"Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,
And men below and saints above:
For Love is Heaven, and Heaven is Love--"
So sang Scott. Quite agreeing with the antithesis of the last line,
perhaps in the second, where he talks of men and saints, another view
of the subject, or turn of the phrase, might have introduced sinners
quite as successfully. This is said without the smallest intention of
using the word _sinners_ in a questionable manner. Love, in its purest
shape, may lead to sinning on the part of persons least interested in
the question; for is it not a sin when the folly, or caprice, or
selfishness of a third party or fourth makes a trio or quartette of
that which nature undoubtedly intended for a duet, and so spoils it?
Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts--ay, and even
cousins--sometimes put in their oar to disturb that stream which is
troubled enough without their interference, and, as the Bard of Avon
says,
"Never did run smooth."
And so it was in the case of Fanny Dawson and Edward O'Connor. A piece
of innocent fun on the part of her brother, and blind pertinacity--indeed,
downright absurdity--on her father's side, interrupted the intercourse
of affection, which had subsisted silently for many a long day between
the lovers, but was acknowledged, at last, with delight to the two whom
it most concerned, and satisfaction to all who knew or held them dear.
Yet the harmony of this sweet concordance of spirits was marred by
youthful frolic and doting absurdity. This welding together of hearts
in the purest fire of nature's own contriving was broken at a blow by a
weak old man. Is it too much to call this _a sin_? Less mischievous
things are branded with the name in the common-place parlance of the
world. The cold and phlegmatic may not understand this; but they who
_can_ love know how bitterly every after-hour of life may be poisoned
with the taint which hapless love has infused into the current of
future years, and can believe how many a heart equal to the highest
enterprise has been palsied by the touch of despair. Sweet and holy is
the duty of child to parent; but sacred also is the obligation of those
who govern in so hallowed a position. Their rule should be guided by
justice; they should pray for judgment in their mastery.
Fanny Dawson's father was an odd sort of person. His ancestors were
settlers in Ireland of the time of William the Third, and having won
their lands by the sword, it is quite natural the love of arms should
have been hereditary in the family. Mr. Dawson, therefore, had served
many years as a soldier, and was a bit of a martinet, not only in
military but all other affairs. His mind was of so tenacious a
character, that an impression once received there became indelible; and
if the Major once made up his mind, or indulged the belief, that such
and such things were so and so, the waters of truth could never wash
out the mistake--stubbornness had written them there with her own
indelible marking-ink.
Now, one of the old gentleman's weak points was a museum of the most
heterogeneous nature, consisting of odds and ends from all parts of the
world, and appertaining to all subjects. Nothing was too high or too
low: a bronze helmet from the plains of Marathon, which, to the classic
eye of an artist, conveyed the idea of a Minerva's head beneath it,
would not have been more prized by the Major than a cavalry cap with
some bullet-mark of which _he could tell an anecdote_. A certain skin
of a tiger he prized much, because the animal had dined on his dearest
friend in one of the jungles of Bengal; also a pistol which he vouched
for as being the one with which Hatfield fired at George the Third; the
hammer with which Crawley (of Hessian-boot memory) murdered his
landlady; the string which was on Viotti's violin when he played before
Queen Charlotte; the horn which was _supposed_ to be in the lantern of
Guy Fawkes; a small piece of the coat worn by the Prince of Orange on
his landing in England; and other such relics. But far above these, the
Major prized the skeleton of a horse's head, which occupied the
principal place in his museum. This he declared to be part of the
identical horse which bore Duke Schomberg when he crossed the Boyne, in
the celebrated battle so called; and with whimsical ingenuity, he had
contrived to string some wires upon the bony fabric, which yielded a
sort of hurdy-gurdy vibration to the strings when touched: and the
Major's most favourite feat was to play the tune of the Boyne Water on
the head of Duke Schomberg's horse. In short, his collection was composed
of trifles from north, south, east, and west: some leaf from the
prodigal verdure of India, or gorgeous shell from the Pacific, or paw
of bear, or tooth of walrus; but beyond all teeth, one pre-eminently
was valued--it was one of his own, which he had lost the use of by a
wound in the jaw, received in action; and no one ever entered his house
and escaped without hearing all about it, from the first shot fired in
the affair by the skirmishers, to the last charge of the victorious
cavalry. The tooth was always produced along with the story, together
with the declaration, that every dentist who ever saw it protested it
was the largest human tooth ever seen. Now some little sparring was not
unfrequent between old Mr. Dawson and Edward, on the subject of their
respective museums: the old gentleman "pooh-poohing" Edward's "rotten
rusty rubbish," as he called it, and Edward defending, as gently as he
could, his patriotic partiality for natural antiquities. This little
war never led to any evil results; for Edward not only loved Fanny too
well, but respected age too much to lean hard on the old gentleman's
weakness, or seek to reduce his fancied superiority as a collector; but
the tooth, the ill-omened tooth, at last gnawed asunder the bond of
friendship and affection which had subsisted between the two families
for so many years.
The Major had paraded his tooth so often, that Dick Dawson began to
tire of it, and for the purpose of making it a source of amusement to
himself, he stole his father's keys, one day, and opening the cabinet
in which his tooth was enshrined, he abstracted the grinder which
nature had bestowed on the Major, and substituted in its stead a
horse's tooth of no contemptible dimensions. A party some days after
dined with the old gentleman, and after dinner the story of the
skirmish turned up, as a matter of course, and the enormous size of the
tooth wound up the tedious tale.
"Hadn't you better show it to them, sir?" said Dick, from the foot of
the table.
"Indeed, then, I will," said the Major, "for it really is a curiosity."
"Let me go for it, sir," said Dick, well knowing he would be refused.
"No, no," answered his father, rising; "I never let any one go to my
pet cabinet but myself;" and so saying he left the room, and proceeded
to his museum. It has been already said, that the Major's mind was of
that character, which once being satisfied of anything could never be
convinced of the contrary; and having for years been in the habit of
drawing his own tooth out of his own cabinet, the increased size of the
one which he now extracted from it never struck him; so he returned to
the dining-room, and presented with great exultation to the company the
tooth Dick had substituted. It may be imagined how the people stared,
when an old gentleman, and moreover a major, declared upon his honour,
that a great horse's tooth was his own; but having done so, politeness
forbade they should contradict him, more particularly at the head of
his own table, so they smothered their smiles as well as they could,
and declared it was the most wonderful tooth they ever beheld: and
instead of attempting to question the fact, they launched forth in
expressions of admiration and surprise, and the fable, instead of being
questioned, was received with welcome, and made food for mirth. The
difficulty was not to laugh; and in the midst of twisted mouths,
affected sneezing, and applications of pocket-handkerchiefs to
rebellious cachinnations, Dick, the maker of the joke, sat unmoved,
sipping his claret with a serenity which might have roused the envy of
a Red Indian.
"I think that's something like a tooth!" said Dick.
"Prodigious--wonderful--tremendous!" ran round the board.
"Give it to me again," said one.
"Let me look at it once more," said another.
"Colossal!" exclaimed a third.
"Gigantic!" shouted all, as the tooth made the circuit of the table.
The Major was delighted, and never remembered his tooth to have created
such a sensation; and when at last it was returned to him, he turned it
about in his own hand, and cast many fond glances at the monstrosity,
before it was finally deposited in his waistcoat pocket. This was the
most ridiculous part of the exhibition: to see a gentleman, with the
use of his eyes, looking affectionately at a thumping horse's tooth,
and believing it to be his own. Yet this was a key to the Major's whole
character. A received opinion was with him unchangeable, no alteration
of circumstances could shake it: _it was his tooth_. A belief or a
doubt was equally sacred with him; and though his senses in the present
case should have shown him it was a horse's tooth--no, it was a piece
of himself--his own dear tooth.
After this party, the success which crowned his anecdote and its
attendant relic made him fonder of showing it off; and many a day did
Dick the Devil enjoy the astonishment of visitors as his father
exhibited the enormous tooth as his own. Fonder and fonder grew the
Major of his tooth and his story, until the unlucky day Edward O'Connor
happened to be in the museum with a party of ladies, to whom the old
gentleman was showing off his treasures with great effect and some
pains; for the Major, like most old soldiers, was very attentive to the
fair sex. At last the pet cabinet was opened, and out came the tooth.
One universal exclamation of surprise arose on its appearance: "What a
wonderful man the Major was to have such a tooth!" Just then, by an
unlucky chance, Edward, who had not seen the Major produce the wonder
from his cabinet, perceived the relic in the hand of one of the ladies
at the extremity of the group, and, fancying it had dropped from the
horse's head, he said--
"I suppose that is one of the teeth out of old Schomberg's skull."
The Major thought this an impertinent allusion to his political bias,
and said, very sharply, "What do you mean by old Schomberg?"
"The horse's head, sir," replied Edward, pointing to the musical relic.
"It was of _my_ tooth you spoke, sir, when you said 'old Schomberg,'"
returned the Major, still more offended at what he considered Edward's
evasion.
"I assure you," said Edward, with the strongest evidence of a desire to
be reconciled in his voice and manner--"I assure you, sir, it was of
_this_ tooth I spoke;" and he held up the tooth the Major had
produced as his own.
"I know it was, sir," said the Major, "and therefore I didn't relish
your allusions to my tooth."
"_Your_ tooth, sir?" exclaimed Edward, in surprise.
"Yes, sir, mine!"
"My dear sir," said Edward, "there is some mistake here; this is a
horse's tooth."
"Give it to me, sir!" said the Major, snatching it from Edward. "You
may think this very witty, Mr. O'Connor, but _I_ don't; if my tooth is
of superhuman size, I'm not to be called a horse for it, sir;--nor
Schomberg, sir!--horse--ahem! better than ass, however."
While this brief but angry outbreak took place, the bystanders, of
course, felt excessively uncomfortable; and poor Edward knew not what
to do. The Major he knew to be of too violent a temper to attempt
explanation for the present: so bowing to the ladies, he left the room,
with that flushed look of silent vexation to which courteous youth is
sometimes obliged to submit at the hands of intemperate age.
Neither Fanny nor Dick was at home when this occurred, so Edward
quitted the house, and was forbidden to enter it afterwards. The Major
suddenly entertained a violent dislike to Edward O'Connor, and hated
even to hear his name mentioned. It was in vain that explanation was
attempted; his self-love had received a violent shock, of which Edward
had been the innocent means. In vain did Dick endeavour to make himself
the peace-offering to his father's wounded consequence; in vain was it
manifest that Fanny was grieved: the old Major persisted in declaring
that Edward O'Connor was a self-sufficient jackanapes, and forbade most
peremptorily that further intercourse should take place between him and
his daughter; and she had too high a sense of duty, and he of honour,
to seek to violate the command. But though they never met, they loved
not the less fondly and truly; and Dick, grieved that a frolic of his
should have interrupted the happiness of a sister he loved and a friend
he valued, kept up a sort of communion between them by talking to
Edward about Fanny, and to Fanny about Edward, whose last song was
sure, through the good offices of the brother, to find its way into the
sister's album, already stored with many a tribute from her lover's
muse.
Fanny was a sweet creature--one of those choice and piquant bits of
Nature's creation which she sometimes vouchsafes to treat the world
with, just to show what she _can_ do. Her person I shall not attempt to
describe; for however one may endeavour to make words play the part of
colour, lineament, voice, and expression--and however successfully--still
a verbal description can never convey a true notion of personal charms;
and personal charms Fanny had, decidedly; not that she was strictly
beautiful, but, at times, nevertheless, eclipsing beauty far more
regular, and throwing symmetry into the shade, by some charm which even
they whom it fascinated could not define.
Her mind was as clear and pure as a mountain stream; and if at times it
chafed and was troubled from the course in which it ran, the temporary
turbulence only made its limpid depth and quietness more beautiful. Her
heart was the very temple of generosity, the throne of honour, and the
seat of tenderness. The gentlest sympathies dwelt in her soul, and
answered to the slightest call of another's grief; while mirth was
dancing in her eye, a word that implied the sorrow of another would
bring a tear there. She was the sweetest creature in the world!
The old Major, used to roving habits from his profession, would often
go on a ramble somewhere for weeks together, at which times Fanny went
to Merryvale to her sister, Mistress Egan, who was also a fine-hearted
creature, but less soft and sentimental than Fanny. She was of the
dashing school rather, and before she became the mother of so large a
family, thought very little of riding over a gate or a fence. Indeed,
it was her high mettle that won her the squire's heart. The story is
not long, and it may as well be told here--though a little out of
place, perhaps; but it's an Irish story, and may therefore be gently
irregular.
The squire had admired Letitia Dawson, as most of the young men of her
acquaintance did--appreciated her round waist and well-turned ankle,
her spirited eyes and cheerful laugh, and danced with her at every ball
as much as any other fine girl in the country: but never seriously
thought of her as a wife, until one day a party visited the parish
church, whose old tower was often ascended for the fine view it
commanded. At this time the tower was under repair, and the masons were
drawing up materials in a basket, which, worked by rope and pulley,
swung on a beam protruding from the top of the tower. The basket had
just been lowered for a fresh load of stones, when Letitia exclaimed,
"Wouldn't it be fine fun to get into the basket, and be hauled up to
the top of the tower?--how astonished the workmen would be to see a
lady get out of it!"
"I would be more astonished to see a lady get into it," said a
gentleman present.
"Then here goes to astonish you," said Letitia, laying hold of the rope
and jumping into the basket. In vain did her friends and the workmen
below endeavour to dissuade her; up she would go, and up she did go;
and it was during her ascent that Egan and a friend were riding towards
the church. Their attention was attracted by so strange a sight: and,
spurring onward, Egan exclaimed, "By the powers! 't is Letty Dawson!
Well done, Letty!--you're the right girl for my money! By Jove! if ever
I marry, Letty's the woman." And sure enough she _was_ the woman,
in another month.
Now, Fanny would not have done the basket feat, but she had plenty of
fun in her, notwithstanding; her spirits were light; and though, for
some time, she felt deeply the separation from Edward, she rallied
after a while, felt that unavailing sorrow but impaired the health of
the mind, and, supported by her good sense, she waited in hopefulness
for the time that Edward might claim and win her.
At Merryvale now all was expectation about the anticipated election.
The ladies were making up bows of ribbon for their partizans, and Fanny
had been so employed all the morning alone in the drawing-room; her
pretty fingers pinching, and pressing, and stitching the silken
favours, while now and then her hand wandered to a wicker-basket which
lay beside her, to draw forth a scissors or a needlecase. As she
worked, a shade of thought crossed her sweet face, like a passing cloud
across the sun; the pretty fingers stopped--the work was laid down--and
a small album gently drawn from the neighbouring basket. She opened the
book and read; they were lines of Edward O'Connor's which she drank
into her heart; they were the last he had written, which her brother
had heard him sing and had brought her
THE SNOW
I
An old man sadly said,
"Where's the snow
That fell the year that's fled?--
Where's the snow?"
As fruitless were the task
Of many a joy to ask,
As the snow!
II
The hope of airy birth,
Like the snow,
Is stain'd on reaching earth,
Like the snow:
While 't is sparkling in the ray,
'T is melting fast away,
Like the snow!
III
A cold, deceitful thing
Is the snow,
Though it come on dove-like wing--
The false snow!
'T is but rain disguised appears;
And our hopes are frozen tears,
Like the snow!
A tear _did_ course down Fanny's cheek as she read the last couplet;
and closing the book and replacing it in the little basket, she sighed,
and said, "Poor fellow!--I wish he were not so sad!"