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GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, FEBRUARY, 1848. No. 2.
STOKE CHURCH AND PARK.
THE SCENE OF GRAY'S ELEGY, AND RESIDENCE OF THE PENNS OF PENNSYLVANIA
BY R. BALMANNO.
[Illustration: Manor of Stoke]
The Manor of Stoke, with its magnificent mansion and picturesque park,
is situate near the village of Stoke Pogeys, in the county of
Buckingham, four miles north-west of Windsor.
About two miles distant from Stoke lies the village of Slough,
rendered famous by the residence of the celebrated astronomer, Sir
William Herschel, and a short way further, on a gentle slope continued
the whole way from Stoke, stand the venerable towers of time-honored
Eton, on the bank of the Thames, directly opposite, and looking up to
the proud castle of the kings of England, unmatched in its lofty,
commanding situation and rich scenery by that of any royal residence
in Europe.
Stoke, anciently written Stoches, belonged, in the time of William the
Conqueror, A. D. 1086, to William, son of Ansculf, of whom it was held
by Walter de Stoke. Previous thereto, it was in part held by Siret, a
vassal of Harold, and at the same time, a certain Stokeman, the vassal
of Tubi, held another portion. Finally, in the year 1300, during the
reign of King Edward the First, it received its present appellation by
the intermarriage of Amicia de Stoke, the heiress, with Robert de
Pogeys. Under the sovereignty of Edward the Third, 1346, John de
Molines, originally of French extraction, and from the town of that
name in Bourbonnais, married Margaret de Pogeys; and, in consequence
of his eminent services, obtained license of the king to make a castle
of his manor-house of Stoke Pogeys, fortify with stone walls
embattled, and imparke the woods; also that it should be exempt from
the authority of the marshal of the king's household, or any of his
officers; and in further testimony of the king's favor, he had summons
to Parliament among the barons of the realm.
During the wars of the rival Roses, the place was owned by Sir Robert
Hungerford, commonly called Lord Moleyns, by reason of his marriage
with Alianore, daughter of William, Lord Moleyns.
This Lord Robert, siding with the Lancasterians, or the Red Roses,
upon the loss of the battle of Towton, fled to York, where King Henry
the Sixth then was, and afterward with him into Scotland. He was
attainted by the Parliament of Edward the Fourth; but the king took
compassion on Alianore, his wife, and her children, committing her and
them to the care of John, Lord Wenlock, to whom he had granted all her
husband's manors and lands, granting them a fitting support as long as
her said husband, Lord Robert, should live. But the Lancasterians
making head in the north, he "flew out" again, being the chief of
those who were in the castle of the Percys, at Alnwick, with five or
six hundred Frenchmen, and being taken prisoner at the battle of
Hexham, he was beheaded at Newcastle on Tyne, but buried in the north
aisle of the cathedral of Salisbury.
Lady Alianore, his widow, lies buried in the church of Stoke Pogeys;
and her monument may still be seen, with an epitaph commencing thus:
_Hic, hoc sub lapide sepelitur Corpus venerabilis
Dominae Alianorae Molins, Baronissiae, quam
prius desponsavit Dominus Robertus Hungerford,
miles et Baro. &c. &c._
Notwithstanding the grant to Lord Wenlock, Thomas, the son and heir of
Lord Robert Hungerford, succeeded to the estate. For a time he sided
with the famous Earl of Warwick, the king-maker, who took part with
Edward the Fourth, but afterward "falling off," and endeavoring for
the restoration of King Henry the Sixth, was seized on, and tried for
his life at Salisbury, before that diabolical tyrant, crook-back Duke
of Gloucester, afterward Richard the Third, where he had judgment of
the death of a traitor, and suffered accordingly the next day.
But during the reign of Henry the Seventh, in 1485, when the Red Roses
became triumphant at the decisive battle of Bosworth, and these
unnatural and bloody wars which had devastated England for nearly
thirty years, being brought to a close, by the union of Henry with
Elizabeth of York, representative of the White Roses, the attainder of
Thomas, as well as that of his father, Lord Robert, being reversed in
Parliament, his only child and heir, called Mary, succeeded to the
estate.
Lady Mary married Edward, Lord Hastings, from whom the present Earl of
Huntingdon is descended. She used the title of Lady Hungerford,
Botreux, Molines, and Peverell. To this marriage Shakspeare alludes in
the tragedy of King Henry the VI., Part 3, A. 4, Sc. 1, when he makes
the Duke of Clarence say ironically,
For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves
To have the heir of the Lord Hungerford.
Lord George Hungerford succeeding his father, was advanced to the
title of Earl of Huntingdon by King Henry the Eighth, in 1529. He died
the 24th of March, 1543, and lies buried in the chancel of Stoke
Pogeys. Edward, his second son, was a warrior with King Henry the
Eighth, and during the reign of Henry's daughter, Queen Mary, 1555,
declared his testament, appointing his body to be buried at Stoke
Pogeys, and directing his executors to build a chapel of stone, with
an altar therein, adjoining the church or chancel, where the late Earl
Huntingdon and his wife (his father and mother) lay buried; and that a
tomb should be made, with their images carved in stone, appointing
that a plate of copper, double gilt, should be made to represent his
own image, of the size of life, _in harness_, (armor,) and a memorial
in writing, with his arms, to be placed upright on the wall of the
chapel, without any other tomb for him. He died without issue. Earl
Henry was the last of the illustrious family of Huntingdon who
possessed the manor and manor-house of Stoke; and the embarrassed
state of his affairs compelled him to mortgage the estate to one
Branthwait, a sergeant at law, in 1580, during which period it was
occupied by Lord Chancellor Sir Christopher Hatton, the fine dancer,
one of the celebrated _favorites_ of Elizabeth, the lascivious
daughter of King Henry the Eighth--a woman as fickle as profligate, as
cruel and hard-hearted, so far as regarded her numerous paramours, as
her brutal father was in respect to his wives.
This historical detail, gathered from Domesday Book, Dugdale, and
other authorities, is narrated in consequence of its bearing upon some
celebrated poems hereafter to be noticed, and is continued up to the
present period for a like reason.
Sir Christopher Hatton died in 1591, and settled his estate on Sir
William Newport, whose daughter became the second wife of Sir Edward
Coke, Lord Chief Justice of the Court of King's Bench, who purchased
the estate of Stoke. After the dissolution of the Parliament by King
Charles the First, in March, 1628-9, Sir Edward Coke being then
greatly advanced in years, retired to his house at Stoke, where he
spent the remainder of his days in a quiet retirement, universally
respected and esteemed; and there, says his epitaph, crowned his pious
life with a pious and Christian departure, on Wednesday the 3d day of
September, A. D., 1634, and of his age 83; his last words, "THY
KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE!"
Upon the death of Sir Edward Coke, the manor and estate of Stoke
devolved to his son-in-law, Viscount Purbeck, elder brother of
Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who perished by the hand of the
assassin, Felton.
Lord Purbeck, upon the death of his wife, daughter of Sir Edward Coke,
married Elizabeth, daughter of Sir William Slingsby, by whom he had a
son, Robert, which Robert, marrying the daughter and heir of Sir John
Danvers, one of the judges who sat on the trial of King Charles the
First, obtained a patent from Cromwell, Protector of the Commonwealth,
to change his name to Danvers, alledging as the reasons for his so
doing "the many disservices done to the commonwealth by the name of
the family of Villiers."
In 1657, Viscount Purbeck granted a lease of the manor and house of
Stoke, to Sir Robert Gayer during his own life; and in the same year,
his son, Robert Villiers, or Danvers, sold his reversionary interest
in the estate to Sir R. Gayer for the sum of eight thousand five
hundred and sixty-four pounds. The family of Gayers continued in
possession until 1724, when the estate was sold for twelve thousand
pounds to Edmund Halsey, Esq., M.P., who died in 1729, his daughter
Anne married Sir Richard Temple, created Viscount Cobham, who survived
him; and she resided at Stoke until her death in the year 1760.
The house and manor of Stoke were sold in the same year, by the
representatives of Edmund Halsey, to the Honorable Thomas Penn, Lord
Proprietary of the Province of Pennsylvania, the eldest surviving son
of the Honorable William Penn, the celebrated founder and original
proprietary of the province.
Upon the death of Thomas Penn, in 1775, the manor of Stoke, together
with all his other estates, devolved upon his eldest surviving son,
John, by the Right Honorable Lady Juliana, his wife, fourth daughter
of the Earl of Pomfret.
In 1789, the ancient mansion of Stoke, appearing to Mr. Penn, after
some years absence in America, to demand very extensive repairs,
(chiefly from the destructive consequences of damp in the principal
rooms,) it was judged advisable to take it down.
The style of its architecture was not of a kind the most likely to
dissuade him from this undertaking. Most of the great buildings of
Queen Elizabeth's reign have a style peculiar to themselves, both in
form and finishing, where, though much of the old Gothic is retained,
and a great part of the new style is adopted, yet neither
predominates, while both, thus indiscriminately blended, compose a
fantastic species, hardly reducible to any class or name. One of its
characteristics is the affectation of _large_ and _lofty_ windows,
where, says Lord Bacon, "you shall have sometimes faire houses so full
of glass, that one cannot tell where to become to be out of the sun."
A perfect specimen of this fantastic style, in complete repair, may be
seen in Hardwick Hall, county of Derby, one of the many residences of
that princely and amiable nobleman, the Duke of Devonshire, and a
perfect _contrast_ to it, at his other noble residence not many miles
distant, in the same county, Chatsworth, "the Palace of the Peak."
It is true that high antiquity alone gives, in the eye of taste, a
continually increasing value to specimens of all such kinds of
architecture; but beside that, the superiority of the new site chosen
by Mr. Penn was manifest, the principal rooms of the old mansion at
Stoke, where the windows admitted light from _both_ the opposite
sides, were instances, peculiarly exemplifying the remark of Lord
Bacon, and countenancing the design to lessen the number of bad, and
increase that of the good examples of architecture. But a wing of the
ancient plan was preserved, and is still kept in repair, as a relic,
harmonizing with the surrounding scenery, and forms with the rustic
offices, and fruit-gardens annexed, the _villa rustica_ and
_fructuaria_ of the place.
The new buildings, or, more properly speaking, Palace of Stoke, was
begun by Mr. Penn immediately after his return from a long absence in
Pennsylvania, and was covered-in in December, 1790. It is scarcely
possible to conceive a finer site than that chosen by him for his new
mansion, being on a commanding eminence, the windows of the principal
front looking over a rich, variegated landscape toward the lofty
towers of Windsor Castle, at a distance of four miles, which
terminates the view in that direction; whilst about and around the
site are abundance of magnificent aged oaks, elms, and beeches.
* * * * *
The poems of Thomas Gray, who was educated at Eton, and resided at
Stoke, are perhaps better known, more read, more easily remembered,
and more frequently quoted, than those of any other English poet.
Where is the person who does not remember with feelings approaching to
enthusiasm, the impressions made on his youthful fancy by the
enchanting language of the "Elegy written in a Country Church-yard?"
Who can ever forget the impressions with which he first read the
narrative of the "hoary-headed swain," and the deep emotion felt on
perusing the pathetic epitaph, "graved on the stone, beneath yon aged
thorn," beginning--
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth.
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown:
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth.
And melancholy marked him for her own.
That exquisite poem contains passages "grav'd" on the hearts of all
who ever read it in youth, until they themselves become
hoary-headed--and then, perhaps, remembered most.
But it is not the Elegy alone which makes an indelible impression on
the youthful reader; equally imperishable are the lines on a distant
prospect of Eton College.
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade.[1]
And who can ever forget the Bard--
Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fann'd by conquests crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Or the lovely Ode on the Spring.
Lo! where the rosy bosom'd Hours
Fair Venus' train appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
Or those sublime Odes--On The Progress of Poesy. Awake, AEolian lyre,
awake; and the Descent of Odin:
Uprose the king of men with speed,
And saddled strait his coal-black steed:
Down the yawning steep he rode,
That leads to Hela's drear abode.
[Footnote 1: Eton was founded and endowed by King Henry the Sixth. A
marble bust of the poet Gray was presented by Lord Morpeth, in 1846,
and placed, amongst many others, in the upper school.]
Who can ever forget the pleasure experienced on the first perusal, and
on every subsequent reading of these fascinating productions? They
are such as all, imbued with even a moderate degree of taste and
feeling, must respond to. But there is another poem of Gray's, less
read, perhaps, than these, but which, from its humor and arch playful
style, is apt to make a strong and lasting impression on an
enthusiastic juvenile mind. It opens so abruptly and oddly, that
attention is bespoke from the first line. It is entitled "A Long
Story."
In Britain's isle--no matter where--
An ancient pile of building stands:
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employed the power of fairy hands
To raise the ceilings fretted height,
Each panel in achievements clothing,
Rich windows, that exclude the light,
And passages, that lead to nothing.
This poem, teeming with quaint humor, contains one hundred and
forty-four lines, beside, _as it says_, "two thousand which are lost!"
Extreme admiration of the poems of Gray had been excited in the
writer's mind even when a schoolboy. In after years, whilst occupying
chambers in the Temple, he first became aware that the scenery so
exquisitely described in the Elegy, and the "ancient pile" of
building, so graphically delineated in the Long Story, were both
within a few hours' ride of London, and adjoining each other.
Until about the year 1815 he had constantly supposed that the Country
Church-yard was altogether an imaginary conception, and that the
ancient mansion of the Huntingdons was far away, somewhere in the
midland counties; but when fully aware of the true localities, he was
almost mad with impatience, until, on a Saturday afternoon, _he_ could
get relieved from the turmoil of business, to fly to scenes hallowed
by recollections of the halcyon days of youthful aspirations of hope,
and love, and innocence--and sweetly and fresh do such reminiscences
still float in his memory.
About the period in question, there was a club in London, formed of
about twenty or thirty of the most aristocratic of the young nobility,
possessed of more wealth than wisdom. They gave themselves the name of
the Whip Club, because each member drove his own team of four horses.
The chief tutor of these titled Jehu's in the art and mystery of
driving, was no less a personage than the celebrated Tom Moody, driver
of the Windsor Coach, and by that crack coach it was intended to
proceed as far as Slough, on the intended excursion to Stoke, and then
turn off to the left; but as the Whip Club, at the period in question,
attracted a large share of public attention in the metropolis, perhaps
a short notice of it may be here permitted, as it has been long since
defunct, and is never again likely to be revived, now that steam and
iron horses have taken the road.
The vehicles, horses, trappings, and gearing, were the most elegant
and expensive that money could command; and it was a rare thing to see
upward of twenty such equipages, which, as well as the housings of the
horses, were emblazoned with heraldric devices, and glittering all
over with splendid silver and gold ornaments.
The open carriages were all filled with the loveliest of England's
lovely women, who generally congregated together at an early
breakfast, or what with them was considered an early breakfast,
between ten and eleven o'clock! The meet took place at the house of
Lord Hawke, in Portman Square. His lordship was high admiral, or
president, Sir Bellingham Graham, whipper-in--and courteously and
cleverly did Sir Bellingham (or Bellinjim, as it is pronounced)
perform his delicate duty. When each driver mounted his box, after
handing in the ladies, it was wonderful to observe with what
dexterity, ease, and order, all wheeled into line, when the leader,
with a flourish of his long whip--being the signal for which all were
watching--led off the splendid array.
It was a gay sight to witness the start, as they swept round the
square--for the horses were one and all of pure blood, and
unparalleled for beauty, symmetry, and speed.
To one unaccustomed to such a sight, it might appear somewhat
dangerous. The fiery impatience of the horses--their pawing and
champing, the tossing of their beautiful heads, and the swan-like
curving of their glittering, sleek necks, until they were fairly
formed into order--at which time they knew just as well as their
owners that _the play_ was going to begin. But it was perfectly
delightful to observe the graceful manner in which each pair laid
their small heads and ears together when fairly under way, beating
time with their highly polished hoofs--pat, pat, pat, pat, as true as
the most disciplined regiment marching to a soul-stirring quick step,
or a troupe of well-trained ballet girls, bounding across the stage of
the Italian Opera.
When fairly off and skimming along the road, it was, perhaps, as
animating a show as London ever witnessed since its palmiest days of
tilt and tournament. I say nothing of the ladies, their commingled
charms, or gorgeous attire; I only noticed that during the gayety in
the square, previous to starting, their recognition of each other, and
the beaux of their acquaintance, there were plenty of
"Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,
And love to live in dimples sleek."
This celebrated club congregated every fortnight, during the gay
season of May and June, and spent the day at the residence of one of
their number, within twenty or thirty miles of London, returning in
the evening, exactly in the order they had set out.
Master Moody, the driver and proprietor of the fast Windsor Coach,
had, as said, been the tutor of these aristocratic charioteers, who
placed themselves under his guardianship, and had been taught to
handle "the ribbons" until declared perfect in the noble science. He
had consequently imbibed much and many of the _airs_ and _graces_, and
manners of his pupils.
Being anxious to have a ride beside this great man, I was at
Piccadilly long before he started, and by a pretty handsome douceur to
his cad, had the supreme felicity of obtaining a seat on the box, and
certainly was well repaid for the extra expense of sitting by
Corinthian Tom.
He was a tall fellow, and had a severely serious face; was dressed in
the extreme of driving fashion; wore delicate white kid gloves, and
the tops of his highly-polished boots were white as the lily. In
short, his whole "toggery" was faultless--a perfect out-and-outer. He
was truly a great man, or appeared to fancy himself such--for he
rarely condescended to exchange a word, except with an acquaintance,
and even then, it was with a condescending, patronizing air; and he
smiled as seldom as a Connecticut lawyer. Although sitting close by
his side for twenty miles, not one word passed between us during the
whole journey.
The nags driven by this proud fellow were as splendid as himself;
finer cattle never flew over Epsom Downs, the Heath of Ascot, or
Doncaster Course--pure bloods, every one of them, and such as might
have served Guido as models for his famous fresco of the chariot of
Apollo; but Guido's steeds, although they are represented tearing away
furiously, are lubberly _drays_, compared with the slim, graceful,
fleet stags of Tom Moody.
When the cad gave the word--"all right," Tom started them with his
short, shrill "t'chit, t'chit," and a crack of his two-fathom whip
right over the ears of the leaders, as loud as the report of a pistol.
They sprang forward with a maddening energy, almost terrifying; but
the coach was hung and balanced with such precision, and the Windsor
road kept in the finest order for royalty, there was no jumping or
jolting, it glided along as smoothly as if it had been running on
rails. A proud man was Master Moody; not so much of himself, perhaps,
or of his glossy, broad-brimmed beaver, and broadcloth "upper
Benjamin," or the dashing silk tie around his neck, but of his
beautiful nags--and he had reason, for there was not an equipage on
the road, from the ducal chariot to the dandy tandem, to which he did
not give the go-by like lightning.
The rapidity of the movement, and the beauty of the animals, produced
an excitement sufficient to enable one to appreciate the rapture of
the Arab, as he flies over the desert on his beloved barb, enjoying,
feeling, exulting in liberty, sweet, intoxicating, unbounded liberty,
with the whole wilderness for a home.
Some such feelings took possession of me, as the well-poised machine
shot along. Quick as thought we threaded Kensington High street,
skirted the wall of Lord Holland's park, just catching, like the
twinkle of a sunbeam, a glimpse of the antique turrets of that classic
fane peeping through the trees, as we passed the centre avenue.
We speedily reached Hammersmith and Turnham Green, and then passed
Sion House and park, the princely residence of the Duke of
Northumberland, then dashed through the straggling old town of
Brentford. The intervening fields and openings into the landscape
affording enchanting prospects before entering on Hounslow Heath, when
the horses having got warm, the driver gave them full head, and the
vehicle attained a speed truly exhilarating.
The increased momentum, and the extensive prairie-like expanse of
Hounslow Heath, would have realized in any enthusiastic mind, the
feelings of the children of the desert.
This first excursion to Stoke was made during the month of May, when
all nature is fresh and fair; the guelder-roses and lilacs being in
full flower, and the hawthorn hedges were one sheet of milky
fragrance, the air was almost intoxicating, owing to the concentrated
perfumes arising from fruit orchards in full blossom, and the
interminable succession of flower gardens opposite every house
skirting that lovely road, the beauty of which few can conceive who
have not been in England; but the fresh, _pure_ air on the Heath,
infused a new feeling, a realization of unalloyed happiness; we were
rapidly hastening toward scenes for which the soul was yearning, and
hope, bright, young hope, lent wings and a charm to every object,
animate and inanimate.
The usual relay of fresh horses were in waiting at Cranburn Bridge,
and the reeking bloods were instantly changed for others, not a whit
less spirited than their released compeers. Away went Moody, and away
went Moody's fiery steeds. In a very short time we passed, at a few
miles on the hither side of Slough, the "ivy-mantled tower" of Upton
Church, which, but for one or two small, square openings in it, may be
mistaken for a gigantic bush, or unshapely tree of evergreen ivy.
Arriving at Slough, I bade adieu to Master Moody; the forty feet
telescope of Herschel, with its complicated frame-work and machinery,
attracting only a few minutes attention. The road leading up to Stoke
Green is one of those beautiful lanes so exquisitely described by
Gilbert White, in his History of Selborne, or still more graphically
portrayed by Miss Mitford, in her Tales of our Village. Stoke Green
lies to the right of this lane, and at the distance of one or two
fields further on, there is a stile in the corner of one of them, on
the left, where a foot-path crosses diagonally. In going through a gap
in the hedge, you catch the first peep of the spire of Stoke Church.
After passing the field, you come to a narrow lane, overhung with
hawthorns; it leads from Salt-Hill to the village of West-End Stoke.
Keeping along the lane a short way, and passing through a small gate
on the top of the bank, you at once enter the domain of Stoke Park,
and are admitted to a full view of the church, which stands at a short
distance, but almost immediately within the gate, are particularly
struck by the appearance of a grand sarcophagus, erected by Mr. Penn
to the memory of Gray, in the year 1779. It is a lofty structure, in
the purest style of architecture; and a tolerable idea of it, and the
surrounding scenery, may be obtained from the cut at the head of this
article, which has been executed from a drawing made on the spot. The
inscription and quotations following are on the several sides of the
pedestal. It is needless to say they are from the Elegy, and Ode to
Eton College--the latter poem being unquestionably written from this
very spot; and Mr. Penn has exhibited the finest taste in their
selection.
On the end facing Mr. Penn's house--
THIS MONUMENT,
IN HONOR OF THOMAS GRAY,
WAS ERECTED, A. D. MDCCXCIX., AMONG
THE SCENES CELEBRATED BY THAT
GREAT LYRIC AND ELEGIAC POET.
HE DIED XXX JULY, MDCCLXXI, AND
LIES UNNOTICED IN THE CHURCH-YARD
ADJOINING, UNDER THE TOMB-STONE ON
WHICH HE PIOUSLY AND PATHETICALLY
RECORDED THE INTERMENT OF HIS
AUNT AND LAMENTED MOTHER.
On the side looking toward Windsor--
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
On the end facing Stoke Palace--
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Ah! happy hills! Ah, pleasing shade!
Ah! fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow.
On the west side, looking toward the church-yard--
Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour--
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
This noble monument is erected on a beautiful green mound, and is
surrounded with flowers. It is protected by a deep trench, in the
bottom of which is a palisade; but the inclosure may be entered by
application at one of Mr. Penn's pretty entrance lodges, which is
close by. The prospects from this part of the park are surpassingly
beautiful, particularly looking toward the "distant spires and antique
towers" of Eton and Windsor.
It may be worth while here to remark, that the church and church-yard
of Stoke is surrounded by Mr. Penn's property, or more properly
speaking his park.
Coming upon the beautiful monument quite unexpectedly, was not likely
to diminish the enthusiasm previously entertained; and before
proceeding to the church-yard, it was impossible to resist the impulse
of making a rapid memorandum sketch of it. In after years, it was
carefully and correctly drawn in all its aspects. Proceeding along
"the churchway path" into the church-yard, where in reality "rests his
head upon the lap of earth," the tomb-stone of the admired and beloved
poet was soon found. It is at the east end of the church, nearly under
a window.
Persons of a cold temperament, and not imbued with the love of poetry,
may perhaps smile when it is admitted, that the approach to that tomb
was made with steps as slow and reverential as those of any devout
Catholic approaching the shrine of his patron saint.
Long was it gazed upon, and frequently was the inscription read, and
the following cut exhibits the coat of arms and inscriptions on the
blue marble tabular stone, as they were carefully drawn and copied,
that very evening:
[Illustration: Coat of Arms and inscriptions]
IN THE VAULT BENEATH ARE DEPOSITED
IN HOPE OF A JOYFUL RESURRECTION,
THE REMAINS OF
MARY ANTROBUS,
SHE DIED UNMARRIED, NOVEMBER 5TH, 1749,
AGED 66.
* * * * *
IN THE SAME PIOUS CONFIDENCE,
BESIDE HER FRIEND AND SISTER,
HERE SLEEP THE REMAINS OF
DOROTHY GRAY,
WIDOW, THE CAREFUL TENDER MOTHER
OF MANY CHILDREN, ONE OF WHOM ALONE
HAD THE MISFORTUNE TO SURVIVE HER.
SHE DIED MARCH 11TH, 1753,
AGED 67.
It was a soft, balmy evening; "every leaf was at rest;" the deer in
the park had betaken themselves to their favorite haunts, under the
wide-spreading boughs of ancient oaks and elms, and were reposing in
happy security.
The long continued twilight of England was gathering in, and I still
lingered in the consecrated inclosure, fascinated with the
unmistakable antiquity of the church, which, although small as
compared with many others, is eminently romantic, and I cannot better
describe the scene, and the feelings impressed at the moment, than in
the words of one equally near as dear--
"A holy spell pervades thy gloom,
A silent charm breathes all around;
And the dread stillness of the tomb
Reigns o'er thy hallowed haunted ground."
It may be proper to mention that the poem from which this is
extracted, is descriptive of Haddon Hall, one of the most ancient and
perfect specimens of the pure Gothic in England. The poem appeared in
one of the English Annuals.
At peace with all the world, and filled with emotions of true and
sincere gratitude to the Giver of all good, for the pure happiness
then enjoyed, I sank down by the tomb-stone, overpowered with
veneration, and breathed fervent thanks to HIM who refuses not the
offering of a humble and contrite heart.
This narrative is meant to be a faithful and honest representation of
_facts_ and _circumstances_ that actually occurred, and it is firmly
believed that none can stray into an ancient secluded country
church-yard, during the decline of day, without deeply meditating on
those who for ages have slept below, and where ALL must soon sleep,
without feeling true devotion, and forming resolves for future and
amended conduct.
Slowly quitting the church-yard, and approaching the elevated
monument, now become almost sublime as the shades of evening rendered
dim its classic outline, it was impossible to avoid lingering some
time longer beside it, recalling various passages of the Elegy
appropriate to the occasion; the landscape was indeed "glimmering on
the sight," and there was a "solemn stillness in the air," well
befitting the occasion; more particularly appropriate was that fine
stanza, which, although written by Gray, is omitted in all editions of
the Elegy except the one hereafter noticed, in where it was
re-incorporated by the editor, [the present writer,] in consequence of
a suggestion kindly offered in a letter from Granville Penn, Esq.,
then residing with his brother at Stoke Park.
Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;
In still small accents whispering from the ground,
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.
The Elegy is undoubtedly the most popular poem in the English
language; it was translated into that of every country in Europe,
besides Latin and Greek. It has been more frequently, elaborately and
expensively illustrated with pictorial embellishments. The autograph
copy of it, in the poet's small, neat hand, written on two small half
sheets of paper, was sold last year for no less than _one hundred
pounds sterling_; and the spirited purchaser was most appropriately
the proprietor of Stoke Park, Granville John Penn, Esq., who at the
same sale gave _forty-five pounds_ for the autograph copy of The Long
Story, and _one hundred and five pounds_ for the Odes; whilst another
gentleman gave forty pounds for two short poems and a letter from the
illustrious poet on the death of his father.
The truthfulness of the pictures presented to the imagination in the
Elegy could not be denied, for there, on the very spot where, beyond
all question, it was composed, and after a lapse of nearly one hundred
years, the images which impressed the mind of the inspired poet came
fresh at every turn. It is true the curfew did not toll, but the
"lowing herd" were as distinctly audible as the beetle wheeling his
droning flight. The yew tree's shade--that identical tree, to which,
to a moral certainty, the poet had reference--is represented in the
cut, in the corner of the inclosure, as distinctly as the smallness of
the scale admitted, underneath its shade the "turf lies in many a
mouldering heap," and the "rugged elms" are outside the inclosure, but
their outstretched arms overspread many a "narrow cell and frail
memorial," where the "rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep," and
where also "their name and years are spelt by th' unlettered muse." A
singular error in spelling _the name_ of one of those humble persons,
was however committed by the poet himself in his "Long Story," very
pardonable in him, however, as the party was then alive; but that the
error should have been perpetuated in ALL EDITIONS save one, down to
that entitled "The Eton," being printed there, and edited by a
reverend clergyman resident in the college, is somewhat singular;
moreover the _second_ edition of the Eton Gray appeared this very
year, and the error remains, although the name is correctly given on
the grave-stone. The excepted edition, in which alone it is correctly
given, was published in 1821, and edited by the present writer for his
friend Mr. John Sharpe. The circumstance will be noticed presently.
The Elegy of Gray was evidently written under the influence of strong
feeling, and vivid impressions of the beautiful in the scenery around
him, and when his sensitive mind was overspread with melancholy, in
consequence of the death of his young, amiable and accomplished friend
West, to whom, in June, 1742, he addressed his lovely Ode to Spring,
which was written at Stoke; but before it reached his friend he was
numbered with the dead! So true was the friendship subsisting between
them, that the poet of Stoke was overpowered with a melancholy which,
although subdued, lasted during a great part of his life.
The scenes amid which the Elegy was composed were well adapted to
soothe and cherish that contemplative sadness which, when the wounds
of grief are healing, it is a luxury to indulge, and that the poet did
indulge them is self-evident in many a line.
In returning to Stoke Green to spend the night, some of the rustic
peasantry were wending their way down the lane to the same place, but
none of these simple people, although questioned, could tell aught of
him whose fame and works had induced the pilgrimage to Stoke; neither
did better success attend any succeeding inquiry at the village. So
universally true is that scriptural saying, like ALL the sayings of
HIM who uttered it, that a prophet is not without honor, save in his
own country and in his own house.
Retiring to rest early, with a full determination to do that which had
often been resolved but never accomplished, that is, to rise with the
dawn; the resolution had nearly defeated the purpose, inasmuch as the
mind being surcharged with the past and the expected, there was little
inclination to sleep until after midnight. But a full and fixed
determination of the will overcomes greater difficulties, and the
first streak of light at break of day found me up and dressed, and of
a truth
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
The dawn was most lovely, and the perfume from the hawthorns
delicious; every thing indicated a beautiful day. The sarcophagus
stands on the most elevated spot, and there, where probably in days
long past the poet had watched the rising of the sun, did I, a humble
pilgrim at his shrine, await the same sublime spectacle.
As if to gratify a long cherished desire, the sun did rise with a
splendor impossible to be exceeded, and the following lines, by an
anonymous author, immediately recurred to memory:
O who can paint the rapture of the soul,
As o'er the scene the sun first steals to sight,
And all the world of vapors as they roll,
And heaven's vast arch unveils in living light.
To witness the break of day in the country is indeed a luxury to which
the inhabitants of cities are strangers. As the sun rose from the
horizon, his increasing light brought into view myriads of dew-drops
on every bud and blossom, which glittered and shone like diamonds. The
sky-larks began to rise from their grassy beds among the daisies,
ascending in circles to the clouds, and caroling a music which is
almost heavenly to hear. The deer also were getting up from their
shadowy lair under the trees, and the young fawns sprung away and took
to flight as I passed a herd, under a clump of beeches, in order to
obtain a view of the ancient mansion. In approaching it, a sound,
familiar indeed but far from musical, struck the ear, and added
another proof and a fresh charm to the fidelity of the picture drawn
by the poet. The swallows were merrily "twittering" about the
gable-ends, and it did the heart good to stand watching the probable
successors of those active little visiters, whose predecessors had
possibly attracted the notice of the bard. It is well known that these
birds, like the orchard oriole, return year after year to the same
house, and haunt where they had previously reared their young.[2]
A strong and perhaps natural desire to inspect the interior of all
that remained of the ancient mansion of the Huntingdons and Hattons
was defeated, inasmuch as it was found barricaded. Imagination had
been busy for many a year, in respect to its great hall and gallery,
its rich windows "and passages that lead to nothing;" but as access to
the interior was denied, the sketch-book was put in requisition, and
an accurate view soon secured.
Observing at some distance, through a vista among the trees, a lofty
pillar with a statue on its summit, and proceeding thither, it was
found to be another of those splendid ornaments with which the taste
and liberality of the proprietor had adorned his park, being erected
to the memory of Sir Edward Coke, whose statue it was which surmounted
the capital. Whilst engaged in sketching this truly classic object, a
gentleman approached, who introduced himself as Mr. Osborne, the
superintendent of the demesne. He expressed pleasure at seeing the
sketches, and politely offered every facility for making such, but
hinted that Mr. Penn had scruples, and very proper ones, about
strangers approaching too near the house on the Sabbath day, to make
sketches of objects in its vicinity.
[Footnote 2: A pair of Baltimore birds (the orchard oriole) returned
summer after summer, and built their hanging nest, not only in the
same apple-tree, but on the same bough, which overhung a terrace, in a
garden belonging to the writer at Geneva, New York, until one season a
terrific storm, not of hail but ice, tore the nest from the tree, and
killed the young, and the parent birds never afterward returned.]
Mr. Osborne's offer was courteously made, and the consequence was that
many visits to Stoke afterward took place, and the whole of the
interesting scenery carefully sketched. He kindly pointed out all that
was most worthy of attention about the estate and neighborhood, and
made tender of his company to visit West-End, and show the house which
Gray, and his mother and aunt had for many years occupied. The
proprietor he said was Captain Salter, in whose family it had remained
for a great many generations. Latterly the house has been purchased,
enlarged, and put into complete repair by Mr. Granville John Penn, the
present proprietor, nephew of John Penn, Esq., who died in June, 1834.
After "a hasty" breakfast at Stoke Green, the church-yard was again
visited, and there was not a grave-stone in it which was not examined
and read. The error formerly alluded to was immediately detected. The
passages in the Long Story, describing the mock trial at the "Great
House," before Lady Cobham, may be worth transcribing.
Fame, in the shape of Mr. Purt,[3]
(By this time all the parish know it,)
Had told that thereabouts there lurked
A wicked imp they call a poet:
Who prowled the country far and near,
Bewitched the children of the peasants,
Dried up the cows and lamed the deer,
And sucked the eggs and killed the pheasants.
* * * * *
The court was sat, the culprit there,
Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping,
The Lady Janes and Joans repair,
And from the gallery stand peeping:
Such in the silence of the night
Come (sweep) along some winding entry,
(Styack has often seen the sight,)
Or at the chapel-door stand sentry:
In peaked hoods and mantles tarnished
Sour visages enough to scare ye,
High dames of honor once who garnished
The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary.
* * * * *
The bard with many an artful fib
Had in imagination fenced him,
Disproved the arguments of Squib
And all that Groom could urge against him.
[Footnote 3: In all editions but that published by Mr. John Sharpe the
initial _only_ of this name has been given--"Mr. P."--even the Eton
edition of this year has it so. It seems folly to continue what may
have been very proper nearly a hundred years ago, when the individual
was alive; but the Rev. Robert Purt died in April, 1752!]
Finding on the stone alluded to, that it was to the memory of Mrs. Ann
Tyacke, who died in 1753, it occurred that this was the Styack of the
poem, where a foot-note in a copy then and there consulted, stated her
to have been the housekeeper; and on inquiring of Mr. Osborne, he
confirmed the conjecture. Two other foot-notes state Squib to have
been _groom_ of the chamber, and that Groom was steward; but finding
another head-stone (both are represented in the large wood-cut,
although not exactly in the situations they occupy in the church-yard)
close to that of Mrs. Tyacke, to the memory of _William_ Groom, who
died 1751, it appears to offer evidence that Gray mistook the _name_
of the one for the _office_ of the other. The Eton edition has not a
single foot-note from beginning to end of the volume. It is dedicated
to Mr. Granville John Penn, and his "kind assistance _during the
progress of the work_" acknowledged, both in its illustrations, and in
the biographical sketch, not withstanding which "assistance," the
error of the house-keeper's name is continued; and amongst the
wood-cut illustrations, there is one entitled (both _in_ the list and
_on_ the cut) "Stoke Church, east end, with tablet to Gray," when, in
fact, it represents the _tomb-stone_ at the end of the church, under
which Gray and his mother are interred. The _tablet_ to Gray is quite
another thing, _that_ was lately inserted in the wall of the church;
but by some extraordinary blunder it records his death as having taken
place on the 1st of August, while on the sarcophagus it is stated to
have occurred on the 30th of July. Neither the one nor the other is
correct. The Gentleman's Magazine for 1771, and the Annual Register
for the same year, as well as Mathias' Life, 2 vols. 4to., 1814, all
concur in giving it as having taken place on the 31st. The Etonian
edition has it the 30th. After a considerable time spent in the
church-yard, the hour of public worship drew near, the aged sexton
appeared, opened the doors, and began to toll the bell--that same
ancient bell which, century after century, had "rung in" generation
after generation, and tolled at their funerals. It is difficult to
realize the feelings excited on entering a sacred edifice of very
ancient date, particularly if it is in the country, secluded amongst
aged trees, looking as old as itself; and in walking over the stone
floor, which, although so seldom trodden, is worn away into something
like channels; in sitting in the same antique, and curiously carved,
black oaken pews, which had been sat on by races of men who had
occupied the same seats hundreds of years long past; but the effect is
greatly increased on viewing the effigies of the mighty dead, lying on
their marble beds, in long and low niches in the walls, some with the
palms of their hands pressed together and pointing upward, as if in
the act of supplication; and others grasping their swords, and having
their legs _crossed_, indicating that they had fought _for_ the cross
in the Holy Land. Such a church, and such objects around, fill the
mind with true devotion. The sublime words of Milton work out the
picture to perfection.
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Dissolve me into extasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
It was gratifying and affecting to witness the piety, humility, and
devotion of the congregation as they entered and took their seats in
silence, long before the venerable clergyman entered the church; there
was something exceedingly touching in the profound silence that
reigned throughout the congregation, and induced one to think highly
of that rule amongst those excellent people, who with great propriety
are termed Friends. Public worship was attended both in the morning
and afternoon, and I returned to London, feeling myself a much better
man than when I left it, with a full determination to revisit a place
where so much pleasure had been received. It was nearly three months
before the resolve was carried into effect; but a second excursion was
made in August, and Mr. Osborne was kind enough to show the house at
West-End, together with the celebrated Burnham beeches, amongst which
were several "which wreathed their old fantastic roots so high,"
evidently the originals alluded to in the Elegy. They are scarcely a
mile from West-End, and are approached through another of those sweet
green lanes with which the neighborhood abounds. They are part of the
original forest. The spot was one of Gray's favorite haunts; and it
would be difficult to find one better fitted for a lover of nature,
and a contemplative mind. Late in the autumn an invitation was
received from Mr. Osborne to spend a day or two with him; but it was
not until the beginning of November that advantage could be taken of
it. Arriving at his house late in the afternoon, his servant informed
me he had been suddenly called away to the Isle of Portland, in
Dorsetshire, where Mr. Penn was erecting a castle. She also apologized
for Mrs. Osborne's inability to receive company, in consequence of "a
particular circumstance," which circumstance she blushingly
acknowledged was the birth of a fine boy the night before. There was
no resource, therefore, but to walk down either to Stoke Green, or to
Salt-Hill, where there are two well-known taverns. Before proceeding,
however, the church-yard, almost of necessity, must be visited; and
although in a direct line, it was not far from Mr. Osborne's house, a
considerable circuit had to be made to get into the inclosure. The
evening was particularly still--you could have heard a leaf fall; the
twilight was just setting in, and a haze, or fog, coming on, but the
spot was soon reached; and whilst kneeling, engaged, like Old
Mortality, in plucking some weeds and long grass, which had sprung up
about _the_ tomb since the last visit, a slight sound--a very gentle
rustle--struck the ear. I supposed it to be the ivy on the
church-wall, but the next instant it was followed by a movement--something
very near was certainly approaching. On looking up, it is impossible
to describe with what mixed feelings of astonishment, apprehension,
and awe, I beheld coming from a corner of the church-yard, (where
there was no ingress through the brick wall,) and directly toward the
spot where I knelt, the figure of a tall, majestic lady, dressed in a
black velvet pelisse, black velvet hat, surmounted by a plume of black
ostrich feathers. She was stepping slowly toward me, over the graves.
It would be useless to deny that fear fixed me to the spot on
beholding the expression of her very serious face, and her eyes firmly
fixed on mine.
Appalled by her sudden appearance, it seemed as if she had just risen
from the grave, dressed in a funeral pall; for I was facing toward
that corner of the enclosure from which she was coming, and feeling
certain no human being was there one minute before, I was breathless
with apprehension, and glad to rest one arm on the tomb-stone until
she came close up to me.
[Illustration: In the Grave-yard--P. Balmanno]
With a graceful inclination of the head, she addressed me.
"Mr. B----, I believe?"
"Yes, madam, that is my name."
"And you came down to visit Mr. Osborne, who has been called away to
Portland."
I breathed more freely as I admitted it.
"It happens," she continued, "to be inconvenient for Mrs. Osborne to
receive you, and as you came by invitation from her husband, if you
will accept a night's lodging from me, I am enabled to offer it. I am
Mr. Penn's housekeeper, and none of the family are at home."
Most joyfully was the invitation accepted; my mind was relieved from a
very unpleasant load of apprehension--but the end was not yet! She
began to lead the way over the graves, exactly toward the spot from
whence she had so suddenly and mysteriously appeared; after proceeding
a few steps, I ventured to say--
"Pray, madam, may I be allowed to inquire where you are leading to? I
can see no egress in that direction, unless it be into an open grave
or under a tomb-stone."
"Oh, you will find that out presently," replied the lady, transfixing
me with a glance of her bright blue eyes, and I thought I could detect
a rather equivocal expression about the corners of her beautiful
mouth. This was not very encouraging, and not much liked, but she was
a woman, and a lovely one, too much so by half to be a Banshee--I was
on my guard, however, and ready, but the fog became so thick it was
impossible to see three steps before us; in fact, it rolled over the
church-yard wall in clouds. The lady linked her arm in mine, to
prevent herself from stumbling, holding up her dress with the other
hand, as the long dank grass was wetting it. At last we arrived in the
very corner of the church-yard, she still keeping a firm hold of my
arm.
"In Heaven's name, madam, what do you mean by leading me into this
corner?"
"Oh, you are afraid, I see; but wait a moment."
On saying which, I observed her to take something bright from her
girdle, which apprehension converted into a stiletto or dirk, and such
is the force of self-preservation, that I was on the point of tripping
her up and throwing her on her back. But thrusting the supposed dirk
against the wall--presto--open sesame--the wall gave way, and she drew
me through a doorway. This was done so quickly it absolutely seemed
magic. For an instant I thought of dropping her arm--indeed I should
have done so, and retreated back through the door, but she held my arm
tight, and I almost quaked, for I thought she had dragged me into a
secret vault, the manoeuvre was performed so adroitly. The drifting
cold fog, however, soon made it plain we were in no vault, but the
open park. In short, it was a door in the wall, flush with the bricks,
and painted so exactly like them, it was impossible for a stranger to
discover it. It was Mr. Penn's private entrance, and saved the family
a walk of some distance. A narrow green walk, not previously remarked,
led from the door to the west end of the church.
The housekeeper of a nobleman or gentleman of wealth, in England,
generally enjoys an enviable situation. Intrusted with much that is
valuable, she is generally a person of the highest consideration and
respect, and seldom fails to acquire the elevated manners and refined
address of her superiors. The lady in question was exactly one of this
description, well educated, and well read; a magnificent library was
at her command, and having much time, and what is better, fine taste,
she had profited by it. Never was an evening passed in greater
comfort, or with a more agreeable companion. After partaking of that
most exhilarating of all beverages, the pure hyson, we began to chat
with almost the same freedom as though we had been long acquainted.
During a pause in the conversation, after looking in my face a moment,
she said--
"Will you answer me one question?"
"Most certainly, any thing, you choose to ask."
"But will you answer it honestly and truly?"
"Do not doubt it."
"Well, then, tell me, were you not most horribly afraid when you saw
me coming toward you in the church-yard?"
"I do frankly confess, madam, I _was horribly_ afraid, and further, I
firmly believe I should have taken to my heels, had you not been a
very beautiful woman!"
Before the sentence was well finished her laughter was irrepressible.
"I _knew_ it, I _saw_ it, I _intended_ it," said she, laughing so
heartily that the tears sprung out of her beautiful eyes, and she was
obliged to use her handkerchief to wipe them away.
"And do you feel no compunction for scaring a poor fellow half out of
his wits?"
"None whatever," replied she gayly. "What could you expect when
prowling amongst the graves in a church-yard so lone and solitary,
like a goule, on a damp November night? I saw you from Mr. Osborne's
going toward it, and determined to startle you--and I think I
succeeded pretty effectually."
"You did, and had very nearly met with your reward, for when in the
corner of that church-yard you pulled the key from your girdle, fully
believing you to be the Evil One, I was on the point of strangling
you."
Much laughter at my expense ensued, for the lady lacked neither wit
nor humor, and the evening flew faster than desired. On retiring, a
man servant conducted me to an apartment on the upper floor of the
mansion, and sleep soon came and soon went, for an innumerable number
of rats and mice were careering all over the bed! and I felt them
sniffing about my nose and mouth; I sprang bolt upright, striking
right and left like a madman. This sent them pattering all about the
room, and dreading that I might find myself minus a nose or an ear
before morning, I groped all around the room for a bell, but could
find none; proceeding into the corridor and standing on tip-toe,
bell-wires were soon found, and soon set a ringing; watching at the
top of the very long staircase, a light was at last seen ascending,
borne in the hand of a very fat man, who proved to be the butler; he
had nothing on but his shirt, and a huge pair of red plush, which
enveloped his nether bulk. Puffing with the exertion of ascending so
many stairs, he at last saw me, still more lightly clothed than
himself, and inquired what I wanted?
"Have you got a cat about the house?"
"No, sir, we have no cats, they destroy the young pheasants."
"A dog, then?"
"No dog, sir, on account of the deer."
"Then tell the housekeeper there are ten thousand rats and twenty
thousand mice in the room I occupy!"
As he descended the stair he was heard mumbling,
"cats!"--"dogs!"--"rats!"--"mice!" and chuckling ready to burst his
fat sides.
After long waiting, the reflection of light on his red plush smalls
(_greats_ would better describe them) flashed up like a streak of
lightning, and puffing harder than before, told me if I would follow
him down stairs, he had orders to show me to another room.
Gathering up the articles of my dress over my arm, we descended, and I
was shown into a room of almost regal splendor. The lofty bedstead had
a canopy, terminating in a gilded coronet, and the ample hangings were
of rich Venetian crimson velvet, trimmed and festooned "about, around
and underneath." The ascent to this unusually lofty bed was by a
flight of superb steps, covered with rich embossed velvet. Out of the
royal palaces I had never seen such a bed.
In consequence of having stood so long undressed on the marble floor
at the top of the stairs, shivering with cold, the magnificent bed, on
getting into it, was found comfortable beyond expression. It felt as
if it would never cease yielding under the pressure; it sunk down,
down, down--there appeared no stop to its declension; and then its
delicious warmth--what a luxury to a shivering man! Hugging myself
under the idea of a glorious night's rest, and composing myself in the
easiest possible position, it was more desirable to lay awake in such
full enjoyment, than to sleep--sleep had lost all its charms. I was in
the bed of beds--the celestial!
After thus laying about twenty minutes, enjoying perfect bliss, a
sensation of some uneasiness began slowly to manifest itself, which
induced a change of position; but the change did not relieve the
uncomfortable feeling. It would be difficult to describe it, but it
increased every moment, until at last it seemed as if the points of a
hundred thousand fine needles were puncturing every pore. This was
borne with great resignation and equanimity for some time, expecting
it would go off; but the stinging sensation increased, and finally
became intolerable; the celestial bed became one of infernal torture.
I tossed, and dashed, and threw about my limbs in all directions, and
almost bellowed like a mad bull.
What to do to relieve the torment I knew not. To ask for another bed
was out of the question, and to attempt to sleep on thorns--thorns!
they would have been thought a luxury to this of lying enduring the
pains of the doomed. After long endurance of the pain, and in racking
my brains considering what was best to be done, the intolerable
sensations began by degrees to subside and grow less and less; but the
heat, although nearly insupportable, was more easily endured. That
horrible night was a long one--and long will it be before it is
forgotten.
Coming down in the morning, expecting to find the lady all smiles and
graces, I was surprised and hurt to find she received me rather
coldly, and with averted head; but when she could no longer avoid
turning round, never, in the whole course of my life, was I more
astonished at the change she had undergone. It was a total, a radical
change--she was hardly to be recognized--and it was scarcely possible
to believe she was the lovely woman of the last night. Not that her
splendid figure was altered--in fact, an elegant morning-dress rather
tended to improve and set-off her full and almost voluptuous contour,
and her soft, sweet voice was equally musical; but her face--the
charms of her lovely face were vanished and gone!
Every one will admit that the nose is a most important, nay, a very
prominent feature in female beauty. It is indispensible that a belle
should have a beautiful nose; in fact, it is a question whether a
woman without an eye would not be preferable to one with--but I
anticipate.
"I see your surprise, sir," said she, with evident chagrin, "but it is
all owing to you."
"To _me_, madam! I presume you allude to the altered appearance of
your face, but I cannot conceive what I can have had to do with the
change."
In brief, her beautiful nose was all over as red as scarlet,
particularly the point of it, which exactly resembled a large red
cherry, or ripe Siberian crab-apple. Now just think of it--a very fair
woman with a blood-red nose! Faugh! it is enough to sicken the most
devoted admirer of the sex. Suppose any gentleman going to be married,
and full of love and admiration, should, on going to the house of his
beloved bride on the appointed morning, to take her to church, humming
to himself that sweet song, "She Wove a Wreath of Roses," finds her
beautiful nose become a big rosy nosegay--would he not be apt to
suppose she had over night been making pretty free sacrifices, not to
the little god of love, but to jolly Bacchus? I did not do _my_ belle
such an injustice--and yet what could I think?
"How do you make out that I had any thing to do with such an important
alteration, madam."
"O, as easy as it is true. Did not your wo-begone terrors in the
church-yard throw me into immoderate fits of laughter, as you well
know? And did not your adventures, after you retired, when reported to
me, throw me all but into convulsions--the more I thought, the more I
laughed, until it brought on a nervous headache so intense, it felt as
if my head would have split? To relieve so distressing a pain, I took
a bottle of eau de cologne to bed with me, and pulling out the
stopper, propped it up by the pillow, right under my nose. I quite
forgot it, and fell asleep with the bottle in that position."
"Ah!" said I, "I suspected _the bottle_ had something to do with it."
"Quite true, quite true--but not the bottle you wickedly insinuate.
How long I slept I know not, it must have been a long time; when I
awoke, I was surprised to find my shoulder cold and wet--and then I
recollected the bottle of cologne; but what was my horror, on getting
up, to behold my face in this frightful condition, you may easily
imagine."
Poor, dear lady, if she laughed heartily at the scare she gave me in
the church-yard, I now had my revenge, full and ample--for I could not
refrain from laughing outright every time I looked in her face; and
laughter, when it is hearty and hilarious, is catching, almost as much
as yawning; and I fancy few will dispute how potent, how Mesmeric, or
magnetic the effect of an outstretched arm and wide gaping oscitation
is. I declare, I caught myself gaping the other night on seeing my
wife's white cat stretch herself on the rug, and yawn.
"I really should feel obliged if you would be polite enough to keep
your eye off my face," said the lady.
Now it need hardly be remarked, that when any thing is the matter with
a person's face, be it a wall-eye, a squint, a cancer, very bad teeth,
or any such disfigurement or malady, it is impossible to look at any
other spot--it is sure to fix your gaze, you can look at no other
part; you cannot keep your eye off it, unless you are more generous,
or better bred than most men.
"I really should feel obliged if you would be polite enough to keep
your eye off my nose; it puts me out of countenance," said the fair
one. She said this half earnest, half jest; and I obliged her, by
directing my looks to her taper fingers and white hands--and the
conversation proceeded with the breakfast.
"May I inquire how you rested, after your escape from the ten thousand
rats, and twenty thousand mice, which attacked you before you changed
your room?"
"Do you ask the question seriously?"
"Certainly I do."
"Why, then, to use a homely but a very expressive phrase, it was out
of the frying-pan into the fire."
"Mercy on us! how can that be; you had what is considered the best bed
in the house."
"O, I dare say--no doubt, the softest I ever lay in; but instead of
ten thousand rats, and twenty thousand mice, I had not been in it
fifteen minutes ere a hundred and twenty thousand hornets, wasps,
scorpions, and centipedes, two or three thousand hedge-hogs, and as
many porcupines, seemed to be full drive at me; and had I not soon
been relieved by perspiration, I should assuredly have gone mad, and
been in bedlam. Nervous headache! Why, madam, it would have been
considered paradise, compared with the purgatory you inflicted on me."
Her eyes sparkled with glee--and she began to laugh joyously; but soon
checking herself, and assuming a sort of mock sympathy, said,
"I am very sorry--_very_ sorry, indeed, that you should have found
your bed so like the love of some men, rather hot to hold."
On inquiring whether the grand coroneted bed, which had been as a hot
gridiron to me, was intended for any particular person, she informed
me it was for a Russian nobleman, Baron Nicholay, a much respected
friend of Mr. Penn's, who sometimes visited Stoke, and who, being used
to a bed of down in the cold climate of his own country, Mr. Penn,
with his characteristic kindness and attention, had it prepared for
the baron's especial comfort. She added that the reason why Mr. Penn
had all his life remained a bachelor, was in consequence of an early
attachment which he had formed for the baron's sister; that they were
to have been married, but in driving the lady in a _drouschky_, or
sledge, on the ice of the Neva, at St. Petersburg, by some fatality
the ice gave way, and notwithstanding the most strenuous exertions of
her lover, and the servant who stood behind the sled, the lady, by the
force of the current, was swept away under the ice, and never
afterward seen. That this shocking accident had such effect on Mr.
Penn's mind, as well it might, he never could think of any other
woman, but remained true and constant to his first love, mourning her
tragic end all his life.
This was exactly the case with that most amiable and gifted man, the
late Sir Thomas Lawrence, who being engaged and about to be married to
a daughter of the celebrated Mrs. Siddons, the young lady was suddenly
snatched from him by a rapid consumption; and Sir Thomas remained
faithful to her beloved memory, wearing mourning during his life, and
ever after used black wax in sealing his letters, as the writer can
prove by many, many received from him during a series of years until
his lamented death.
On asking my intelligent companion if she knew any particulars
respecting Gray, she replied she did know a great deal regarding him;
that Mr. Penn idolized his memory, and had made collections respecting
him and the personages mentioned in the Long Story. At my pressing
solicitation she was good enough to say she would write out all the
particulars--a promise which she faithfully kept; and they may
hereafter appear in some shape.
The morning proving foggy and damp, the time (instead of going to
church) was passed in the library--a magnificent room, nearly two
hundred feet long, extending the whole length of the building, and
filled with books from floor to ceiling.
In one of the principal rooms, mounted upon a pedestal, there is a
large piece of the identical tree under the shade of which Mr. Penn's
celebrated ancestor, William, signed his treaty with the Indians,
constituting him Lord Proprietary of what was afterward, and what will
ever be, Pennsylvania. The piece of wood is part of a large limb,
about five feet long. The tree was blown down in 1812, and the portion
in question was transmitted by Dr. Rush to Mr. Penn, who had it
varnished in its original state, and a brass plate affixed to it, with
an inscription.
The sun broke through the fog about twelve o'clock, and had as
cheering an effect on the landscape, as it almost invariably has on
the mind. In the afternoon, after a most delightful day spent with the
fair housekeeper, it became time to think of returning to London, and
as the distance would be much lessened by proceeding through Mr.
Penn's grounds, and going down to Salt-Hill instead of Slough, the
lady offered to accompany me to the extent of the shrubberies, and
point out the way. These enchanting shrubberies are adorned with busts
of the Roman and English poets, placed on antique terms, along the
well-kept, smooth gravel-walks, which wind about in many a serpentine
direction through the grounds. There are appropriate quotations from
the works of the different bards, placed on the front of each
terminus. The bust of Gray, is placed under an ancient wide-spreading
oak, with this inscription:
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
Where'er the rude moss-grown beech
O'er canopies the glade,
With me the muse shall sit and think,
At ease reclined in rustic state.
There is an elegant small building, inscribed "The Temple of Fancy,"
in which a bust of the immortal Shakspeare is the only ornament. It is
on a small knoll, commanding an extensive prospect through the trees,
which are opened like a fan. Windsor Castle terminates this lovely
view. Within the temple there is a long inscription from the Merry
Wives of Windsor, Act 5, sc. 5, beginning thus,
Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out;
Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room;
That it may stand till the perpetual doom,
In state as wholesome, as in state 'tis fit,
Worthy the owner, and the owner it.
The grounds, laid out with so much fine taste, terminate in a lovely
little dell, sheltered on every side. In the centre there is a circle
bordered with box, and growing within it, a collection of all the
known varieties of heath. The plants were then in full flower, and
innumerable honey-bees were feeding and buzzing. To one who, in early
life, had been accustomed to tread the heath-covered hills of
Scotland, the unexpected sight of these blooming plants of the
mountain was a treat; and the effect was heightened on seeing the bust
of Scotia's most admired bard, Thomson, adorning it. The inscription
was from that sublime, almost divine hymn, with which the Seasons
conclude, and eminently well applied to the heath, as some one or
other of the varieties blossom nearly all the year through.
These, as they change, Almighty Father, these,
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of thee.
In that secluded dell I bade a sorrowful and unwilling adieu to the
lady who had shown such extraordinary politeness. It may be worth the
while to mention that she was soon after married, much against the
wish of Mr. Penn, who had a great aversion to any changes in his
establishment; for a kinder, a better, a more pious, or more
accomplished gentleman than the late John Penn, of Stoke Park, England
could not boast.
* * * * *
In consequence of the extraordinary prices lately paid for the
autograph copies of Gray's poems, more particularly that of the Elegy,
it has been thought it would be acceptable to the readers of the
Magazine to be presented with a _fac simile_. The following have
therefore been traced, and engraved with great care and accuracy, from
the first and last stanzas of the Elegy, and the signature from a
letter. These will give an exact idea of the peculiarly neat and
elegant handwriting of the Poet of Stoke.
[Illustration: handwritten poem by Gray
The Curfew tolls the Knell of parting Day,
The lowing Herd wind slowly o'er the Lea,
The Plowman homeward plods his weary Way,
And leaves the World to Darkness & to me.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his Frailties from their dread Abode,
(There they alike in trembling Hope repose)
The Bosom of his Father, & his God.
Your humble Serv^t T. Gray]
* * * * *
THE SAW-MILL.
FROM THE GERMAN OF KORNER.
BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.
In yonder mill I rested,
And sat me down to look
Upon the wheel's quick glimmer.
And on the flowing brook.
As in a dream, before me,
The saw, with restless play,
Was cleaving through a fir-tree
Its long and steady way.
The tree through all its fibres
With living motion stirred,
And, in a dirge-like murmur,
These solemn words I heard--
Oh, thou, who wanderest hither,
A timely guest thou art!
For thee this cruel engine
Is passing through my heart.
When soon, in earth's still bosom,
Thy hours of rest begin,
This wood shall form the chamber
Whose walls shall close thee in.
Four planks--I saw and shuddered--
Dropped in that busy mill;
Then, as I tried to answer,
At once the wheel was still.
EFFIE MORRIS.
OR LOVE AND PRIDE.
BY ENNA DUVAL.
So changes mortal Life with fleeting years;
A mournful change, should Reason fail to bring
The timely insight that can temper fears,
And from vicissitude remove its sting;
While Faith aspires to seats in that domain
Where joys are perfect--neither wax nor wane. WORDSWORTH.
It was a warm, cloudy, sultry summer morning--scarcely a breath of air
stirred the clematis and woodbine blossoms that peeped in and
clustered around the breakfast-room window, greeting us with fresh
fragrance; but on this morning no pleasant air breathed sighingly over
them, and they looked drooping and faded. I was visiting my friend
Effie Morris, who resided in a pleasant country village, some twenty
or thirty miles from my city home. We were both young, and had been
school-girl friends from early childhood. The preceding winter had
been our closing session at school, and we were about entering our
little world as women. Effie was an only daughter of a widowed mother.
Possessing comfortable means, they lived most pleasantly in their
quiet romantic little village. Effie had stayed with me during the
winters of her school-days, while I had always returned the compliment
by spending the summer months at her pleasant home. Her mother was
lovely both in mind and disposition, and though she had suffered much
from affliction, she still retained youthful and sympathizing
feelings. Effie was gentle and beautiful, and the most innocent,
unsophisticated little enthusiast that ever breathed. She had arrived
at the age of seventeen, and to my certain knowledge had never felt
the first heart-throb; never had been in love. In vain had we attended
the dancing-school balls, and little parties. A host of boy-lovers
surrounded the little set to which we belonged, and yet Effie remained
entirely heart-whole. She never flirted, never sentimentalized with
gentlemen, and she was called cold and matter-of-fact, by those who
judged her alone by her manner; but one glance in her soft, dove-like
eyes, it seems to me, should have set them a doubting. I have seen
those expressive eyes well up with tears when together we would read
some old story or poem--
"Two shall be named preeminently dear--
The gentle Lady married to the Moor,
And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb"--
or leaning from our bed-room window, at midnight, we would gaze on the
silvery moon in the heavens, listening to the rippling notes of the
water-spirits that to our fancy inhabited the sparkling stream that
ran near the house. How beautifully would she improvise at times--for
improvisations in truth were they, while she was quite unconscious of
her gift. She never wrote a line of poetry, but when in such moods,
every word she uttered was true, pure poetry. She had a most
remarkable memory, and seemed never to forget a line she read. To me
she would repeat page after page of our favorite authors, when we
would be wandering through the woods, our arms entwined around each
other.
Effie Morris was an enthusiastic dreamer, and entertained certain
little romantic exaggerated opinions, out of which it was impossible
to argue her--sometimes her actions ran contrary to these opinions,
and we would fancy that surely now she would admit the fallacy of her
arguments in favor of them; but when taxed with it, she would in the
most earnest, sincere manner defend her original position, proving to
us that no matter how her actions appeared to others, they were in her
own mind entirely in keeping with these first expressed opinions,
which to us seemed entirely at variance. But she was so gentle in
argument, and proved so plainly that though her reasoning might be
false, her thoughts were so beautiful and pure, as to make us feel
perfectly willing to pardon her obstinacy.
On the morning I speak of, we lounged languidly over the
breakfast-table, not caring to taste of the tempting crisp rolls, or
drink of the fragrant Mocha juice, the delicious fumes of which rose
up from the delicate China cups all unheeded by us. At first we talked
listlessly of various things, wandering from subject to subject, and
at last, to our surprise, we found ourselves engaged in a sprightly,
animated argument; each forgetting the close atmosphere that seemed at
first to weigh down all vivacity. The subject of this argument was the
possibility of pride overcoming love in a woman's heart. Mrs. Morris
and I contended that love weakened or quite died out if the object
proved unworthy or indifferent. Our romantic Effie of course took the
opposite side. True love to her mind was unalterable. Falsehood,
deceit, change--no matter what sorrow, she said, might afflict the
pure loving heart--its love would still remain. "I cannot," she
exclaimed enthusiastically, "imagine for an instant that true, genuine
love should--could have any affinity with pride. When I see a woman
giving evidence of what is called high spirit in love matters, I
straightway lose all sympathy for her heart-troubles. I say to
myself--she has never truly loved."
We argued, but in vain; at length her mother laughingly cried
out--"Nonsense, Effie, no one would sooner resent neglect from a
lover than yourself. True love, as you call it, would never make such
a spiritless, meek creature out of the material of which you are
composed."
"Yes, in truth," I added, as I saw our pretty enthusiast, half vexed,
shake her head obstinately at her mother's prophecy--"I can see those
soft eyes of yours, Effie, darling, flash most eloquent fire, should
your true love meet with unworthiness."
During our conversation the clouds had broken, the wind changed, and a
delicious breeze came sweeping in at the windows as if to cool our
cheeks, flushed with the playful argument.
"Will you ride or walk this morning, girls?" asked Mrs. Morris, as we
arose from the breakfast-table.
"Oh, let us take our books, guitar and work up the mill-stream to the
old oak, dear mamma," exclaimed Effie, "and spend an hour or two
there."
"But it will be mid-day when we return," replied her mother.
"That's true," said Effie, laughing, "but Leven can drive up to the
old broken bridge for us at mid-day."
"To be sure he can," said Mrs. Morris, and accordingly we sallied
forth, laden with books and netting, while a servant trudged on ahead,
with camp-stools and guitar. Nothing eventful occurred on that
particular morning, and yet though years have passed since then, I
never recall the undulating scenery of the narrow, dark, winding
mill-stream of Stamford, but it presents itself to my mind's eye as it
looked on that morning. In my waking or sleeping dreams, I see the old
oak at the morning hours, and whenever the happy moments I have spent
at Effie Morris' country home come to my memory, this morning is
always the brightest, most vivid picture presented before me by my
fancy. As Hans Christian Andersen says with such poetic eloquence in
his Improvisatore--"It was one of those moments which occur but once
in a person's life, which, without signalizing itself by any great
life-adventure, yet stamps itself in its whole coloring upon the
Psyche wings."
We walked slowly along the narrow bank--tall trees towered around us,
whose waving branches, together with the floating clouds, were
mirrored with exquisite distinctness on the bosom of the dark, deep,
narrow stream--near at shore lay the dreaming, luxurious water-lilies,
and a thousand beautiful blossoms bent over the bank, and kissed
playfully the passing waters, or coquetted with the inconstant breeze.
Our favorite resting-place was about a mile's walk up the beautiful
stream, and to reach it we had to cross to the opposite shore, over a
rude, half-ruined bridge, which added to the picturesque beauty of the
scenery. The oak was a century old tree, and stood upon rising ground
a short distance from the shore. How calmly and happily passed that
morning. Effie sang wild ballads for us, and her rich full notes were
echoed from the distance by the spirit voices of the hills. We wove
garlands of water-lilies and wild flowers, and when I said we were
making Ophelias of ourselves, Effie, with shy earnestness most
bewitching, unloosened her beautiful hair, twining the long locks, and
banding her temples with the water-lily garlands and long grass--then
wrapping an India muslin mantle around her shoulders, she gathered up
the ends on her arms, filling them with sprigs of wild blossoms, and
acted poor Ophelia's mad scene most touchingly. Tears gathered in our
eyes as she concluded the wild, wailing melody
"And will he not come again,
And will he not come again,
No, no, he is dead,
Go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.
"His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll--
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan--
God a mercy on his soul."
There was a deep, touching pathos in her voice as she uttered the
minor notes of this song, and her soft eyes beamed half vacantly, half
reverently, as looking up to heaven she uttered in low breathing
tones--
"And of all Christian souls! I pray God!"
Then suddenly arousing herself, she looked toward us and murmured, as
she turned away with a sad, tearful smile, "God be wi' you." The
illusion was perfect, and we both sobbed outright.
Effie Morris was one of the few true geniuses I have known in my life
time; and when I have said this to those who only met with her in
society, they have laughed and wondered what genius there could be in
my cold, quiet friend.
The following winter Effie entered society. Her mother had many gay
and fashionable friends in the principal northern cities, and during
the winter season her letters to me were dated at one time from
Washington, then again from some other gay city; and in this free from
care pleasant manner did her days pass. Household duties kept me,
though a young girl, close at home. Possibly if Effie had been thrown
into the active domestic sphere which was my mission, her history
might have been different. She certainly would have been less of a
dreamer. Exquisite waking dreams, woven of the shining fairy threads
of fancy, meet with but poor encouragement in every-day life, and take
flight sometimes never to return, when one is rudely awakened from
them in order to attend to "the baked and the broiled." I remember,
when a girl, feeling at times a little restive under the duties
unavoidably imposed upon me, and often would indulge in a morbid
sentimental humor, dreaming over some "rare old poet" or blessed
romance, to the exceeding great detriment of my household affairs,
making my poor father sigh over a tough, badly cooked stake, and
cheerless, dusty house; but these moods, to my credit be it told, were
of rare occurrence; and I say now the best school for a dreaming,
enthusiastic girl, who sighs for the realization of her fancy visions,
is to place her in charge of some active duty--to make her feel it is
exacted from her--that she must see it performed. I mean not that a
delicate intellectual spirit should be borne to the earth disheartened
with care and hard labor--but a share of domestic cares, domestic
duties, is both wholesome and necessary for a woman. Cultivate if
possible in a girl a taste for reading and study first, then she will
soon find time for intellectual pursuits, which, from being in a
measure denied to her, will become dearer. In her attempts to secure
moments for the indulgence of her mental desires she will
unconsciously learn order, management and economy of time and labor,
thus will her mind be strengthened. But I am digressing, dear reader.
I am sadly talkative on this subject, and sometimes fancy I could
educate a girl most famously; and when "thinking aloud" of the perfect
woman my theory would certainly complete, I am often pitched rudely
from my self-satisfied position, by some married friend saying, in a
half vexed, impatient tone--"Ah, yes, this is all very fine in
theory--no doubt you would be successful--we all know the homely
adage--'old bachelors' wives and old maids' children,' &c."
Effie was not what is called a belle in society. She was too cold and
spiritual. Her beauty was too delicate to make an impression in the
gay ball-room; and she cared little for what both men and women in the
world pine after--popularity. She danced and talked only with those
who pleased her, and sometimes not at all if it did not suit her
fancy. There was a great contrast between her mother and herself. Mrs.
Morris, though "forty rising," was still a fine-looking, _distingue_
woman; and on her re-entrance into society with her daughter, she
produced a greater impression than did Effie. She had a merry, joyous
disposition, and without possessing half the mental superiority her
daughter was gifted with, she had a light, easy conversational
ability, playful repartee, an elegant style and manner, and a
sufficient knowledge of accomplishments to produce an effect in the
gay world, and make her the centre of attraction of every circle she
entered; and the world wondered so brilliant a mother should have so
indifferent a daughter. She doted on Effie; and, I am sure, loved her
all the more for her calm, quiet way. She often said to me, "Effie is
very superior to the women one meets with--she has a pure, elevated
spirit. So delicate a nature as hers is not properly appreciated in
this world."
One summer there came a wooing of Effie a most excellent gentleman. He
had met with her the preceding winter in some gay circle, and had
discernment enough to discover the merits of our jewel. How anxiously
Mrs. Morris and I watched the wooing--for we were both anxious for Mr.
Grayson's success. He was in every way worthy of her--high-minded,
honorable, and well to do in the world--some years her senior, but
handsome and elegant in appearance. He must have had doubts of his
success, for he let the live-long summer pass ere he ventured on his
love speech. We were a pleasant party--Mrs. Morris, Effie, myself, Mr.
Grayson, and Lucien Decker, a cousin of Mrs. Morris--a college youth,
who only recently had become one of the family. Lucien Decker's family
lived in a distant state, and only until he came to a northern college
to finish his studies had he known his pleasant relatives. He was a
bright, interesting, graceful youth, and wondrous clever, we thought.
We would spend morning after morning wandering up the mill-stream,
resting under the old oak, where Mr. Grayson would discourse most
pleasantly, or read aloud to us; and sometimes, after Effie and I had
chanted simple melodies, we would prevail on Lucien to recite some of
his own poetry, at which he was, indeed, most clever--he recited well,
and wrote very delicately and beautifully. At last Mr. Grayson
ventured on a proposal; but, to our sorrow, he met with a calm, gentle
refusal; and to relieve his disappointment, he sailed in the fall for
Europe.
Not long after his departure, to our surprise, Effie and Lucien
announced themselves as lovers. No objection, surely, could be made;
but such a thing had never entered our minds. Though of the same age
with Effie and myself, he had always seemed as a boy in comparison to
us, and I had always treated him with the playful familiarity of a
youth. He was more intelligent and interesting than young men of his
age generally are; indeed he gave promise of talent--and he was
likewise good-looking; but, in truth, when we compared him with the
elegant and finished Mr. Grayson, we felt a wee bit out of patience;
and if we did not give utterance aloud to our thoughts, I shrewdly
suspect if those thoughts had formed themselves into words, those
words would have sounded very much like, "Nonsensical sentimentality!"
"strange infatuation!" but nothing could be said with propriety, and
the engagement was fully entered into. Some time had necessarily to
elapse before its fulfillment, however, for the lover was but twenty;
but it was well understood, that when he had finished his studies, and
was settled in his profession, he was to wed our darling Effie. After
the acceptance of his suit, Lucien seemed perfectly happy, and, I must
confess, made himself particularly interesting. He walked and read
with us, and wrote such beautiful poetry in honor of Effie's charms,
that we were at last quite propitiated. He was, indeed, an ardent
lover; and his enthusiastic, earnest wooing, was very different from
Mr. Grayson's calm, dignified manner. He caused our quiet Effie a deal
of entertainment, however; for when he was an acknowledged lover, like
all such ardent dispositions, he showed himself to be an exacting one.
Her calm, cold manner would set him frantic at times; and he would vow
she could not love him; but these lovers' quarrels instead of wearying
Effie, seemed to produce a contrary effect.
They had been engaged a year or so, when one summer a belle of the
first water made her appearance in the village-circle of Stamford.
Kate Barclay was her name. She was a Southerner, and a reputed
heiress. She had come rusticating, she said; and shrugging her pretty
shoulders, she would declare in a bewitching, languid tone, "truly a
face and figure needed rest after a brilliant winter campaign." Old
Mrs. Barclay, a dear, nice old lady in the village, was her aunt; and
as we were the only young ladies of a companionable age, Kate was, of
course, a great deal with us. She was, indeed, a delicious looking
creature. She had large, melting dark eyes, and rich curling masses of
hair, that fell in clusters over her neck and shoulders, giving her a
most romantic appearance. She understood fully all the little arts and
wiles of a belle; and she succeeded in securing admiration.
Superficial she was, but showy; and could put on at will all moods,
from the proud and dignified, to the bewitching and childlike. We had
no gentlemen visiters with us when she first came, not even Lucien;
for some engagement had taken him from Effie for a week or two, and
our pretty southern damsel almost expired with _ennui_. When we first
met with her, she talked so beautifully of the delights of a quiet
country life, seemed so enchanted with every thing and every body, and
so eloquent in praise of rambles in the forest, sunsets, moonlights,
rushing streamlets, &c., &c., that we decided she was an angel
forthwith. But one or two ramblings quite finished her--for she
complained terribly of dust, sun, and fatigue; moreover, we quite
neglected to notice or admire her picturesque rambling dress, which
inadvertency provoked her into telling us that the gentlemen at
Ballston, or some other fashionable watering-place, had declared she
looked in it quite like Robin Hood's maid Marian. The gorgeous summer
sunsets and clear moonlight nights, soon wearied her--for we were too
much occupied with the beauties of nature to notice her fine
attitudes, or beautiful eyes cast up imploringly to heaven, while she
recited, in a half theatrical manner, passages of poetry descriptive
of her imaginary feelings. I suspected she was meditating a flitting,
when one day Lucien, and two of his student friends, made their
appearance amongst us. How quickly her mood changed; the listless,
yawning, dissatisfied manner disappeared, and we heard her the first
night of their arrival delighting them, as she had us, with her
fascinating ecstasies over rural enjoyments. She sentimentalized,
flirted, romped, laughed, dressed in a picturesque manner, and "was
every thing by turns, but nothing long," evidently bent upon bringing
to her feet the three gentlemen. Lucien's friends soon struck their
flags, and were her humble cavaliers--but a right tyrannical mistress
she proved to them, making them scowl, and say sharp things to each
other in a most ferocious manner, very amusing to us; but Lucien was
impregnable. She played off all her arts in vain, he seemed
unconscious, and devoted himself entirely to Effie. At first she was
so occupied with securing the two other prizes she overlooked his
delinquency, but when certain of them, she was piqued into
accomplishing a conquest of him likewise. I did not think she would be
successful, and amused myself by quietly watching her manoeuvres.
One bright moonlight evening the gentlemen rowed us up the
mill-stream, and as we returned we landed at our favorite oak. The
waters, swelled by recent rains, came dashing and tumbling along in
mimic billows; the moon beamed down a heavenly radiance, and as the
little wavelets broke against the shore, they glittered like molten
silver, covering the wild blossoms with dazzling fairy gems. Kate's
two lovers were talking and walking with Mrs. Morris and Effie along
the shore. Lucien, Kate, and I, remained on a little bank that rose
abruptly from the water. She did, indeed, look most bewitchingly
beautiful; her soft, white dress, bound at the waist by a flowing
ribbon, floated in graceful folds around her; her lovely neck,
shoulders and arms, were quite uncovered, and her rich, dark hair fell
in loose, long curls, making picturesque shadows in the moonlight. She
could act the inspired enthusiast to perfection; and what our Effie
really was, she could affect most admirably. She seemed unconscious of
our presence; indeed, I do not think she thought I was near her, and,
as if involuntarily, she burst out into one of her affected
rhapsodies, her eyes beamed brightly, and she expressed her feelings
most rapturously, concluding with repeating, in low, earnest, half
trembling tones, some lines of Lucien's she had taken from my Scrap
Book, descriptive of the very scene before her, written the preceding
summer for Effie, after a moonlight ramble together. The poetry was
quite impassioned; and I heard Kate murmur with a sigh, as she turned
away after concluding her quotation, as if sick at heart, "Ah! I would
give years of brilliant success for one hour of devotion from such a
lover."
No one heard her but Lucien and myself--and I was one listener more
than she would have desired; for Lucien's ear alone was the
ejaculation intended, the good for nothing little flirt. It produced
the intended effect, for I saw Lucien watching her with admiring
interest. She noted the impression, and cunningly kept it up. There
was such a contrast between Effie and Kate, rather to Effie's
disadvantage, I had to confess, and Kate's affected expressions of
intense feeling, rather served to heighten Effie's natural coldness of
manner. Why waste words--the conclusion is already divined. The
coquette succeeded--and ere a week had passed Lucien was her
infatuated, devoted admirer; Effie was quite forgotten. Lucien's two
friends, wretched, and completely maddened by the cool, contemptuous
rejections they received from Kate, left Stamford, vowing eternal
hatred for womankind, and uttering deep, dire denunciations against
all coquettes, leaving the field open to Lucien, who seemed to have
perfectly lost all sense of propriety in his infatuation. Effie looked
on as calmly and quietly as though she were not particularly
interested. I fancied, for the credit of romance and sentiment, that
her cheek was paler; and I thought I could detect at times a trembling
of her delicate lips--but she said not a word. Mrs. Morris and I
displayed much more feeling; but what could we do--and half amused,
half vexed, we watched the conduct of the naughty little flirt.
Suddenly Kate received a summons home--and right glad I was to hear of
it. She announced it to us one evening, saying she expected her father
the next day. The following afternoon she came over to our cottage,
accompanied with two middle-aged gentlemen. The elder of the two was
Mr. Barclay, her father, who had known Mrs. Morris in early life; the
other she introduced as Col. Paulding, a friend. Col. Paulding's
manner struck us with surprise. He called her "Kate;" and though
dignified, was affectionate. She seemed painfully embarrassed, and
anxious to terminate the visit. She answered our questions hurriedly,
and appeared ill at ease. Lucien was not present, fortunately for her;
and I fancied she watched the door, as if anxiously fearing his
entrance; certain it was she started nervously at every distant sound.
"Will you revisit Stamford next summer, Miss Barclay?" I asked.
Kate replied that she was uncertain at present.
"I suppose Kate has not told you," said her father, laughingly, "that
long before another summer she will cease to be mistress of her own
movements. She expects to be in Germany next summer, I believe, with
her husband," and he looked significantly at Col. Paulding, who was
standing out on the lawn with Mrs. Morris, admiring the beautiful
view, quite out of hearing distance. Effie was just stepping from the
French window of the drawing-room into the conservatory to gather some
of her pretty flowers for her visiters, as she heard Mr. Barclay say
this. She turned with a stern, cold look, and regarded Kate Barclay
quietly. Kate colored crimson, then grew deadly white, and trembled
from head to foot; but her father did not notice it, as he had
followed Col. Paulding and Mrs. Morris out on the lawn. There we three
stood, Effie, cold and pale as a statue, and Kate looking quite like a
criminal. She looked up, attempting to make some laughing remark, but
the words died in her throat as she met Effie's stern, cold glance;
she gasped, trembled, then rallied, and at last, with a proud look of
defiance, she swept out on the lawn, and taking Col. Paulding's arm,
proposed departure. She bade us good-bye most gracefully; but I saw
that she avoided offering her hand to Effie. As the gate closed, she
looked over her shoulder indifferently, and said, in a saucy, laughing
tone,
"Oh, pray make my adieux to Mr. Decker. I regret that I shall not see
him to bid him good-bye. I depend upon the charity of you ladies to
keep me fresh in his remembrance;" and, as far as we could see her
down the road, we heard her forced laugh and unnaturally loud voice.
Lucien came in a few minutes after they left, and Mrs. Morris
delivered Kate's message. He looked agitated, and after swallowing his
cup of tea hastily and quietly, he took up his hat and went out. He
went to see Kate, but she, anticipating his visit, had retired with a
violent headache immediately after her walk; but Lucien staid long
enough to discover, as we had, Col. Paulding's relation to the
fascinating coquette. This we learned long afterward. The next day
Lucien left Stamford without saying more than cold words of good-bye.
He did not go with Kate's party, we felt certain; and many weeks
passed without hearing from him. Effie never made a remark; and our
days passed quietly as they had before the appearance of Kate Barclay
in our quiet little village. It was not long, however, before we saw
in the newspapers, and read without comment, the marriage of Kate
Barclay with Col. Paulding.
"See this," said Mrs. Morris to me one morning as I entered the
drawing-room, and she handed me a letter. We were alone, Effie was
attending to her plants in the conservatory. I took the letter and
read it. It was a wild, impassioned one from Lucien. Two months had
elapsed since his silent departure, and this first letter was written
to Mrs. Morris. It was filled with self-reproaches, and earnest
entreaties for her intercession and mine with Effie. He cursed his
infatuation, and the cause of it, and closed with the declaration that
he would be reckless of life if Effie remained unforgiving. As I
finished reading the letter I heard Effie's voice warbling in wild and
plaintive notes in the conservatory,
"How should I your true love know,
From another one,
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon?"
And the scene at the opening of this story rose before my
remembrance--the playful argument--the declaration made by her that
true, pure love could not have any affinity with pride--and I was lost
in reverie.
"What would you do, Enna?" inquired Mrs. Morris.
"Give the letter to Effie without remark," I replied. "We cannot
intercede for him--he does not deserve to be forgiven."
The letter was given to Effie, who read it quietly; and if she evinced
emotion, it was not before us. She said she was sorry for Lucien, for
she had discovered a change in her own feelings. She did not love him
as she fancied she had, and she could not in justice to herself
fulfill their engagement--it was impossible. She wrote this to him,
and all his wild letters were laid calmly and quietly aside. Can this
be pride? I said to myself. But she seemed as though she suspected my
thoughts, for the night before I returned to my city home, as we were
leaning against the window-frame of our bed-room, listening the last
time for that season to the tumbling, dashing water-music, she said,
"Enna, dear, it was not spirit and pride that made me act so unkindly
to Lucien--indeed, it was not. But I mistook my feelings for him from
the first. I fancied I loved him dearly, when I only loved him as a
sister. Believe me, if that love had existed once for him, his foolish
infatuation for Kate Barclay would not have been regarded by me one
moment."
Two or three years passed, and Effie still remained unwedded, when, to
our delight, Mr. Grayson, who had returned from Europe, again
addressed her. She accepted him; and I was, indeed, happy when I
officiated as bridesmaid for her. One year after that joyous wedding
we stood over her bier, weeping bitter, bitter tears. We laid her in
the grave--and the heart-broken mother soon rested beside her. Among
her papers was a letter directed to me; it was written in expectation
of death, although we did not any of us anticipate such a calamity.
"I am not long for this world, dear Enna," she wrote, "I feel I am
dying daily; and yet, young as I am, it grieves me not, except when I
think of the sorrow my death will occasion to others. When you read
this I shall be enveloped in the heavy grave-clothes; but then I shall
be at rest. Oh! how my aching, weary spirit pines for rest. Do not
fancy that sorrow or disappointment has brought me to this. I fancied
I loved Lucien Decker fondly, devotedly; and how happy was I when
under the influence of that fancy. That fatal summer, at the time of
his infatuation for that heartless girl, insensibly a chilling
hardness crept over my feelings. I struggled against my awakening; and
if Lucien had displayed any emotion before his departure, I might
still have kept up the happy delusion. But in vain, it disappeared,
and with it all the beauty of life, which increased in weariness from
that moment. I sought for some object of interest--I married; but,
though my husband has been devoted and kind, I weary of existence.
Life has no interest for me. I hail the approach of death. Farewell."
I read these sad lines with eyes blinded with tears; and I could not
help thinking how Effie had deceived herself; unconsciously she had
become a victim of the very pride she had condemned.
EARLY ENGLISH POETS.
BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.
I.--CHAUCER.
Yea! lovely are the hues still floating o'er
Thy rural visions, bard of olden time,
The form of purest Poesy flits before
My mental gaze, while bending o'er thy rhyme.
No lofty flight, bold, brilliant and sublime--
But tender beauty, and endearing grace,
And touching pathos in these lines I trace,
Oh! gentle poet of the northern clime.
And oft when dazzled by the gorgeous glow
And gilded luxury of modern rhymes,
Grateful I turn to the clear, quiet flow
Of thy sweet thoughts, which fall like pleasant chimes
From the "pure wells of English undefiled."
Thou wert inspired, thou, Poetry's true child.
II.--SPENCER.
What forms of grace and glory glided through
The royal palace of thy lofty mind!
Rare shapes of beauty thy sweet fancy drew,
In the brave knights, and peerless dames enshrined
Within thy magic book, The Faerie Queene,
Bright Gloriana robed in dazzling sheen--
Hapless Irene--angelic Una--and
The noble Arthur all before me pass,
As summoned by the enchanter rod and glass.
And glorious still thy pure creations stand,
Leaving their golden footprints on the sand
Of Time indelible! All thanks to thee,
Oh! beauty-breathing bard of Poesy,
That thou hast charmed a weary hour for me.
III.--SHAKSPEARE.
Oh! minstrel monarch! the most glorious throne
Of Intellect thy Genius doth inherit.
Compeer, or perfect rival thou hast none--
O Soul of Song!--O mind of royal merit.
Is not this high, imperishable fame
The tribute of a grateful world to thee?
A recognizing glory in thy name
From a great nation to thy memory.
Lord of Dramatic Art--the splendid scenes
Of thy rich fancy are around us still;
All shapes of Thought to make the bosom thrill
Are thine supreme! Many long years have sped,
And dimmed in dust the crowned and laureled head,
But thou--_thou_ speakest still, though numbered with the dead.
THE PORTRAIT.
[WITH AN ENGRAVING.]
BY ROBT. T. CONRAD.
And he hath spoken! Knew I not he would?
Though flitting fears, like clouds o'er lakes, would cast
Shadows o'er true love's trust. The tear-drop stood
In his dark eye; he trembled. But 't is past,
And I am his, he mine. Why trembled he?
This fond heart knew he not; and that his eye
Governed its tides, as doth the moon the sea;
And that with him, for him, 't were bliss to die?
Yet said I naught. Shame on me, that my cheek
And eye my hoarded secret should betray!
Why wept I? And why was I sudden weak,
So weak his manly arm was stretched to stay?
How like a suppliant God he looked! His sweet,
Low voice, heart-shaken, spoke--and all was known;
Yet, from the first, I felt our souls must meet,
Like stars that rush together and shine on.
[Illustration: The Bridal Morning
J. Hayter A. B. Ross
Engraved Expressly for Graham's Magazine]
THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;
OR, ROSE BUDD.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool
I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but
Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT.
BY THE AUTHOR Of "PILOT," "RED ROVER," "TWO ADMIRALS,"
"WING-AND-WING," "MILES WALLINGFORD," ETC.
[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by
J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]
_(Continued from page 48.)_
PART XV.
Man hath a weary pilgrimage
As through the world he wends;
On every stage, from youth to age,
Still discontent attends;
With heaviness he casts his eye
Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh
The days that are no more. SOUTHEY.
It has now become necessary to advance the time three entire days, and
to change the scene to Key West. As this latter place may not be known
to the world at large, it may be well to explain that it is a small
seaport, situate on one of the largest of the many low islands that
dot the Florida Reef, that has risen into notice, or indeed into
existence as a town, since the acquisition of the Floridas by the
American Republic. For many years it was the resort of few besides
wreckers, and those who live by the business dependent on the rescuing
and repairing of stranded vessels, not forgetting the salvages. When
it is remembered that the greater portion of the vessels that enter
the Gulf of Mexico stand close along this reef, before the trades, for
a distance varying from one to two hundred miles, and that nearly
every thing which quits it, is obliged to beat down its rocky coast in
the Gulf Stream for the same distance, one is not to be surprised that
the wrecks, which so constantly occur, can supply the wants of a
considerable population. To live at Key West is the next thing to
being at sea. The place has sea air, no other water than such as is
preserved in cisterns, and no soil, or so little as to render even a
head of lettuce a rarity. Turtle is abundant, and the business of
"turtling" forms an occupation additional to that of wrecking. As
might be expected in such circumstances, a potato is a far more
precious thing than a turtle's egg, and a sack of the tubers would
probably be deemed a sufficient remuneration for enough of the
materials of callipash and callipee to feed all the aldermen extant.
Of late years, the government of the United States has turned its
attention to the capabilities of the Florida Reef, as an advanced
naval station; a sort of Downs, or St. Helen's Roads, for the West
Indian seas. As yet little has been done beyond making the preliminary
surveys, but the day is not probably very distant when fleets will
lie at anchor among the islets described in our earlier chapters, or
garnish the fine waters of Key West. For a long time it was thought
that even frigates would have a difficulty in entering and quitting
the port of the latter, but it is said that recent explorations have
discovered channels capable of admitting any thing that floats. Still
Key West is a town yet in its chrysalis state, possessing the promise
rather than the fruition of the prosperous days which are in reserve.
It may be well to add, that it lies a very little north of the 24th
degree of latitude, and in a longitude quite five degrees west from
Washington. Until the recent conquests in Mexico it was the most
southern possession of the American government, on the eastern side of
the continent; Cape St. Lucas, at the extremity of Lower California,
however, being two degrees farther south.
It will give the foreign reader a more accurate notion of the
character of Key West, if we mention a fact of quite recent
occurrence. A very few weeks after the closing scenes of this tale,
the town in question was, in a great measure, washed away! A hurricane
brought in the sea upon all these islands and reefs, water running in
swift currents over places that within the memory of man were never
before submerged. The lower part of Key West was converted into a
raging sea, and every thing in that quarter of the place disappeared.
The foundation being of rock, however, when the ocean retired the
island came into view again, and industry and enterprise set to work
to repair the injuries.
The government has established a small hospital for seamen at Key
West. Into one of the rooms of the building thus appropriated our
narrative must now conduct the reader. It contained but a single
patient, and that was Spike. He was on his narrow bed, which was to be
but the precursor of a still narrower tenement, the grave. In the room
with the dying man were two females, in one of whom our readers will
at once recognize the person of Rose Budd, dressed in deep mourning
for her aunt. At first sight, it is probable that a casual spectator
would mistake the second female for one of the ordinary nurses of the
place. Her attire was well enough, though worn awkwardly, and as if
its owner were not exactly at ease in it. She had the air of one in
her best attire, who was unaccustomed to be dressed above the most
common mode. What added to the singularity of her appearance, was the
fact, that while she wore no cap, her hair had been cut into short,
gray bristles, instead of being long, and turned up, as is usual with
females. To give a sort of climax to this uncouth appearance, this
strange-looking creature chewed tobacco.
The woman in question, equivocal as might be her exterior, was
employed in one of the commonest avocations of her sex--that of
sewing. She held in her hand a coarse garment, one of Spike's, in
fact, which she seemed to be intently busy in mending; although the
work was of a quality that invited the use of the palm and
sail-needle, rather than that of the thimble and the smaller implement
known to seamstresses, the woman appeared awkward in her business, as
if her coarse-looking and dark hands refused to lend themselves to an
occupation so feminine. Nevertheless, there were touches of a purely
womanly character about this extraordinary person, and touches that
particularly attracted the attention, and awakened the sympathy of the
gentle Rose, her companion. Tears occasionally struggled out from
beneath her eyelids, crossed her dark, sun-burnt cheek, and fell on
the coarse canvas garment that lay in her lap. It was after one of
these sudden and strong exhibitions of feeling that Rose approached
her, laid her own little, fair hand, in a friendly way, though
unheeded, on the other's shoulder, and spoke to her in her kindest and
softest tones.
"I do really think he is reviving, Jack," said Rose, "and that you may
yet hope to have an intelligent conversation with him."
"They all agree he _must_ die," answered Jack Tier--for it was _he_,
appearing in the garb of his proper sex, after a disguise that had now
lasted fully twenty years--"and he will never know who I am, and that
I forgive him. He must think of me in another world, though he isn't
able to do it in this; but it would be a great relief to his soul to
know that I forgive him."
"To be sure, a man must like to take a kind leave of his own wife
before he closes his eyes forever; and I dare say it would be a great
relief to you to tell him that you have forgotten his desertion of
you, and all the hardships it has brought upon you in searching for
him, and in earning your own livelihood as a common sailor."
"I shall not tell him I've _forgotten_ it, Miss Rose; that would be
untrue--and there shall be no more deception between us; but I shall
tell him that I _forgive_ him, as I hope God will one day forgive me
all _my_ sins."
"It is, certainly, not a light offence to desert a wife in a foreign
land, and then to seek to deceive another woman," quietly observed
Rose.
"He's a willian!" muttered the wife--"but--but--"
"You forgive him, Jack--yes, I'm sure you do. You are too good a
Christian to refuse to forgive him."
"I'm a woman a'ter all, Miss Rose; and that, I believe, is the truth
of it. I suppose I ought to do as you say, for the reason you
mention; but I'm his wife--and once he loved me, though that has long
been over. When I first knew Stephen, I'd the sort of feelin's you
speak of, and was a very different creatur' from what you see me
to-day. Change comes over us all with years and sufferin'."
Rose did not answer, but she stood looking intently at the speaker
more than a minute. Change had, indeed, come over her, if she had ever
possessed the power to please the fancy of any living man. Her
features had always seemed diminitive and mean for her assumed sex, as
her voice was small and cracked; but, making every allowance for the
probabilities, Rose found it difficult to imagine that Jack Tier had
ever possessed, even under the high advantages of youth and innocence,
the attractions so common to her sex. Her skin had acquired the
tanning of the sea; the expression of her face had become hard and
worldly; and her habits contributed to render those natural
consequences of exposure and toil even more than usually marked and
decided. By saying "habits," however, we do not mean that Jack had
ever drank to excess, as happens with so many seamen, for this would
have been doing her injustice, but she smoked and chewed--practices
that intoxicate in another form, and lead nearly as many to the grave
as excess in drinking. Thus all the accessories about this singular
being, partook of the character of her recent life and duties. Her
walk was between a waddle and a seaman's roll; her hands were
discolored with tar, and had got to be full of knuckles, and even her
feet had degenerated into that flat, broad-toed form that, perhaps,
sooner distinguishes caste, in connection with outward appearances,
than any one other physical peculiarity. Yet this being _had_ once
been young--had once been even _fair_; and had once possessed that
feminine air and lightness of form, that as often belongs to the
youthful American of her sex, perhaps, as to the girl of any other
nation on earth. Rose continued to gaze at her companion for some
time, when she walked musingly to a window that looked out upon the
port.
"I am not certain whether it would do him good or not to see this
sight," she said, addressing the wife kindly, doubtful of the effect
of her words even on the latter. "But here are the sloop-of-war, and
several other vessels."
"Ay, she is _there_; but never will his foot be put on board the Swash
ag'in. When he bought that brig I was still young, and agreeable to
him; and he gave her my maiden name, which was Mary, or Molly Swash.
But that is all changed; I wonder he did not change the name with his
change of feelin's."
"Then you did really sail in the brig in former times, and knew the
seaman whose name you assumed?"
"Many years. Tier, with whose name I made free, on account of his
size, and some resemblance to me in form, died under my care; and his
protection fell into my hands, which first put the notion into my head
of hailing as his representative. Yes, I knew Tier in the brig, and we
were left ashore at the same time--I, intentionally, I make no
question; he, because Stephen Spike was in a hurry, and did not choose
to wait for a man. The poor fellow caught the yellow fever the very
next day, and did not live eight-and-forty hours. So the world goes;
them that wish to live, die; and them that wants to die, live!"
"You have had a hard time for one of your sex, poor Jack--quite twenty
years a sailor, did you not tell me?"
"Every day of it, Miss Rose--and bitter years have they been; for the
whole of that time have I been in chase of my husband, keeping my own
secret, and slaving like a horse for a livelihood."
"You could not have been old when he left--that is--when you parted."
"Call it by its true name, and say at once, when he desarted me. I was
under thirty by two or three years, and was still like my own sex to
look at. All _that_ is changed since; but I _was_ comely _then_."
"_Why_ did Capt. Spike abandon you, Jack; you have never told me
_that_."
"Because he fancied another. And ever since that time he has been
fancying others, instead of remembering me. Had he got _you_, Miss
Rose, I think he would have been content for the rest of his days."
"Be certain, Jack, I should never have consented to marry Capt.
Spike."
"You're well out of his hands," answered Jack, sighing heavily, which
was much the most feminine thing she had done during the whole
conversation, "well out of his hands--and God be praised it is so. He
should have died, before I would let him carry you off the
island--husband or no husband."
"It might have exceeded your power to prevent it under other
circumstances, Jack."
Rose now continued looking out of the window in silence. Her thoughts
reverted to her aunt and Biddy, and tears rolled down her cheeks as
she remembered the love of one, and the fidelity of the other. Their
horrible fate had given her a shock that, at first, menaced her with a
severe fit of illness; but her strong, good sense, and excellent
constitution, both sustained by her piety and Harry's manly
tenderness, had brought her through the danger, and left her, as the
reader now sees her, struggling with her own griefs, in order to be of
use to the still more unhappy woman who had so singularly become her
friend and companion.
The reader will readily have anticipated that Jack Tier had early made
the females on board the Swash her confidents. Rose had known the
outlines of her history from the first few days they were at sea
together, which is the explanation of the visible intimacy that had
caused Mulford so much surprise. Jack's motive in making his
revelations might possibly have been tinctured with jealousy, but a
desire to save one as young and innocent as Rose was at its bottom.
Few persons but a wife would have supposed our heroine could have been
in any danger from a lover like Spike; but Jack saw him with the eyes
of her own youth, and of past recollections, rather than with those of
truth. A movement of the wounded man first drew Rose from the window.
Drying her eyes hastily, she turned toward him, fancying that she
might prove the better nurse of the two, notwithstanding Jack's
greater interest in the patient.
"What place is this--and why am I here?" demanded Spike, with more
strength of voice than could have been expected, after all that had
passed. "This is not a cabin--not the Swash--it looks like a
hospital."
"It is a hospital, Capt. Spike," said Rose, gently drawing near the
bed; "you have been hurt, and have been brought to Key West, and
placed in the hospital. I hope you feel better, and that you suffer no
pain."
"My head isn't right--I don't know--every thing seems turned round
with me--perhaps it will all come out as it should. I begin to
remember--where is my brig?"
"She is lost on the rocks. The seas have broken her into fragments."
"That's melancholy news, at any rate. Ah! Miss Rose! God bless
you--I've had terrible dreams. Well, it's pleasant to be among
friends--what creature is that--where does _she_ come from?"
"That is Jack Tier," answered Rose, steadily. "She turns out to be a
woman, and has put on her proper dress, in order to attend on you
during your illness. Jack has never left your bed-side since we have
been here."
A long silence succeeded this revelation. Jack's eyes twinkled, and
she hitched her body half aside, as if to conceal her features, where
emotions that were unusual were at work with the muscles. Rose thought
it might be well to leave the man and wife alone--and she managed to
get out of the room unobserved.
Spike continued to gaze at the strange-looking female, who was now his
sole companion. Gradually his recollection returned, and with it the
full consciousness of his situation. He might not have been fully
aware of the absolute certainty of his approaching death, but he must
have known that his wound was of a very grave character, and that the
result might early prove fatal. Still that strange and unknown figure
haunted him; a figure that was so different from any he had ever seen
before, and which, in spite of its present dress, seemed to belong
quite as much to one sex as to the other. As for Jack--we call Molly,
or Mary Swash by her masculine appellation, not only because it is
more familiar, but because the other name seems really out of place,
as applied to such a person--as for Jack, then, she sat with her face
half averted, thumbing the canvas, and endeavoring to ply the needle,
but perfectly mute. She was conscious that Spike's eyes were on her;
and a lingering feeling of her sex told her how much time, exposure,
and circumstances, had changed her person--and she would gladly have
hidden the defects in her appearance.
Mary Swash was the daughter as well as the wife of a ship-master. In
her youth, as has been said before, she had even been pretty, and down
to the day when her husband deserted her, she would have been thought
a female of a comely appearance rather than the reverse. Her hair in
particular, though slightly coarse, perhaps, had been rich and
abundant; and the change from the long, dark, shining, flowing locks
which she still possessed in her thirtieth year, to the short, gray
bristles that now stood exposed without a cap, or covering of any
sort, was one very likely to destroy all identity of appearance. Then
Jack had passed from what might be called youth to the verge of old
age, in the interval that she had been separated from her husband. Her
shape had changed entirely; her complexion was utterly gone; and her
features, always unmeaning, though feminine, and suitable to her sex,
had become hard and slightly coarse. Still there was something of her
former self about Jack that bewildered Spike; and his eyes continued
fastened on her for quite a quarter of an hour in profound silence.
"Give me some water," said the wounded man, "I wish some water to
drink."
Jack arose, filled a tumbler and brought it to the side of the bed.
Spike took the glass and drank, but the whole time his eyes were
riveted on his strange nurse. When his thirst was appeased, he asked--
"Who are you? How came you here?"
"I am your nurse. It is common to place nurses at the bedsides of the
sick."
"Are you man or woman?"
"That is a question I hardly know how to answer. Sometimes I think
myself each; sometimes neither."
"Did I ever see you before?"
"Often, and quite lately. I sailed with you in your last voyage."
"You! That cannot be. If so, what is your name?"
"Jack Tier."
A long pause succeeded this announcement, which induced Spike to muse
as intently as his condition would allow, though the truth did not yet
flash on his understanding. At length the bewildered man again spoke.
"Are _you_ Jack Tier?" he said slowly, like one who doubted. "Yes--I
now see the resemblance, and it was _that_ which puzzled me. Are they
so rigid in this hospital that you have been obliged to put on woman's
clothes in order to lend me a helping hand?"
"I am dressed as you see, and for good reasons."
"But Jack Tier run, like that rascal Mulford--ay, I remember now; you
were in the boat when I over-hauled you all on the reef."
"Very true; I was in the boat. But I never run, Stephen Spike. It was
_you_ who abandoned _me_, on the islet in the gulf, and that makes the
second time in your life that you have left me ashore, when it was
your duty to carry me to sea."
"The first time I was in a hurry, and could not wait for you; this
last time you took sides with the women. But for your interference, I
should have got Rose, and married her, and all would now have been
well with me."
This was an awkward announcement for a man to make to his legal wife.
But after all Jack had endured, and all Jack had seen during the late
voyage, she was not to be overcome by this avowal. Her self-command
extended so far as to prevent any open manifestation of emotion,
however much her feelings were excited.
"I took sides with the women, because I am a woman myself," she
answered, speaking at length with decision, as if determined to bring
matters to a head at once. "It is natural for us all to take sides
with our kind."
"You a woman, Jack! That is very remarkable. Since when have you
hailed for a woman? You have shipped with me twice, and each time as a
man--though I've never thought you able to do seaman's duty."
"Nevertheless, I am what you see; a woman born and edicated; one that
never had on man's dress until I knew you. _You_ supposed me to be a
man, when I came off to you in the skiff to the eastward of Riker's
Island, but I was then what you now see."
"I begin to understand matters," rejoined the invalid, musingly. "Ay,
ay, it opens on me; and I now see how it was you made such fair
weather with Madam Budd and pretty, pretty Rose. Rose _is_ pretty,
Jack; you _must_ admit _that_, though you be a woman."
"Rose _is_ pretty--I do admit it; and what is better, Rose is _good_."
It required a heavy draft on Jack's justice and magnanimity, however,
to make this concession.
"And you told Rose and Madam Budd about your sex; and that was the
reason they took to you so on the v'y'ge?"
"I told them who I was, and why I went abroad as a man. They know my
whole story."
"Did Rose approve of your sailing under false colors, Jack?"
"You must ask that of Rose herself. My story made her my friend; but
she never said any thing for or against my disguise."
"It was no great disguise a'ter all, Jack. Now you're fitted out in
your own clothes, you've a sort of half-rigged look; one would be as
likely to set you down for a man under jury-canvas, as for a woman."
Jack made no answer to this, but she sighed very heavily. As for Spike
himself, he was silent for some little time, not only from exhaustion,
but because he suffered pain from his wound. The needle was diligently
but awkwardly plied in this pause.
Spike's ideas were still a little confused; but a silence and rest of
a quarter of an hour cleared them materially. At the end of that time
he again asked for water. When he had drank, and Jack was once more
seated, with his side-face toward him, at work with the needle, the
captain gazed long and intently at this strange woman. It happened
that the profile of Jack preserved more of the resemblance to her
former self, than the full face; and it was this resemblance that now
attracted Spike's attention, though not the smallest suspicion of the
truth yet gleamed upon him. He saw something that was familiar, though
he could not even tell what that something was, much less to what or
whom it bore any resemblance. At length he spoke.
"I was told that Jack Tier was dead," he said; "that he took the
fever, and was in his grave within eight-and-forty hours after we
sailed. That was what they told me of _him_."
"And what did they tell you of your own wife, Stephen Spike. She that
you left ashore at the time Jack was left?"
"They said she did not die for three years later. I heard of her death
at New Or_leens_, three years later."
"And how could you leave her ashore--she, your true and lawful wife?"
"It was a bad thing," answered Spike, who, like all other mortals,
regarded his own past career, now that he stood on the edge of the
grave, very differently from what he had regarded it in the hour of
his health and strength. "Yes, it _was_ a very bad thing; and I wish
it was ondone. But it is too late now. She died of the fever,
too--that's some comfort; had she died of a broken-heart, I could not
have forgiven myself. Molly was not without her faults--great faults,
I considered them; but, on the whole, Molly was a good creatur'."
"You liked her, then, Stephen Spike?"
"I can truly say that when I married Molly, and old Capt. Swash put
his da'ghter's hand into mine, that the woman wasn't living who was
better in my judgment, or handsomer in my eyes."
"Ay, ay--when you _married_ her; but how was it a'terwards. When you
was tired of her, and saw another that was fairer in your eyes?"
"I desarted her; and God has punished me for the sin! Do you know,
Jack, that luck has never been with me since that day. Often and often
have I bethought me of it; and sartain as you sit there, no great luck
has ever been with me, or my craft, since I went off, leaving my wife
ashore. What was made in one v'y'ge, was lost in the next. Up and
down, up and down the whole time, for so many, many long years, that
gray hairs set in, and old age was beginning to get close aboard--and
I as poor as ever. It has been rub and go with me ever since; and I
have had as much as I could do to keep the brig in motion, as the only
means that was left to make the two ends meet."
"And did not all this make you think of your poor wife--she whom you
had so wronged?"
"I thought of little else, until I heard of her death at New
Or_leens_--and then I gave it up as useless. Could I have fallen in
with Molly at any time a'ter the first six months of my desartion, she
and I would have come together again, and every thing would have been
forgotten. I knowed her very nature, which was all forgiveness to me
at the bottom, though seemingly so spiteful and hard."
"Yet you wanted to have this Rose Budd, who is only too young, and
handsome, and good for you."
"I was tired of being a widower, Jack; and Rose _is_ wonderful pretty.
She has money, too, and might make the evening of my days comfortable.
The brig was old, as you must know, and has long been off of all the
Insurance Offices' books; and she couldn't hold together much longer.
But for this sloop-of-war, I should have put her off on the Mexicans;
and they would have lost her to our people in a month."
"And was it an honest thing to sell an old and worn-out craft to any
one, Stephen Spike?"
Spike had a conscience that had become hard as iron by means of trade.
He who traffics much, most especially if his dealings be on so small a
scale as to render constant investigations of the minor qualities of
things necessary, must be a very fortunate man, if he preserve his
conscience in any better condition. When Jack made this allusion,
therefore, the dying man--for death was much nearer to Spike than even
he supposed, though he no longer hoped for his own recovery--when Jack
made this allusion, then, the dying man was a good deal at a loss to
comprehend it. He saw no particular harm in making the best bargain he
could; nor was it easy for him to understand why he might not dispose
of any thing he possessed for the highest price that was to be had.
Still he answered in an apologetic sort of way.
"The brig was old, I acknowledge," he said, "but she was strong, and
_might_ have run a long time. I only spoke of her capture as a thing
likely to take place soon, if the Mexicans got her; so that her
qualities were of no great account, unless it might be her speed--and
that you know was excellent, Jack."
"And you regret that brig, Stephen Spike, lying as you do on your
death-bed, more than any thing else."
"Not as much as I do pretty Rose Budd, Jack; Rosy is so delightful to
look at!"
The muscles of Jack's face twitched a little, and she looked deeply
mortified; for, to own the truth, she hoped that the conversation had
so far turned her delinquent husband's thoughts to the past, as to
have revived in him some of his former interest in herself. It is
true, he still believed her dead; but this was a circumstance Jack
overlooked--so hard is it to hear the praises of a rival, and be just.
She felt the necessity of being more explicit, and determined at once
to come to the point.
"Stephen Spike," she said, steadily, drawing near to the bed-side,
"you should be told the truth, when you are heard thus extolling the
good looks of Rose Budd, with less than eight-and-forty hours of life
remaining. Mary Swash did not die, as you have supposed, three years
a'ter you desarted her, but is living at this moment. Had you read the
letter I gave you in the boat, just before you made me jump into the
sea, _that_ would have told you where she is to be found."
Spike stared at the speaker intently; and when her cracked voice
ceased, his look was that of a man who was terrified as well as
bewildered. This did not arise still from any gleamings of the real
state of the case, but from the soreness with which his conscience
pricked him, when he heard that his much-wronged wife was alive. He
fancied, with a vivid and rapid glance at the probabilities, all that
a woman abandoned would be likely to endure in the course of so many
long and suffering years.
"Are you sure of what you say, Jack? You wouldn't take advantage of my
situation to tell me an untruth?"
"As certain of it as of my own existence. I have seen her quite
lately--talked with her of _you_--in short, she is now at Key West,
knows your state, and has a wife's feelin's to come to your bed-side."
Notwithstanding all this, and the many gleamings he had had of the
facts during their late intercourse on board the brig, Spike did not
guess at the truth. He appeared astounded, and his terror seemed to
increase.
"I have another thing to tell you," continued Jack, pausing but a
moment to collect her own thoughts. "Jack Tier--the real Jack Tier--he
who sailed with you of old, and whom you left ashore at the same time
you desarted your wife, _did_ die of the fever, as you was told, in
eight-and-forty hours a'ter the brig went to sea."
"Then who, in the name of Heaven, are you? How came you to hail by
another's name as well as by another sex?"
"What could a woman do, whose husband had desarted her in a strange
land?"
"That is remarkable! So _you_'ve been married? I should not have
thought _that_ possible; and your husband desarted you, too. Well,
such things _do_ happen." Jack now felt a severe pang. She could not
but see that her ungainly--we had almost said her unearthly
appearance--prevented the captain from even yet suspecting the truth;
and the meaning of his language was not easily to be mistaken. That
any one should have married _her_, seemed to her husband as improbable
as it was probable he would run away from her as soon as it was in his
power after the ceremony.
"Stephen Spike," resumed Jack, solemnly, "_I_ am Mary Swash--_I_ am
your wife!"
Spike started in his bed; then he buried his face in the coverlet--and
he actually groaned. In bitterness of spirit the woman turned away and
wept. Her feelings had been blunted by misfortune and the collisions
of a selfish world; but enough of former self remained to make this
the hardest of all the blows she had ever received. Her husband, dying
as he was, as he must and did know himself to be, shrunk from one of
her appearance, unsexed as she had become by habits, and changed by
years and suffering.
[_To be continued_.
AN HOUR.
BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
I've left the keen, cold winds to blow
Around the summits bare;
My sunny pathway to the sea
Winds downward, green and fair,
And bright-leaved branches toss and glow
Upon the buoyant air!
The fern its fragrant plumage droops
O'er mosses, crisp and gray,
Where on the shaded crags I sit,
Beside the cataract's spray,
And watch the far-off, shining sails
Go down the sunny bay!
I've left the wintry winds of life
On barren hearts to blow--
The anguish and the gnawing care,
The silent, shuddering wo!
Across the balmy sea of dreams
My spirit-barque shall go.
Learned not the breeze its fairy lore
Where sweetest measures throng?
A maiden sings, beside the stream,
Some chorus, wild and long,
Mingling and blending with its roar,
Like rainbows turned to song!
I hear it, like a strain that sweeps
The confines of a dream;
Now fading into silent space,
Now with a flashing gleam
Of triumph, ringing through the deeps
Of forest, dell and stream!
Away! away! I hear the horn
Among the hills of Spain:
The old, chivalric glory fires
Her warrior-hearts again!
Ho! how their banners light the morn,
Along Grenada's plain!
I hear the hymns of holy faith
The red Crusaders sang,
And the silver horn of Ronceval,
That o'er the tecbir rang
When prince and kaiser through the fray
To the paladin's rescue sprang!
A beam of burning light I hold!--
My good Damascus brand,
And the jet-black charger that I ride
Was foaled in the Arab land,
And a hundred horsemen, mailed in steel,
Follow my bold command!
Through royal cities speeds our march--
The minster-bells are rung;
The loud, rejoicing trumpets peal,
The battle-flags are swung,
And sweet, sweet lips of ladies praise
The chieftain, brave and young.
And now, in bright Provencal bowers,
A minstrel-knight am I:
A gentle bosom on my own
Throbs back its ecstasy;
A cheek, as fair as the almond flowers,
Thrills to my lips' reply!
I tread the fanes of wondrous Rome,
Crowned with immortal bay,
And myriads throng the Capitol
To hear my lofty lay,
While, sounding o'er the Tiber's foam,
Their shoutings peal away!
Oh, triumph such as this were worth
The poet's doom of pain,
Whose hours are brazen on the earth,
But golden in the brain:
I close the starry gate of dreams,
And walk the dust again!
POWER OF BEAUTY,
AND A PLAIN MAN'S LOVE.
BY N. P. WILLIS.
That the truths arrived at by the unaccredited short road of
"magnetism" had better be stripped of their technical phraseology, and
set down as the gradual discoveries of science and experience, is a
policy upon which acts many a sagacious believer in "clairvoyance."
Doubtless, too, there is, here and there, a wise man, who is glad
enough to pierce, with the eyes of an incredible agent, the secrets
about him, and let the world give him credit, by whatever name they
please, for the superior knowledge of which he silently takes
advantage. I should be behind the time, if I had not sounded to the
utmost of my ability and opportunity the depth of this new medium. I
have tried it on grave things and trifles. If the unveiling which I am
about to record were of more use to myself than to others, perhaps I
should adopt the policy of which I have just spoken, and give the
result, simply as my own shrewd lesson learned in reading the female
heart. But the truths I unfold will instruct the few who need and can
appreciate them, while the whole subject is not of general importance
enough to bring down cavilers upon the credibility of their source. I
thus get rid of a very detestable though sometimes necessary evil,
("_qui nescit dissimulare nescit vivere_," says the Latin sage,) that
of shining by any light that is not absolutely my own.
I am a very plain man in my personal appearance--_so_ plain that a
common observer, if informed that there was a woman who had a fancy
for my peculiar type, would wonder that I was not thankfully put to
rest for life as a seeker after love--a second miracle of the kind
being a very slender probability. It is not in beauty that the taste
for beauty alone resides, however. In early youth my soul, like the
mirror of Cydippe, retained, with enamored fidelity, the image of
female loveliness copied in the clear truth of its appreciation, and
the passion for it had become, insensibly, the thirst of my life,
before I thought of it as more than an intoxicating study. To be
loved--myself beloved--by a creature made in one of the diviner moulds
of woman, was, however, a dream that shaped itself into waking
distinctness at last, and from that hour I took up the clogging weight
of personal disadvantages, to which I had hitherto unconsciously been
chained, and bore it heavily in the race which the well-favored ran as
eagerly as I.
I am not to recount, here, the varied experiences of my search, the
world over, after beauty and its smile. It is a search on which all
travelers are more than half bent, let them name as they please their
professed errand in far countries. The coldest scholar in art will
better remember a living face of a new cast of expression, met in the
gallery of Florence, than the best work of Michael Angelo, whose
genius he has crossed an ocean to study; and a fair shoulder crowded
against the musical pilgrim, in the Capella Sistiera, will be taken
surer into his soul's inner memory than the best outdoing of "the
sky-lark taken up into heaven," by the ravishing reach of the
_Miserere_. Is it not true?
There can hardly be now, I think, a style of female beauty of which I
have not appreciated the meaning and comparative enchantment, nor a
degree of that sometimes more effective thing than beauty itself--its
expression breathing through features otherwise unlovely--that I have
not approached near enough to weigh and store truthfully in
remembrance. The taste forever refines in the study of woman. We
return to what, with immature eye, we at first rejected; we intensify,
immeasurably, our worship of the few who wear on their foreheads the
star of supreme loveliness, confessed pure and perfect by all
beholders alike; we detect it under surfaces which become transparent
only with tenderness or enthusiasm; we separate the work of Nature's
material chisel from the resistless and warm expansion of the soul
swelling its proportions to fill out the shape it is to tenant
hereafter. Led by the purest study of true beauty, the eager mind
passes on from the shrine where it lingered to the next of whose
greater brightness it becomes aware; and this is the secret of one
kind of "inconstancy in love," which should be named apart from the
variableness of those seekers of novelty, who, from unconscious
self-contempt, value nothing they have had the power to win.
An unsuspected student of beauty, I passed years of loiterings in the
living galleries of Europe and Asia, and, like self-punishing misers
in all kinds of amassings, stored up boundlessly more than, with the
best trained senses, I could have found the life to enjoy. Of course I
had a first advantage, of dangerous facility, in my unhappy plainness
of person--the alarm-guard that surrounds every beautiful woman in
every country of the world--letting sleep at _my_ approach the
cautionary reserve which presents bayonet so promptly to the
good-looking. Even with my worship avowed, and the manifestation of
grateful regard which a woman of fine quality always returns for
elevated and unexacting admiration I was still left with such
privilege of access as is granted to the family-gossip, or to an
innocuous uncle, and it is of such a passion, rashly nurtured under
this protection of an improbability, that I propose to tell the
_inner_ story.
PART II.
I was at the Baths of Lucca during a season made gay by the presence
of a large proportion of the agreeable and accessible court of
Tuscany. The material for my untiring study was in abundance, yet it
was all of the worldly character which the attractions of the place
would naturally draw together, and my homage had but a choice between
differences of display, in the one pursuit of admiration. In my walks
through the romantic mountain-paths of the neighborhood, and along the
banks of the deep-down river that threads the ravine above the
village, I had often met, meantime, a lady accompanied by a well-bred
and scholar-like looking man; and though she invariably dropped her
veil at my approach, her admirable movement, as she walked, or stooped
to pick a flower, betrayed that conscious possession of beauty and
habitual confidence in her own grace and elegance, which assured me of
attractions worth taking trouble to know. By one of those "unavoidable
accidents" which any respectable guardian angel will contrive, to
oblige one, I was a visiter to the gentleman and lady--father and
daughter--soon after my curiosity had framed the desire; and in her I
found a marvel of beauty, from which I looked in vain for my usual
escape--that of placing the ladder of my heart against a loftier and
fairer.
Mr. Wangrave was one of those English gentlemen who would not exchange
the name of an ancient and immemorially wealthy family for any title
that their country could give them, and he used this shield of modest
honor simply to protect himself in the enjoyment of habits, freed, as
far as refinement and culture could do it, from the burthens and
intrusions of life above and below him. He was ceaselessly educating
himself--like a man whose whole life was only too brief an
apprenticeship to a higher existence--and, with an invalid but
intellectual and lovely wife, and a daughter who seemed unconscious
that she could love, and who kept gay pace with her youthful-hearted
father in his lighter branches of knowledge, his family sufficed to
itself, and had determined so to continue while abroad. The society of
no Continental watering-place has a very good name, and they were
there for climate and seclusion. With two ladies, who seemed to occupy
the places and estimation of friends, (but who were probably the paid
nurse and companion to the invalid,) and a kind-hearted old secretary
to Mr. Wangrave, whose duties consisted in being as happy as he could
possibly be, their circle was large enough, and it contained elements
enough--except only, perhaps, the _reveille_ that was wanting for the
apparently slumbering heart of Stephania.
A month after my first call upon the Wangraves, I joined them on their
journey to Vallambrosa, where they proposed to take refuge from the
sultry coming of the Italian autumn. My happiness would not have been
arranged after the manner of this world's happiness, if I had been the
only addition to their party up the mountain. They had received with
open arms, a few days before leaving Lucca, a young man from the
neighborhood of their own home, and who, I saw with half a glance, was
the very Eidolon and type of what Mr. Wangrave would desire as a
fitting match for his daughter. From the allusions to him that had
preceded his coming, I had learned that he was the heir to a brilliant
fortune, and was coming to his old friends to be congratulated on his
appointment to a captaincy in the Queen's Guards--as pretty a case of
an "irresistible" as could well have been compounded for expectation.
And when he came--the absolute model of a youth of noble beauty--all
frankness, good manners, joyousness, and confidence, I summoned
courage to look alternately at Stephania and him, and the hope, the
daring hope that I had never yet named to myself, but which was
already master of my heart, and its every pulse and capability,
dropped prostrate and lifeless in my bosom. If he did but offer her
the life-minute of love, of which I would give her, it seemed to me,
for the same price, an eternity of countless existences--if he should
but give her a careless word, where I could wring a passionate
utterance out of the aching blood of my very heart--she must needs be
his. She would be a star else that would resign an orbit in the fair
sky, to illumine a dim cave; a flower that would rather bloom on a
bleak moor, than in the garden of a king--for, with such crushing
comparisons, did I irresistibly see myself as I remembered my own
shape and features, and my far humbler fortunes than his, standing in
her presence beside him.
Oh! how every thing contributed to enhance the beauty of that young
man. How the mellow and harmonizing tenderness of the light of the
Italian sky gave sentiment to his oval cheek, depth to his gray-blue
eye, meaning to their overfolding and thick-fringed lashes. Whatever
he said with his finely-cut lips, was _looked_ into twenty times its
meaning by the beauty of their motion in that languid atmosphere--an
atmosphere that seemed only breathed for his embellishment and
Stephania's. Every posture he took seemed a happy and rare accident,
which a painter should have been there to see. The sunsets, the
moonlight, the chance back-ground and fore-ground, of vines and
rocks--every thing seemed in conspiracy to heighten his effect, and
make of him a faultless picture of a lover.
"Every thing," did I say? Yes, _even myself_--for my uncomely face and
form were such a foil to his beauty as a skillful artist would have
introduced to heighten it when all other art was exhausted, and every
one saw it except Stephania; and little they knew how, with
perceptions far quicker than theirs, I _felt_ their recognition of
this, in the degree of softer kindness in which they unconsciously
spoke to me. They pitied me, and without recognizing their own
thought--for it was a striking instance of the difference in the
gifts of nature--one man looking scarce possible to love, and beside
him, another, of the same age, to whose mere first-seen beauty,
without a word from his lips, any heart would seem unnatural not to
leap in passionate surrender.
We were the best of sudden friends, Palgray and I. He, like the rest,
walked only the outer vestibule of the sympathies, viewlessly
deepening and extending, hour by hour, in that frank and joyous
circle. The interlinkings of soul, which need no language, and which
go on, whether we will or no, while we talk with friends, are so
strangely unthought of by the careless and happy. He saw in me no
counter-worker to his influence. I was to him but a well-bred and
extremely plain man, who tranquilly submitted to forego all the first
prizes of life, content if I could contribute to society in its
unexcited voids, and receive in return only the freedom of its outer
intercourse, and its friendly esteem. But, oh! it was not in the same
world that he and I knew Stephania. He approached her from the world
in whose most valued excellences, beauty and wealth, he was
pre-eminently gifted--I, from the viewless world, in which I had at
least more skill and knowledge. In the month that I had known her
before he came, I had sedulously addressed myself to a character
within her, of which Palgray had not even a conjecture; and there was
but one danger of his encroachment on the ground I had gained--her
imagination might supply in him the nobler temple of soul-worship,
which was still unbuilt, and which would never be builded except by
pangs such as he was little likely to feel in the undeepening channel
of happiness. He did not notice that _I_ never spoke to her in the
same key of voice to which the conversation of others was attuned. He
saw not that, while she turned to _him_ with a smile as a preparation
to listen, she heard _my_ voice as if her attention had been arrested
by distant music--with no change in her features except a look more
earnest. She would have called _him_ to look with her at a glowing
sunset, or to point out a new comer in the road from the village; but
if the moon had gone suddenly into a cloud and saddened the face of
the landscape, or if the wind had sounded mournfully through the
trees, as she looked out upon the night, she would have spoken of that
first to _me_.