and with dark frowning brows, and dauntless bearing, they met their
fate, impenitent and fearless. For Marian begged their lives in vain. De
Mortemar was pitiless in his just wrath! And the spurs were hacked from
the heels of the dead knight, and the base halter twisted round his cold
neck, and his dishonored corpse hung up upon the very tree to which he
had bade bind the Saxon bridegroom. And the death peals were sung, and
the death hymn was chanted; and ere the sounds of either had died away
in the forest echoes, the three marauders writhed out their villain
souls in the mild air, and swung three grim and ghastly monuments of a
foul crime and fearful retribution—and this dread rite consummated the
Saxon’s bridal!
* * * * *
WHY SHOULD I LOVE THEE?
BY JOHN S. DU SOLLE.
Why should I love thee? Thou so altered!
So cold! so passionless! The hand
Which erst so much at parting faltered—
The cheek which blushed at meeting—and
The eyes whose eloquent depths of jet,
So much of silence could redeem—
They haunt me with their sweetness yet,
But, oh! how changed they seem!
Why should I love thee, thou false-hearted?
Thou smil’st, but smil’st no more for me!
The bloom hath not thy lip departed,
Thy voice hath still its witchery.
But looks and words, though they bewitch me,
Can paint no love, where love is not;
Thy very kindnesses but teach me
How much I am forgot!
Why should I love thee? Why repine?
Thy lip some other fond lip presses;
Thine arm some other’s arms entwine;
Thy cheek some other cheek caresses;
And though to part with thee be sadness,
Oh! God! how difficult to bear,
To hope to win thee now were madness!
To love thee were despair!
* * * * *
A BELLE AT A BALL.
BY F. W. THOMAS, AUTHOR OF “HOWARD PINCKNEY,” ETC.
Miss Merry vale is dressed with taste—
With taste she always dresses—
A zone is round her virgin waist,
And flowers in her tresses;
That full-blown fellow, in her curl,
Bobs with an everlasting twirl,
As, with an air like Juno’s, she
Nods to the goodly companie.
Prouder it looks than when on high
It flouted at a flaming sky;
For now, no more on thorny stem,
It graces beauty’s diadem.
Her neck is bare—her shoulders too,
And with the cold they had been blue,
But for the flakes of mealy hue—
The powder of the pearl—
Which, like the frost on frozen shore,
Or web of gossamer, was o’er
The fascinating girl.
Deepest the drift in hollow places.
Thus maids forsaken by the graces,
And thin with hope deferred—
(I only speak from what I’ve heard;
So little of the sex I’ve seen,
I hold each one a fairy _quean_—)
Appear in such a garb of flour,
And talk with such continuous power,
And try to look so dapper,
That one might think the miller’s maid
Had come, most naturally arrayed,
And bore away the clapper.
That powder is a great transgression
Against the rosy cheek;
It buries up the whole expression;
It makes the eye look weak,
Unnatural the tress;
And throws upon the brow a blight,
As though it had grown gray with fright
At single blessedness.
Pray who would such a woman toast?
Unless he meant to drink to one
Long, long since with the buried gone,
And now an awful ghost?
Which, like all ghosts that earthward rove,
Must horrify the hues of love.
* * * * *
MISFORTUNES OF A TIMID GENTLEMAN.
BY J. ROSS BROWNE.
Book I.
No excuse is necessary for giving my autobiography to the public. It is
true I am but a timid gentleman—a quiet, inoffensive sort of person,
too diffident of my own powers to be celebrated, and too much averse to
the bustle of the world to figure as a politician or public character of
any sort; yet I cannot help thinking there are some passages in my life
which will be read with profit.
I attained my eighteenth year without more reverses of fortune than
usually attend a youth of romantic aspirations and of a poetic and
visionary turn of mind. I was a curious mixture of boldness and
timidity. My parents formerly lived in a very mountainous part of the
country; and while most of my days were spent in daring exploits amidst
crags and precipices, at night I trembled to meet, in the social circle
of neighbors, a bright eye or a dimpled cheek. The extreme bashfulness
with which I approached the other sex of my own age subjected me to a
good deal of ridicule, and finally caused me, in self-defence, to
ascribe my repugnance to their society to what was anything but the true
cause—an intuitive hatred of womankind. And truly my conduct supported
the assertion. Never was there a greater mope or a more decided
book-worm. I pretended society had no charms for me. I affected to look
with indifference on the most fascinating beauty. I shunned all
intercourse with the daughters of the neighboring gentry. All this
arose, in fact, from my excessive timidity. I never could look upon a
young female, however common-place her attractions, without the utmost
agitation. When I attempted to speak, I invariably blushed, and my heart
beat violently. Thus unfortunately organized, I reached, as I observed
before, my eighteenth year. Until this time I had kept almost entirely
aloof from female society, and, as a matter of course, my heart was
still my own.
For several years past I had lived in town. City life had no charms for
me, but circumstances compelled me to make a virtue of necessity; and in
studiously avoiding contact with the beautiful and accomplished beings
who beset me on all sides, I found my leisure hours very well occupied.
My parents urged upon me the necessity of mingling more in society. They
assured me my awkwardness would soon give way to ease and grace if I did
so, and spared no pains to show me how much depended on polished manners
and a graceful demeanor. I had two sisters, accomplished and elegant.
Every opportunity afforded by their extensive acquaintance and
flattering popularity was at my disposal; but I could not overcome that
diffidence which nature had implanted in me, and in spite of the
solicitations of my family, I remained what I had always been—a timid,
visionary youth.
Before the summer of my eighteenth year had passed away, I accidentally
acquired the friendship of a middle aged gentleman, who had passed most
of his life in the boudoir and drawing-room. Mr. Desmond was a
warm-hearted, agreeable sort of person, deeply versed in books, but too
good-natured to be pedantic, and too diffident to pique himself on the
extent of his knowledge, which, in reality, was what prompted me to
cultivate his acquaintance. At first our conversation was purely
literary. I was charmed with the wonderful taste he displayed in
criticising the literature of the day; but I soon found that his
discrimination was not confined to topics of this nature. He discoursed
fluently on scientific subjects, while with equal ease he could touch
upon the tritest gossip afloat. Insensibly I found myself, a few
evenings after our first meeting, listening with great delight to an
exordium on the sex. I had never found any one whose sentiments
respecting matters of this kind were so judicious and so happy. I felt
the full force of every word he advanced in favor of cultivating the
society of the amiable—the beautiful. My feelings, naturally ardent,
were wrought to the highest pitch of excitement, and I fervently hoped
my unfortunate temperament would not forever exclude me from the charms
he so eloquently eulogised. Mr. Desmond, unlike the generality of my
acquaintances, did not ridicule me. Indeed he kindly remarked, instead
of regarding my excessive bashfulness as anything to my discredit, that
he looked upon it as an evidence of a good heart and an amiable
disposition, and trusted I would never stifle the best traits which
nature had given me—a modest mien and a feeling mind. I felt
exceedingly grateful for the interest he seemed to take in my welfare,
and for the charitable opinion he expressed of my failings. At the same
time he earnestly advised me to avoid as much as possible being too
sensitive, and assured me that by pondering less, and mingling more in
society, I would be not only happier, but better adapted to meet the
cares of the world. Deeply impressed with the truth of this remark, I
resolved to follow his advice, whatever might be the sacrifice on my
part. An opportunity soon occurred. Like an unskilled skater beginning
his career, I conceived it extremely fortunate that my _début_ was to be
gradual. I was invited by Mr. Desmond to spend an evening with a few of
his female acquaintances. I had heard him speak of the two Miss
Melvilles as very amiable girls—angelic beings—modest, witty and
intelligent; but I confess these exordiums, however warm and sincere
from the mouth of Mr. Desmond, did not prepossess me in favor of the
young ladies so enthusiastically described. There was something,
however, in one of the names that struck my fancy. Virginia—a soft,
pretty name, full of love and euphony—Virginia Melville! I really
thought it extremely beautiful. And Emily, too—an exquisite name, but
not so charming as Virginia. Virginia Melville, I fancied, could not but
be pretty—interesting, at least. With a fluttering heart, I followed my
friend into the drawing-room of Mrs. Melville’s residence, where I was
introduced to the young sisters. My bashfulness was entirely overcome by
the admiration which their charms and conversation excited. My most
extravagant anticipations relative to the beauty of Virginia Melville
were fully realized. I had never seen, had never conceived, a being so
perfect—so angelic. She had not reached her sixteenth year, and nothing
save her intelligent mind and fine intellectual eye bespoke a more
matured age. Her figure was slight—almost ethereal—yet sufficiently
developed to convey the idea of a budding rose. It left an impression on
the mind of the beholder, that, while nothing could then add to its
captivating gracefulness—nothing make it more perfect—time, by its
mellowing influence, would increase the softness of the contour, and
render that which seemed unrivalled still more exquisitely,
transcendently beautiful. Timidly I raised my eyes to a countenance
which I shall never forget. It was characterized by all the graces of
physical and intellectual beauty combined; yet ineffable as the former
were, they were truly eclipsed by the superior brilliancy of the latter.
I had never dreamed of features so faultless, eyes so expressive, lips
so sweet, and complexion so fair and ethereal. A high, pale forehead, a
beautifully formed head, long silken hair of a dark brown, falling
gracefully over a damask cheek and a swan-like neck, and finely
pencilled eyebrows, under which were lashes and eyes of equal
brilliancy, gave the whole countenance that intellectual cast so
supremely, irresistibly fascinating, when combined
“with all youth’s sweet desires,
Mingling the meek and vestal fires
Of other worlds with all the bliss,
The fond, weak tenderness of this!”
I felt, deeply, passionately, the full influence of those charms I have
so feebly attempted to describe. I felt, too—and oh! if ever that fair
enchantress to whose power I have bowed—if ever she read these lines, I
trust she will pardon my vanity—I felt that the being before me was
formed for my happiness; that my fate depended on her; that my future
career would be presided over by her image! Of all my fantasies, this
may prove the most visionary; but before I moralize on future events, I
must not omit a description of Emily Melville, the sister of my charmer.
Though both were extremely beautiful, no just comparison can be made
between the attractions of Emily and Virginia Melville. Emily was nearly
two years older than her sister, and doubtless that short space of time
contributed to effect the difference which, while the family likeness
was preserved, was so obvious in their style of beauty. Her figure was
taller and fuller than her sister’s, and her features were characterized
by an expression of serenity and loveliness truly bewitching. A
superficial observer would pronounce her cold, but what appeared
coldness was really mildness; and mildness was her ruling trait. There
was a languid softness in her eye that contrasted beautifully with the
bright, laughing eye of her sister. Hers was the eye of a
Dudu—Virginia’s that of a Haidee; the one a fawn’s—the other a
gazelle’s. I was not sorry to see that my friend seemed deeply
interested in Miss Emily Melville. It is certainly not strange, if there
is love at first sight, that there is also jealousy. I felt quite happy
when I learned that, though surrounded by admirers, Virginia’s heart was
untouched; and on this frail foundation I was foolish enough to build a
castle. I imagined a thousand extravagant things, fully as romantic as
impracticable. I fancied how happy I would be if I lived near a lonely
little glen, in a charming little cottage, covered with nice little
woodbines; how I would marry this lovely little maiden, and how she
would be all my own, and how I would love her and be with her forever,
and never say an ill-natured word to her; how we would spend our long
summer evenings in rambling about a picturesque little park, which I
intended to adorn with shrubs and deer; and, in short, how very, very
happy we would be! how exceedingly pleasant would be our journey down
the hill of life, and how we would both die together from sheer joy and
old age! Oh, youth! child of fantasy, why lead’st thou into error?—why
buoy us with visions which cannot be realized?
The evening passed away, and I am not quite sure that I was sorry when
the hour of departure had arrived. The strange and overwhelming passion
which had taken possession of my soul filled me with embarrassment, and
aware that I acted ridiculously, it afforded much relief to escape. With
Desmond I was abrupt, or silent and moody. I could not define my
sensations, and chose rather to keep them to myself than to subject
myself to any experimental advice, even from my bosom friend. Taking the
earliest opportunity to get rid of him, I hurried to my room; but I
could not sleep; I could not lie down. I sprang from my bed, and paced
the chamber in a kind of ecstacy, absorbing but indescribable. I rushed
to the window, bathed my brow in the cold moon-beams, and gazed
rapturously on the spangled canopy above me. Everything looked
beautiful. My breast expanded. I inhaled with delight the lucid night
air, and fancied there never was a being so foolish and so happy. What
an hour—what a theme for poetry! I had never written anything in verse,
but what with moonshine and love, I could not fail to succeed. I opened
my desk, carefully locked the door, and examined the room to be certain
that none should witness my indiscretion. I then drew forth the writing
instruments, and prepared to lose not a passing thought. After much
difficulty I indited a line; but not another could I wrest from my
distracted brain. I threw down my pen in despair, pushed my desk away,
and heartily bemoaning my poetic barrenness, retired somewhat calmed to
my bed. A gradual dormancy, entrancing, delightful, stole over my
senses. I thought of Virginia Melville. I recalled every feature of her
beautiful countenance; not a smile, not a word that had charmed me, were
lost. I saw all, heard all again. Then the whole became confused. I
roamed in a garden, where the hyacinth bloomed and the honeysuckle and
woodbine gracefully twined round the oak, and the rose unfolded its
young buds. The place was lonely—far from the haunts of man; yet the
song of the linnet and the thrush enlivened its solitude, and I felt
that I was not alone. And while I roamed in this Elysian garden, I
espied a beautiful rose, a fairy-like rose, young and tender and
blooming. And I approached it and gazed upon it, and methought it moved.
I paused in wonder. I knelt me down on the green sward, and my eyes were
fixed upon the rose. And I fancied it expanded to my view, and wore a
beauteous form. In rapture I feasted on this fairy vision. I was silent.
I felt the inadequacy of language to express my admiration; and I gazed,
and my heart was full. The fairy-rose, with down-cast looks, smiled upon
me. That smile betrayed it; I recognised in the disguise the features of
her I loved. I was wild—enchanted. I snatched a leaf from a weeping
willow, and inscribed thereon a verse. I flung it on the breeze, and it
was borne to the hand of the beauteous vision. And whilst she read I
trembled. A mystic veil now obscured my sight. Full of doubt, I rushed
wildly from the spot. I bitterly deprecated my boldness. I imagined my
love was offended. I strove to banish thought. I was unhappy. I could
think of naught but the vision. Overcome with emotion, I returned to the
garden. I sought the white rose. Again I gazed upon it, and again it
assumed its magic form. The celestial countenance of the beauty was
placid and pensive. I passionately implored forgiveness. A smile, a
bewitching smile, played upon her lips, and her sparkling eyes beamed
with tenderness. I rushed forward to clasp her to my bosom. The vision
was no more—I held but a rose! I looked upon it and sighed. I bore it
away, and cherished it as an emblem of my love. A long time seemed to
elapse. I wore the rose next my heart, and thought of her I adored.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “why must this be?” I yearn to look once more upon
the object of my thoughts. I can think of naught but her as I roam
through life’s weary desert. Forever I think of her—forever my memory
clings to the past:—
“I strive to call the vision back;
I strive in vain, but still
The bosom chords so sweetly touched
In plaintive tumult thrill.”
And I ask myself what is this? and my heart tells me it is love—yea!
the voices of a thousand angels proclaim, It is Love!
My dream ended. With the imaginary words still ringing in my ears, I
awoke. I scarcely knew whether to think myself the most happy or most
miserable creature on earth. Full of conflicting emotions, I rushed out
into the clear morning air. It was now early spring. The weather was
cool, bracing, delightful. A delicious fragrance was wafted from the
neighboring woods and fields, and I breathed freely, and felt all the
vigor—the majesty of manhood. My heart was full to overflowing. I
fancied the heavens, the rising sunbeams, the bustling pedestrians, all
smiled upon me; and I was enchanted with the beauty of nature, the
benevolence and affection of mankind. I wondered if ever such a thing as
a misanthrope really existed, and my joyous heart and buoyant mind
answered, no! Oh, heaven-born flame!—lit by angels, fanned into
existence by the Divine hand—what art thou—
“Most sacred fyre, that burliest mightily
In living brests, ykindled first above,
Emongst th’ eternall spheres and lamping sky,
And thence poured into men, which men call Love?”
In a state of the most delightful beatitude, I rambled about during the
day, my countenance irradiated with smiles, my heart bursting with the
kindest feelings of humanity. Unconsciously I wandered near the dwelling
of her I loved. I watched with eagerness for a glimpse of the fairy
form, the bright vision of my dreams. A graceful figure glided from the
door. That undulating, musical walk, those fairy-like feet, those
sparkling eyes, shining like diamonds beneath a sweeping veil—oh! it
could be no other—it was Virginia Melville! With intense, rapturous
interest, I gazed upon her till she vanished in the distant throng.
Then, indeed, I felt the bitterness of my lot. Days, mayhap weeks, were
to pass before I could again feast my eyes on her charms. If the interim
were to be a blank in my existence, I could bear it; but I felt that it
was to be a desert. And, indeed, a most sterile one it proved. When,
after a lapse of months, I look back upon the time, how slowly,
painfully it wore away, I cannot conceive how I endured all the misery I
suffered.
Once more I found myself in _her_ presence. Was it a dream? Did I really
behold her again? How very, very beautiful she looked! Her sparkling
eyes were full of mirth and intelligence, her lips were wreathed in the
most fascinating smiles; she seemed the beau-ideal of all that is
graceful, elegant and spiritual, and I felt—I keenly felt—how utterly
unworthy I was of one so purely angelic.
After the usual compliments of the evening, Mr. Desmond prevailed on
Virginia to try her skill on the piano. With the kindest smile
imaginable, she acceded to the request; and gliding gracefully into the
seat, she swept her fairy fingers over notes which had never been
touched by any more fair or delicate. A light, pretty air was the
subject of her muse. I listened with rapture to the flowing sounds,
persuaded that if I had heard more brilliant musicians perform, I had
never so thoroughly enjoyed the power of music. There was a soul,
combined with a precision of time and facility of execution, in Miss
Melville’s playing, that thrilled upon the finest chords of my heart,
like the evening zephyr on the strings of an Æolian harp.
That night I wended my way home, so completely enchanted as to act like
one in a delirium. I was overwhelmed with the most delightful
sensations. For hours I could not sleep, and when, at length, an
ecstatic trance stole over my senses, I had dreams so heavenly, so
joyous, so full of love and hope and happiness, that I fancied Paradise
had no joys to equal them—no angels so bright and beautiful as
Virginia. To describe my varied sensations for the next week would
require volumes—volumes which, when written, would breathe nothing but
passion, wild, fervent and confused.
Accompanied by my friend Desmond, I continued constantly to visit the
Miss Melvilles. In the presence of Virginia I now became silent. I could
not speak. My heart was too full. Words appeared weak and inexpressive;
and, with my eyes forever riveted on those charms that thrilled my soul,
the hours flew past—hours the most delightful that I had ever
spent—hours which will ever remain a bright, sunny spot in my past
career.
Nothing had yet transpired illustrative of the title I have chosen for
my autobiography. All went on to my satisfaction—though I had not the
slightest cause to imagine that my passion was reciprocated—and I
flattered myself with the belief that for once the course of true love
ran smooth. Vanity of vanities! When has the philosophy of the Bard been
in error?
If the reader will be kind enough to suppose that a few months have
elapsed since my introduction to the Miss Melvilles, I shall introduce
him to a social group, assembled at Mrs. Melville’s residence one fine
evening in the early part of summer.
First in order, both by reason of their beauty and accomplishments, were
the fair members of the circle, the two Miss Melvilles, Mrs. Annah,
their amiable and elegant sister, and Miss Azile, an intimate friend. As
a connection existed between the latter young lady and the Miss
Melvilles, which I may find it necessary to revert to on some future
occasion, I shall briefly sketch her portraiture.
Miss Azile was one of those persons who, once seen, are never forgotten.
Seldom did there exist a being more highly gifted in mind and person. In
her form and features there was symmetry, delicacy, elegance and
expression; in her mind, acuteness, power and refinement. Her eye was
one through which the rays of a lofty soul brilliantly beamed; her teeth
were chiselled Parian, enshrined in ruby; and her dimpled cheek and
glowing complexion were bowers for grace and love. She had a mind
characterized by unusual vigor. Her wit was genuine, and when she
indulged in satire, all felt the keenness of a weapon which, though
mercifully wielded, was, in her hands, sanguinary, irresistible.
The ungentle portion of the company comprised Mr. Martagon, Mr. Pratt,
Mr. Desmond and myself. As the two former have not been mentioned
before, I shall expend a few lines in their illustration.