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[Illustration: J. Addison]
CLARA HARLAND
Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine
GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, MAY, 1848. NO. 5.
CLARA HARLAND.
BY G. G. FOSTER.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
CHAPTER I.
I am no visionary--no dreamer; and yet my life has been a ceaseless
struggle between the realities of everyday care, and a myriad of
shadowy phantoms which ever haunt me. In the crowded and thronged
city; in the green walks and sunny forests of my native hills; on the
broad and boundless prairie, carpeted with velvet flowers; on the blue
and dreamy sea--it is the same. I look around, and perceive men and
women moving mechanically about me; I even take part in their
proceedings, and seem to float along the tardy current upon which they
swim, and become a part--an insignificant portion--of the dull and
stagnant scene; and yet, often and often, in the busiest moment, when
commonplace has its strongest hold upon me, and I feel actually
interested in the ordinary pursuits of my fellow-beings, of a sudden,
a great curtain seems to fall around, and enclose me on every side;
and, instead of the staid and sober visages of the throng, vague and
shadowy faces gleam around me, and magnificent eyes, bright and
dreamy, glance and flash before me like the figures on a
phantasmagoria. In such moments, there comes over me a happy
consciousness that _this_ is the reality and all else a dull and
painful dream, from which I have escaped as by a great effort. The
dreamy faces are familiar to me, and their large, spiritual eyes
encounter mine with glances of pleasant recognition. My heart is glad
within me that it has found again its friends and old companions, and
the mental outline of the common world, faintly drawn by memory,
becomes more and more dim and indistinct, like the surface of the
earth to one who soars upward in a balloon, and is at length blended
with the gray shadows of forgotten thought, which disturb me no more.
But anon some rude and jarring discord, from the world below, pierces
upward to my ear, and the air becomes suddenly dark and dreary, and
dusty, and I fall heavily to earth again.
As years steal by, these fits of delightful abstraction become rarer
and rarer. My visions seem to have lost their substantiality; and even
when they do revisit me, they are thin and transparent, and no longer
hide the real world from my sight--yet they hold strange power over
me; and when they come upon my soul, although they do not all conceal
the real, yet they concentrate upon some casual object there, and
impart to it a spirituality of aspect and quality which straightway
embalms it in my heart. Thus do I invest the faces of friends with a
holiness and fervor of devotion which belongs not to them; and when I
have wreaked the treasures of my soul upon objects thus elevated above
their real quality, I find what a false vision I have been
worshiping--its higher qualities mingle again with my own thoughts,
whence they emanated, and the real object stands before me, low, dull,
and insipid as the thousands of similar ones by which it is
surrounded. Thus do I, enamored of qualities and perfections which
exist only in my own thought, continually cheat and delude myself into
the belief that a congenial spirit has been found, when some trivial
incident breaks the spell--the charms I loved glide back to my own
soul, and the charmer, unconscious of change in himself, wonders what
has wrought so sudden an alteration in me. Then come heart-burnings
and self-reproaches against those I have foolishly loved, of
treachery, hypocrisy, and ingratitude, which they cannot understand,
and over which I mourn and weep.
I had a friend once--not long ago, for the turf is still fresh over
his gentle breast--whose soul was fashioned like my own, save that he
was all softness, and wanted the hardness and commonplace which events
and years have given to me. For a long and delightful season we held
sweet converse together; and, although he was much younger than I, yet
was there no restraint or concealment between us. Every throb of his
heart, almost every evolution of his brain, found an echo in me. I was
his mirror--a fountain in which he contemplated himself. From _him_ I
never dreamed of treachery, or selfishness, or ingratitude--and he
alone did not deceive me. He never gave me pain but once--and who
shall tell the agony of that hour, when his hand ceased to return the
pressure of my eager fingers, and the dark curtain of death shut out
the light of his dear eyes from my soul! Yet, after the anguish was
over, and I had laid him in the fragrant earth, amongst the roots of
happy flowers, where the limpid brook murmurs its soft and
never-ending requiem, and the birds come every night to dream and
sleep amid the overhanging branches, although my mortal sense was all
too dull to realize his presence, yet in my _soul_ I felt that he was
still with me. No midnight breeze came sighing through the dewy
moonlight, or brought the exhalations of the stars upon its wings,
that did not speak to me of him; and ever when I prayed, I knew that
he was near me, mingling, as of old, his soul with mine.
Poets may sing of love, and romantic youths may dream they realize the
soft delusion; strong hearts may swear they break and wither away with
unrequited passion, and keen brains may be turned by the maddening
glances of woman's eyes; but all these to me seem weak and common
emotions when compared with the intenseness of man's friendship--that
pure, devoted identification with each other which two congenial souls
experience when the alloy of no sexual or animal passion mingles with
the devotion of the spirit. I could go through fiery ordeals, or
submit with patience to the keenest tortures, both of mind or body, so
that I felt the sustaining presence of one real friend; while, if
alone, my heart shrinks from the contest, and retires dismayed upon
itself.
But my poor friend was in love, and _his_ love was as pervading and
absorbing as the fragrance of a flower, or the light of a star. The
woman he had chosen for his idol--the shrine at which his pure
devotions of heart and soul were offered--was a gay and beautiful
Creole from New Orleans, who, with her mother, and a young gentleman
who appeared in the capacity of friend, spent the summer months in the
North. They stopped at the Carlton, where my friend was boarding, and
the acquaintance had been formed quite accidentally. The lady was
beautiful, bewitching, and very tender; and, without stopping to
inquire as to the consequences, or to assure himself that he had the
least chance of success, Medwin fell desperately and hopelessly in
love in a few days. I was soon made aware of the state of the case,
for he had no secrets from me; and, foreseeing that he might very
easily have deceived himself entirely in taking for granted that the
young lady's affections were not pre-engaged, I begged him to be
cautious, and not throw away his regards upon an object, perhaps,
unattainable--perhaps even unworthy of them. I represented to him that
ladies in the South were usually not very long in falling in love; and
it was altogether probable that Clara Harland was already engaged to
the gentleman who had accompanied her and her mother, and who was
evidently a favored acquaintance. Charles, however, infatuated with
his passion, was deaf to my remonstrances, and the very next day
sought and obtained an interview, in which he declared his passion,
and was made happy by the beautiful Creole. She, however, cautioned
him to be on his guard, as her companion had for some time been a
suitor for her hand, and was a great favorite with her mother, who had
frequently and earnestly urged her to accept his attentions. The fair
girl avowed, with flashing eyes, that she loved him not, and had never
loved before she met with Medwin. "How," she exclaimed with unwonted
energy, "can dear mamma suppose that I shall ever become enamored of
that coarse, ferocious, unintellectual man? He has not a generous or
delicate sympathy in his nature, and is as rude in heart and feeling
as in manner. Beware, however, my dear Charles," continued she, with
earnestness, "of Mr. Allington. He is a bold, bad man, whom habits and
associations have made haughty, imperious, cold-blooded, and cruel;
and I tremble for you when he shall learn what has this day passed
between us. Beware of him, for _my_ sake; and, oh! promise me, dearest
Charles, that, whatever may be the consequence of what we now have
done, you will never fight with him."
Charles smiled, and pressed her hand. "Do not alarm yourself,
dearest," said he, "I love you too well to rashly expose myself to
danger. I have ever entertained a just horror of the inhuman and
barbarous practice at which you hint; and beside," continued he,
earnestly, fixing his eyes upon her face with such tenderness that the
blood rushed unconsciously to her temples beneath that dear gaze,
"since your words of hope and love to me to-day, existence possesses
new value in my eyes. Be assured I shall not rashly peril it."
They parted with kind looks and a timid pressure of the hands. Medwin
firmly resolved, let what would happen, to keep his promise to his
beautiful Creole; and Clara, convinced that, although she had been
bred and educated in the midst of a community where not to fight was
of itself dishonorable, she should be _entirely_ satisfied with what
the world, or even her own mother should say, about his cowardice and
want of honor. Poor girl! she had sadly miscalculated both the effects
of the act she had advised, and the strength of her own resolution.
In a few days Mrs. Harland suddenly announced her determination of
returning to New Orleans, and Clara sadly and tremblingly prepared
herself to take leave of her lover. He came--was told by her of her
mother's resolution to depart, which she was at no loss in tracing to
the advice of Allington--and was made alive and happy again by Charles
assuring her that he himself should start for New Orleans, although by
another route, on the very day she departed.
"Oh, now I know that you do love me, indeed!" said the beautiful girl,
while she pressed her lover's head to her dainty bosom, and, kissing
his forehead, ran out of the room.
CHAPTER II.
"Well, these d----d Yankees _are_ all a pack of cowards, after all,
and I will never defend them again," said a young Creole, as he met
Mr. Allington one morning, at the Merchants' Exchange in New Orleans.
"Not fight, and after being challenged on account of as lovely a woman
as Clara Harland! Why, what the devil did he take the trouble of
following you all the way from New York for, if he didn't mean to
_fight_ you?"
"Oh, nonsense! my dear St. Maur," replied Allington, "you don't
understand the laws of honor, as they are construed at the North.
There, my dear fellow, every thing is regulated by law; and if a
fellow treads on your corns, slanders you behind your back, or steals
your mistress, the only remedy is 'an action for damages,' and,
perhaps, a paragraph in a newspaper."
"But what says she herself to the cowardly fellow's refusal to fight
you? I suppose that now, of course, she will think no more of the
puppy, and return to Allington and first love."
"I know not--for I have not seen her these four days. But if this
beggarly attorney's clerk document is to be believed," continued
Allington, pulling a letter from his pocket, "she herself expressly
commanded him not to fight."
"Oh, do let us hear it!" cried St. Maur, and half a dozen young bloods
without vests, and with shirt-bosoms falling over their waistbands
nearly to the knee. "Do let us hear, by all means, what the
white-livered fellow has to say for himself."
"No," replied Allington, hesitatingly; "that I think would be
dishonorable; although--I--don't know--the d----d fellow wouldn't
fight, and so I am not certain that I am not released--there, St.
Maur, what the devil are you at?"
But St. Maur had snatched the missile from Allington's half-extended
hand, and mounting one of the little marble julep-tables, and
supporting himself against a massive granite pillar that ran from the
ground-floor to the base of the dome, he began reading, while the
company, now increased to half a hundred morning loungers, pressed
eagerly round to hear. As my poor friend is dead, and there are none
whose feelings can now be wounded by its publication, here is the
letter.
"SIR,--Hours of an agonized struggle, in comparison
with which mere _death_ would have been an infinite
relief, have nerved me for the task of telling you,
calmly and deliberately, that I take back my acceptance
of your challenge. When I received it, I was forgetful
of my sacred promise, and acted only from the impulse
of the moment. Had your friend staid an instant, the
matter should then have been explained. As it is, I am
positively compelled, much as my heart revolts at it,
to drag a lady into my explanation. _She_, (I need not
write her name,) bound me by a solemn and most sacred
promise--to violate which would be dishonor--that I
_would not_ fight you. I must and will keep my word,
although I have seen enough of public opinion, during
the few days of my sojourn here, to know that by doing
so I am covering myself with a load of infamy which I
may find it impossible to bear.
"But enough; my course is taken, and I must abide the
consequences, whatever they may be. I, therefore, sir,
have to beg pardon, both of yourself and your friend,
for the trouble this affair has already occasioned you.
"This letter is directed to you without the knowledge
or consent of the gentleman who was to have acted as my
friend on the occasion; and he must, therefore, be held
responsible for nothing.
"Yours respectfully."
"A very pretty piece of argument and logic, eloquently urged, withal!"
said St. Maur, as he coolly folded the letter, and leaping upon the
floor, restored it to its owner.
"Hush!" said Allington, as he hastily deposited the letter in his
pocket, "there he is. Can he have been a witness to St. Maur's folly,
in reading the letter?"
All eyes turned instinctively to the further pillar in the large room,
against which was leaning my poor friend, his face perfectly livid,
and in an attitude as if he had fallen against the granite column for
support. Several of the young Creoles approached the place where he
stood; but there was something terrible in his aspect which made them
start back, and quietly turn into the great passage leading to the
street.
Medwin had recovered, if he had fainted, (which seemed probable,) and
his eye now glared like fire.
St. Maur, however, approached him.
"So, my good Yankee friend," said he, bowing in affected politeness,
"you did not like to risk Allington here with a pistol at twelve paces
from your body, eh? You are very right, Mr. Wooden Nutmeg; it would
not be safe!"
"Beware!" uttered Medwin, in such a deep and thrilling voice, that the
Creole nearly jumped off the floor; but, before he could make a step
backward, Medwin's open hand struck him a smart blow on the cheek.
"Ten thousand hell-fires exclaimed the astonished Frenchman, leaping
back and almost tumbling over Allington, in his amazement. "What does
he mean? I will have your heart's blood, sir, for this."
Medwin said nothing, but quietly handed the discomfited bully his
card, which, however, Allington snatched away.
"What, St. Maur," cried he, would you fight a coward--a published
poltroon? You know you dare not do it."
"Let me alone," cried the infuriated Frenchman. He has struck me, and
I will have his heart's blood. _Sacre nomme de Dieu!_" screamed he,
forgetting his usual polished manner along with his English, and
leaping about like a madman. "_Donnez moi son gage!_"
"Not now, I tell you, not now. Come along and I will satisfy you in
ten minutes that you cannot fight that _coward_," emphasizing the last
word, so that Medwin could not fail to hear.
"Mr. Allington," said Medwin, coming forward into the middle of the
group, now reduced to some dozen persons--for an altercation is not of
such rarity as to create any particular excitement there--"after the
base and dishonorable use you have this day permitted to be made of a
private letter, I am sincerely glad that circumstances rendered it
impossible for me to treat you as a gentleman; but as to this person,
(pointing to St. Maur,) I can easily satisfy him that he will run no
risk of losing his reputation by honoring me with his notice. I have
the honor to refer Monsieur St. Maur to Mr. ----, now at the St.
Charles, whose character for honor is too well known throughout the
country to be disputed." And, bowing low, Medwin left the room.
"Well, now this is a pretty scrape," said St. Maur, subsiding at once;
"and I don't see how I can avoid fighting him. He is not such a
cockroach!" and the Frenchman turned a little pale, despite his yellow
skin.
"Nonsense," replied Allington, "you shall do no such thing. In the
first place, I can't spare you; and in the next, if we can
irretrievably disgrace Medwin, so that he may be shunned by everybody,
I do not think the weak head of my Clara can withstand the storm; and
she will gradually learn to despise him, too. So take no further
notice of this matter; for a blow from a published coward carries no
more disgrace with it than a bite from a dog, or a kick from an ass.
You must help me out with my plans, too, in behalf of my charming
heiress, and I'll be sure to remember you in my will. Let's take a
julep."
For three days Medwin waited in an agony of impatience to hear from
St. Maur, but not a word came--and he began to despair. Everywhere he
went he was regarded with significant glances, and pointed at, while a
disdainful whisper ran round the room, in which he could always
distinguish the words, "white-livered Yankee," "coward," or some
equally obnoxious epithet. He saw the cruel game that was playing
against him. He had forgotten that, in refusing to fight with
Allington, he had rendered it perfectly safe for every whipster in the
community to insult him; and he now became suddenly aware that he had
involved himself in a dilemma from which it was impossible for him to
escape.
In the midst of these reflections--while life had become intolerable,
and infamy and disgrace dogged his steps like a shadow--he never
entertained a doubt of Clara's love and constancy, and looked forward
to the time when he might claim her as his bride, and, amid the milder
and manlier associations of his youth, regain that calmness and
self-respect which he had here so strangely lost. His position was, in
truth, a most wretched one. Opposed to the barbarous practice of
dueling, circumstances and his own loss of self-control had forced him
to _accept_ a challenge, and then recall that acceptance, and to offer
an insult to a stranger, for the express purpose of drawing out
another.
Upon the day after his refusal to fight with Allington, he had called
at Mr. Harland's, but was told that Clara had been taken suddenly
ill, and could not be seen. This was a new and deeper anxiety, added
to his already overburdened spirit; and he really had begun to be
deserted of hope, and to contemplate a speedy relief from the pains of
existence. Nothing but the confidence which he reposed upon Clara's
love, rendered the bright sunshine an endurable blessing to the sadly
distempered youth. But he could not see her. Day after day he called,
and always the same cold, formal reply--"Miss Harland was yet very
ill, but in no danger, and could not be spoken with." Could he but see
her for an instant--could he touch her hand, or meet her smile, or
drink in the sweet music of her voice, he would feel his heart nerved
against every disaster, and would wait in patience; but all, all
alone, amid lowering brows, or sneering faces, which ever glowered
like phantoms about him--whether in reality, as he walked the streets,
or in dreams, as he tossed upon his pillow--it was too much. His heart
seemed to be on fire.
It was in this frame of mind, with reason tortured to her utmost power
of endurance, and insanity peeping into that soul which might so soon
become her own, that Medwin, while walking up the Shell-Road, and
looking wistfully at the muddy canal, which swam away sluggishly on
one hand, while the green and stagnant swamp stretched interminably
upon the other, that he was startled by the rapid approach of a
carriage, and the sound of gay and noisy mirth. He looked up. The
brilliant equipage of Mrs. Harland was hurrying by, and he had barely
time to distinguish Clara, looking as fresh and blooming as a newly
flowered rose, and laughing and chatting in a lively and even
boisterous manner with--Mr. Allington!
She leaned over the carriage-side as they whirled along, and, for an
instant, her eyes met those of her bewildered lover.
CHAPTER III.
Alas! poor, silly Clara! How dared you thus rudely tamper with a soul
of such exquisite and refined fire, that it constantly trembled and
fluttered around its earthly shrine, like the flame of burning
essence, as if doubtful whether to blaze or go out forever! Oh!
shallow-hearted woman! what a wide and glorious world of bright hopes
and angel aspirations--of beautiful thoughts and unutterable
dreamings--in all of which thou wert a part--hast thou crushed even as
the foolish child grinds the gay butterfly to powder between his
fingers. And art thou, indeed, so heartless a _coward_, that, because
men's tongues have dared to wag against the beloved of thy soul, thou
durst not own him thenceforth, and hast cast him off forever! Murmur
not, oh, woman! that thou art made the sport and plaything for rakes
and libertines to beguile a weary hour withal. Search thine own heart;
and, in that deep and dark recess, where lurk the demons of thy
destiny--pride, vanity, frowardness--behold reflected the blackness
and the _justice_ of thy fate! Who setteth his whole soul upon a
flower, and findeth its fragrance at last to be a deadly poison, if
he escape from its contact, placeth no more flowers in his bosom. In
vain they woo him with their beauteous eyes and breath of perfume. He
heeds them not, or, at best, plucks them disdainfully, to gaze upon in
listless indifference for a moment, and then cast them behind him, to
be crushed beneath the stranger's heel.
Clara's heart smote her to the quick as she caught that wild glance of
her lover, and saw the haggard ghost that looked out from those hollow
eyes. She screamed slightly, and sunk back in the carriage as pale as
marble. Allington and her mother exchanged glances, and were silent,
while the young man made a motion, as if he would support her in his
arms, and the carriage was turned homeward, and the horses urged to
their utmost speed. Clara made no resistance to the attentions of
Allington, and it was doubtful whether she was conscious--so pale, and
cold, and pulseless were her beautiful cheeks and temples; but a
tremulous quivering of the upper lip told of a storm that raged
within.
By the time she arrived at home Clara had recovered herself
completely, and, pushing aside the arm of Allington, almost rudely,
she sprang upon the _banquette_ and into the house; and, turning upon
him a look of lively indignation, darted up stairs to her chamber.
Here she was quickly rejoined by her mother, whose obtuse apprehension
had at length discovered that something was wrong, and who now came to
offer her maternal consolations.
"Mother!" exclaimed Clara, the moment she entered the room, "I am a
wretch. It was I who compelled Medwin to promise me, upon his honor as
a man, that he would not fight Allington; and now that all the world
has frowned upon him, _I_, too, have turned recreant, and cast him
off. Mother, speak to me no word of command or remonstrance. I will
never see Mr. Allington again; and I will this very hour go to Medwin,
and throw myself on my knees before him. Yes, we shall be happy!"
"My child, you are excited just now, and I beg you to wait until
morning. We will then talk the matter over calmly; and if you cannot
really be happy without Mr. Medwin, why, my child, I will not urge you
further. Come, dear girl, go to bed now, and to-morrow you will be
yourself again."
With gentle and soothing care--for the _mother_ was now all aroused in
the callous heart of this worldly woman, and bent every accent and
every motion into grace and kindness--Mrs. Harland at length succeeded
in calming the excitement of her child, and inducing her to consent to
wait until the next morning, when, if she wished, her mother said,
Medwin should be sent for. "I am sure, my child," she said, as she
kissed her and bid her good-night, "I have acted for the best, and
have nothing but your happiness in view."
And now she was alone; and leaving her bed, she leaned against the
window, while the shadowy curtain of evening, which falls in that
climate suddenly down from the sky, shut out the day, and seemed, at
the same moment, to shut the light from her heart. Then, with rapid
steps, her little feet paced the luxurious carpet of her apartment,
while her heart beat loudly and still more rapidly in her bosom. Again
she tried to rest, but the taper which she had lighted threw such
ghastly shadows upon the walls, which seemed to wave and beckon her,
that she leaped from the bed in agony, and almost screamed outright.
Hours passed slowly and sadly, and the short, sharp ringing of the
watchman's club upon the pavement beneath her window, mingled with the
chimes of the old cathedral clock as it struck midnight--and still the
poor frightened girl could neither sleep nor compose herself. Once,
indeed, she had fallen into a kind of slumber, curtained with such
horrid dreams as made it torture instead of rest. She saw her lover
with his bright eye turned sweetly upon her, as of old, and his
beautiful locks resting upon her shoulder, while she held his hand
upon her throbbing heart, and he whispered dear words and precious
sighs into her willing ear. But anon the paleness of death stole over
that manly brow--the lips fell apart, white and ghastly, and the noble
form fell down at her feet, a stiffened corse. She shrieked aloud in
her agony, and awoke. The moon had risen, and was throwing a broad and
brilliant stream of light into the apartment, and the busy breeze,
fresh from the fragrant sea, whispered its musical noises through the
waving curtains of her couch.
* * * * *
At length the white blaze of the moon went out, and the misty morn
looked dim and sad over the sleeping city. Throwing a cloak about her,
Clara hurried down the stairs, and, opening the door softly, found
herself in the street, at an hour she had never before been there.
What a strange and dreary aspect every thing seemed to wear! The
windows of the houses, as she passed, were all closed, and no one
could be seen but dozens of loitering negroes returning from market,
or here and there some industrious landlady with a small basket of
vegetables on her arm, and closely veiled, hurrying along as if to
escape observation, followed by a servant with the day's provisions in
a large basket, which she carried steadily upon her head. Every one
who met her turned and stared curiously; and as she hurried over the
long crossing of Canal street, and threaded her way between the hacks
that had already taken their station, she felt that rude eyes, and
ruder sneers were upon her. She paused not for an instant, however,
but redoubled her speed until she reached the private entrance to the
St. Charles, where, leaning for a moment against a column, she
beckoned a woman from the saloon of the baths into the vestibule, and,
putting a piece of money into her hand, whispered, "Find out the
chamber of Mr. Medwin. He is very sick, and a dear friend of mine--I
must see him immediately."
The woman disappeared up the stairs leading to the "office" of the
hotel, and, returning in a moment, made a sign for Clara to follow.
As they approached, a noise and bustle were apparent at the further
end of the corridor, and several servants were hurrying in and out, as
if some sudden accident had occurred. Clara's guide pointed out
Medwin's room, and she rushed in--feeling certain in her heart that
her lover was dying.
He lay stiff and stark upon the sofa, with a few white froth bubbles
gathered upon his lips, and a letter clasped tightly in his hand. It
seemed that he was not yet dead, for a physician, who had been hastily
summoned, was attempting to force open his mouth, as if to administer
a restorative to the dying man. As Clara approached, he stared in
astonishment, but she heeded him not, and exclaiming, "Oh, Charles,
what frightful dream is this!" threw herself on her knees before him.
Life rallied for an instant, and he opened those wild, fearful eyes.
Oh! what a world of wretchedness and despair was in that glance! He
knew her; and conquering, with a convulsive effort, the agony which
was withering up the last drops of life, caught her to his heart,
exclaiming,
"Clara, thou art forgiven! I am _not_ a coward; for I can even die and
leave thee thus. Farewell! be happy!"
* * * * *
All was over. My poor friend had fought his last battle, and his
antagonist and conqueror was Death. That pure and noble spirit, with
all its wild and restless fever-dreams, "sleeps well" amid the
beautiful solitudes of Cypress Grove Cemetery--the _home of the
stranger_--where so many proud and buoyant hearts crumble beneath the
golden air, new filled with odorous dew. And I wait patiently, yet
sadly, for the hour which is to restore me to the friend of my bosom.
THE ANCIENT AND THE MODERN MUSE.
BY LYMAN LONG.
The Muse, in times more ancient, made
The grove's thick gloom her dwelling-place,
And, queen-like, her proud sceptre swayed
O'er a submiss and trembling race.
When stirred her breath the sleeping trees,
Awe-struck, with fearful feet they trod,
And when her voice swelled on the breeze,
Adoring bowed, as to a God!
Her wildly murmured strains they caught,
As echoes from the spirit-world,
Till reeled the brain, to frenzy wrought,
With mixt amaze and rapture whirled!
Thus stern, retired, she swayed the earth,
Till, as new dawned an age of gold,
A happier era led her forth
To dwell with men, like gods of old.
To dwell with us--to roam no more!
_Ours_ is this golden age of bliss!
She comes with blessings rich in store;
And, like a sister, whispers peace.
Not now with awe-inspiring air,
But gentle as the meek-eyed dove,
And clad in smiles that angels wear,
And with an aspect full of love.
She greets us at our fire-sides, when
Sweet looks to accents sweet respond,
And breathing soft her tender strain,
More closely knits the silken bond.
Unmingled joy her smiles afford,
Where meet the mirthful, social throng,
As, gathered round the festive board,
Our healths she pledges in a song.
She meets us in our private walks,
'Mid groves that fairy glens embower,
When Morning gems her purple locks,
Or Vesper rules the silent hour.
Her hand, upon the beech's rind,
Marks well, for fair Belinda's eyes,
(Else vainly murmured to the wind,)
Thy flame, young Damon, and thy sighs.
Stern Toil, beneath her gentle sway,
Well pleased, unbends his rugged brow--
With Bloomfield chants the rustic lay,
Or guides with Burns the daisied plough.
Her form appears the bow of peace,
Upon the clouds that darken life,
Now bidding Sorrow's tears to cease,
And staying now the hand of Strife.
She smiles on me, no bard inspired,
But wand'rer o'er life's arid waste,
Who, fainting, halting, parched and tired,
One cordial, nectared drop would taste.
Companion of the pure in heart,
She tunes the lyre to David's flame,
And rapt, as mortal scenes depart,
She hymns the heaven from whence she came!
THERESA, OR GENIUS AND WOMANHOOD.
A TALE OF DOMESTIC LIFE.
BY MRS. JANE TAYLOR WORTHINGTON.
CHAPTER I.
What sad experience may be thine to bear
Through coming years;
For womanhood hath weariness and care,
And anxious tears;
And they may all be thine, to brand the brow
That in its childish beauty sleepeth now.
Theresa Germaine was a child some six years of age when I saw her
first, nearly twenty-five years ago. It is a long time to look back
on; but I well remember the bright, winning face, and cordial manners
of the little lady, when she would come to the parsonage and enliven
our tranquil hearts by her gay, spontaneous glee. She was full of life
and buoyancy; there was even then a sort of sparkling rapture about
her existence, a keen susceptibility of enjoyment, and an intense
sympathy with those she loved, which bespoke her, from the first, no
ordinary being. Ah, me! I have lived to see all that fade away, and to
feel grateful when the dust was laid on the brow I had kissed so often
in an old man's fondness--but let that pass. I must write calmly, or
tears will blind me; and I have undertaken the task of recording
Theresa's experience, not to tell how well we loved her, but to
strive, however feebly and imperfectly, to lay bare some of the
peculiarities of genius, when found in sad combination with a woman's
lot.
There was little marked or unusual in Theresa's outward life; her
visible griefs were such as come to all, but the history of her inner
being--the true and unseen life--was one of extremes. It was her fate
to feel every thing vividly; and her joys and troubles were fully
realized by the impassioned depth of her nature; and if, in my loving
remembrances, I dwell somewhat bitterly on the portion society gave
one who richly deserved its homage, and singularly needed its
indulgences; if I portray too warmly the censure and neglect that made
her path so full of trial, let me not be misunderstood. I would give
no sanction to the hasty disregard of appearances which is the
besetting sin of exalted and independent intellect. Under all
circumstances it is an unwise experiment to transgress established
rules; and in a woman, however rarely she may be gifted, it is a rash
and hazardous thing to defy public opinion. Wearying and frivolous as
many of society's conventionalities are, there is much wisdom in them;
they are indispensible links in the chain binding together "all sorts
of people," and she who breaks them knowingly, sins against one of her
greatest safeguards.
Theresa's father, a man of good birth and great acquirements, but
ruined fortunes, had come to reside in our village about five years
before the commencement of this story. She was then his only child,
his elder treasures having been laid, one after another, in distant
graves. Her mother was a tranquil, quiet woman, and still retained the
traces of a beauty which must once have been remarkable. She was a
person of placid temper and mediocre mind, but wavering in judgment,
and not in the least calculated to control the impetuosity, or guide
the enthusiasm of her ardent and reckless child. This Mr. Germaine
seemed acutely to feel; and I could read his fears in the fixed gaze
of prophetic anxiety which he would often rivet on the varying
countenance of his happy and unconscious daughter. His health was
already gradually declining, and he evidently dreaded the future, when
his favorite should be left in many respects guardianless amid the
world's temptations. In my capacity as pastor, I was a frequent
visiter at the little cottage, where, in subdued resignation he was
patiently wearing out his life; and we at length acquired that mental
intimacy which men are apt to feel when they have spoken together of
life's highest aims and holiest hopes. I was many years his
senior--for it is with the tremulous hand of old age that I write
these lines, and I felt sincere and admiring sympathy for one who,
through various perplexities and misfortunes, still retained serenity
and peace.
We were sitting together one starlight evening, in the small
vine-draperied porch of his simple dwelling. Mrs. Germaine was
occupied with household duties, and Theresa, after having asked us
both a thousand unanswerable questions, had reluctantly obeyed her
mother's summons to retire to rest.
"I cannot describe to you," said my companion, "the fear with which I
anticipate the hereafter for that child; she is one whose blended
characteristics are rare, and her fate can have no medium. Were she a
boy, and possessed of those traits, I should have no dread, for with
such energies as are even now visible in her temperament,
circumstances can be almost controlled, but it is a dangerous thing
for her own happiness, for a woman to be thus endowed."
"I think you are too desponding," was my reply; "it appears to me that
talent is necessarily in a great degree its own reward; and though it
is the fashion to talk and write much of the griefs of intellect, I
believe human sorrow is more equally divided than we acknowledge, and
that the joys resulting from high gifts far overbalance their trials."
"It may be so generally," Mr. Germaine answered, "but my experience
and observation have impressed me differently. I never knew,
personally, but one woman of genius, and she was a mournful instance
of the truth of my convictions, and of the fatal folly of striving to
pass beyond the brazen walls with which prejudice has encompassed
womanhood. She was young, fair, and flattered, and fascinating above
any comparison I can think of. Of course, she was aware of her
capabilities--for ignorance in such cases is not possible, and
naturally self-confident, she grew impatient for praise and power. Her
affections, unfortunately, were warm and enduring; but she sacrificed
them, to promote her desire for distinction, and unable, though so
superior, to escape the heart-thraldom, which is the destiny of her
sex, she died at last, more of disappointment than disease, with her
boundless aspirations all unfulfilled. I fancy I can trace in Theresa
many points of resemblance to her I have mentioned--for I knew her in
early childhood. Solicitude on this subject is the only anxiety I
cannot patiently conquer, and which makes the prospect of parting
painful." He paused for a moment, and then, as if to turn his
reflections from their depressing course, he said, "I have been
reading to-day some extracts from Mrs. Hemans' works. As I grow older
and more thoughtful, such things touch me deeply, and I experience a
constantly increasing interest in the products of female talent. There
is an intensity of sentiment, a pure tenderness of heart about such
writings generally, which, in my present tranquil state of mind, are
in harmony with my heavenward reflections, and the ideal spirit
pervading them, soothes my imagination. In my restless and hopeful
years I sought literary recreation from far different sources, but now
that I feel myself a pilgrim, and stand surrounded by shadows on the
verge of an unknown hereafter, I prize inexpressibly these glimpses of
paradise which are God's precious gift to every true and intellectual
woman."
It was thus my friend often spoke, for it was a theme on which he
always delighted to dwell. I have never seen any one whose reverence
for woman's gifts was so strong, and who appreciated with such
sincerity the moral loveliness of her perfected nature. It was about
this time that the birth of a second daughter added a new tie to Mr.
Germaine's life; and the event saddened him more than I believed any
earthly event could have done. The feeling was probably a natural one,
but it grieved me to see how he strove to crush every impulse of
tenderness toward the little one he must leave so soon.
It would have been well for Theresa had her father lived to view the
ripening of the faculties whose blossoming he already traced with the
prophetic gaze of parental affection; but she was destined to tread
her path alone, and to know in their wide extent both the triumphs and
the penalties of superiority. She was seven years of age when her
father died, leaving herself and her sister to their mother's care. I
need not relate here the many interesting interviews between Mr.
Germaine and myself, which were more and more touching as his
departure drew near. With an earnestness unutterably impressive, he
implored my watchful solicitude for his eldest daughter, entreating me
to afford her that guidance from experience, which she must inevitably
need.
"Be gentle with her," he said, "but not too indulgent; she will
require strictness of management, for with such impetuosity of nature
her judgment must often err. She is too young as yet for me to be able
to foresee the particular bent her character will assume, but I
entreat you to be her candid friend and firm adviser when she will
assuredly want both."
On the trying scenes of that period I will not longer linger; for
there is something unutterably solemn in the tranquil passing away of
a good man's soul, something that hallows to our thoughts even the
fear-fraught moment of dissolution from which mere mortality
instinctively shrinks. Yet it is a sad thing when so much worth and
wisdom leaves the earth forever; and to those who realize the
inestimable advantages and useful influences of a high example, it is
a mournful sight to look on the closing sunset of one who evidenced
the beautiful union between holiness and humanity.