"Still in tears!" said Margarette Claremont, as she entered the parlor
after a walk. "Which is it now, my dear Alice, Werther or Madam de
Stael's Corinna?"
"Neither," answered Alice. Margarette looked over her shoulder, and
saw that the book her cousin held was a volume of Kotzebue's plays,
and that "Self-Immolation" was the one that engrossed her attention.
"How prodigal you are of your tears, dear cousin!" said
Margarette,--"and how you _waste_ your sensibilities on these
high-wrought, and ultra-sentimental fictions! Will not your health be
impaired, and your mind enervated by such excess of indulgence?"
"I fear no such results," said Alice,--"and should blush at the
obduracy of my heart, should it fail of being moved when reading works
in which such deep feeling is portrayed."
"Weep as much for legitimate sorrow as you will, Alice--even when
portrayed in fictitious narrative, but do not expend your sympathies
on scenes such as never did, and never will occur in the world." Alice
made no reply, as Margarette turned and ran up stairs, but the thought
of her heart was--"I am thankful I am not a stoic! thankful that my
feelings are not congealed."
Alice Lansdale and Margarette Claremont were both orphan nieces of the
wealthy bachelor Mr. Claremont, with whom they resided. The former was
the daughter of his only sister. Her parents died when she was quite
young, and consigned her, destitute of property, to the care of her
uncle, with whom she had now resided several years. Margarette was the
daughter of his only brother. She had been an orphan but few months,
during which period she had been domesticated in the family of Mr.
Claremont, to whom had been committed the guardianship of herself, and
her ample fortune.
"Have you nearly got through with your play, Alice?" said Margarette,
as she re-entered the parlor. Alice made no answer, as she sat with
her head leaning on one hand, her book spread on the table before
her,--while the other hand held a handkerchief that was ever and anon
applied to her eyes. Margarette advanced, and leaned on the back of
her chair.
"How much longer are you going to read, Alice?" asked Margarette.
"Why can't you be quiet, and leave me undisturbed?" said Alice.
"Because I have something to tell you," answered Margarette.
"About goody Mason's lame finger, I suppose," said Alice.
"No--about two elegant looking young men I saw in the street an hour
since,"--said Margarette.
"Who were they?" enquired Alice, without raising her eyes from her
book.
"I do not know,--but from your description, I conjectured them to be
your cousin Hubert and the _Black Prince_, as you call him."
"Why did not you tell me this before?" said Alice, springing on her
feet. "They will be here immediately; cousin Hubert at least,--and
here I am, looking like a fright, with eyes as red as a toper's! Why
could you not have told me when you first came in?"
"I had been talking with Susan Hall, and forgot it," said Margarette.
"And after all, perhaps it is not them."
"O, I know it is!--they were expected very soon. But tell me how the
one you took to be the Black Prince looked, and I shall know at once
if it was him."
"Tall--yet hardly as tall as his companion--with black hair, black
eyes, and an acre of black whiskers; and--pardon me--a dash of
impudence in his expression--at least I thought so, as I passed him."
"O, it must be him," said Alice, "though if it be, the latter part of
your description is only your own imagination. But why do I linger
here, when I must try to make myself look decent to see them? for
cousin Hubert, at least, will come,"--and she left the room with a
sigh.
Scarcely half an hour had passed ere Alice was summoned, according to
her expectations, to meet her cousin, and Mr. Gordon, the _Black
Prince_.
The young men made a long call,--for Alice had much to ask them of
what they had seen and learned, during their absence; and they had
much that was interesting to communicate. They had scarcely closed the
door behind them, after taking leave, ere Alice exclaimed--
"Is he not a divine creature, cousin Margarette?"
"Which of them?" asked Margarette.
"Which! you stupid creature!--as if you knew not which I meant!--But
which of them do you like best?"
"I was most pleased with your cousin's conversation," Margarette
replied.
"Why?" asked Alice. "I am sure Gordon converses elegantly."
"He has words enough at command," said Margarette,--"but a scarcity of
ideas; and those he has are not weighty. While listening to him I
could not help thinking it was like dressing a little four-penny doll,
in a large robe of silver tissue. Mr. Montague's conversation was
really entertaining and instructive."
"I expected you to be severe, _of course_," said Alice, "yet I think
you can find no fault with his manners."
"He is quite at his ease, and appears a gentleman, certainly," said
Margarette, "yet his manners did not please me. There was too much
show--he was _too_ easy--has too much manner; and, if I may judge from
one interview, he is not at all wanting in self-complacency."
"Cousin Hubert's quiet way suited your singular taste better, I dare
say," said Alice.
"It certainly did--for he did not appear to be thinking of himself.
His manners to-day were truly polished and refined; and if they arise
from his heart, as I hope they did, I should judge very favorably of
the man."
"I suppose you think him best looking, too!" said Alice--"best dressed
and all!"
"In person they are both elegant young men," said Margarette, "but Mr.
Montague's dress certainly suited me best,--as I doubt whether to be
comfortable is not his first object in the choice of his apparel. As
for Mr. Gordon, he must make dress a study. You see, Alice, as I had
nothing to do but look and listen, I could learn a good deal of them
in the hour and a half that they were here."
"Well, as you _studied_ them, do let me know what you think of their
faces."
{80} "I have told you enough for once," said Margarette, "wait for the
remainder till I see them again--perhaps I may change my opinion."
"No, no," said Alice,--"let me have it now--When you change your
opinion, you can let me know it.--What of their faces?"
"Mr. Gordon, then," said Margarette, "knows that he is handsome,--and
he has studied the exterior of his head so much, that I should fear he
has somewhat neglected the interior."
"And what of cousin Hubert's?"
"I think his head very fine--very classical. His face is decidedly
intellectual--his eyes uncommonly good."
"And what of his mouth and teeth?" said Alice.
"Peculiarly handsome," said Margarette. "And now, as you can possibly
have no more questions to ask, pray let me know your opinion."
"You must have known that a long time. Cousin Hubert is--I can't say
what he is--but just what I approve; and as for Gordon, he is the
divinest creature alive!"
While this conversation was going on in Mr. Claremont's parlor, one
not dissimilar was carried on in the street betwixt the gentlemen,
Montague and Gordon.
"Who is this new cousin of yours, Montague?" asked Gordon.
"I cannot claim her as a relation," said Montague. "She is cousin to
my cousin only, and a perfect stranger to me."
"_N'importe_," said Gordon. "But what do you think of her?"
"I have not had time to form an opinion," said Montague.
"You received some kind of impression, necessarily," said Gordon. "No
one can be almost alone with a stranger for an hour or more, and not
form some idea of what the character may be."
"She is certainly very silent and reserved," said Montague. "Her
countenance denotes intellect,--but she appears cold, and has a
loftiness that is repelling.--I fear she may prove wanting in that
sensibility, of which cousin Alice has so abundant a share."
"O, she is a block of marble--a bank of snow--a statue of ice," said
Gordon. "There would be infinite amusement in trying whether the
marble would yield! the snow melt! the ice thaw!--She is a new variety
of the species. I have seen nothing like her!"
"You admire her," said Montague. "I do exceedingly," said Gordon.
"Your taste has much changed," observed Montague. "It is but a short
time since you were in raptures about my cousin, and they appear to be
exceedingly unlike."
"True,--and Miss Claremont therefore excites the deeper interest. She
will require some labor, some ingenuity to make her dissolve. Alice,
pardon me, is always _melted_."
"Alice has strong sensibilities," said Montague, "and is as
unsophisticated as a child. She hides none of her feelings."
"Did you notice Miss Claremont's smile," asked Gordon.
"I did, and confess it was very beautiful. Her whole face smiled, and
seemed to beam with delight. But it was so evanescent, I scarcely
caught it, ere it was gone."
"A slight shade of sadness was the prevailing cast of her
countenance," said Gordon.
"She has recently lost a most excellent father," said Montague. "You
noticed she was in mourning."
"Could an unfeeling heart lodge beneath that smile?" asked Gordon.
"The source of the smile might be the head--not the heart," answered
Montague.
"I will never believe it--at least not till I try whether she has a
heart or not," said Gordon.
"Very well," said Montague. "I told you in the beginning, I had not
had time to form an opinion."
Between the two young men who held this conversation, there was as
strong a contrast as could be between a noble-minded, well-educated,
well-principled young man, and an _exquisite_ of the first water.
Gordon was quite free from all gross irregularities, but he had no
principle of action; no motive beyond present gratification. The Bible
was Montague's counsellor and guide; and he was endeavoring so to live
on earth, as to live forever in Heaven. The young men had been much
together in boyhood, and afterwards at the university; and though the
difference in their characters grew broader, and more strongly marked
every day, yet their intimacy in some degree continued. Montague was
interested in the welfare of his early associate; and Gordon, though
often angry at the warnings, exhortations, and reproofs of his friend,
could not endure the idea of relinquishing his friendship. He really
had a kind of affection for Montague; and he felt that it gave him
additional consequence to be permitted to call such a man _friend_.
Some months previous to the period now spoken of, Montague had been
called on business to a distant part of the country; and Gordon,
having nothing to do, offered to accompany him, and they had now just
returned, after an absence of half a year. Montague had his fortune to
make; Gordon inherited one from his father.
One morning about a week after his return, Montague called at Mr.
Claremont's, where he was a frequent visiter. He was not quite as
cheerful and conversable as usual, and after trying a long time to
draw him out, Alice said--
"You are depressed this morning, Hubert. What is the matter?"
"I have just witnessed a scene of distress, that I cannot get out of
my mind," said Montague.
"What was that?" asked Alice.
"It was an Irish family that occupy a hovel about half a mile from
hence. The family consists of the father, Patrick Delanty, his wife
and six children, the eldest a daughter, not more than thirteen years
of age. They have been but few weeks in town, and are wretchedly poor.
The wife is ill of a raging fever, and the two youngest children of
measles, from which the others are but just recovered. Delanty is
obliged to be out at day-labor, to keep his family from starvation; so
that all the care and labor of nursing the sick, and looking after the
other children, devolve on the eldest daughter, and a boy, two or
three years younger.-- Such poverty--such squalid and complicated
misery, I have never before witnessed."
"Poor creatures!" said Alice. "But why will they {81} leave their
native land, and come here among strangers, where no one cares for
them, to endure such misery?"
"To get rid of greater misery at home, cousin Alice!" said Montague.
"O, they are much to be pitied, poor creatures!"--said Alice; "but
there are such hordes of them, that it is impossible to afford them
effectual relief."
Montague said no more, as he found that the sympathetic cord in his
cousin's heart was not touched. He just cast his eyes on Margarette,
who was sitting, busily at work, in a recess at the opposite end of
the room, to see if her compassion was awakened: but she was
diligently plying her needle,--and but for the motion of her hand, he
thought she looked exceedingly as if she were made of stone!
"Heartless! unfeeling!" he thought, and almost murmured, as he arose
and precipitately took leave.
The day next but one, Montague was again at Mr. Claremont's. Neither
of the young ladies mentioned the Delantys; for Alice was wholly
engrossed in a new novel,--and Montague concluded that Margarette had
not even heard that there were any such people. But his own heart was
too full of them, not to speak of their situation.
"Cousin Alice," said he, "you are so compassionate that I wonder you
do not ask after the welfare of the poor Irish family."
"O, poor creatures! how are they? I have thought of them several times
since you were here, and wished they had stayed in their own country,
among their own friends, that they might be properly looked after.
Have you seen them since you were here last, cousin Hubert?"
"Yes--yesterday, and again this morning."
"And how are they?"
"The children are somewhat better, but the mother still very ill. The
family, however, together, are more comfortable than when I first saw
them. Some young lady has kindly visited them, and not only in some
measure relieved their pressing necessities, but given judicious and
salutary advice to the daughter about the management of their affairs.
When they described her to me, I felt a hope that it was you, cousin
Alice."
"O no, Hubert, I could not go--such a scene of suffering would have
shaken me all to pieces. Really I do not think I could bear it! But
how did they describe the young lady?"
"As neither tall nor short, with a beautiful face, and a '_raal Irish
heart_'--kind as an angel!" said Hubert,--and he glanced his eyes
toward Margarette, to ascertain if there were any look of
consciousness in the expression of her face; but she was looking over
the morning paper, and at that moment exclaimed--
"Dunlap and Miss Reed are married, Alice."
"How could I, even for a moment, suspect it might be her?" thought
Montague. "She cares no more for them than if they were reptiles!"
"Who could it be, cousin Hubert?" asked Alice. "Did you not ask them
if they knew her name?"
"I did--but they knew nothing of her but her kindness, of which they
could not say enough. She even made the bed, with her own hands, and
put fresh linen upon it, which she brought with her for the purpose,
for the sick mother, who told me of it with tears of gratitude in her
eyes."
"Well indeed she might!" cried Alice. "Think of what an office for a
young lady!--such a combination of disease and filthiness! If I hear
of any young lady in town, sick of a fever, I shall at once know who
was Mrs. Delanty's nurse."
"May Heaven preserve her health," said Montague with fervor. "Persons
of less active kindness could much better be spared; and the community
would suffer little loss, were they laid on a bed of sickness."
"Very true," said Alice. "Yet there are very few, who can with
propriety be called young _ladies_, who are capable of rendering such
services. One might be ready to relieve suffering if it existed under
less disgusting circumstances; but for a delicate female to encounter
such dirt, and disease, and poverty at once, is too much!"
"Firm principle, a truly feeling heart, and a self-denying spirit,
could alone enable a delicate woman to do it," said Montague,--"and
these could!" He looked around to ascertain whether Margarette had
really left the room, and then added--"And pardon me, my dearest
cousin, if I suggest to you, that would you strive to conquer that
extreme sensibility, which makes you shrink from scenes of suffering,
and constrain yourself to witness and relieve distress, in your own
person, you would render yourself, at once, far more happy and useful,
if not more interesting. _Active benevolence_ is one great secret of
happiness." At this moment Mr. Claremont entered the room; the
conversation turned to other subjects, and Montague soon took leave.
Mr. Gordon had not kept himself aloof from Mr. Claremont's, during
this period; on the contrary, he had called frequently--as frequently
as he dared, and reconnoitred to the best of his ability to ascertain
the vulnerable part of Margarette's character, while he had brought
all his small arms into successive requisition. His first and most
natural effort was by flattery,--by which it is said all women may be
subdued; and perhaps they may, _and all men too_, provided it be of
the right kind, and administered in the right manner. But here Mr.
Gordon completely failed. He was too gross; his colors were too
glaring; there was no soft shading away,--nothing to touch the heart,
through the medium of a refined taste; and Gordon found, though he
knew not why, that he excited disgust instead of pleasure. He wondered
that what he had ever found so efficacious with other young
ladies--what would have caused the cheek of Alice to glow, and her eye
to sparkle, was so powerless here. "I said she was a new variety of
the species," thought he, "and I must try again." And he did try
again--first by doing her silent homage,--breathing near her ear the
deep-drawn sigh, and casting upon her the look of warm admiration and
deep interest. But he soon closed his pantomime, as Margarette
_heeded_ not, even if she _heard_ his sighs; and his impassioned
glances were completely thrown away, as they rarely met her eye,--and
when they did, seemed not to be understood. The next attempt was to
aid in gratifying her in her favorite recreations, and in the
indulgence of her taste. "Was Miss Claremont fond of prints?"
"Particularly so." "He was very happy! He had a choice collection--and
would fetch over his portfolio for her examination." "Was there any
book in his library that Miss Claremont would like to read? He had the
most approved editions of all modern authors, and it {82} would afford
him great pleasure if Miss Claremont would make a selection from among
them, of any thing new to her." "He was very obliging--but her uncle's
library was large, and well selected, affording sufficient
intellectual nourishment for years--beside that he purchased every new
work of merit." "Miss Claremont was an equestrian. He had a palfrey
that would rival Margaret of Cranstoun's, which was entirely at her
service." "He was exceedingly kind--but Mr. Claremont had one that was
at once so spirited and gentle, that on his back she felt entirely at
ease." Poor Gordon knew not what next to do. He had racked his
invention to render himself agreeable and necessary--not only in the
ways above enumerated--but by being always observing, and ready to
perform any little personal service that might be requisite, such as
handing a glass of lemonade, fetching a fan, picking up a stray glove,
or placing a chair in a more desirable situation. He had actually
labored hard, and had not advanced one step; and the only
gratification that attended his exertions, was the obvious uneasiness
of Alice, who pined under the loss of his attentions. A half
suppressed sigh often struck on his ear; and a tear, as he thought,
filled her eye, as she witnessed his marked devotion to Margarette.
But for this sweet incense to his vanity, and his own boasting to
Montague, that he was resolved not to be defeated, he would have
relinquished so hopeless a pursuit. But pride and vanity impelled him
onward; and although he could devise no new mode of attack, he
determined to watch opportunities, and avail himself of any
circumstance that might occur in favor of his design. As the _heart_
of Mr. Gordon was a thing entirely out of the question, except as it
occasionally fluttered with gratified vanity, or was momentarily
depressed with mortification at want of success, his _head_ was
entirely free to devise plans in the best manner his abilities would
allow, and watch opportunities with the most perfect coolness.
Mr. Montague had by degrees become interested in watching the result
of Gordon's various modes of attack; and notwithstanding he had been
rather displeased with the apparent coldness of Margarette's
character, he felt gratified that she did not yield to the arts of
Gordon. Not that he was in the least jealous of his friend's general
success with women; nor that he had any personal wishes relative to
Margarette; but he did wish to see one woman who was not to be won by
mere external graces and accomplishments, and the little arts and
blandishments that are usually so successful. His interest in Gordon's
progress, led him to notice Margarette more particularly than he
would, perhaps, otherwise have done. Gradually, and unconsciously, he
was taking her up as a study; and the more he observed her, the more
interesting did the study become. "She is a perfect enigma!" thought
he. "I can never decide whether the variations in her countenance have
their origin in the head or the heart. Her smile is the brightest--the
most joyous--the most beautiful I ever beheld! and yet there is
something in it that leads me to fear that it is like the brilliancy
of the diamond--cold, while it dazzles! She seems not easily moved;
and yet, while silently engaged in her work, I have seen her color
fluctuate, while others have been discussing an interesting subject.
She knows, at least, how to appreciate true greatness, for I have seen
her eyes speak volumes when a magnanimous action has been mentioned
before her. And, at any rate, I admire the firmness with which she
repels that small artillery that is so generally successful, when
levelled against her sex!"
* * * * *
One evening quite a circle of friends collected at Mr. Claremont's,
among whom were both Montague and Gordon. Gordon secured a seat
between Alice and Margarette, while Montague stood apart from them,
listening to the general conversation, but now and then casting a
glance at the trio, in which he took so much interest. The
conversation at length fell on reading. Some expressed a preference
for one class of reading, some for another; but a large majority of
the company decided that biography was the most instructive,
interesting, and entertaining. This resulted in a discussion of whose
biography was most valuable, when a gentleman remarked, "that the life
of Lord Nelson was the most interesting work he had ever read."
"Is it the book or the man, you so much admire?" asked one of the
company.
"O, both--but the man particularly. His heroism charmed me."
"O do not name him," said Mr. Claremont. "I sicken with disgust when I
read the fulsome panegyrics bestowed on him; and the numberless
monuments raised to his memory in Great Britain."
"He was a most noble creature!" said Gordon, in a rather low tone to
Margarette. She cast on him a look of the most withering coldness, not
unmingled with contempt, but made no reply, as she listened to learn
what further her uncle would say.
"No wonder they are proud of him, and raise monuments to his memory,"
said the gentleman who had first spoken of Nelson. "He secured more
honor to the British navy than any hero from the reign of Elizabeth to
the present time."
"Talk not of his heroism, or the glory he acquired for Britain," said
Mr. Claremont. "Devoured by ambition, did he fight for the good of his
country? or to attain individual honor? Was he not continually whining
and complaining that his services were not sufficiently requited?
Depend on it, he would not have thought the crown of England an
unreasonable reward! And in his character as a hero, lies all the
honor he can claim. As a private man, he was despicable. Though he
could conquer the enemies of his country, he resigned himself without
resistance to the dominion of the basest passions, and was guilty of
that, which in _unrefined_ New England, would have caused him to be
hooted from society. Perfidious! hypocritical! base!--his character
was stained with vices of the deepest dye,--and my astonishment can
only be exceeded by my indignation, when in English publications I see
him spoken of, and that by pious persons--Madam More, for one--as the
"_immortal Nelson!_"--a being to be looked up to with admiration!"
"You are warm, Mr. Claremont," observed one of his friends.
"Perhaps I am, sir; and on this subject I wish others were as warm as
myself. To eulogize such men as Lord Nelson, and hold them up to youth
as fit objects for admiration and imitation, is laying the axe at the
root of all morality. It is not, indeed, going softly to work, like a
Rousseau, or Voltaire, to undermine the {83} foundation of their
virtue, but demolishes the whole fabric at once, by telling them, that
if capable of performing a few brilliant actions, such a halo will
shine around them, as will entirely conceal from the eyes of every
beholder their want of sincerity, truth, fidelity, or moral honor. Wo
to my country, when the public sentiment shall be so far corrupted, as
to think that heroism, and what is known by the name of _glory_, can
compensate for the want of true, consistent, undying virtue!"
Montague chanced to be looking at Margarette when Mr. Claremont began
to speak, and the look she gave Mr. Gordon fixed his attention upon
her, though he heard not the remark that called it forth. He watched
her countenance with deep interest, as it gradually lighted up to a
glow of admiring approbation, strangely intermingled with a shade of
sadness. "I will have her opinion on this subject from her own lips,"
thought he; and placing himself near her, he said--
"What is your opinion of Lord Nelson, Miss Claremont?"
"O, exactly the same as my uncle's," said Margarette. "And how could
it be otherwise? when I have so often heard my dear father express
sentiments exactly similar. He very carefully taught me, never to let
any external glory, any meretricious glare, blind me to real defects,
or to the want of intrinsic and solid excellence." Her eye, as she
finished speaking, sparkled through a tear, which was not unobserved
by either Montague or Gordon.
"There is, then, a fountain of feeling within," thought Montague, as
he still looked upon her--"A fountain of deep, pure, noble feeling!"
"By Jupiter, there is a tear!" thought Gordon--"and Montague has had
the good fortune to call it forth. Who would have thought, that to
talk of Lord Nelson, was the way to touch her heart? I would have
given a thousand dollars, rather than he should have had this
triumph!"
* * * * *
One morning Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, but found that both
the young ladies were out. Mr. Claremont, however, was in the parlor,
and he and Montague had passed a very pleasant half hour, ere Alice
and Margarette came in. Margarette bade Montague 'good morning'--but
Alice just nodded at him, and hastened to her uncle, and seating
herself on his knee, exclaimed--
"Dear uncle, I am so glad you are in! I want to ask a great favor of
you."
"What is that, my dear?" said Mr. Claremont.
"I am half afraid to tell," said Alice, "you will think me so
extravagant. But, dear uncle, Margarette and I have seen the two most
beautiful pearl necklaces at Wendall's, you ever beheld!"
"And you want them?"
"O, I do, most sadly," said Alice.
"And do you, Margarette?"
"I think not, sir," said Margarette--while Alice at the same moment
cried--
"O, Margarette can have whatever she wants, she is so rich!--not a
poor beggar like your own Alice, dependent on the bounty of another
for every thing"--and bursting into tears, she hid her face on her
uncle's shoulder.
"Sweet sensibility, O, la!
I heard a little lamb cry, bah!"
said Mr. Claremont. "Come, Alice, don't cry about it, but tell me the
price of the necklaces."
"How can I," said the sobbing Alice, "when you make such cruel sport
of my feelings? Indeed, uncle, it is cruel!"
"I never make sport of your feelings, my dear, when there is any thing
that ought to awaken them," said Mr. Claremont. "But come, tell me the
price of the pearl necklaces."
"They are fifty dollars apiece."
"Whew!" said Mr. Claremont. "And so I must spend a hundred dollars to
adorn the necks of my nieces?"
"O, Margarette can buy her own, you know uncle, and so you will have
to give away but fifty."
"I hold Miss Claremont's purse-strings, you know," said Mr. Claremont,
"and I shall serve you both alike. Margarette's, as well as yours,
must be the gift of her uncle."
"I do not wish for one, my dear sir," said Margarette, but Mr.
Claremont heeded her not, and opening his pocket book, gave them fifty
dollars each. Alice loaded her uncle with kisses and thanks, while it
was with evident reluctance that Margarette took hers in her hand. But
as some ladies at that instant entered the room, without saying more,
she put it in her purse. As soon as the visiters had withdrawn Alice
went to her chamber, and Margarette seized the opportunity of being
alone with Mr. Claremont, to restore to him the fifty dollars.
"My dear sir," said she, "I cannot accept this money, and should have
declined it at the moment, only I could not explain before strangers.
You will relieve me greatly by taking it again."
"By no means, my dear--I should be much pleased that you and Alice
should have necklaces alike."
"But I do not want a necklace, sir, and should feel very badly to
spend fifty dollars on a useless ornament."
"Then purchase something else with it, Margarette."
"I am in want of nothing, sir, and had much rather restore it to you."
"Can you find no use for it, my dear?" asked Mr. Claremont.
"O yes, sir--I could find enough to do with this, and ten times more.
But perhaps you would think it injudiciously expended."
"What should you do with it, Margarette?" asked Mr. Claremont.
"Give every cent of it away, sir," Margarette replied.
"Very well," said Mr. Claremont. "It is yours, my dear, to throw at
the birds, if you please. I can depend on your judgment and
principles, that it will not go to indulge idleness or vice."
"O, I thank you most sincerely, my dear uncle," said Margarette with
warmth--"in behalf of those who are suffering from want. It will give
me great delight to be your almoner."
* * * * *
There was a very narrow lane ran past the foot of Mr. Claremont's
garden, in which stood a little hut, occupied by a poor, but pious old
man, who earned a scanty livelihood by gardening. He was known all
ever the town by the title of _Commodore_, merely because {84} in his
youth he had commanded a fishing-smack. Montague had one evening
walked some way out of town; and on his return, intending to pass an
hour at Mr. Claremont's, he passed through this lane as the shortest
way to his house. In passing the Commodore's domicil, which stood on
the lower side of the lane, he cast his eyes in at the window, which
had neither shutter nor curtain, and by a glimmering fire-light saw
the old man sitting in his arm chair by the fire, while a female sat
on a low stool beside him, who seemed to be doing something to his
foot, which lay across her lap. Montague halted an instant, for there
was something about the female figure, although enveloped in a large
shawl and hood, that reminded him of Margarette. But her back was
toward him, and the fire-light was so dim, that he remained in doubt
whether or not it was she. "If it is her," thought he, as he walked
on--"If it is her, performing such an office for the poor old
Commodore, it may, after all, be her who visits the Delantys." As he
came out of the lane, he met an acquaintance, with whom he conversed a
minute or two, and then proceeded to Mr. Claremont's.
On entering the parlor, he found the little domestic circle complete.
Mr. Claremont was engaged in a volume of Brewster's Encyclopedia;
Alice with Malvina, over which she was shedding a torrent of
tears,--and Margarette with her knitting work. "It was not her, after
all," thought Montague; "but who could it be? she had not the air of a
rustic!" After receiving Mr. Claremont's cordial welcome, he advanced
toward his cousin, and closing her book with gentle violence, said--
"If you sustain no other injury, my dear Alice, you will inevitably
ruin your eyes by reading while you weep so profusely. I wish you
would relinquish novels as I fear they do you little good. Their
general tendency is to enervate rather than strengthen the character."
"I wish you could persuade her to relinquish them, Mr. Montague," said
Mr. Claremont. "I am satisfied that that class of reading, only
increases in Alice that sensitiveness which is already too strong. It
will degenerate into weakness, and I know of few things more to be
dreaded than a _sickly sensibility_."
"Why should you suppose that the reading of novels would produce that
effect, more than the scenes of real life?" said Alice, "when it is
universally conceded, that no genius can ever reach the truth."
"I can tell you why, Alice," said Montague. "In reading works of the
imagination, persons of feeling unconsciously identify themselves with
the favorite character; and then in a day or two, and sometimes in a
few hours, their feelings are taxed with those scenes of sorrow and
excitement, which in real life are scattered through months, or
perhaps years. The greater part of life is made up of comparative
trifles, which make little demand on the feelings, and scenes of
sorrow and excitement are 'few and far between,' like the convulsions
of the elements--which, though often distressing, and sometimes
disastrous, are, on the whole, highly beneficial. But were the
elements always at war, nature would soon sink to dissolution; and so
if the mind and the heart were constantly raised to a state of high
excitement, their energies would soon be exhausted, and the corporeal
part would soon sink in the conflict. Do you read novels, Miss
Claremont?" inquired Montague.
"Sometimes, but not often," Margarette replied.
"And do they affect you as they do cousin Alice?"
"Affect her?" cried Alice--"no, indeed! I never saw her moved to
tears, by reading, but once in my life."
"And pray what was she then reading?" asked Montague, with a smile.
"A little penny tract, called 'Old Sarah, the Indian Woman'"--said
Alice. "Over that she actually wept!"
"Did you read the tract, cousin Alice?"
"Yes--from mere curiosity, after witnessing the wonderful effect it
produced."
"And did it call forth your tears?"
"No, certainly not!--Sarah was a good old creature, to be sure, but
there was nothing in the tract to touch one's sensibility; and I could
never conceive what there was in it, that so moved Margarette."
"Pho, pho, Alice," said Mr. Claremont, "Margarette is not the Stoic
you represent her. I caught her no longer ago than this very morning,
with a tear in her eye, while reading."
"My dear uncle," said Margarette, in a supplicating tone, while the
pure blood in her cheeks rushed to her temples.
"What _was_ she reading, uncle?" cried Alice.
"None of your lackadaisical nonsense, you may be certain, Alice," said
Mr. Claremont. "She was reading a newspaper."
Alice laughed outright.
"Not so laughable an affair, neither, my dear," said Mr. Claremont,
"as she was reading of the bravery and sufferings of the poor
unfortunate"----
"Dear uncle!" again ejaculated Margarette.
"Poles," added Mr. Claremont, without noticing the interruption.
"The Poles? O yes," said Alice. "There was 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'--he
was a divine creature! Well might one weep at the recital of his
sufferings!"
"Doubtless, my dear--but Margarette's sympathies were moved by
sufferings of a more recent date than his--by the narrative of bravery
and suffering in all their nakedness--unadorned with the romance and
poetry that Miss Porter has thrown around her hero. And to tell you
the plain truth, Alice--I _do_ like that sensibility better, that
sympathizes with the actual miseries of our fellow creatures, even
though there be nothing elegant, or poetic about them, than that which
has tears only for some high-wrought tale of fictitious woe--the
afflictions of some fallen prince, or the sorrows of some
love-stricken swain, or lovelorn damsel."
"That, dear uncle, is as much as to say," said Alice, while her voice
was choked with rising emotion--"that I can feel for sorrows of no
other kind, and that you like Margarette's sensibility better than you
do mine! I suppose you love her, too, more than you do your own poor,
lone Alice! I feel that she is stealing every one's affection from me,
though I love with so much more ardor than she does!" and she burst
into tears.
All present felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and Margarette, who was
really distressed, resolved to give a new turn to the conversation.
Alice had seated herself on Mr. Claremont's knee, and thrown both her
arms around his neck--so leaving him to soothe her wounded feelings in
his own way, Margarette asked Montague some question, as foreign as
possible to their recent conversation. The effort succeeded--the tears
of Alice {85} were soon dried, and the remainder of the evening passed
very pleasantly.
* * * * *
One evening Montague and Gordon met the Claremont family, with a small
select party, at the house of a friend. Gordon, as usual, secured a
seat next Margarette, who was also attended by Alice, who had learned
that to be near her, was the surest way to be near the idol of her
imagination, _the Black Prince_. Montague likewise stood near them;
for he was beginning to find, that there was something extremely
attractive, even in Margarette's apparent coldness; or rather, that it
was peculiarly interesting to observe marks of deep feeling, under so
calm, so placid an exterior. Gordon recollected the conversation
concerning Lord Nelson, and the effect produced on Margarette; and
resolving in his turn to find a passage to her sensibilities, led the
conversation to heroes and great men. He made some very eloquent
remarks, as he apprehended, on heroism and greatness, which had
previously been arranged with great care.
"Whom do you consider truly great men, Mr. Gordon?" asked Alice.
"Alexander--Louis the Fourteenth--Napoleon--Voltaire and Lord Byron,"
said Gordon. "Each in his turn, and in his own way, has dazzled the
whole world!"
"Dazzled, but not enlightened!" said Montague.
Margarette looked up with one of her brightest smiles, and Montague
felt, at the bottom of his heart, that it was _warm_, as well as
brilliant.
"By Vesta," thought Gordon, "she has rewarded him for those two words,
with that smile, which I have made such useless efforts to obtain! and
_he_ has made no effort at all!--I abandon her!"
"Whom do you esteem great men, Mr. Montague?" inquired Margarette.
"O, there have been hosts of them in the world," answered Montague;
"but perhaps it would be better to tell you what I call true
greatness, than to name those whom I esteem great. True greatness, I
apprehend, consists in conquering or in duly restraining the ruling
passion; in forgiving an injury, when we have fair opportunity for
avenging ourselves; in sacrificing our own feelings and interests for
the good of others; in that benevolence that leads to a forgetfulness
of _self_, in efforts to promote the happiness and welfare of
mankind."
"The world will hardly subscribe to your explanation of _greatness_,"
said Gordon, with something like a sneer, "and few are _great!_"
"Few are--but many might be," said Montague. "Every one who foregoes
his own personal good, for the good of others; who forgets his own
happiness, in efforts to promote the happiness of those around him,
and who will not be turned aside from his purpose by the obstacles, or
the unkindness, or the ridicule with which he meets, is _great_."
"Who sees such greatness?" asked Gordon.
"It has sometimes been conspicuous on earth, as in the case of Howard,
Peter the Great of Russia, Wilberforce, Clarkson, Mrs. Fry, and
multitudes of others," said Montague. "But no matter whether it is
seen by the world or not, provided its influence be felt. And there is
no one, capable of moral action, who has not almost daily
opportunities for exercising true greatness and magnanimity of soul;
and should every one improve the opportunity, the wilderness of this
world would soon be like Eden, and her deserts like the garden of the
Lord!'"
Margarette's countenance again beamed with pleasure and approbation,
as she said--"Moral grandeur, would then be your definition of
greatness, Mr. Montague?"
"It would."
"And the only true one, according to my apprehension," said
Margarette, "and I have often had the pleasure of seeing it
exemplified. And this moral greatness leads to sublimity of thought,"
she added. "It expands the soul, and elevates the conception. As an
instance: I once attended a prayer meeting, where was a man who had no
more than ordinary capacity, and who knew nothing beyond the
cultivation of his little farm, and the path to heaven. He could
scarcely read intelligibly. Being called on to lead in the devotions
of the evening, he knelt down, and began in this manner--'O, thou, who
lightest up heaven!' To me, it was like a shock of electricity! I have
thought of it a thousand times since, and doubt whether Byron, with
all his genius, in his happiest moment of poetic inspiration, ever had
so sublime a conception."
"Would you like to examine the prints on the centre table, Miss
Lansdale?" asked Gordon, rising, and offering her his arm. With a
heart buoyant as the thistle's down, Alice accepted the proffered arm,
and Montague secured the seat she vacated.
"There is nothing here that you have not seen a hundred times," said
Gordon--"but I panted to get into a warmer latitude. The north pole
has few charms for me, notwithstanding its brilliant corruscations. By
the way, is this cousin of yours ever warmer than the summit of Mont
Blanc?"
"Why ask _me_ such a question?" said Alice.
"Because I thought you would be likely to know," answered Gordon.
"She is much admired and beloved," said Alice, with a sigh. "I wish I
had her power over the heart!"
"Admired she may be--but beloved is she?" said Gordon.
"You surprise me, Mr. Gordon," said Alice. "I thought--I feared--I
mean I conjectured"--and she stopt short.
"What did you think, fear, or conjecture, Miss Lansdale?" asked
Gordon.
"O nothing--nothing of any consequence," said she, with real or
assumed embarrassment.
"Now be frank, sweetest Alice," said Gordon, tenderly pressing her
arm, which was still locked in his, to his side--"be frank, and tell
me kindly what you thought."
"Why I knew that you admired my cousin, and I feared--pshaw--I mean
that I thought you loved her," and she sighed again.
"O no, I could never love a block of marble, even if moulded into a
Venus," said Gordon. "Believe me, sweet Alice, there must be some
signs of sensibility--some little warmth of feeling, to awaken the
affections of my heart. I could never love the twin-sister to the
snow, and such I take Miss Claremont to be."
* * * * *
{86} "So you are going to take an airing this morning, Commodore!"
said Montague, as he saw the old man getting into a wagon in the
street.
"Yes, Squire; you see I am taken from my work"--holding out a lame
foot--"and so I am going on some business into the country."
"How long have you been lame? and what is the matter with your foot?"
asked Montague.
"I sprained it a fortnight ago, sir--and it is almost the same as well
now--only Miss Margarette made me promise not to try to use it too
soon."
"Miss Margarette?--Margarette Claremont?" said Montague. "Does she
advise you about your lameness?"
"Yes, and more than that, Mr. Montague, for, under Providence, she has
cured it. There hasn't been a day since I hurt it, in which she has
not come and tended it herself, bathing it with her own little hands,
in a medicine she brought a-purpose. I couldn't put her off, Mr.
Montague! And when she has so patiently and kindly sat, with the old
man's foot in her lap, I'll tell you what I thought; I thought--here
is the very spirit of Him who said--'If I, then, your Lord and Master,
have washed your feet, ye ought also to wash one another's feet'--and
the tears ran down my old cheeks whether I would or no."
There was a slight rising in Montague's throat, but he checked it, and
inquired--"How far the Commodore was going."
"I don't know exactly, Squire, as I am going to buy a cow, and want to
hunt up a pretty good one."
"A cow!" said Montague--"What in the world can you do with a cow?"
"Why, she isn't for my own use, Mr. Montague, though she is to be kind
o' mine--but that's neither here nor there, and I must be going, as I
want to get back in good season. Good day, Squire," and the Commodore
drove off.
A few days after this, when Montague was one morning at Mr.
Claremont's, it came into Alice's mind to inquire after his
_protégés_, the Delanty's.
"O, they are all well, and in comparatively comfortable
circumstances," said Montague. "They have found a very kind friend,
who has furnished them with comfortable clothing, besides lending them
a cow. Should they be the survivors, I think they would canonize her,"
added he, smiling.
"Her!" said Alice. "Is it a lady, then?"
"Yes, the same young lady that I told you assisted in nursing the
mother. I wish you could hear them express their gratitude, in their
own emphatic dialect, with their strong Irish feelings?"
"It is strange who it can be," said Alice. "Have they not yet found
out?"
"It seems she has been very careful to conceal her name," said
Montague, "as they have not yet learned it. But yesterday I was there,
and they pointed her out to me, as she at that moment chanced to pass
by."
"And did you know her, Hubert?" eagerly inquired Alice.
"I did,"--said Montague, "but I did not tell them, as she seems so
desirous to 'do good by stealth,' and would doubtless 'blush to find
it fame'--and neither will I tell _you_, cousin Alice,"--he added, as
Margarette cast on him a look of mingled distress and supplication.
"Now that is the most provoking thing I ever knew you do, cousin
Hubert!" said Alice. "But I will find out, if I go to Delanty's on
purpose!"
"But I tell you they do not know, Alice; and beside, if a motive of
_benevolence_ would not draw you to them, when they were in distress,
pray do not let so poor a one as _curiosity_ procure them a visit, now
that they are comparatively happy."
Margarette stayed by most perseveringly this morning. She would have
given almost any thing would Alice have left the room, if only for one
minute. Great was her satisfaction when her cousin hastily rose,
saying--"I entirely forgot to send Mrs. Frost the pattern of my new
pelerine. I must do it this moment."
She had scarcely closed the door, ere Margarette said, "I must do away
the mistake under which you labor, Mr. Montague. The Delantys are
indebted to my uncle, and not to me. I was only the channel through
which his bounty flowed."
"Mr. Claremont was then Mrs. Delanty's nurse!" said Montague, smiling.
"O no, not that--but the clothing and the cow were purchased with his
money."
"I understand it perfectly," said Montague. "I have seen my cousin's
neck, encircled by a pearl-necklace; but Miss Claremont preferred
relieving the sufferings of a poor Irish family, to adorning her own
person."
"But Mr. Montague!" said Margarette.
"But Miss Claremont!" said Montague, laughing.
"Very well," said Margarette, in great perplexity what to say,--"you
must think as you will."
"I _will_ think as I _must_," said Montague,--"and bid you good
morning."
* * * * *
A few weeks after the above conversation took place, Mr. Claremont, on
returning from a morning's ride, was thrown from his horse, a few rods
from his own door, and was brought in, apparently lifeless. At the
appalling spectacle, both his nieces obeyed the impulse of nature, and
turned to fly. But Margarette had scarcely begun her retreat, ere she
returned. "I must face it," thought she, "however dreadful! kind
heaven sustain me!" Without much apparent agitation, she gave
directions, and assisted in conveying her uncle to his room; and
before medical aid could arrive, employed herself in examining his
limbs, to ascertain whether they were broken, and then in chafing his
hands and head, to produce, if possible, some signs of life. All
beside herself, seemed nearly delirious from fright.
The news of the accident flew like wild-fire, and in twenty minutes
Montague was at the house. He found Alice in the parlor, walking the
floor, and wringing her hands, in an agony of distress, constantly
exclaiming--"my dear uncle!"--"my poor, dear uncle." In answer to
Montague's hasty inquiries, she exclaimed--
"O, he is dead!--my dear, _dear_ uncle!--and what will become of his
own poor Alice?--doubly--doubly an orphan?"
Montague hastened to Mr. Claremont's room, hopeless of learning any
thing of his situation from his cousin. The physician and surgeon were
both there, and there was Margarette--pale as a statue, and apparently
as firm, supporting her uncle's head on her bosom. There was a
deathlike silence in the room, while the medical gentlemen were
endeavoring to {87} restore animation; while all feared that their
endeavors would prove useless. A groan at length announced that the
vital spark was not extinguished, and Mr. Claremont opened his eyes on
his niece.
"Dear uncle," said Margarette, "do you know me?"
"Margarette!" murmured Mr. Claremont.
"Away with her, Mr. Montague," said the physician--"she is gone!"
Montague clasped her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, while
a servant hastened after with restoratives. "She must be mine!"
thought Montague, as he supported her lifeless frame, while the
servant resorted to the usual means of restoration,--"she must be
mine! Such benevolence without ostentation,--such firmness and deep
feeling,--such exalted worth and true humility, are a rare
combination! She must be my own!"
Mr. Claremont was scarcely able to leave his room, to which he was
confined several weeks, ere Montague asked him, if he would bestow
upon him his niece.
"Yes, take her Montague," said Mr. Claremont,--"take her as the
choicest treasure one man ever bestowed on another. I know no man but
yourself, worthy of her hand and heart."
An almost convulsive pressure of the hand, was the only sign of
gratitude Montague could give.
Well, who was at the wedding?--and when did it take place?--It took
place in a few months, and a large company was assembled,--for Mr.
Claremont hated a private wedding. The Black Prince was one of the
guests.
"Are they not a beautiful--a fine-looking couple, Mr. Gordon?" said
Alice, after the _great cake_ was cut, and the congratulations were
over.
"O, yes"--said Gordon--"as fine pieces of statuary as one could wish
to look upon! Montague, indeed, has _fire_ enough--the more fortunate
for him, for a deal it must have taken to thaw the ice of your
cousin!"
"They are both a little singular," said Alice, "yet they love each
other tenderly. How happy they will be! How sweet life _must be_, when
congenial hearts are thus united forever!"
"Yes,--perhaps so--but after all, sweet Alice, it is better to do, as
you and I do--love each other, and still be free!--I would not link my
fate with that of any woman in the world. I am quite sure, that I
should hate even you, sweetest,--angel as you are, could you call me
husband. O, there is something killing to all romance, in the very
sound of that word!--Do you not agree with me, dearest?"
Alice could not utter a syllable--but cast on him a heart-rending look
of mingled disappointment, mortification and
astonishment!--"False!--ungrateful! cruel!"--at length she
murmured--and hastened to her chamber, at once to indulge and conceal
the bitterness of her feelings.
* * * * *
"Alice is mourning herself to death, for that worthless, heartless
Gordon," said Margarette to Montague, some time after their marriage.
"She is doing what she has ever done," said Montague--"thinking only
of herself, and cherishing feelings that are totally destructive of
all that is valuable in character."
"She has keen sensibility," said Margarette.
"But it is all expended on herself," said Montague. "Her sensibility
results in good to no one, for she has no _sympathy_. Her character
used to interest me, until I saw it contrasted with one so much more
valuable--so much more exalted!--It was you, my dearest wife, who
first taught me the strong distinction betwixt _sympathy_ and
_sensibility_,--and how utterly useless the latter is, when
unaccompanied by the former. With Alice, it is not love for Gordon,
but _self-love_ that is the cause of her thus pining. Let some other
romantic looking knight appear, and sue for her hand, and her
affections would be at once transformed. Should no such one appear,
she will by degrees degenerate into a peevish, useless, discontented,
burdensome old maid. And the best advice I could give to any young
lady of great sensibility, and who would be either useful or happy,
is--That she should strive to forget her own sorrows, whether _real_
or _imaginary_, and expend her sympathies on the afflictions and
distresses of her fellow-creatures. By so doing, the benevolence of
her heart would be constantly expanding, until she would on earth
approximate to the character of an angel,--and when the summons came,
would drop the garment of mortality, and shine a seraph in eternal
day."