_The Pirate's Story._
I am the youngest son of a gentleman of the northern part of England.
My father's family is as good as any in the county, for without laying
claim to any title of nobility, our blood is as pure and our lineage
as ancient as the most boasted in England. I had but one brother, who
succeeded at our father's death to the broad lands and rich heritage
of our name. The accursed law of primogeniture, to which I owe all the
evil that has befallen me, of course debarred me from all share in the
family estate. I had refused to enter the army, the church or the
navy, though my inclinations were in favor of the latter profession;
yet a stronger claim than ambition or a roving life kept me on the
paternal estate. It was not that I envied my brother the possession of
the wide bounds over which he ruled, or that I found less happiness in
witnessing his, for I loved my brother, as God is my witness, here, in
my lonely cabin, with this great sea around me, and this broad sky
above me; here, though no eye may ever see these lines, I write, do I
repeat it, I loved my brother dearly and proudly. It was love that
kept me idle at home while other young men of England, belonging to
the same position in society as myself, and in the same unfortunate
category of younger sons, were carving out for themselves fame and
wealth in the service of their country.
Helen Burnett was the loveliest girl I have ever seen, and I loved her
with all the passionate devotedness of a young and ardent heart; she
was to me the light of life, for all was dark when I was not with her.
She was the only daughter of our village curate, and resided near our
family mansion. We had sported together beneath the venerable trees of
the park from the earliest days of childhood. Until I left home for
college she had seemed to me as a sister, and I had loved her as such
until, on returning home from a long absence at college, I found a
blushing and beautiful young woman where I had expected, forgetting
the rapid work of time, to meet with the same playful and lovely child
I had kissed at parting. She was, indeed, beautiful; tall, graceful,
and even commanding in figure, while the mildness of an angel reposed
in the glance of her deep-blue eyes, and the sweet smile that so often
visited her lips, while her pleasantly modulated voice was music
itself.
"A lyre of widest range,
Touched by all passion--did fall down and glance
From tone to tone, and glided through all change of liveliest
utterance."
Her hair was of the darkest shade of brown, resting in soft wave-like
smoothness above her high, pale forehead. Alas! that she was _so_
lovely! had she been less so, either I might not have loved her, or I
might have been permitted by fortune to have been happy with her.
After leaving college, my time was all devoted to Helen. She loved me
no less than I loved her; and I looked forward to a quiet and happy
life, picturing the future with colorings of the brightest hope and
joyfulness.
It was at this time that my brother returned from a long tour of the
Continent. He was one of the handsomest men of the day, and had been
distinguished by the appellation which had accompanied him from court
to court, of "the handsome Englishman." He was of a medium stature,
and faultlessly proportioned; his expansive and intellectual forehead
seemed the seat of lofty thought, and his dark flashing eye, intensely
expressive, seemed to penetrate to the heart of all who met its
glance. I see him now--not in his glorious beauty, but pale--pale,
touched by the cold fingers of death.
I had too much of the pride of my race to live as a dependent on my
brother's bounty, yet I could not bear the thought of leaving Helen. I
was in no situation to marry, and in an undecided state of mind I
suffered the days to glide away.
My brother had just come back from a day's angling in the trout-stream
that flowed through his lands. He met me at the park-gate.
"Well, John," said I, "what luck to-day?"
"O, William," said he, without heeding my question, "I have seen the
most charming girl--the loveliest one that breathes. She outvies all I
have seen in my travels; do you know her. She is the curate's
daughter."
I felt a sickness at heart, like the bitterness of death--was it a
presentiment, a warning of evil to come.
"Say, William?"
"Yes--yes, she is lovely."
"She is an angel."
Sir John passed into the park, and I proceeded, with a strange
melancholy I could not dispel, to meet Helen. She was at her father's
door, and greeted me with her accustomed kindness of voice and manner.
"Why are you so sad this lovely evening William?"
"Sad!--am I sad?"
"You look so."
"Well, I will be so no longer, then;" and I endeavored to shake off my
depression, but not succeeding, I bade her farewell at an earlier hour
than was my custom.
From that day my brother's angling excursions became more
frequent--but he seldom returned with a full basket. He often spoke to
me of Helen, but I always replied carelessly, and changed the topic of
conversation to something else, yet when alone, I was in continual
torment from my thoughts. I endeavored to console myself with the
reflection that Helen's love was plighted to me, and that she would
not change, yet my thoughts were continually recurring to my brother's
great advantages over me in every respect, not only in fortune but in
personal appearance; and I had already, in my suspicions, placed him
in the light of a rival for the hand of Helen. I knew his high-minded
and honorable disposition too well to fancy for a moment that he would
attempt her ruin; and I also knew that there was nothing in the
inferior station of Helen's family that would prevent him from seeking
her hand in marriage, if she had compelled his love.
All that followed might perhaps have been prevented had I at first
told my brother frankly of my love for Helen; but a foolish desire to
prove her love for me, and a certain feeling of self-respect kept me
silent.
It was not a long time before I either saw, or fancied I saw, a change
in the manner of Helen toward me--the thought was torture. I was for
days undecided how to act, but at length determined to learn the true
state of things. I knew my brother was often at the parsonage, and I
trembled for the result.
"Helen," I asked her, "is not my brother a frequent visitor here?"
It was twilight, but I thought I observed a heightened color in her
cheek.
"Yes, he has been here several times since his return."
"Dear Helen, answer me frankly, has he ever spoken to you of love?"
She hesitated, but at length replied,
"He has."
"And did you not tell him your vows were plighted to another?"
"My father entered the room before I made any reply at all."
"Helen, do you love me now the same as ever you have done?"
"You have my plighted word, William." Yet there was something
bordering on coldness even in the sweet accents with which she spoke;
the nice instinct of love detects each gradation of feeling with an
unerring certainty. I was not satisfied, and when I left her, I was
more unhappy than ever. I longed to speak to my brother on the
subject, yet some indescribable feeling prevented me; and I allowed
the days to glide away, growing more and more troubled in mind as they
passed by.
I was now convinced that Helen's affection for me was not what it had
been; and after a short interview with her, in which she had again
repeated her love for me, but in such chilling tones that I felt it
was not from the heart she spoke, I sought the chamber of my brother
in a state almost bordering on madness. All of our race have been of
ungovernable passions, but none more so than myself. I paused at his
door to regain in some degree my self-command, then lifting the latch,
I entered.
"Ah, brother!" said Sir John, in a cheerful tone.
"Yes, your younger brother," replied I, bitterly.
Sir John started with wonder.
"Why, William, what mean you?"
I paid no heed to the interruption, but continued growing, if
possible, still more enraged as I proceeded.
"Are not all the broad lands of our family estate yours--its parks,
its meadows, its streams; this venerable mansion, where the _elder
son_ has rioted for so many generations, leaving the younger to make
his way in the world as best he may."
"Brother, are you mad? My purse is yours--I have nothing that is not
yours."
"You have every thing, and not content with that, you have sought to
win away the love of my affianced bride."
"Who mean you, William?"
"Helen Burnett."
My brother turned pale, and gazing upon me for a moment with
astonishment, he heaved a deep sigh, and covered his face with his
hands.
I folded my arms, and stood looking upon him scornfully, for my
passion had made me consider him in the light of one who had knowingly
stolen away my bride.
Sir John at length uncovered his face and spoke.
"I would to God, William, you had told me this sooner."
"Is it then too late?" I inquired, bitterly.
"Too late--too late for my happiness, but not too late for justice and
honor. She is yours, William, I resign all pretensions to her hand,
and will cease to visit the parsonage."
I was touched by the generous spirit of my brother, and by the
mournful shadow which clouded his noble brow. I have ever acted from
impulse, and seizing him by the hand, I said,
"Not so, John--not so! She is, as I have told you, my affianced bride;
her solemn and oft-repeated vows are mine, and I have thought that her
love was forever mine; but this very night I plainly perceived that a
change has been wrought in her feelings. She treated me with coldness
instead of warmth, and maddened by my interview with her, I rushed
into your presence, and have blamed you unjustly."
"My dear brother--"
"No, no, John, I was wrong to accuse you. I should have better known
your nobleness. Henceforth let us stand on equal ground; I do not want
an unwilling bride, and if you can win her love from me, take her,
though it drive me mad."
A gleam of pleasure passed over Sir John's countenance as he replied,
"Be it so, my brother, it is but honorable; yet will I at once resign
all hope, and leave the country if you but will it so."
"Sir John, have you reason to think that Helen loves you?"
"She has never said so, but I did not think she looked coldly upon
me."
"She is 'false, false as hell!'"
"My dear William, however this suite terminate, any thing in my power
shall be done for you. If the estates were not entailed, I would at
once give you a deed for half of them, and then I should have no
advantage over you in wealth or position. Here is an order for a
hundred thousand pounds."
"Sir John I will accept nothing; if I lose Helen, I shall have no more
to live for, and I warn you, if I become mad from disappointment, do
not cross my path, or I know not the consequence."
"You do not threaten me."
I felt the turbulent passions of my nature rising within me, and
fearing that I should lose all self-command, I rushed from the room,
and entering the silent park, I wandered from grove to grove till the
cool air of the night had calmed my raging spirit, when I sought my
own chamber.
I had never told the worthy curate of my love for his daughter, and
Helen had never been accustomed to depend on him for advice or
consolation. It was to her mother that she had always turned for both,
and that mother had died but a year before the return of my brother.
Mr. Burnett was a quiet student, passionately fond of his books, as
innocent of the world as a child, only fretful and peevish when any
thing occurred to disturb the quiet monotony of his existence, and
apparently unconscious that his little Helen had grown from a child
to a woman. His mind was wholly wrapped up in his studies, even at his
meals it was abstracted, and he retired hastily to his closet. Helen
had no inclination to disturb the serenity of his life, until it
became absolutely necessary that he should be made acquainted with her
engagement to me; and I had been too thoughtless of all but my own
happiness to intrude upon his privacy, confident that his sanction to
our marriage would not be refused whenever demanded.
I had yet to learn the lesson, bitter and agonizing, that no woman is
proof against the captivating temptations of ambition, and the glare
of wealth. I know but little of the sex; they are called angels, and I
had thought Helen was an angel--alas! I found my mistake. I read my
doom in the averted coldness of her glance; I felt it in the unwilling
pressure of her hand whenever we met, and I knew it when I gazed upon
the countenance of my brother, on which was a quiet glow of happiness
his expressive features could not conceal, even when he knew my
searching glance was upon him. O! the agony of feeling which oppressed
me in those bitter days; I felt all the savage passions of my nature
rising within me; there were moments when I felt as if I could gladly
see my brother and Helen stretched dead at my feet. Day by day these
vindictive thoughts increased within me. It wanted but the finishing
stroke to make me completely mad--it came. Though I had long dreaded
to make the trial, on which all my happiness for this world rested, I
at length determined to put it off no longer.
The shadows of twilight were settling over the earth as I slowly and
sadly approached the parsonage. My head was bowed upon my breast as I
walked with a noiseless step upon the little path that led to the
unpretending dwelling. I was not aware how near I had come, till a ray
of light from the window fell across the path, and recalled me to
myself. As I stopped, I heard the tones of my brother's voice in low
and earnest conversation. I drew nearer, and beheld a sight which
rooted me to the spot, even though I was not wholly unprepared for
such a scene.
My brother and Helen were seated in the little arbor before the
parsonage, as she and myself had often before sat when I fancied our
love was lasting as life. In the dim light I could see that my
brother's arm was round her waist, and that her head rested upon his
shoulder. I could hear their conversation.
"And you do love me, then, Helen?"
I heard no answer, but the long curls moved slightly upon my brother's
shoulder, and as he bent his head and kissed her, I felt that he was
answered--I was answered--that he _was_ loved.
My brain burned as if on fire--and I sunk to the earth with a low
groan. How long I remained unconscious I do not know; when I
recovered, Helen and Sir John stood beside me. I sprung to my feet,
and gazed upon them with the glare of a maniac. It was so--my brain
was crazed.
"William," said Helen.
Her soft voice fell upon my ears with a singular cadence. With a
fierce laugh I struck my brother to the earth, and rushed forth into
the forest. All that night I must have wandered through its depths. I
found myself at the break of day miles from our mansion, lying beneath
an aged oak. I did not seem to know myself. I cannot now describe the
feelings and thoughts which raged within me. The wild storm which is
now lashing the ocean without my cabin is not more wild and
fierce--the black sky above me is not more dark and gloomy. They
seemed at length to settle into one stern, unchanging emotion, and
that was hatred toward my brother, and a stern determination to
revenge upon him the cruel wrong which had driven me mad.
My path led along the course of a mountain torrent, whose sudden
descent as it hurried toward the river, formed successive water-falls
not unmusical in their cadence. A few purple beech and drooping
willows with here and there a mountain ash, skirted the ravine that
formed its bed; their leaves had fallen before the blasts of autumn,
they seemed emblematic of myself; like me their glory had
departed--they were shorn of their loveliness by the rough storm, left
bare and verdureless in the chilling breath of autumn; the seasons in
their round would restore to them their beauty and their bloom,
clothing their branches again in all the freshness of youth; but what
should give back to me the freshness and youth of the heart? what
restore the desolation of of the soul?
Weak and exhausted, I flung myself down in a rude grotto, which
commanded a view of the foaming stream as it washed the rocks below;
it was a scene fitted to my mood, for I turned in disgust from the
beautiful landscape an opening in the forest revealed--the beauty of
earth had forever passed away from me. That same opening, however,
unfolded to the sight the gray towers of my family mansion, and at
once I started to my feet and bent my course toward them.
At length I reached my home--how hateful every thing about the
venerable building seemed. I stole to my chamber, and falling upon my
couch, slept from pure exhaustion.
It was night when I awoke. I arose, but did not leave my room; seated
by the window with the cold wind of November blowing upon my burning
brow, I nursed my thoughts of vengeance. I forgot that he against whom
I harbored such thoughts was my only brother; I forgot my self-offered
trial of our powers with Helen; I forgot every thing--every thing but
the fiery feeling of revenge. Yes, I was mad.
Day after day I wandered around the old castle, shunning every one. My
brother strove to converse with me, but glaring upon him like a maniac
as I was, I rushed past him. I felt the poison of hatred working
within me, and I knew the time was coming when my revengeful spirit
would find its vent.
I often wandered toward the parsonage, but never sought an interview
with Helen. At times I caught a glimpse of her light form as it passed
by a window or before the open door that led into the hall. One
evening I saw my brother enter, and drawing near the window, I saw
through the slightly-parted curtain, such evidence of their mutual
affection, that, if possible, I became more than ever crazy in my
anguish and despair. I waited for him to come out long hours, hours to
me of bitterest sorrow, to him of most intense delight. It was an
exceedingly cold night. A slight snow had fallen during the day, and
the landscape around me glistening in the moonlight, seemed wrapped in
a robe of the purest white. Yet as I gazed all seemed to turn into the
deep hue of blood--wherever I gazed, every thing presented the same
fearful coloring. It was but the shadowy reflection of a coming deed
that should forever stain my soul with a deeper red, that the years of
eternity could never efface.
At length my brother opened the door of the parsonage and came forth.
Leaning against the trunk of an old tree but a little distance from
them, I saw and heard the parting acts of endearment. At that terrible
moment the determination of my soul was made, and I heard the dark
devil within me whisper one of you must die. I shuddered at the
thought, but when scarcely out of sight of the parsonage, almost as
soon as the door had closed upon the form of Helen, I confronted my
brother. Sir John started back, surprised.
"What, William, is it you?"
I laughed scornfully.
"My poor brother!"
"Do you dare to pity me--ha! ha! ha! Sir John! one of us must die this
night--here, upon this spot; here are two pistols, take one of them,
and it will be soon seen which is the fated one."
Sir John mechanically took the pistol; cocking my own, I retired a few
paces, and turning, exclaimed,
"Are you ready?"
My words recalled him to himself; flinging his pistol far into the
wood, he exclaimed,
"I will not fire at my brother."
"Coward!"
"The name belongs not to our race; fire at me if you will, I will not
at you."
Enraged beyond expression, yet even in my madness ashamed to fire at
an unarmed man, I hesitated.
My brother spoke.
"Come, William, let us go home."
"Home!--ha! ha! ha! my home is the wood and the cave! Here, take my
good-night."
Thus speaking I flung my pistol full at his face with all my strength;
it struck him lengthwise, and being cocked, went off in consequence of
the concussion.
Sir John fell upon the cold snow. I rushed up to him, and beheld the
blood flowing in torrents from a ghastly wound; the ball had taken a
downward direction, and penetrated the abdomen.
"William," he said, faintly, "you have murdered me. God forgive you!"
It seemed as if my reason came back to me at that terrible moment as
suddenly as it had left me. At the report of my pistol, I had heard a
loud scream in the parsonage, and almost at the same time with myself
Helen rushed up to the side of my brother.
"Oh!" she cried, in accents of agony, "who has done this?"
"Who!" said I, bitterly, "do you ask? You have done it; but no, Helen,
I do not mean it--let us carry him into the parsonage."
With difficulty we lifted the body of my brother, and bearing him into
the house, laid him upon a bed. Helen, who had up to this time been
sustained by the necessity of exertion, fainted beside the body. I
stood gazing upon them in stupid despair. The worthy pastor opened the
door of the room; he had heard an unusual noise, and left his books to
learn the cause.
I stopped not to converse with him, I could not trust myself to speak,
but stooping to the lifeless form of Helen, I imprinted a last kiss
upon her pale lips, and burst from the chamber. I do not know the
result of that fatal night. It may be that my brother and Helen were
both restored to life and happiness. God grant that it was so. It may
be that the spirits of both had already passed to another world when I
broke from the room, leaving the pale and astonished pastor gazing
upon the lifeless bodies of his only daughter and the young lord of
the manor. Years have passed since then, and not a happy hour have
their long ages borne to me; yet methinks if I could but know that my
brother and Helen are living in happiness in the mansion of my
fathers, much that is dark and despairing in the remnant of life would
be taken from the future.
That night I bade farewell to the haunts of boyhood, and the next day
I was out upon the broad ocean. I had jumped aboard of a little vessel
which was just weighing anchor, without asking its destination or
caring where it bore me. I made brief reply to all interrogatories,
merely showing a purse of gold, which was sufficient answer, inasmuch
as it showed I was not to be an unprofitable part of the cargo.
Seated upon the companion-way, that evening I watched the receding
shores of my native isle, and as the sunlight went out on its white
cliffs, leaving them in sombre shade, I felt that so had the light of
my life gone out, leaving the darkness of despair forever. Reckless as
I was of the future, and dark as was the past, I was not yet dead to
all emotion, and I could not witness my native land fading from my
view without experiencing those melancholy feelings which the
endearing recollections of former years excite, embittered as they
were with me by the thought that even if I ever should return to the
home of my fathers, I should find no kindred to welcome me back. No
wonder, then, that I felt a chilling sickness of the heart as I caught
a last glimpse of the Wicklow Mountains gleaming in the warm colorings
of the evening sun, as they mingled their hoary summits with the "dewy
skies" of my native isle.
The vessel on which I had chanced to take passage was bound for the
West Indies. It was a small merchantman, and fell an easy prey to the
first pirate that gave chase. We were boarded and all consigned to
death. When the command was given to the pirates to shoot us all
through the head, I stepped forward with a smile, and a heart
partaking more of gladness than it had felt for long months, a pistol
was at my temple, when the stern voice of the pirate captain commanded
his man to stay his hand. He stepped forward and gazed into my face.
"My fine fellow, are you not afraid to die?"
"I have nothing to live for--blow away, and I will thank you."
"By heaven, you are just the man for us! Now take your choice, I have
no objection to shoot you, indeed it would be rather pleasant than
otherwise, but one of my lieutenants was killed yesterday, and you can
fill his place if you will. I give you five minutes to decide while we
are dispatching these dogs." I gazed upon the cruel work--it did not
shock me; I even smiled at their agony, and had determined to share
their fate, when a momentary thought of the unknown, mysterious
hereafter restrained my advancing step. Am I ready, thought I, to
plunge into its mysteries. I shuddered at the thought. It was not the
beautiful blue sky unrolled above me, nor the broad, playful sea
around that wooed me to life. No, it was that fear of the "something
after death."
"Are you ready to answer?"
"I am thine."
"It is well, throw these carcasses into the sea, and set all sail for
the Bermudas. Well, lieutenant," continued he, as the ship fell off
before the wind, "give us your name, or it will be awkward work
hailing you."
"William--" I stopped, the pride of my race arose within me.
"Well?"
"I will not give my name--call me William, I'll answer to that."
"Very well--lieutenant William, my lads, your second lieutenant."
The men seemed to like me from the first, and as I gazed upon them
with a proud, fearless eye, a hearty cheer arose that endorsed my
command.
Since then my home has been the pirate's deck; my heart has grown
harder and harder with the lapse of time. I love the sight of blood
better than I love the flowing wine--the agonizing shriek of death
better than the sweetest music--like an emissary of evil I gloat over
the tortures of man. I have learned to hate the land of my birth, and
all who first drew breath upon her detested soil. I have been foremost
in every conflict, yet have I not met death--the only foe whom I
cannot conquer by my fierce will and dark heart.
I could not long remain a subordinate in command. I had become the
idol of our lawless crew, and a single blow from my sword laid our
captain low in death upon his own deck; and I filled his place,
smiling with a fiendish pleasure, as I saw his body thrown into the
waves, and the hungry sharks severing the limbs yet throbbing with
life. I have no feeling for my kind--yet I was not meant for this.
Under happier auspices, I might have been a leader in the ranks of God
as I am now in those of Satan; my sword might have been drawn for my
native land with the purest and loftiest feelings of patriotism,
instead of being turned against her and her children. Even now, in the
midst of my crimes and desolation, my heart throbs when I think of the
great and good of earth, and I feel that, like them, I might have left
a name of boast and pride to mankind; now, I shall perish, unknown and
unwept; the annals of my house shall never record that one of its
scions led a pirate crew to deeds of bloody cruelty and death. Long
since I have buried my name in oblivion--I am dead to my kindred, dead
to the world; the caves of ocean are yawning for the body of the
pirate-chief, and there will he sleep with the howling ocean and the
shrieking storm to sing his requiem and his dirge.
[_To be continued._
DREAMS.
Yes, there were pleasant voices yesternight,
Humming within mine ear a tale of truth,
Reminding me of days ere the sad blight
Of care had dimmed the brightness of my youth:
Yes, they were pleasant voices; but, forsooth,
They threw a kind of melancholy charm
Around my heart; as if in vengeful ruth,
Our very dreams have knowledge of the harm
Ourselves do to ourselves, without the least alarm!
I love such dreams, for at my couch there stood
One who, in other lands, with magic spell,
Had taught my untaught heart to love the good,
The pure, the holy, which in her did dwell.
It was a lovely image, and too well
I do remember me the fatal hour,
When that bright image--but I may not tell
How deep the thraldom, absolute the power--
My very dreams decide it was her only dower.
_Sandwich Islands._
What are our dreams? A sort of fancy sketches,
Limned on the mind's retina, with a grace
More subtle than the wakeful artist catches,
And tinted with a more ethereal trace.
Our dreams annihilate both time and space,
And waft us, with magnetic swiftness, back
O'er an oblivious decade to the place
Where youth's fond visions clustered o'er our track;
Of youth's fond hopes decayed, alas! there is no lack!
I love such dreams, for they are more than real;
They have a passion in them in whose birth
The heart receives again its beau ideal--
Its Platonized embodiment of worth.
Call ye them dreams! then what a mortal dearth
Throws its gaunt shadow o'er our little life!
Our very joy is mockery of mirth,
And our quiescence agony of strife:
If dreams are naught but dreams, what is our real life?
E. O. H.
A LEAF IN THE LIFE OF LEDYARD LINCOLN.
A SKETCH.
BY MARY SPENCER PEASE.
It was in the joyous leaf-giving, life-giving month of June, of 18--,
after an absence of six years, that I found myself once more among my
own dearly loved native hills.
An intense worshiper of Nature, I had gratified to the utmost my
passion and curiosity by exploring all the accessible regions of the
old world. I had studied every scene that was in any way famous, or
_in_famous I might say with regard to some, if the necessity of
clambering down or up unclimbable precipices, or wading through
interminable swamps, could render them so.
With all the fatigue and hardships I had undergone my reward was
great, and had more than repaid me for the perilous dangers I had
courted and conquered. I had gazed, and dreamed, and raved by turns. I
had been melted into tears of tenderness by the perfect harmony and
loveliness of some scenes, and had been frozen into awe by the
magnificent grandeur and terrible sublimity of others. And, after
those six years of travel in foreign lands, I had returned, my brain
one endless panorama of hills, valleys and cloud-capped mountains,
earth, skies, wood and water. Not one of those gorgeous scenes,
however, had moved me as I was moved when once again I beheld my
boyhood's home--the stately mansion of my fathers. Half hidden, it
rose majestically amid the noble elms that surrounded it; there lay
the velvet-green sloping lawn in front--down which, as a boy, I had
rolled in the summer and sledded in the winter--there the wild,
night-dark ravine in the rear--fit haunt for elves and gnomes--that
terminated amid jagged rocks and tangled trees, in a rushing, roaring
brook of no mean dimensions, almost as large as many of the so-called
rivers of the mother country. Just at this point, at the turn of the
old time-worn stage-road, where the venerable, picturesque old
homestead of my sires burst thus suddenly into view, an opening in the
trees, whether by accident or design, revealed one of the very
merriest, maddest of musical water-falls, that went foaming and
tumbling its snow-white, sparkling waters over a bed of huge rocks,
and then, by a sudden wilful bend, that same loud-uttering brook was
lost to view.
As the rattling stage neared my home, my heart leaped within me, and
every fibre of it trembled with emotion. I could have hugged and
kissed each familiar sturdy old tree, looking so grand and natural. My
soul warmed and yearned toward the well remembered scene; and as I
thought upon my fond, doting mother and my loving, lovely sisters, and
my ever-indulgent father, I could have wept in the intensity of my
joy at finding myself so near them, and breathing the same free, pure,
health-giving air that had nurtured my childhood. But was there not
sitting directly opposite to me one of the most exquisitely beautiful
of God's lovely women; and did not her saucy, demure eyes seem to read
my very soul? I therefore restrained a display of my feelings, for it
would not have appeared in the least dignified or proper in a
fine-looking young man (such as I imagined myself to be) of
four-and-twenty, to be seen with eyes streaming like a young girl.
More than once, during our short stage-coach ride had our eyes met;
and hers had revealed to me a living well of spiritual beauty; and
although they were withdrawn as soon as they encountered mine--not
coquettishly, but with true feminine modesty--still they were not
turned away until our mutual eyes had flashed one electrical spark of
mutual understanding and mutual sympathy, that whole volumes of dull
words could never express either as vividly or as truly. What a
heaven-born mystery is contained in the glance of an eye: it can kill
and can make alive; it can fill the heart with a sudden and delicious
ecstasy, and it can plunge it into the deepest, darkest despair.
I gave her one last look as the stage stopped before my father's door,
and if it expressed one tithe of what I felt, it told her of my warm
admiration of her glorious beauty, and of my sorrow at leaving her,
perhaps forever, without knowing more of her.
For the time the matchless image of my stage-coach companion was lost
in the loving embraces and tender greetings of my family. I felt it
truly refreshing, after six years of exile from my own kith and kin,
to be caressed and made much of; to be told by three deliciously
beautiful, exquisitely graceful sisters, hanging around one, and
kissing one every other word, to be told how much the few last years
had improved one, how handsome, &c. one was grown; was it not enough
to somewhat turn one's brain, and make one a little vain and
considerably happy.
In the still hush of the night, after finding myself once more in my
own room--_my_ room, with its cabinets of shells and mosses, that I
had collected when a boy in my various trips to the seashore, all
religiously left arranged as I had left them, its guns, fishing-rods,
stuffed rabbits and birds, its preserved rattle-snakes and cases of
insects, all of which had stood for so long a time in their respective
places that they had become a part of the room--in the still hush of
the night the divine image of my most beautiful stage-coach companion
arose before me. The evening was warm and soft, and gleaming in the
gorgeous moonlight lay that wild, weird ravine, and the ever downward,
foaming water-fall. Its musical utterings, the delicious moonlight,
and my own newly awakened and hitherto invulnerable heart, all
conspired to make me poetical and inspired, or at least to imagine
myself to be so; and pardon me if I gave utterance in verse to some of
my feelings. But do not in the least imagine that you are going by any
means to be presented with a fatiguing copy of my passionate numbers;
in the first place I am very diffident, and in the next--but never
mind the next, I will tell you in plain prose that I felt convinced in
my heart, I felt a rapturous presentiment that the unutterably lovely
being I had that day beheld would ere long be my own dear little wife,
forever and forever. An indistinct dream of having somewhere, at some
time before, known her haunted me and tormented me, but I racked my
brains in vain to recollect the spot or time, and finally came to the
conclusion that it had been in another state of existence we had met.
I had been home but a few days when business letters came, demanding
the presence of my father or myself in Philadelphia. My father
expressed a desire that I should go, and a certain internal prompting
urged me to comply with his request. The next morning bright and early
found me seated in the same stage-coach in which I had met her. The
due progress of steamboat and cars deposited me safely the day after
in the goodly city of Squareruledom.
The first leisure moment at my command, I paid my respects to the
family of my father's brother. I found my good uncle and aunt at home;
but my little pet Emily--their only child--whom I had last seen a rosy
romping little imp of twelve--was unfortunately out. My uncle urged me
very hard to make his house my home during my stay in Philadelphia;
but I had taken up my abode in the family of an old college chum of
mine, who had lately commenced the practice of the art of healing, and
who I knew would be none the worse from a little of my help in a
pecuniary way. I therefore declined my kind uncle's request, with a
promise to come and see them often.
Judge of my inexpressible joy when, turning a corner of a street,
after leaving my uncle's, who should I chance upon but the very being
of whom my brain and heart were full! Yes, there was the identical
she, and bless her dear little heart! she gave me a bright half smile
of recognition, which I returned with as profound a bow as ever
courtier bowed to queen, or devotee to Pope's sublime imperial toe.
An omnibus came rolling by, which she, with a motion of her neat
little gloved hand, bid stop. She stepped lightly into it, while I,
with my usual impetuosity, without knowing exactly what I was doing,
sprang after her. I consoled myself for my apparent rudeness by
throwing the entire blame upon the elective affinities.
On we went, and from time to time as I stole a glance at her sweet
face, I thought I detected a sly, mischievous little devil playing
around the corners of her small dimpled mouth, and about the pure lids
of her downcast long-fringed eyes. She never vouchsafed me a look,
however; and as we went on, and as I still watched her lovely face, a
dread vision arose up before me of a six-foot and well proportioned
youth, with fierce whiskers and a moustache of undisputable cut and
style, that I remembered to have seen with the young lady during our
stage-coach ride together--that I remembered, with a terrible
heart-sinking, was impressively attentive to her. I inwardly resolved
to let nature have her way, and let all the hair grow on my face that
would; what if it did grow a little reddish or so--why I should
resemble the rising sun, with my glory like a halo around me.
Seriously, I have long been of the opinion that a shaved face is as
much of a disgrace, and ought to be so considered, as a shaved head
fresh from prison. Why do we not finish the half completed work and
actually shave off the hair of our heads, our eye-brows and lashes, as
well as our beards, and thus go cool and comfortable through the
world? There would be this advantage in it, the disciples of Spurzheim
would have no trouble of making a map of our bumps at sight; and then
think what an immense saving it would be in combs and brushes, to say
nothing of pomatum, which some so freely use. I rejoice sincerely to
see the sudden rise in crops of hair, and most truly hope they will
not have as rapid a fall. Shaving is artificial and injurious,
exposing parts to cold that Nature never meant should be exposed.
Black, white or red--hair is a protection and ornament that no manly
face or head should be without. Rejoice ye, therefore, over every
repentant sinner who tarrieth in Jericho and letteth his beard to
grow.
But to return to my little omnibus companion, who by this time was
gracefully moving over the smooth gravel-walks of Fairmount--for there
we had stopped--and exceedingly refreshing were its cool shades and
splashing fountains on that sultry June day. I kept as near her as I
could without appearing rude, especially as I had received one or two
half glances from her bright eyes, that nearly annihilated me, such an
unearthly fluttering and bumping in the region of my heart did they
create. Mercy upon me! what would a whole glance do? And for a whole
glance I courageously resolved to strive, let the consequences be what
they might.
Now do you not expect an earthquake, or a roaring bull, or at least a
rabid dog? It was nothing more however than a refreshing shower of
rain--truly refreshing to my thirsty soul, for it gave me that coveted
_whole_ glance. Heavens! I actually staggered, and would undoubtedly
have fallen had it not been for a friendly sappling--you will sneer at
witless I--that grew near me. But just try the effect upon yourself--a
shock of electricity is nothing in comparison to a shock from a pair
of bright eyes--such eyes as hers. The truth of the case was here, of
a sudden, apparently from out the clear sky, came down, with not a
moment's warning, a perfect avalanche of rain-drops--all expressly got
up, or down, for my benefit, else why did I happen to have an umbrella
in my hand? "A Wise man--" you remember the rest. My beautiful
incognito was away up those long stairs, and walking leisurely around
the immense basin, when the rain came down. I was not very far from
her, and in less than an instant my umbrella was over her pretty
little blue bonnet, with--
"Be kind enough to accept my umbrella, Miss"--in the most insinuating
manner of which I was master.
"Thank you! but I will not deprive you of its shelter," with that
whole glance of which I spoke. So on we went together, and somehow
after we found ourselves under shelter, it was the easiest and most
natural thing in the world to fall into a pleasant conversation. After
talking about the scenery, weather, &c., we had mutually enjoyed
during our short stage ride, I spoke of the beauty around us, and
asked her if she often visited this lovely spot.
"Not very often," replied she. "It is very beautiful though, in spite
of all they have done to spoil it."
"To spoil it!"
"Yes, by making it as much like a chess-board as possible, all
straight lines and stiffness. That is Philadelphia however."
"Then you are not a Philadelphian, or it is not a favorite city with
you?"
"There you are mistaken. It is my native place, and a city I love
dearly--with all its formalities and inhospitalities toward strangers.
Philadelphia is a prim matron, with a warm heart but a most frigid,
repulsive exterior, until you become acquainted with her--one of her
particular children."
"I have been told that there is a finer collection of works of art
here than in any other city in the Union."
"I believe you have been told correctly. We have more time in our
quiet way to look after and admire the productions of the great
masters. Our taste has wonderfully improved within a few years."
"I have not been in town long enough to visit any of your show places
yet."
"How I _should_ like to see that lovely water-fall and the whole of
that beautiful scene on canvas. Do you know I almost envied you a home
in that beautiful house with all its picturesque surroundings."
"I am truly thankful you had the kind grace to think of me at all."
"How could I help it? I had a feeling the first moment I saw you that
you and I were destined to be friends. Is there not a certain
mysterious something--call it magnetism or instinct--that either draws
us toward or repels us from every person we meet in either a greater
or less degree? With me this instinct is very strong, and I obey it
implicitly, never in one instance having found it to fail. I know at
once who to trust and who to love. And would know, by the same
unerring law of my nature, who to hate if ever I felt the least
inclination to hate. The only feeling of hate I ever experienced is a
strong desire to avoid all persons or things that are disagreeable to
me. I love harmony the most perfect, and discord is a thing for me to
flee from. I felt toward you a most decided drawing, and I felt a
conviction then, as I do now, that we are to be very near and dear
friends."
The little angel! I could have hugged and kissed her on the spot; but
I hugged her in my soul, and inwardly vowed to consecrate my life to
her, if the "drawing" she felt for me could be rendered sufficiently
strong to admit of such a thing. On a sudden I bethought me of the
whiskered incognito, her stage attendant. I mustered courage to ask
her in a half laughing way, if that fine-looking fellow she had called
Charles were her brother.
Instantly her manner changed from that of sweet and almost tender
seriousness to an arch, quizzical one that puzzled me.
"Oh no, not my brother," said she.
"_Not_ her brother--a sharp pang of pain shot through me--I was
getting dreadfully jealous--I looked all manner of curiosity and all
manner of questions; she took pity on me and said--a smile still
lurking in the corner of her eye--
"He is no more nor less than the intended future husband of the one
you see before you."
"The future devil! I sincerely beg your pardon, but--you take me by
surprise--I regret--but really I do not feel that it can be so."
"And why not?"
"Truly, why not!"
"He is very handsome."
"That is as one thinks."
"And very accomplished."
"In flattery, most like."
"And a most profound scholar."
"In the art of making love, it would seem."
"But I do not love him."
"Not love him!"
"No, nor never can."
"Then why, my dearest young lady, do you marry him?"
"You may well ask; why indeed?"
"You seemed very friendly with him the day I saw you together, and
happier than I could have wished you."
"That was before I knew I was to be his wife. It has only been decided
upon a few days."
"And now?"
"It is a long story, that I may tell you if we should meet again. I
never can love him, though I greatly esteem him, and--"
"_Esteem!_"
"A sad substitute for love; but what is love without esteem?"
"What is esteem without love?"
"Very true. It was not my own doing, although I reluctantly gave my
consent. If I can with honor release myself from this unfortunate
engagement--I have thought more and more every day since, that love,
true heart-love, is the only tie that should sanction the union of two
beings--but why should I talk in this way to you, a stranger? I cannot
feel, however that you are a stranger; we have surely met before in
some other state of being. I am a firm believer in the beautiful faith
of the transmigration of souls--of pre-existence. What is it that
brings two congenial souls together, uniting them in one hour in more
perfect harmony than whole years could effect among ordinary
acquaintances?"
"Something unexplainable," I answered, "as it is mysterious. We can
call it elective affinity, and can talk very learnedly upon the
singular attraction of the magnet, as applied to the poles as well as
souls, and we can make vast and wise experiments, and in the end be as
far from the real cause as we were before the Solomonic experiments
were made. The school-boy's reasoning was more to the point--
"I do not like you, Dr. Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell."
I love you dearly, Dr. Fell, the reason why, &c., would be just as
conclusive. We are so accustomed to seeing drops of water drawing near
to meet each other, and mingling in a loving embrace of perfect unity,
that we cease to wonder at the occurrence, as we do also at the fact
that oil and water will not mingle."
"Just as my soul will _not_ mingle with the souls of some. There is an
antagonism more or less decided between my inner self and many persons
I know; people, too, that I am compelled to be friendly with, and wish
to be friendly with, many of them my cousins and aunts. Then again
toward some am I as irresistibly attracted."
Her beautiful eyes sought mine frequently during our conversation, and
her glorious soul looked through them--earnest, simple and pure.
"Just so," resumed she, after a pause, during which her sweet, soft
eyes had been gazing on the dreamy waters. "Just so have I felt
attracted toward you. I could sit down beside you and tell my whole
soul to you as freely as though you were my own brother."
The word _brother_ sent a disagreeable shiver through me that all her
sweet confidence could not banish.
"But," exclaimed she, starting up, "what am I doing? The rain has
stopped, and the waning sun warns me that it is time to be at home.
And what _must_ you think of me? I hardly dare to ask the--"
"That you are the most lovely, most glorious of all Heaven's glorious
creatures; that you--"
"There, there! if you talk in that way, I shall truly repent having
said all I have to you."
"Forgive me; though I spoke sincerely, I hope--"
"I will forgive on condition of good behavior in future. But I must
not stay for another word. Promise me that you will not leave this
spot until ten minutes after the omnibus I shall be in is out of
sight."
"I promise," said I, reluctantly.
She gave me her little, soft, ungloved hand at parting; its gentle
pressure sent a thrill of ecstasy through me, and I looked all the
unutterable things that my full soul felt into her warm brown eyes.
And, by the way, I may as well say that my own eyes are--they are a
dark, deep blue, and strangely expressive, if I believe my sisters
and my friends, and--my own glass.
For one week did I wander up and down the streets, and watch every
omnibus, and stare into the windows and doors of every house I passed.
I peered under every pretty bonnet I met, and was, on the eighth day,
giving full chase to a coquettish little blue one, in the earnest hope
of finding the sweet face of my beautiful incognita hidden under it,
when some one laid a strong grasp on my shoulder, and looking around,
I beheld the generous face of my good uncle.
"Bless the boy! why, Led, what is your hurry? Your business must have
been _very_ urgent this last week. Why, in the name of all the saints,
have you kept away so studiously? There is poor little Emily actually
dying with anxiety to see you. Bless my soul! is this the way to treat
your friends? But now that I have fairly captured you, I do not intend
to let you go."
And he did not, and would not; so I had to go with him. And what do
you think? The first object that met my bewildered gaze, as my uncle
led me into the drawing-room, was--herself! her very self! but so
altered, looking so cold and stately. My uncle introduced me to her as
"My daughter Emily, nephew Ledyard." "My daughter Emily" inclined her
beautiful head most graciously, and sweetly smiled, but not one
recognizing glance did she deign to bestow on poor "nephew Ledyard."
Lovely she was, and proud and majestic as a queen. What could it mean?
I made several well-planned alluions to omnibuses and stages, &c., not
one of which did she seem to comprehend.
Her exceeding beauty still charmed me in spite of her coldness; and I
stayed to tea and then the evening. My cousin sung for me; her voice
was highly cultivated and exceedingly sweet, and full of feeling. Song
after song she poured forth into the listening air, and each song
entranced me more than the last.
We conversed gayly on several topics, and she grew more and more
familiar with me, alluded playfully to our childish intimacy; still,
to the very close of the evening, did she refuse to remember by look
or word that we had met since children. She evidently wished to
forget, and wished me to forget the whole of that pleasant interview
that had afforded _me_, at least, such soul-felt delight; yet she
acted her part so well, was so careless and unconscious, and withal so
cold and full of queenly dignity, that I went home in a perfect
bewilderment of amazement.
As I lay tossing on a sleepless bed, and in my heart bitterly railing
against the perversity and incomprehensibility of women, I found
myself incessantly repeating to myself, "Am I Giles, or am I not;" the
truth flashed upon me that I was the unhappy victim of an optical
illusion, that the Cousin Emily I had but a little before left was
simply my Cousin Emily, and not the beautiful being of whom my heart
and life were full--that incessant thinking of her, and seeking her,
had crazed my brain. I relighted my lamp and made my way into the
doctor's study. I read all I could find on the subject of optical
delusion and maniacal hallucination until I convinced myself that I
was laboring under a very alarming attack of one or both, and resolved
on seriously consulting my friend, the doctor, early the next morning.
I went back to bed with the decided opinion that I was exceedingly to
be pitied--how would it appear in the papers? for I must undoubtedly
grow worse, and it must undoubtedly end in suicide. "Sad occurrence,"
"nice young man," "brilliant prospects," "only son of--," and
"promising talents," "laboring under incipient insanity," "fatal cause
unknown," &c., &c. I sympathized with myself until near morning, then
fell into a sleep, which lasted until the bell rung for breakfast. I
dressed in a hurry, and got down before the muffins were quite cold. I
ate a hearty breakfast, read a newspaper or two, and determining on
seeing my cousin again before I made up my mind to ask advice, I soon
found myself at her door. The fresh morning air and the walk had so
invigorated me, that I laughed at my last night's fears, especially as
my lovely cousin came into the drawing-room to receive me, radiant
with health and beauty. I found her just the same as she was the night
before, gay, witty and charming, and as cold as marble. Still I could
not be mistaken; for, with all her feigned coldness--for some good
reason of her own undoubtedly--there was no doubting her identity with
that of my glorious Fairmount vision.
The day was a lovely one, soft and mild as a June morning could make
it. After conversing on indifferent subjects for a time, I asked her,
remarking on the deliciousness of the morning, if she would not like
to go out with me to Fairmount. She assented with a quiet smile, as
innocently as though she had never in her life before heard of such a
place as Fairmount.
"The little-deceiver!" thought I. "Which way shall we go?" said I,
aloud, and very significantly, "shall we take the omnibus?"
"I will order the carriage," replied she, with a slight shrug; "I
never ride in those omnibusses, one meets with such odd people."
"_Never?_" asked I, emphatically.
"Certainly, never!" answered she, with much apparent surprise.
My drive was a delightful one. How could it be otherwise, with a
glorious day surrounding me, and a gloriously beautiful cousin sitting
beside me, with whom I could not exactly make up my mind whether to
fall desperately _in_ love, or desperately _out_ of love. I, too, such
an enthusiastic lover of beauty. But she chose to be so different from
what she was at our first meeting--so reserved, that I could not
decide whether I most loved or was most indifferent to her.
We rode all the morning, and I left her, promising to call again in
the evening. I walked the streets until dark, the whole affair vexed
me so much--I, such a hater of all mysteries, the most impatient of
all breathing mortals. I determined to come at once to an
understanding with my perverse little cousin, and to decide at once
the puzzling question whether to love or not to love.
In the evening I found myself alone with my little tormentor.
"Now, sweet Cousin Emily," said I, playfully, "you have been teazing
me long enough with your pretty affectation of ignorance and
innocence--not but that you are as ignorant as the rest of your sweet
sex, and as innocent too--but, I beseech you, lay by this
masquerading, you have played possum long enough. I humbly implore of
you to be the same to me that you were in our first visit to
Fairmount--the earnest, simple-hearted Cousin Emily you then were."
"Mr. Lincoln speaks in enigmas; I must confess I do not understand his
meaning, nor his elegant allusion to 'playing possum.'"
This she said with so much haughtiness, that I was taken all aback.
Rallying, however, in a moment I determined not to give up the point.
"I beseech of you to pardon the inelegance of my expression, and also
my pertinacity in insisting upon some explanation of your manner
toward me. It will all do very well for the stage," continued I,
bitterly, "but in real life, among cousins, and two that have met so
frankly, and in such sincerity, I feel that our acquaintanceship must
at once end, pleasant as it has been, as it might be to me, unless you
lay aside this assumed coldness. It harasses me more than I can
express. Emily, after seeing you in the stage-coach, I thought I had
never met with one half so lovely, and I could think of nothing but
you. After remaining at home but one week, business called me to
Philadelphia. Judge of my delight when almost the first object that
met my view was your beautiful, unforgotten little self. You were just
stepping into one of those very omnibusses you have since seen fit to
decry. What followed you must remember as distinctly as I--no _not_ as
distinctly, for the whole of that delicious interview is engraven on
my heart--one of the sun-bright scenes of my life that I can never
forget. And now, after that beautiful interchange of thought and soul
that promised--every thing, do I find you cold, impassive. If you
repent the trust you so freely reposed in me, in all frankness, say
so; but for the sweet love of heaven, do not pretend to such--"
"For the sweet love of heaven what is the man raving about? Are you
mad, dear cousin, insane? Poor Cousin Ledyard! Or is it--?" her whole
manner changed, her brilliant eyes lighted up with intense fire. How
beautiful she looked! I could have knelt and worshiped her, though,
strange to say, my restless, ardent love for her had entirely abated.
"Yes!" exclaimed she, "it must be so;" and with that she clasped her
small white hands, and throwing back her fine head, laughed with all
her heart, and strength, and soul.
This was very pleasant for me; still I had to join her laugh, it was
so genuine and infectious.
"Forgive me, dear cousin, forgive me for my rude laughter; forgive me
also for my folly in attempting to deceive you. You will hereafter
find me the same you found me in our first pleasant interview. Here is
my hand--I will not explain one other word to-night; I hear voices on
the stairs. Come here to-morrow evening at eight, and you shall know
all--all my reasons."
"And why not to-morrow morning, cruel cousin?"
"I am engaged all of the day to-morrow. I go with mamma and papa out
of town, ten miles or so, to dine; a stupid affair, but mamma wishes
it."
"But before you go--just after breakfast."
"No, no--come in the evening."
By this time the voices heard on the stairs had entered the room in
the shape of a merry half-dozen of my cousin's young friends. Feeling
too agitated for society, I withdrew.
And now another night and a whole day more of suspense--that pale
horror, that come in what shape it will, even in the shape of a
beautiful cousin, always torments the very life from my heart.
All the clocks in town were striking eight as I rung my uncle's bell.
I found the drawing-room full of company, at which I felt vexed and
disappointed.
My lovely cousin came up to me and placed her arm within mine, and led
me through the next room into the conservatory, and there, seated amid
the rare eastern flowers, herself the queen of them, was, gracious
heaven! I dared scarcely breathe, so great was my fear of dispelling
the beautiful illusion. It was she! none other; my stage-coach
companion--my Fairmount goddess. The musical, measured voice of my
statue-like Cousin Emily brought me to myself.
"Allow me. Cousin Ledyard, to introduce you to _my_ Cousin Emily."
There they both stood, one Cousin Emily, calm, stately, serene; the
other trembling and in blushes.
I looked from one to the other in the most ludicrous bewilderment, yet
each glance showed me more and more what a wonderful fool I had been
making of myself for the last few days. Still they were strangely
alike; their own kindred could not at times distinguish one from the
other. My heart could feel the difference. _My_ Emily was a child of
nature, the other bred in a more conventional school. My Emily was a
shade less tall, less stately, less Grecian, and exquisitely more
lovely, and loving.
But that double wedding _was_ a grand one. By what means my Emily
contrived to disentangle herself from that handsome-whiskered
"Charles," and to entangle him fast in the chains of the other Emily,
any one who wishes to know, and will take the trouble, can have all
due information on the subject, and can also learn how I wooed my
peerless Emily and won her, by coming to our lovely picturesque
dwelling, situate in one of the most romantic spots in the country. I
write you all to come, one by one, and spend a month with me, and you
shall know all the particulars. You will find my little Emily a
pattern housekeeper; you will also find a ready welcome. Bless her
sweet face! There she sits, at the moment that I am writing this to
you, with her willow arms twined around the exquisite form of her
little lily-bud boy, and bending low her graceful form over him,
hushing to sleep the very bravest, noblest, merriest little specimen
of babyhood--the exact image of his enraptured father.
THE DEFORMED ARTIST.
BY MRS. E. N. HORSFORD.
The twilight o'er Italia's sky
Had wove a shadowy veil,
And one by one the solemn stars
Looked forth serene and pale;
As quickly the waning light
Through a high casement stole,
And fell on one with silver hair,
Who shrived a passing soul.
No costly pomp and luxury
Relieved that chamber's gloom,
But glowing forms, by limner's art
Created, thronged the room:
And as the low winds echoed far
The bell for evening prayer,
The dying painter's earnest tones
Fell on the languid air.
"The spectral form of Death is nigh,
The thread of Life is spun,
Ave Maria! I have looked
Upon my latest sun.
And yet 'tis not with pale disease
This frame is worn away,
Nor yet--nor yet with length of years--
A child but yesterday"
"I found within my father's hall
No fervent love to claim--
The curse that marked me from my birth
Devoted me to shame.
I saw upon my brother's brow
Angelic beauty lay,
The mirror gave me back a form
That thrilled me with dismay."
"And soon I learned to shrink from all,
The lowly and the high;
To see but scorn on every lip,
Contempt in every eye.
And for a time e'en Nature's smile
A bitter mockery wore,
For beauty stamped each living thing
The wide creation o'er;"
"And I alone was cursed and loathed;
'Twas in a garden bower
I knelt one eve, and scalding tears
Fell fast on many a flower;
And as I rose I marked with awe
And agonizing grief,
A frail mimosa at my feet
Fold close each fragile leaf."
"Alas! how dark my lot if thus
A plant could shrink from me;
But when I looked again I marked
That from the honey-bee,
The falling leaf, the bird's gay wing,
It shrunk with pain and fear,
A kindred presence I had found,
Life waxed sublimely clear."
"I climbed the lofty mountain height
And communed with the skies,
And felt within my grateful heart
Strange aspirations rise.
Oh! what was this humanity
When every beaming star
Was filled with lucid intellect,
Congenial, though afar."
"I mused beneath the avalanche,
And traced the sparkling stream,
Till Nature's face became to me
A passion and a dream:"
Then thirsting for a higher lore
I left my childhood's home,
And stayed not till I gazed upon
The hills of fallen Rome.
"I stood amid the forms of light,
Seraphic and divine,
The painter's wand had summoned from
The dim Ideal's shrine;
And felt within my fevered soul
Ambition's wasting fire,
And seized the pencil with a vague
And passionate desire"
"To shadow forth, with lineaments
Of earth, the phantom throng
That swept before my sight in thought,
And lived in storied song.
Vain, vain the dream--as well might I
Aspire to build a star,
Or pile the gorgeous sunset clouds
That glitter from afar."
"The threads of life have worn away,
Discordantly they thrill,
But soon the sounding chords will be
Forever mute and still.
And in the spirit-land that lies
Beyond, so calm and gray,
I shall aspire with truer aim--
Ave Maria! pray!"
A FAREWELL TO A HAPPY DAY.
BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
Good-bye--good-bye, thou gracious, golden day:
Through luminous tears, thou smilest, far away
In the blue heaven, thy sweet farewell to me,
And I, through _my_ tears, gaze and smile with thee.
I see the last faint, glowing, amber gleam
Of thy rich pinion, like a lovely dream,
Whose floating glory melts within the sky,
And now thou'rt passed forever from mine eye!
Were we not friends--_best_ friends--my cherished day?
Did I not treasure every eloquent ray
Of golden light and love thou gavest me?
And have I not been true--most true to thee?
And _thou_--thou earnest like a joyous bird,
Whose sacred wings by heaven's own air were stirred.
And lowly sang me all the happy time
Dear, soothing stories of that blissful clime!
And more, oh! more than this, there came with thee,
From Heaven, a stranger, rare and bright to me,
A new, sweet joy--a smiling angel-guest,
That softly asked a home within my breast.
For talking sadly with my soul alone,
I heard far off and faint a music-tone,
It seemed a spirit's call--so soft it stole
On fairy wings into my waiting soul.
I _knew_ it summoned me to something sweet,
And so I followed it with faltering feet;
And found--what I had prayed for with wild tears--
A rest, that soothed the lingering grief of years!
So for that deep, perpetual joy, my day!
And for all lovely things that came to play
In thy glad smile--the pure and pleading flowers
That crowned with their frail bloom thy flying hours--
The sunlit clouds--the pleasant air that played
Its low lute-music 'mid the leafy shade--
And, dearer far, the tenderness that taught
My soul a new and richer thrill of thought--
For these--for all--bear thou to Heaven for me
The grateful thanks with which I mission thee!
Then should thy sisters, wasted, wronged, upbraid,
Speak _thou_ for me--for thou wert not betrayed!
'Twas little--true--I could to thee impart--
I, with my simple, frail and wayward heart;
But that I strove the diamond sands to light,
In Life's rich hour-glass, with _Love's_ rainbow flight;
And that one generous spirit owed to me
A moment of exulting ecstasy;
And that I won o'er wrong a queenly sway--
For this, thou'lt smile for me in Heaven, my Day!
SAM NEEDY.
A TALE OF THE PENITENTIARY.
BY LOUIS FITZGERALD TASISTRO.
Several years ago, a man of the name of Samuel Needy, a poor artisan,
was living in London. He had with him a wife, and a child by this
wife. This artisan was skillful, quick, intelligent, very ill-treated
by education, very well-treated by nature--able to think, but not to
read. One winter his work failed him--there was neither fire nor food
in his garret; the man, the woman, and the child were cold and hungry;
he committed a theft; it is unnecessary to state what he stole, or
whence he stole it. Suffice it to know, that the consequences of this
theft were three days' food and fire to the wife and child, and five
years of imprisonment to the man.
Sam Needy, lately an honest man, now and henceforth a thief, was
dignified and grave in appearance; his high forehead was already
wrinkled, though he was still young; some gray lines lurked among the
black and bushy tufts of his hair; his eye was soft, and buried deep
beneath his lofty and well-turned eye-brow; his nostrils were open,
his chin advancing, his lip scornful; it was a fine head--let us see
what society made of it.