Rutherford to suspect the nature of his errand. She believed that the
crisis had come, and that now, if ever, was the moment for interference.
To his questions she only replied, evidently somewhat embarrassed, “Mr.
Cleaveland, I want to speak a word with you.”
He was already on his way out, and turned most reluctantly.
“Walk into the parlor a moment, Mr. Cleaveland. I don’t know how Mr.
Rutherford feels about this business, but I think that, as a mother, I
have a better right than any one else to decide about it.”
Cleaveland, at first, would not guess to what she referred; and,
perceiving that he did not understand her, she continued: “I know it is
a very delicate matter for me to take it for granted that you would like
to marry Caroline. If I am mistaken, there is no harm done, and you will
excuse me; if I am not mistaken, it would be too late, after you young
people had settled the matter between you, for me to express my decided
disapprobation of it, and therefore I do it now. I appeal to you, Mr.
Cleaveland, as a mother, whose soul is bound up in her child, to give up
all thoughts of a connection which would fall very far short of my hopes
and wishes for my daughter.”
For a moment, poor Cleaveland sat like one stupified. Then, without any
parting salutation to Mrs. Rutherford, without even a single word in
reply to her strange harangue, he hastily left the house. He retreated
to his own room; but experienced there a stifling sensation, which he
thought to relieve by going into the open air; and pursuing his way to a
favorite haunt, he met Caroline just emerging from the little grove he
was about to enter.
Not daring to trust himself with her a moment, and unable to command his
voice, he hastily passed her with hardly the seeming of a recognition.
Her headache had left her much exhausted, and a dizzy faintness now came
over her, so that it was with great difficulty that she reached her
home, although not very far distant.
Meanwhile her lover was in a most piteous state of agitation and
perplexity. Was he obliged in honor to heed the matrimonial veto?
Believing that Caroline was attached to him, was it right to keep her in
ignorance of his love? Her father, too, had given him the most undoubted
proofs of his esteem; and so far from showing any jealousy or suspicion
of him, had always acquiesced entirely in all those arrangements which
had brought them together so much, might he not refer the matter to him?
But to appeal to the husband against his wife—to the daughter against
her mother—this would be neither manly nor delicate, perhaps not
honorable; he was not quite sure. To fly, then, was his only refuge.
He wrote a note to Mrs. Garrison, complaining of illness, saying that he
had been induced, by unexpected circumstances, to leave town, contrary
to his first intentions, on the following day; but that, on the whole,
he preferred not taking leave of them personally, as the parting would,
on his part, be a very painful one. He thanked her, in glowing terms,
for all her kindness, adding, that he never expected to be so happy
again as under her roof.
Mrs. Garrison was surprised by this last expression; surprised by his
hasty departure, and by his omitting to make his adieus in person; and
had a vague idea of some mystery in the matter, which she hoped time
might solve. He went off at two o’clock in the morning.
Mrs. Rutherford took especial care to conceal the fact of his having
called to see her, from Caroline, who forbore to make any inquiries; and
Mr. Rutherford being out of town, no investigation was made upon the
subject.
Poor Caroline! her brightness was, for the present, all obscured. Her
headache returned violently, and she was really ill for some days; but
even after she had no longer an excuse for playing the invalid, her
spirits did not return; she had sleepless nights and languid days, and
her very soul seemed to have died away within her.
Her father was excessively distressed. At first he tried to rouse her
spirits by a little raillery. “You remind me,” said he, “of a fine
peach-tree which I came near losing last spring. It was in full life and
beauty, just as you were, but suddenly a blight came over it which
threatened its destruction. I dug around the root and found one little
worm there—that removed, the tree flourished again.”
Poor Caroline made no reply, but burst into tears and retreated to her
room.
“There _is_ a canker-worm at the root, you may depend upon it, wife; and
it appears to me that you might detect it.”
Mrs. Rutherford looked as if she were a little disturbed at the idea of
any investigation.
“If you do know, wife,” said he, “and don’t choose to reveal what you
know, the responsibility rests with you, and her blood be upon your
head. Tell me, now, what is your idea upon the subject, has not Caroline
been unhappy ever since young Cleaveland went away?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever think that they were in love?”
“I thought _he_ was.”
“And yet he went off without broaching the matter at all. If it is all
on her part, the thing must be submitted to; and yet it seems to me he
could hardly help falling in love with her.”
“No, indeed!” said Mrs. Rutherford, gathering courage to do now what she
had half resolved to do before, “he did fall in love with her.”
“Then why did he not tell her so?”
“Because I forbade him.”
“Did he apply to you on the subject?”
“No. I applied to him.”
“Then how could you be certain that he had any design of offering
himself to her?”
“You would not have had any doubt of it had you seen him as I did; and
besides, he would have denied it if it had not been so.”
“O wife! what _was_ your inducement? He is not _genteel_ enough for you,
I suppose. Confound your genteel notions,” he continued, as, losing
control of himself, he became exceedingly exasperated; “I would give all
the gentility you ever had, or ever can have, for a few grains of sense
or common maternal feeling. I knew you would give up health, and
comfort, and good neighborhood, and your own soul, if necessary, for
gentility; but I thought your child was dearer to you than your own
soul.”
“Why, Mr. Rutherford, I do really think you are very unkind,” said the
lady, bursting into tears.
“How the devil,” he continued, without heeding her emotion, “did you
ever come to marry such an ungenteel fellow as I am, and thus establish
a precedent for your daughter to follow? Go and comfort her, and say to
her, ‘My dear, console yourself that I have saved you from the disgrace
consequent upon such a connection as I had the misfortune to form.’ Tell
her never to mind losing the chance of being made happy by a capital
fellow whom she loves, and who loves her, because by-and-by, if she live
long enough, she may possibly marry a money-purse, ride in a carriage,
tread on Brussels carpets, and have a plenty of mirrors and glasses to
see herself in, and couches to recline upon, and silver forks to eat
with—who knows? Tell her it is all a mistake to suppose that happiness
has anything to do with the mind or the heart; that it is all a thing of
the eyes. Tell her its foundations are laid up in brick and mortar, and
its superstructure is comprised of all the costly materials that can be
gathered together from the four corners of the earth. Go now, quick,
wife, call her down stairs, and bid her look at your best parlor—your
better half—and tell her you expect she will have a whole suit of such
apartments, only a great deal finer. Say to her, ‘Look at it, Caroline;
gaze on it, my child, and forget the image of him who, though God’s
noblest work, cannot afford to manufacture happiness for you out of
cabinet-ware and upholsterers’ stuffs.’ Go, wife, and be eloquent.”
Having thus _exploded_, he left the house.
Poor Mrs. Rutherford had never heard her husband indulge in such a vein
before. She was kind and attentive to his comfort, and his disposition
led him to make the most, both to her and to himself, of whatever in her
was good and commendable. She did not suspect, therefore, that there
ever lurked in his bosom a feeling of contempt. It was a wretched day
for the whole family.
In the evening, after Caroline bade good-night, the subject was renewed.
Mr. Rutherford had thought much and deeply upon it. Had Cleaveland
avowed his love, he might go to him at once, and tell him that his wife
repented the step she had taken—but now, what was to be done? he could
not tell.
Matters went on thus for about three months, during which Mrs. Garrison
shared in the solicitude which Caroline’s parents felt on her
account—although, in seeing her droop, she could only guess at the
cause. She corresponded with Mr. Cleaveland, but he never mentioned
Caroline—and she could only venture upon what might seem an accidental
reference to her, and allusion to her poor health and spirits. At the
end of three months she received from him the following letter:—
MY DEAR MRS. GARRISON—Your very great kindness, and your most generous
sympathy so constantly manifested towards me, induces me to lay before
you a matter that very nearly concerns me, for the purpose of
obtaining your advice in circumstances of great delicacy and
perplexity.
I think it could not have altogether escaped your observation, that,
as would probably have befallen most other young men in like
circumstances, I lost my heart to your fair young friend, my pupil.
Nor was I a despairing lover—may my presumption be pardoned, in
believing that I occasionally discovered through the veil of her most
delicate and maidenly reserve, a certain tremulousness of feeling
which that veil could not entirely disguise—an occasional agitation of
manner on her part, from which I derived the flattering conclusion
that it was sometimes given to me to touch “the electric chain with
which she’s darkly bound.”
But I waited until one relation with her should be at an end before
attempting to establish another; and just as I was on the point of
declaring myself, her mother, suspecting my intention, interfered to
prevent its fulfilment—saying, as nearly as I can remember, that such
an union would fall far below her wishes and hopes for her daughter.
I do indeed feel that I am not worthy of such a treasure as Caroline
Rutherford. But I suppose it would be doing Mrs. Rutherford no
injustice to believe that my most striking deficiency in her eyes,
would be made up at once, were I to come into possession of a fortune.
I am very wretched—and it is possible that I am not alone in my
wretchedness. It does not seem fitting that the destiny of two human
beings capable of acting and choosing for themselves, should be
controlled by idiosyncrasies of a third person. It does not seem
fitting that if we are capable of loving and making each other happy,
we should be separated by such a paltry wall of partition. I have a
strong impression, too, that Mr. Rutherford would favor my suit. And
yet, what can I do? How am I to break the fetters that Mrs. R. has
thrown around me? Give me your counsel, I pray you, and add one more
to the many obligations which you have already heaped upon.
Your very grateful and affectionate friend,
CHARLES CLEAVELAND.
Mrs. Garrison was not long in deciding what to do. Her great kindness to
Caroline, and the services which she had rendered her, entitled her to
act in whatever concerned her welfare. Having provided herself with a
store of arguments to overcome all objections, and set the matter in its
true light, she determined to appeal directly to Mrs. Rutherford
herself. To her surprise and joy, she found her most thankful to avail
herself of the opportunity to retract her injunction. Her home once so
pleasant, had become so cheerless, and her husband so estranged—to say
nothing of Caroline—that in the exigencies of the present, she forgot
all her visions for the future.
Of course Mrs. Garrison lost no time in communicating the result to her
friend; and Mrs. Rutherford was no less eager to inform her husband of
what had happened.
“Well, now,” said he, “Caroline shall know of this at once. She must
have it explained to her sooner or later—why Cleaveland went off in so
strange a manner; better hear it from me than from her lover; it will be
awkward for him to tell it; and, besides, she has suffered enough
already; and now, when better things are in store for her, the sooner
she enters into the enjoyment of them the better.” * * * * Before
Caroline slept that night, there was, for her, balm, and a physician—and
her sorrows were all healed.
The next week the lovers met without explanation,—save the tears of
Caroline, and the trembling lips and hand of Charles. They met, as if
they had parted acknowledged lovers, and been, since that time, cut off
from each other by some sore calamity. From their dark hour broke forth
a rosy dawn which in time was kindled to perfect day. The bloom soon
gathered again on Caroline’s cheek, and her eye was once more soul-lit.
Charles was not long in obtaining a respectable settlement. Caroline was
henceforth permitted to manage her own affairs; to make her outfit such
as became a country clergyman’s wife, with every provision for comfort
and none for display; and to have a perfectly unostentatious wedding,
without a supper—without even champagne.
She lived to realize her father’s beau-ideal of a woman’s happiness—to
be the “all-in-all of pleasure” to a man in every way worthy of her.
AT HOME.
BY MRS. ANNA BACHE.
“Her storied lore she next applies,
Taxing her mind to aid her eyes.”
BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN.
Thou lookest wearily, my love, but now the toil some day
Is over, and the quiet eve its labors shall repay.
Come, I will pull the sofa round, and pile the cushions higher,
And Gheber-like, thou shalt adore this comfort-beaming fire.
How shall I pet thee, weary one?—I love to tend on thee;
Shall I sit here, and let thee rest thy head upon my knee?
I will not light the tapers yet—I like this pleasant gloom,
With the red blaze at intervals illumining the room,
Reflected in thy sparkling eye, and gleaming on thy brow:
My prized, my own, my only one, how lovely look’st thou now!
What happiness to gaze on thee! after the bitter years
Of absence and uncertainty, of solitude and tears.
Rememberest thou those dear, dear nights, so _very_ long ago,
When love was younger, (not more true,) those nights of frost and snow,
When thou didst make, through storm and shower, thy pilgrimage to me?
Rememberest thou the forest walks, and the large willow tree,
And the white wild-flowers? I should like that dear old place to see.
What say’st thou, love?—a story, such as I told thee then.
What shall it be?—thou dost not want the old ones o’er again.
I’ve told thee all the tales I know, of witch and fairy lore,
Though, since we parted, I have read at least a thousand more.
Yet thoughts of thee, my absent one, so occupied my brain,
Few traces of their incidents in memory remain.
Shall I tell of Lady Eva and the brave Sir Agilthorn,
The Brother Knights of Lombardy, the Fate of Adelmorn,
The Legend of Sir Lancelot, the Fairy of the Well,
Sir Ethelberg of Brittany, the Quest of Jorindell?
Oh! glorious days of chivalry, what can with them compare?—
When all the cavaliers were brave, and all the ladies fair;
When hero-hands won tender hearts, and deeds of bold emprize
Were paid with lays from minstrels’ lutes and looks from ladies’ eyes.
Aye! love was worth the having then, and worth the giving too,
When knightly honor deem’d it shame to proffer vows untrue,
And nought but nature’s nobleness could beauty’s pride subdue.
Alas! the “march of intellect” has crush’d these fairy bowers,
Our heroes dress in good broadcloth, and courtship’s _years_ are
_hours_.
Yet still from Love’s celestial fount some honeyed waters fall,
Else were the cup of earthly life but an unmingled gall.
And if thou’lt listen to a tale of _modern_ love and wo,
I’ll tell thee a _true_ story, dear, that chanc’d not long ago.
* * * * *
The ship had quitted the glittering bay,
And graceful sped on her ocean way.
Stern eyes grew sad, as their native land
Sunk from the view of the convict band.
O’er tree and tower, and fortress wall,
O’er slender spire and steeple tall,
Distance drew her veil of haze;
One, one lingering tear-fraught gaze,
Earnest dwelt on the fading shore,
That fled from those eyes for evermore.
There was one cry, as if long-pent grief
Mastered resolve, and sought relief.
One indrawn gasp of the struggling breath—
And the lip that drew it seemed still’d in death.
They rais’d from the deck that senseless form,
And even those crime-chill’d hearts grew warm
With pity. They put back her raven hair,
Bar’d her white neck to the cool sea air,
And dash’d the spray on her forehead fair;
Till slowly unclos’d her languid eyes,
And Death relinquish’d his half-won prize.
· · · · ·
“So young, so lovely, are _thine_ a face
And form for the brand of black disgrace?
So innocent seeming—can it be true
Thou art justly one of yon loathsome crew,
Whose savage ire, and more savage glee,
Mingle guilt, doom, and misery?”
“Oh! ask me, ask me not to speak
Of why I bear this felon thrall;
My senses reel, my heart grows weak,
The stain of shame is on my cheek,—
Yet would I not the past recall.
I thank thee for thy pitying care,
But must my lot unaided bear.
Enough, I unreluctant go
To banishment, disgrace, and wo.”
“Thy words are wild—I would not press
Intrusive on thy heart’s distress;
Nor do I seek thy griefs to know,
But in the hope to balm thy wo,
And point thee to that Mercy-seat,
Where penitence and pardon meet.
Heaven comfort thee, poor girl!”
——“And may
That Heaven thy words with blessings pay!
Stranger, all guilty as I seem,
Do not too harshly of me deem.
’Tis long since pitying word or look
To me were given—scorn I could brook;
But sympathy’s sweet accents rest
Like sunbeams on my frozen breast.”
Her bosom swell’d with choking sighs,
Her small hands hid her streaming eyes.
Those lily hands, of fairy mould,
No tale of menial usage told;
That slender youthful shape, though clad
In homely weeds, rare graces had;
And when stern effort had suppress’d
The grief that shook her throbbing breast,
Apart the veiling curls she flung,
That o’er her face dishevelled hung.
Though tear-strain’d, pale, and worn with care,
Surpassing loveliness was there;
And when she met the earnest eye
Of kind, yet dubious scrutiny,
O’er her chill paleness, rushing came
From breast to brow the crimson shame.
—“My father bears a noble name,
My birth-place was a lordly hall;
In that proud hall an orphan dwelt,
’Tis no new tale—when young hearts melt
And mingle, weak is Reason’s thrall,
Fear’s whisper, Duty’s thunder-call,
Alike unheard, unheeded all.
Oh! lov’d, though unrelenting sire,
Thou dost forget, in thy stern ire
Against the daughter once so dear,
_Thyself_ didst bring temptation near.
I was a bride, a happy bride,
My gentle Malcolm’s joy and pride.
Though poverty was in our cot,
Love dwelt there, and we fear’d her not.
But sickness came—our daily toil
Alone had fed life’s lamp with oil.
O’er my poor Malcolm’s feverish bed
I watch’d all night, then sleepless sped
To labor for our wants. Oh! why
Did Heaven forbid us both to die?
The sleepless night, the scant repast,
The toilsome day—this could not last;
Unknown, uncar’d for, by his side
Sickening I lay, and Malcolm tried,
While yet pale cheek and tottering limb
Told how disease had prey’d on him,
His hireling task to ply.
Alas! the eager will in vain
Struggled with lassitude and pain;
Desperate, he sought his home again
To see his Marian die.
From fearful dreams I frenzied woke;
As famish’d nature crav’d, I spoke.
Unconscious of his soothings meek,
Of the hot tears that bath’d my cheek,
I pray’d for food. He could not bear
The wo of that delirious prayer;
He went, return’d—with gold he came—
But branded with a robber’s name.
They tore him from my wild embrace,
They dragg’d him to a prison cell;
I sought him in that fearful place,
I gaz’d once more upon his face,
Exchang’d one sad farewell—
And then, a crime-stain’d exile, he
Was sent to dwell beyond the sea.
Then, then, I was indeed alone—
Sense, duty, reason, all were gone,
Life was one racking sense of pain,
One only thought dwelt in my brain,
To see my victim-love again.
To soothe his grief, support his care,
His shame, his punishment, to share.
But how, from whom assistance claim?
Banish’d, disown’d—my very name
Forbidden to my father’s ear,
Would he my plaint or purpose hear?
Friendless and poor—one desperate thought
Amid my wilder’d musings wrought.
_If mine the crime, the sentence too_,
Whisper’d the demon. Oh! how few
Of those who bask in fortune’s glare,
Can fancy poverty’s despair!
On splendor’s gilded couch reclin’d,
With luxury-sated frame and mind,
They talk of _labor_ and _content_,
And o’er the _snares of wealth_ lament.
Oh! could they for brief time endure
The legion temptings of the _poor_,
Their fiery trial once gone o’er,
They’d mourn the _snares of wealth_ no more.
—I spurn’d the sinful thought away,
I wept, I knelt, I strove to pray;
But Heaven is deaf to rebel prayer,
And mine sent no submission there.
Day after day crept torturing by,
And brought no hope, no comfort nigh.
Should I the penance seek to shun,
For whom the guilty deed was done?—
The urging fiend was at mine ear,
Maddening with sorrow, love, and fear,
’Twas done, detected—I am here.”
· · · · ·
Her haven the stately ship has won,
The convict crew to their toils have gone.
There’s a grove of palms in that southern isle,
Through their coronaled tops the moonbeams smile
On a fairy hut, where vine-boughs throw
Their cluster’d wealth o’er the lattice low,
And dim the silvery rays that pour
Their brightness aslant the humble floor.
Hark!—the accents of weeping prayer
Upon the vesper stillness glide;
The voices are yonder hut within,
They plead for pardon, and mourn for sin—
There Marian kneels at Malcolm’s side.
* * * * *
Now for the moral of my tale.—Although of heavenly birth,
Love sometimes deigns to fold his wings, and find a home on earth.
_He_ strengthens woman’s hand to deeds that make the warrior quail,
_He_ raises woman’s mind to thoughts that turn stout manhood pale;
The feeble frame, the fearful heart, for him grow strong, to brave
The tempest or the battle-field, the desert or the grave;
_He_ led poor Malcolm’s faithful bride across the stormy sea:
So loves fond woman’s martyr-heart—so, dearest, love I thee.
The above poem is founded on an anecdote which appeared some years ago
in an English gazette.
TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL.
I.
Bird of the lone and joyless night,
Whence is thy sad and solemn lay?
Attendant on the pale moon’s light,
Why shun the garish blaze of day?
II.
When darkness fills the dewy air,
Nor sounds the song of happier bird,
Alone amid the silence there
Thy wild and plaintive note is heard.
III.
Thyself unseen, thy pensive moan
Poured in no loving comrade’s ear;
The forest’s shaded depths alone
That mournful melody can hear.
IV.
Beside what still and secret spring,
In what dark wood, the livelong day,
Sitt’st thou with dusk and folded wing,
To while the hours of light away.
V.
Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me,
That life’s deceitful gleam is vain;
And well the lesson profits thee,
Who will not trust its charms again!
VI.
Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill,
To listening night when mirth is o’er:
I, heedless of the warning still,
Believe, to be deceived once more!
E. F. E.
[Illustration: My Dog]
THE CHILD’S BEST FRIEND.
Nay, start not so, nor turn thy head away,
Fair infant, from thy comrade’s boisterous play;
Thy fond and faithful friend! thy guard by night.
Thy toy by day! thy playmate and delight!
Oh! may’st thou never—through the changeful years
Which pass thou must in this dark vale of tears—
Oh! may’st thou never find a friend less true,
Whose love nor time nor distance may subdue—
Nor cruelty estrange, nor falsehood shake!
Who, treat him as thou may’st, for thy dear sake
Fearless will leap where swiftest currents flow—
Fearless will strive against the fiercest foe!
Will bear all worst extremes of earthly ill,
Famine, and weariness, and wintry chill!
Who, though thine all, on this side heaven, were lost—
Thy friends proved false, thy fortunes ocean-tost—
Thy nearest kinsmen coldly turned aside—
Would love thy want, even as he loved thy pride—
Would lick thy hand, though it had nought to give,
Nor leave thy poverty with kings to live! Q.
NAPOLEON, AND THE IRON CROWN.
BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.