. There was a mystery thrown around him, a kind of
indifference and a lack of interest in almost everything in which those
of his age usually feel interested. His own parents looked upon him and
sighed and wondered, but could not fathom the depths of his mind, nor
learn the bent of his eccentric genius. He was ever mild, ever ready to
render any assistance in his power to those in need, and ever obedient
to the commands of his parents and teachers; but he obeyed, as he always
acted, with a calm indifference, and without any show of interest.
Rarely was he seen to smile; but sometimes, when wrapped in his own
reflections and heedless of everything around him, his eyes would
kindle, and a placid, but peculiar smile would play about his thin lips,
indicating that pleasant thoughts were in his mind; but whether of past
scenes or only of future imaginary joys none could tell. And oftentimes
this smile would suddenly vanish as you gazed upon him, and a dark cloud
would settle over his countenance. His brow would become contracted, his
lips compressed, and the expression of his eyes sad and gloomy. Then, as
if to seek solace, or a diversion of his thoughts, he would take up a
book and wander off into some secluded spot and read and meditate,
occasionally noting down with his pencil certain sentences from what he
read, or recording certain ideas suggested thereby.
But there was one being on whom Daniel Kelford looked without his usual
indifference, and for whom he felt a pure and lasting affection. This
was Elinor Manvers, the daughter of one of the wealthier class of
farmers, who resided about four miles from Mr. Kelford's. Elinor was
sixteen years old, and as beautiful as the hour is that visit the
Mussulman's dreams. Her sylph-like form, the classic regularity of her
well-defined features, her large and languishing dark eyes, all bespoke
a mind deeply imbued with the _spirituel_; but still she was a
true-hearted woman, a sprightly and merry mountain lass. She loved to
pour forth her wild gay songs, and hear the echoes of her
finely-modulated voice among the tall cliffs of the mountains. Her step
was as free and agile as that of the untamed deer; and to all except
Daniel Kelford she was a lively companion, and could ring forth her
clear laugh with all the free exuberance of feeling to which her nature
seemed inclined; but when with him she was conscious of a mysterious and
undefined awe settling upon her mind, and depriving her of the power of
appearing gay and frolicsome. Her true nature was as yet undeveloped and
unknown even to herself, and the influence which Daniel exerted over
her, and was destined to exert, was the mould by which her soul was to
be formed. There was something repulsive and yet attractive about him,
and though she shrank from him, she could not deny to herself that she
loved him, and the consciousness of her love was mingled with both pain
and pleasure. Her feelings towards him were of two kinds, directly
opposite to each other, and yet so mingling together that she could not
entertain the one without admitting the other. She shuddered when she
reflected upon the depth of her love, and yet she would not have torn it
from her heart for worlds; for there was a satisfaction and a sense of
bliss always blending, confusedly and unintelligibly, it is true, with
the horror that darkened through her soul. In his presence, she felt ill
at ease, and yet there was a vacuum created by his absence which nothing
but his presence could fill. He had spoken to her of love, of its beauty
and holiness, of its depth and power, but no vows had yet been
interchanged; and although she would have preferred death to the
certainty that he never would declare his love to her, yet she dreaded
the declaration, and could not think with calmness on the moment when it
was to be made. There was something in the earnest flashing of his eyes
when he gazed upon her that startled and almost terrified her; and yet
there was a charm in those looks that thrilled her inmost soul with
pleasure, and she could have wished he might gaze thus for ever. His
words, too, fell with a strange emphasis and a peculiar force upon her
ears; but there was a music in them that sank into her heart and
awakened a sense of joy that nothing else could stir.
The hand of destiny seemed to be guiding her to some awful fate, of
which presentiment made her fully conscious; but the path to which was
strewn with so many charms she willingly, ay anxiously, trod it, and
would not have turned back if she could.
CHAPTER II.
DANIEL KELFORD had fitted him up a little study room, in which he spent
most of his time. Books were his idols, and he worshiped them with more
than a pagan zeal. His table was strewn with antique and curious
volumes, many of them abounding in the wild and marvelous, and in these
his whole soul seemed absorbed. The love-sick and sentimental had no
charm for him; but he sought rather the abstruse and mysterious, bending
all his energies to the comprehension of the one and the unraveling of
the other. Vague dreams, as it were, flitted through his mind, highly
colored by his diseased fancy, and all wearing a supernatural hue.
Metaphysics was his darling study. He maintained that, as every particle
of matter is dependent on those surrounding it, and as all are bound and
held together by attraction, making one whole, and as it is impossible
to conceive of one single particle existing independently and
unconnected with any other, so every idea is linked with others forming
one mind, and a single isolated idea is as impossible as a single and
independent particle of matter; and that as various as are the shapes of
objects constituted by the combination of particles, so various are the
minds formed by the combination of ideas. And as idea linked with idea
rose in his mind, he followed on, weaving a chain as incomprehensible to
most minds as the inextricable windings of the Cretan labyrinth, until,
at length lost in the mazy whirl of his own thoughts, the eye of fancy
grew dim and reason tottered on her throne.
Reader, let me conduct you to that little study-room. We will look in at
the window near which Daniel sits. It is night, a calm moonlit night of
May, and the mingled notes of various night birds and innumerable
insects, together with the chastened scenery of the surrounding
mountains, as rock, and stream, and cliff, and waterfall appear in the
softened beams, are enough to draw the most devoted of ordinary students
from their books to contemplate the mighty book of nature, printed in
the type of God, its sublime capitals rendering it legible to every
observer. But for Daniel Kelford these things now possess no interest.
They are unseen and unthought of; for every power of his soul is
centered upon the contents of a small roll of manuscript which lies
before him. He bends over it, takes up sheet after sheet, his interest
increasing as he reads, until he has but one thought, one desire; and
that is to understand and to reduce to practice the strange things
there taught. Beside him dimly burns his untrimmed lamp, for he does not
think to bestow any attention upon it. He has found embodied in words
thoughts and ideas that have long floated like shapeless visions through
his soul, but which he never could grasp, confine, and reduce to
language.
The night wears on; it is late; he has read every page of that strange
manuscript; but he reads it again and again, unmindful of the flight of
time--a wild light sometimes flashing from his large eyes, and a
mysterious expression gathering over his countenance. Were the aged man
whose hand penned these words now alive, he could fall at his feet and
worship him as a god.
But let us turn for a moment, and see from whence he obtained this
wonderful manuscript.
Just on the line dividing the States of North and South Carolina, is an
eminence called "Caesar's Head." When, how, or why it obtained this name
I have never been able to learn. Over its top now passes a turnpike
road; but, at the period of which I write, all over and around it was
almost an uninterrupted wilderness. The southern, or rather the
southwestern side is nearly perpendicular, and fronts towards the
celebrated Table Rock in Greenville District, S. C. From its summit,
this rock, as well as many other curious and interesting objects, is in
full view. The whole scenery in that direction is, perhaps, unsurpassed
by any in the whole mountain range; and, consequently, "Caesar's Head"
was one of Daniel Kelford's favorite places of resort.
One day he went to visit this spot, and, as he approached it, he
perceived an old man lying at the root of a tree, or rather leaning on
his elbow with his back resting against the tree, and his eyes, over
which the film of death was fast gathering, bent intently on the view
before him. Daniel went up to him with his usual indifferent appearance,
but ready to impart any assistance that might be in his power. As he
drew near, the old man turned to him and said--
"You have come at last: I was expecting you."
"And why were you expecting me?" asked Daniel.
"Because I knew that you were coming here at this hour," was the reply.
"And how knew you that?" asked Daniel.
"The means by which I obtained my information," replied the old man,
"may one day be familiar to you; but I have not time now to explain them
to you. Be content for the present to know that I have, or rather have
had, the power to gain information of future events. My time to leave
this world is now come, and I cannot look beyond the grave except, as
other mortals, by the eye of faith. I have inquired concerning you, and
know you better, perhaps, than you know yourself, though you never met
my eyes until now. I knew that I was to die at this hour, and that you
were to meet me here to see me draw my last breath, and to receive from
me this manuscript, which I have prepared expressly for you; for I know
your nature, your insatiate thirst for knowledge, your perseverance and
enthusiasm, and that you would improve the information herein contained.
I have written it in your own language. Take it, it is yours; but do not
break the seal that binds it until I am buried."
Daniel took the roll which the old man extended to him, and begged that
he might go for assistance.
"No," said the old man; "I want no company but yours. Death is not hard,
and I have but a few moments more to live. You see that I am calm; I,
who have experienced almost every vicissitude of life incident to both
the palace and the mountain cave, can here lay me down and place my hand
upon my heart and call my God to witness that I die in peace with all
men, and without a single fear or dread. I only ask that you will see me
decently interred."
The tears gushed into Daniel's eyes as he gave the promise. The old man
perceived it and said--
"Do not weep for me, my young friend, but rather weep for yourself. My
troubles are over, but yours have scarcely begun. Ignorance loves to
persecute knowledge; but there is one blessing attendant on true wisdom;
for it renders its possessor impervious to the darts that are hurled at
him, and he rises above the petty animosities of earth and feels an
inward satisfaction, a proud consciousness of superiority that the
ignorant can never know."
The eyes of the old man, sunken and dim, were turned upon the young man
as he spoke, and his wrinkled features assumed an expression of joy
rarely seen upon the human countenance, even when in health and
prosperity. He was above the ordinary size of men, and his large frame
stretched along the earth looked like some mountain god taking his rest.
His long white eyebrows arched boldly above his eyes, and his silvery
hair was brushed back, leaving his massive brow bared to the gentle
sunbeams as they streamed through the dense foliage of the overhanging
trees. There was a serenity and an expression of benignity about his
countenance that irresistibly attracted the heart of Daniel Kelford, and
made him reverence him. He seated himself by the old man, and raising
his head leaned it against his bosom.
"Thank you, my young friend," said the aged man; "I shall now die
without a struggle. I am in no pain; and as I yet have a little time
left me, I will talk with you about Elinor Manvers."
"Elinor Manvers!" exclaimed Daniel, with surprise. "Do you know her?"
"I have seen her once," said the old man; "and he who has done that can
never forget the vision of beauty that has blest his eyes. But I know
her well. I know her soul is as pure as her own mountain streams; but it
is unformed, and to you is committed its nurture. You can assimilate it
to your own, or absorb it within your own, and make it soul of your
soul, one and inseparable, imbuing it with the same thirst for
knowledge, the same exalted aspirations. She loves you with an intensity
never excelled; and already the shadow, or rather the light, of your
spirit is upon her; but she can shake off the influence when you are
away from her. Marry her, and be with her all the time, infusing your
soul into hers, making her a fit companion to share your joys on earth
and your perfect bliss in Heaven. Open to her the treasures of
knowledge, and she will twine her affections so firmly about you that
even death cannot sever them."
The old man's voice grew weak and husky, and turning his eyes calmly
upon the face of his young friend, he said--
"I can tell you no more. Read the manuscript, and you will know enough
to enable you to learn all. My time has come, and ALL IS PEACE."
As he spake, he folded his arms upon his breast, closed his eyes, and
yielded his spirit, without a groan or murmur, to his God.
Daniel returned home and told his father of the old man's death, but
said nothing about the manuscript he had received. It he carried to his
own room and locked within his trunk. Mr. Kelford and Daniel, with two
or three of the neighbors, went and brought the old man's body to Mr.
Kelford's house, where it remained until the next day, when they buried
it, wondering who the stranger was and whence he came.
It was night when Daniel returned home, and, after hastily eating a few
mouthfuls, he hurried to his room, brought forth the manuscript, broke
the seal, and read it.
CHAPTER III.
THE manuscript was as follows:--
DON RICARDUS CARLOS TO HIS YOUNG FRIEND DANIEL KELFORD.
It may seem strange to you, my young friend, to be thus familiarly
addressed by one who is a stranger to you, and one whom you have never
even seen as yet; but, although I am unknown to you, you are not unknown
to me, neither shall I die without your seeing me. You will see me but
once, and that will be just as my soul flutters on the verge of
eternity. Yes, you will see me in that blissful moment when I shall
launch my bark from the strand of Time upon the ocean of Eternity, and
be admitted into Heaven, the great temple of perfect knowledge, where I
shall be able to ascend step by step, and endowed with capacity to
understand those things which the mind, while confined within its
corporeal prison house, can never comprehend. Peruse these pages, and
you will know how I know you. Peruse, and be wise as I am, and as few
before me have been, and perhaps fewer after me will be.
My name is Don Ricardus Carlos, and I am one of the once royal family of
Spain. I say the _once_ royal family, for, as you know, the reign of the
Carloses has ceased; and I am glad of it. A new era is dawning upon the
world, when knowledge shall be diffused among the people, and they
shall see and feel that their hereditary rulers are tyrants who oppress
them; and they will rise and hurl them from their thrones. A century
from this hour, and the names of king and emperor, of lord and
sovereign, will only be remembered as titles _once_ applied to certain
men whom the fortune of birth gave an imaginary superiority over their
fellow men in general, and endowed with a privilege of ruling the
temporal destinies of the toiling millions. That era has already dawned
in splendor. This very nation is an example of it, and this nation is
destined to revolutionize the world; not by the sword, though it be
mighty in arms and rich in heroes, but by its example, its peaceful and
prosperous course. Man never was made to be forced into measures. The
Almighty placed in his heart an aversion to coercion as applied to
himself. This is what we call pride; and the same pride which leads him
to hate coercion as applied to himself, leads him to desire to coerce
others. This is one of the curses of God upon mankind for their
disobedience, intended to keep them at strife. Hence arise wars and
bloodshed, and the direst scourges that visit the earth. Man must be led
by persuasion, must be induced by example to embrace even that which is
for his own good; and, as I said, this nation will by its example
revolutionize the world. It has deluged France in blood, for its time
has not yet come; but it will come, and the land of the vine will yet be
free. The throne of England--proud mistress of the sea as she loves to
be styled, but as she cannot much longer be styled--will fall. Ireland,
long crushed beneath the iron tread of despotism, will arise and hurl
her chains from her and take her stand among the republics of the earth.
Even my own beloved, but degraded Spain, and sunny Italy, the land of
the olive, ruled for a thousand years by the usurper of Heaven's
prerogative, will yet be free. The crowns that now, heavy with jewels,
adorn the heads of sovereigns, will yet be trampled into the dust by the
rough feet of those whose necks their wearers now bow down and trample
down. THE PEOPLE is the only sovereign, and when knowledge shall have
opened the eyes of the people to the excesses committed by their rulers,
and to their own rights, they will turn and exercise their power--the
power delegated to them, and to none other, by Heaven. But they must
learn; and they will learn by example sooner than by any other means.
This continent was reserved for such a glorious purpose--the renovation
of society, the upbuilding of the temple of true liberty.
* * * * *
I was instructed in all the lore of my country, both ancient and modern.
My eagerness to obtain knowledge, and the facility with which I acquired
it, were noted, and the most skillful teachers were procured for me. I
was surrounded by all the pomp and pageantry of royalty; but these had
no charms for me. Every luxury which wealth could procure was at my
command, but I cared for nothing but knowledge. It was the one
all-absorbing thought of my mind, and in it I lived, moved, and had my
being. I outstripped all my teachers, and they declared themselves
unable to teach me any more. I was pronounced by all the ripest scholar
of my age; but still I was not satisfied. What I had learned only
increased my desire for more, and in vain I sought a teacher more
learned than myself. The extent of my knowledge amazed the wisest and
most profound scholars among my countrymen; but still there was a vacuum
in my soul, a yearning to know more, and I felt miserable because I had
nothing more to learn.
But "fickle fortune," as it is generally, but erroneously termed, turned
her scale. It was not mere fortune or chance, but destiny; and destiny
is the will of God. My family was deposed and forced to flee. Of course,
we fled to America--to these United States; for where else do the weary
find repose and the oppressed an asylum and a home?
With no inconsiderable fortune, I made my way to the mountains, and in a
pleasant valley in the western part of Virginia I built me a cottage,
and there determined to reside, and prosecute my studies and researches.
My desire for knowledge had not abated by my change of fortune, and I
began to cast about me for some new study. Those who had known me in
Spain thought I stood upon the pinnacle of the temple of knowledge; but
I knew there must be something beyond the height to which I had yet
risen, or else my mind would not be so disquiet and so anxious to learn
more. I reasoned thus with myself: The temple of knowledge is founded on
Earth and Time; but the structure reaches into Heaven and Eternity. I
have ascended to the topmost step of the earthly part, and now I must
pierce the dividing line and ascend yet higher. I reflected that Heaven
was purity, and he that would enter into it must be pure, must lay aside
all mere earthly and sensual affections, and become in all his thoughts
and actions uninfluenced by selfish motives--in a word, that he must
separate his soul from his body, and enter with the former, leaving the
latter on earth. This I knew was generally effected by death, and then
came the desire to die; but again I reflected that that was a sinful
desire, and would retard my progress. If I should take my own life, the
very act would debar me from the prize for which I did it.
I commenced schooling my mind and subduing my bodily propensities. I
abstained from all food, except just enough to keep me alive and in
health. I supplied the wants of nature, but nothing more. I practiced
self-denial in almost everything, forcing myself to act directly
opposite to the promptings of my carnal mind. I retired now to the
wildest parts of the mountains, to fill my soul with awe at beholding
the stupendous grandeur of nature; and now to the sunny valleys, the
babbling rills, and murmuring waterfalls, to drink in gladness and joy.
I visited the poor, bestowing gifts upon them, wandering far and near in
search of objects of charity, until my fortune was exhausted, and I was
left with but a scanty pittance for my support. But I gloried in my
poverty, remembering that the Scriptures teach that money is a
hindrance, the love of it an insuperable barrier, to the perfection of
human virtue. Knowledge was all I cared for; wealth sank into less than
nothingness when compared with it.
My great aim was to arrive to an exalted state of purity, in order to
attain to higher knowledge. I would not suffer myself to think of
anything unconnected with the Great Author of its existence. At length I
found myself undergoing a gradual change. The thoughts of earth and
earthly things became irksome to me, and I could banish them from my
mind at pleasure. My thoughts were as much at my command as my actions.
I could think upon a particular subject, or leave off thinking on it at
will, just as I could put my limbs in motion, or leave them at rest, as
I pleased.
One day I seated myself by the side of a little rill, the magnificent
white blossoms of the laurel waving over me, and the wild vines creeping
with serpentine folds around the boughs of the neighboring trees,
forming an arbor above the quiet stream. It was a lovely spot, and might
well have been fancied the favorite resort of the mountain genii, when
they wished to retire to solitude and indulge in reverie.
Here I determined to try the experiment of _willing_ myself a spirit,
separate from my body and independent of it. It required some effort for
me to do this; but gradually I seemed to lose my bodily form, and to
become independent of the laws of gravitation. In a few moments the
change was complete; and no sooner was it so than I heard a voice, mild
and sweet beyond anything which it is in the power of the imagination to
conceive--
"Mortal," said the voice, "behold what the eyes of sinful mortal never
saw!"
I turned, and beheld a form bright as the sun; but it did not dazzle my
eyes. On the contrary, I loved to look upon it; and as I gazed I felt a
joy diffusing itself through my soul never dreamed of before, and so
perfect that I was wholly abandoned to it.
"I am thy good angel," again spake the voice; "and thy mind, subdued to
thy own control, and exerted in a pure and holy direction, has so far
removed the scales with which earthly passions blind the human eyes,
that thou art permitted, though still mortal, to see me, an immortal,
and hear my voice. Thy desire for knowledge shall be gratified, for thou
seekest it not for any evil end. Listen, and I will give thee thy first
lesson in a course of study new to and unheard of by thee."
I listened and heard strange yet sweet words, and drank in with
eagerness the instruction imparted to me. But, as I only learned a
portion at that time, and have continued at different periods since to
learn more, I will not here attempt to set down the words then uttered
to me, or to recount the particular points on which I was enlightened at
the different times; but will throw together a portion of the
information I have acquired during the whole time, selecting such as I
shall think most likely to interest you, and to fire you with a desire
to obtain more from the same source from which I have obtained mine; for
man, even while living on this earth, and consequently mortal, may,
through the attributes of immortality, learn much that is
incomprehensible to the mere mortal mind.
Every human being on this wide world is attended, from his birth to his
death, by two angels, the one good, the other evil. Neither has any
power to prompt its charge to action either bodily or mentally, for the
will is free to choose for itself; but when once a course of acts or
thoughts is commenced, then both have power, and each acts in direct
opposition to the other, causing the mind to waver and alternate between
good and evil, embracing sometimes the one and sometimes the other, as
the respective angels obtain the mastery. If a man's thoughts and
actions be good, his good angel endeavors to encourage him to persevere
in them, while his evil one wars against them; and if his thoughts and
actions be evil, his evil spirit urges him on, while his good one tries
to restrain him. Hence the life of man is one continued warfare, the two
spirits for ever battling against each other, and each in its turn
exulting in victory and mourning over defeat. But, let which may be
vanquished, it does not easily abandon the contest. The human will can
always decide the strife with regard to any particular thing, and cast
the victory on either side it pleases, and, with traitorous fickleness,
it fights sometimes on the one side and sometimes on the other.
Man, in general, is not sunk to that depth of depravity in which he is
frequently represented--a depth so low, so dark, and so wretched as to
be wholly incapable, with his own human nature, unaided and left to
himself, to think a holy thought or perform a righteous act. If this
were the case, the evil angel would ever prove victorious, and the good
one would retire in despair, and leave the poor human being the prey of
the powers of darkness. Men have much to say about the foreknowledge of
God, the predestination and election of the human race, or of a portion
of it, and such like. These are fruitful themes of controversy, as
unavailing as they are absurd. God does not reckon time, for it is
finite and he is infinite. He knows only eternity, in which there is
neither past nor future, but an ever-abiding present, without beginning
or end. Without freedom of will it would be impossible for man to be an
accountable being. If the angels which attend him through life had the
power to prompt him to action, then they would have the entire rule over
him, and they alone would be held accountable for his course. True, it
is possible that either spirit may be subdued, and the mind reduced
entirely under the control of the other; this can only take place where
the mind concurs with the victorious spirit, and continues to concur
with it, and willingly yields to its control, and therefore the mortal
is still the accountable one, and the one with whom God will finally
reckon.
When the good spirit, from a long series of defeats, yields all hope of
ever again obtaining the ascendancy over its dark rival, and flees in
despair from the soul over which it has watched, then the mind and body
of the person become devoted with all their powers to the devil, the
prince of the spirit that presides over him. He then receives a kind of
supernatural power; but it is not of that kind by which good may be
wrought, but seeks to set friends at variance and to array man against
his fellow-man. It even endues him, who is subject to its undisputed
sway, with the power of working a species of miracles; but the effects
of these miracles are always noxious. This is what has usually been
termed witchcraft. The spirit of evil becomes visible and audible to him
who is invested with this fearful power, and he is no longer regarded by
the eye of Heaven as one who may even possibly free himself from the
master he serves, and repent and find forgiveness. His good angel is
gone from him to return no more; for God hath said, "My spirit shall not
always strive with man." Beyond this world his doom is irrevocably
sealed, and his lot cast among the forever damned.
On the other hand, by deeds of charity and love, and by a life of
extraordinary purity, the evil spirit may be expelled, and the soul left
to the undisputed sway of the good one. He who is thus freed from the
power of his evil angel has the power of seeing and hearing his good
one, and of learning things incomprehensible to the generality of his
race. To him the fountains of knowledge are unsealed, and he learns,
while yet on earth, much that is reserved to be learned in Heaven after
we have become a new order of beings, endowed with new intelligence. It
is sin only that blinds our sight and darkens our minds, and,
consequently, the more effectually we can free ourselves from sin the
better are we prepared for the reception of knowledge. Perfect knowledge
can only be attained by perfect purity, and hence perfect knowledge is
perfect bliss; and the highest bliss of heaven is to perfectly
understand all things. On earth, corrupted and polluted as it is by sin,
there can be no perfect knowledge, and, consequently, no perfect bliss.
And although there are different degrees of knowledge in Heaven, yet
every degree is perfect, and affords perfect bliss so far; and, as we
ascend step by step up the heavenly temple of knowledge, perfect bliss
will be added to perfect bliss, and thus will we go on until we reach
the summit and possess ourselves of all the blissful attributes of God
himself. The more knowledge we attain on earth, provided it be applied
to good, the higher will be the grade to which we will be admitted in
Heaven, and consequently the more perfect our bliss there; but if it be
directed towards the attainment of an end transgressing the laws of God
and furthering evil, the more intense will be the sufferings in the
world of punishment.
It is an incontrovertible law of natural philosophy, that not an atom of
matter can be annihilated; and it is a law as applicable to the
immaterial as to the material world. Every act we have ever committed,
every word we have ever spoken, and every thought that has ever flitted
through our minds, remains as indestructible as the throne of
Omnipotence itself. Here on earth we act, speak, and think, and then
forget the deeds we have done, the words we have spoken, and the
thoughts we have harbored; but on the day of the final reckoning, when
our spirits shall re-enter our arisen bodies, every thought, word, and
deed shall recur to us as vividly as though they had taken place at that
very instant. Thus every one has his whole life spread before him, takes
in all at a glance, and becomes his own judge; and as his conscience
approves or condemns him, so is he approved or condemned by God. And
although men are accountable, yet this does not exempt their good angels
from being judged also. Their course is judged, and if they have been
remiss in performing the duties assigned them, and have not watched
diligently over the souls committed to their charge, then they receive
the reward due to their negligence; and as those souls over which they
kept watch are the gainers or losers by their conduct, therefore it is
permitted them to judge them, as St. Paul saith, "Know ye not that the
angels are to be judged by us?"
By our WILL, as I said, we can always cast the victory on the side of
either our good or evil angel, as we choose; and when, by a long series
of victories achieved over our evil angel by the combined powers of our
will and our good angel, we are entirely freed from our evil one, then
the veil of sin and imperfection which obscures our spiritual sight is
so far removed as to enable us to behold and converse with our good
angel, and to learn much, not only of spiritual matters, but also of the
future destinies of nations and individuals. It is thus that I have
learned of thee, and of the influence which this nation is to exert over
the world, dethroning tyrants, extirpating royalty, and making all men
"free and equal." It is thus that I have learned the hour at which I am
to undergo that change which men call death.
Remember that purity is what is required--purity, at no matter what
sacrifice of inclination. As you read this, your good angel stands at
your right side, and your evil one at your left, _nearest your heart_;
but both are invisible to you because you are neither wholly pure nor
wholly polluted. In the former case your good spirit would be visible,
in the latter your evil one. They are striving for you, the one
endeavoring to urge you to purity, the other to drag you down to
degradation. I am convinced, though even my angel does not know, that
you will cast your WILL on the side of virtue, and go on in your high
career of knowledge.
And here I will close. If you avail yourself of the information I have
imparted, I have said enough; if not, all that I have said is in vain,
and but labor lost. You are very dear to me, and, as I write, you grow
still dearer. But I am yet to see you, and to hold converse with you for
a little while: and the reason that I now write nothing concerning
Elinor Manvers is that I shall speak face to face with you about her.
Farewell.
DON RICARDUS CARLOS.
_Mountain Cave, Va._, Nov. 20th, 1779.
(Conclusion next month.)
MORAL COURAGE.
BY ALICE B. NEAL.
PART I.
"Ah, lonely, very lonely, is the room
Where love, domestic love, no longer nestles,
But, smitten by the common stroke of doom,
The corpse lies on the tressels!"--HOOD.
YES, there was death in the house. The closed windows told it to the
passers-by; and the crape which hung heavily from the door, tied with a
black ribbon, denoted that one in the prime of life was laid low.
Strangers looked at it with a glance of curiosity and hurried past,
forgetting the next moment, in the bright sunshine and busy avocations
of life, that they had received a solemn warning to prepare for a like
mysterious change. Acquaintances walked with a slower step, as it caught
the eye, and thought of the sad scenes that must be passing within that
house of mourning.
Friends said it was "a great blow," and wondered vaguely what would
become of the wife and children; and some knelt at night surrounded by
unclouded happiness in their own homes, but nevertheless praying with a
full heart for those who had so suddenly been left desolate.
The day of the funeral came, and the husband and father was carried from
the home that had been almost an earthly paradise to be laid beneath
"the cold clod of the valley," and the weeping family clung to each
other, and sobbed and prayed as that first dreary night came on, and
they recognized all the vacancy of hearth and heart. Such scenes are
daily passing; yet the world goes on as ever, and some dance to the
music of gay revelry, while others put on the "garments of heaviness"
with breaking hearts.
And then the return to actual life! How harassing it is when our
thoughts are with the dead and the living claim our care! Mrs. Burton
found the sad truth of this as, with well meant, but harsh kindness, she
found her brother waiting one morning, scarce a week from the day that
had made her a widow, to talk over her future prospects. He had an
ungracious task before him; for he was forced to communicate what was
galling to his pride, as well as distressing to those more nearly
interested in the intelligence. Mr. Burton's affairs were left in almost
inextricable confusion; a pittance, a mere pittance, of some two hundred
a year was all that would remain to his family; and what was this when
their annual expenditure had been thousands? He was luxurious in taste,
and had not hesitated to gratify every whim. He was an indulgent father,
and had lavished uncounted sums upon his children. He had not intended
to be unjust to them or his lovely wife; but he was one of those who
seem to think a long life secured to them by present health, and, being
in excellent business, thought it time to "lay by" when the children
were educated and his boys began to "look out for themselves." Besides,
he belonged to one of the oldest, proudest families in the city, and he
was not to be outshone by any of them.
But how did matters stand now that, by an unalterable decree, he had
been suddenly removed from them? Let us see if he had been "a just man,"
as was pompously stated in his epitaph. Lucy, the eldest daughter, was
but nineteen, beautiful, accomplished, and betrothed to the son of an
old friend. She was provided for, said the world, and, of course, their
relatives could take charge of the younger children--Grace, ten, Willie
and George, the one just entered at a classical school, and the other
almost ready for college, although only fifteen. Mrs. Burton would have
enough to maintain her, no doubt, and so the matter was charitably
settled and quietly laid aside for a discussion of the last opera night
by the ladies, or a sudden rise in stocks by the gentlemen, upon whose
feeling, sensitive minds it had obtruded itself.
Such a conversation was passing that very morning, as Mrs. Burton sat
listening to a hurried account of the pressing liabilities that would
sweep away even her own marriage portion when, for the first time in a
shielded, prosperous life, care and business anxiety came upon her. It
is not strange that she was completely bewildered by the new aspect of
affairs. She had thought her domestic loss too great a sorrow to bear up
under, and now all this crushing weight added to it! What was to be
done? Her brother-in-law had but one thing to propose. Lucy would
probably marry soon, and Mrs. Burton would no doubt find a comfortable
home with her, and be of great assistance to the young wife in managing
her domestic concerns The children would be distributed among Mr.
Burton's relatives. He himself would take George into his
counting-house. He was old enough to be of some service.
Mrs. Burton was a devoted mother. With all her thoughtlessness, she was
both fond and proud of her children, and to have them taken from her was
to bereave her of every earthly happiness. And George, with his quick
mind and high ambition, to be tied down in a counting-room, when he had
talent for anything in the profession he already looked forward to, the
law! Willie, proud, spirited, affectionate Willie, and her beautiful
Grace, dependents upon the bounty of relatives! She could not bear the
thought.
But she was not alone in this. Lucy had been summoned to join the
deliberation, and astonished her uncle not a little by the firmness with
which she said--
"That never will do, sir!"
"Well, my dear, perhaps you can propose a more feasible plan. Does Mr.
Allan intend to 'marry the whole family?'"
The ill-concealed irony and coarseness of this remark brought a flush to
the young girl's face, and a fire to her eyes that made her more like
her haughty relative than ever, as she answered--
"I have not consulted with Mr. Allan; for I did not know there was any
need of consultation. No doubt he still thinks as I did an hour ago,
that--my father--that we were still secured a home at least." And her
voice faltered; for she could not yet speak that name without tears, and
the harshness of their situation was forced upon her painfully.
"Well, leave him out of the question. Something must be done. Creditors
are at your very door; harpies that will not be satisfied so long as you
are living on Wilton carpets and dining with silver that has never yet
been paid for."
Mrs. Burton instinctively turned towards her daughter, as if she could
in reality suggest some plan by which everything could readily be
arranged. She felt revived by the quick decision of Lucy's tone and
manner.
"I have no plans. I can scarcely think as yet," she said, passing her
hand hurriedly across her brow; "but to-morrow: at least we can be in
peace until then. Only one thing I am certain of, that, so long as I
have health and strength, my mother and brothers shall not be dependent
on any one."
"Those hands work, indeed!" returned Mr. William Burton, glancing almost
contemptuously on the white fingers locked so resolutely together, on
which sparkled a ring of great value, the betrothed gift of her lover.
"Go to Allan with your resolution, and see what he will say. Come, come
now, don't be obstinate and foolish, Lucy. You are poor George's child,
and as like him as you can be. I mustn't get vexed with you. I know it's
a great shock. I feel
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