_Gia._ What say'st thou now, Bernardo?
_Ber._ Let me live
Or die in drawing this delicious breath,
I ask no more.
_Gia._ (_Aside._) Mark, how with wondering eyes
He gazes on the burning crucibles,
As if to drink the rising vapor with
His every sense.
_Ber._ Is this the balm thou spak'st of?
_Gia._ Ay, sir, the same.
_Ber._ Oh, would that now my heart
Were torn with every grief the earth has known,
Then would this sense be sweeter by tenfold!
Where didst thou learn the secret, and from whom?
_Gia._ From Gebber down to Paracelsus, none
Have mentioned the discovery of this--
The need of it was parent of the thought.
_Ber._ How long will these small crucibles hold out?
_Gia._ A little while, but there are two beside,
That when thy sense is toned up to the point
May then be fired; and when thou breathest their fumes,
Nepenthe deeper it shall seem than that
Which Helen gave the guests of Menelaus.
But come, thou'lt weary of this thickening air,
Let us depart.
_Ber._ Not for the wealth of worlds!
_Gia._ Nay, but thy bride awaits thee--
_Ber._ Go to her
And say I shall be there anon.
_Gia._ I will.
(_Aside._) Now while he stands enchained within the spell
I'll to Rosalia's room and don his cloak
And cap, and sally forth to meet the duke.
'Tis now the hour, and if he come--so be it.
[_Exit Giacomo._
_Ber._ (_Alone._)
These delicate airs seem wafted from the fields
Of some celestial world. I am alone--
Then wherefore not inhale that deeper draught,
That sweet nepenthe which these other two,
When burning, shall dispense? 'Twere quickly done,
And I will do it!
(_He places the two crucibles on the furnace._)
Now, sir alchemist,
Linger as long as it may suit thy pleasure--
'Tis mine to tarry here. Oh, by San John,
I'll turn philosopher myself, and do
Some good at last in this benighted world!
Now how like demons on the ascending smoke,
Making grimaces, leaps the laughing flame,
Filling the room with a mysterious haze,
Which rolls and writhes along the shadowy air,
Taking a thousand strange, fantastic forms;
And every form is lit with burning eyes,
Which pierce me through and through like fiery arrows!
The dim walls grow unsteady, and I seem
To stand upon a reeling deck! Hold, hold!
A hundred crags are toppling overhead.
I faint, I sink--now, let me clutch that limb--
Oh, devil! It breaks to ashes in my grasp!
What ghost is that which beckons through the mist?
The duke! the duke! and bleeding at the breast!
Whose dagger struck the blow?
(_Enter Giacomo._)
_Gia._ Mine, villain, mine!
What! thou'st set the other two aburning?
Impatient dog, thou cheat'st me to the last!
I should have done the deed--and yet 'tis well.
Thou diest by thine own dull hardihood!
_Ber._ Ha! is it so? Then follow thou!
_Gia._ My time
Is not quite yet, this antidote shall place
A bar between us for a little while.
(_He raises a vial to his lips, drinks, and flings
it aside._)
_Ber._ (_Rallying._) Come, give it me--
_Gia._ Ha, ha! I drained it all!
There is the broken vial.
_Ber._ Is there no arm
To save me from the abyss?
_Gia._ No, villain, sink!
And take this cursed record of thy plot,
(_He thrusts a paper into Bernardo's hand,_)
And it shall gain thee speedy entrance at
Th' infernal gate!
(_Bernardo reads, reels and falls._)
_Gia._ (_Looking on the body._) Poor miserable dust!
This body now is honest as the best,
The very best of earth, lie where it may.
This mantle must conceal the thing from sight,
For soon Rosalia, as I bade her, shall
Be here. Oh, Heaven! vouchsafe to me the power
To do this last stern act of justice. Thou
Who called the child of Jairus from the dead,
Assist a stricken father now to raise
His sinless daughter from the bier of shame.
And may her soul, unconscious of the deed,
Forever walk the azure fields of heaven.
(_Enter Rosalia, dressed in simple white, bearing a
small golden crucifix in her hand._)
_Ros._ Dear father, in obedience, I have come--
But where's Bernardo?
_Gia._ Gone to watch the stars;
To see old solitary Saturn whirl
Like poor Ixion on his burning wheel--
He is our patron orb to-night, my child.
_Ros._ I do not know what strange experiment
Thou'dst have me see, but in my heart I feel
That He, in whose remembrance this was made
(_looking at the cross_)
Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts.
Since vesper time--I know not how it was--
I could do naught but kneel and tell my prayers.
_Gia._ Ye blessed angels, hymn the word to heaven.
Come, daughter, let me hold thy hand in mine,
And gaze upon the emblem which thou bearest.
(_He looks upon the crucifix awhile and presses it
to his lips._)
_Ros._ Pray tell me, father, what is in the air?
_Gia._ See'st thou the crucibles, my child? Now mark,
I'll drop a simple essence into each.
_Ros._ My sense is flooded with perfume!
_Gia._ Again.
_Ros._ My soul, asudden, thrills with such delight
It seems as it had won a birth of wings!
_Gia._ Behold, now when I throw these jewels in,
The glories of our art!
_Ros._ A cloud of hues
As beautiful as morning fills the air;
And every breath I draw comes freighted with
Elysian sweets! An iris-tinted mist,
In perfumed wreaths, is rolling round the room.
The very walls are melting from my sight,
And surely, father, there's the sky o'erhead!
And on that gentle breeze did we not hear
The song of birds and silvery waterfalls?
And walk we not on green and flowery ground?
Ferrara, father, hath no ground like this,
The ducal gardens are not half so fair!
Oh, if this be the golden land of dreams,
Let us forever make our dwelling here.
Not lovelier in my earliest visions seemed
The paradise of our first parents, filled
With countless angels whose celestial light
Thrilled the sweet foliage like a gush of song.
Look how the long and level landscape gleams,
And with a gradual pace goes mellowing up
Into the blue. The very ground we tread
Seems flooded with the tender hue of heaven;
An azure lawn is all about our feet,
And sprinkled with a thousand gleaming flowers,
Like lovely lilies on a tranquil lake.
_Gia._ Nay, dear Rosalia, cast thy angel ken
Far down the shining pathway we have trod,
And see behind us those enormous gates
To which the world has given the name of Death;
And note the least among yon knot of lights,
And recognize your native orb, the earth!
For we are spirits threading fields of space,
Whose gleaming flowers are but the countless stars!
But now, dear love, adieu--a flash from heaven--
A sudden glory in the silent air--
A rustle as of wings, proclaim the approach
Of holier guides to take thee into keep.
Behold them gliding down the azure hill
Making the blue ambrosial with their light.
Our paths are here divided. I must go
Through other ways, by other forms attended.
LINES TO AN IDEAL.
BY ELIZABETH LYON LINSLEY.
I wandered on the lonely strand,
A setting sun shone brightly there,
And bathed in glory sea and land,
And streamed in beauty through the air!
A playful breeze the waters curled,
Touched their light waves and passed them by,
Then fanned a bird whose wings unfurled
Were waving on the sunset sky!
The bird had gone. The sun had set.
His beams still tipped the hills and trees,
And flung a rainbow radiance yet
On clouds reflected in the seas!
A distant boatman plied the oar,
All sparkling with its golden spray,
His voice came softened to the shore,
Then melted with the dying day!
And when the last bright lines on high
Departed as the twilight came,
A large star showed its lone, sweet eye
All margined with a cloud of flame!
The winds were hushed. Their latest breath
In soft, low murmurs died afar--
The rippling of the wave beneath
Showed dancing there that one bright star!
So fair a scene, so sweet an hour,
Were felt and passed. In stilly calm
They shed around me beauty's power,
Yet gave no peace, and brought no balm.
I was alone! I saw no eyes
With mine gaze on the twilight sea--
No heart returned my lonely sighs--
No lips breathed sympathy with me.
I was alone! I looked above.
That star seemed happy thus to lave
Its fairy light and glance of love
Deep in the bosom of the wave.
I gazed no more! The blinding tear
Rose from my heart, and dimmed my sight.
Had one dear voice then whispered near,
That scene how changed!--That heart how light!
My soul was swelling like the sea!
Had thine eyes gleamed there with mine own,
That soul a mirror true to thee
On ev'ry wave thyself had shown!
MRS. PELBY SMITH'S SELECT PARTY.
BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN.
"Mrs. Goldsborough's party is to-night, is it not?" said Mr. Pelby
Smith to his wife; "are we going my dear?"
"_Apropos_ of parties," returned she, waiving the question; "I don't
see how we are to get on any longer without giving one ourselves."
"Why so, my dear? We cannot afford to give a party, and that will be
an apology all-sufficient to a woman of Cousin Sabina's sense."
"Cousin Sabina!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith; "as if I, or any one else, ever
thought of going to the trouble of a party for a plain old maid, like
cousin Sabina Incledon!"
"My dear, I wish you would not speak in that way of Cousin Sabina; she
is an excellent woman, of superior mind, and manners to command
respect in any society."
"That may be _your_ opinion, Mr. Smith," answered the lady tartly;
"mine is that a quiet old maid, from somewhere far off in the country,
and with an income of two or three hundred dollars a year, would not
make much of a figure in _our_ society. At all events, I shan't make a
trial of it."
"I thought you alluded to her visit as making it incumbent on us to
give a party," said Mr. Smith meekly; "there is no other reason, I
believe."
"You will allow me to have some judgment in such matters, Mr. Smith. I
think it is absolutely necessary that we should, that is, if we wish
to go to parties for the future. We have been going to them all our
lives without giving any, and people will grow tired of inviting us."
"Then, my dear, why not make up our minds to stay at home. I would
rather."
"But _I_ would not, Mr. Smith. I shall go to parties as long as
possible. My duty to my children requires it."
Mr. Smith opened his eyes as wide as his timidity would let him.
"My duty to my children, I repeat," pursued she with energy; "they
will have to be introduced to society."
"Not for seven or eight years yet, any of them," interposed Mr. Smith.
"Sooner or later," continued the lady; "and how is that to be done
unless I keep the footing which I have attained--with trouble enough,
as I only know, and without any thanks to you, Mr. Smith. If I give up
parties, I may fall at once into the obscurity for which you have such
a taste. People of fortune and distinction can voluntarily withdraw
for a while, and then reappear with as much success as ever, but that
is not the case with persons of our position."
"It is only the expense that I object to, my dear; my business is so
limited that it is impossible for us to live in any other than a
plain, quiet way. The cost of a party would be a serious inconvenience
to me."
"The advantages will be of greater consequence than the sacrifices,"
returned the lady, softening as she saw her husband yielding; "the
loss will soon be made up to you through an increase of friends.
Party-giving people are always popular."
Mr. Smith saw that his wife was determined to carry her point, which
was nothing new. He had learned to submit, and to submit in silence,
so, after sitting moodily for a few minutes, he took up his hat to go
to his place of business.
"I knew, my dear," said Mrs. Smith smoothly, "that you would soon see
the matter in a proper light; and now about Mrs. Goldsborough's party.
I shall lay out your things for you. I can go with some satisfaction
now that I have a prospect of soon being on equal terms with my
entertainers."
Mrs. Smith walked round her two small and by no means elegant rooms,
reassuring herself as to the capabilities of her lamps, girandoles and
candlesticks, for she had mentally gone through all her arrangements
long before; the act of consulting her husband being, generally, her
last step toward the undertaking of any important project. She was
joined by the object of some of her recent remarks, Miss Sabina
Incledon, a cousin of Mr. Smith's, who, until within a few days, had
been a stranger to her. She was a plainly dressed person of middle
age, with an agreeable though not striking countenance, and
unobtrusive, lady-like manners.
"I am sorry you are not going to Mrs. Goldsborough's to-night, Cousin
Sabina," said Mrs. Smith; "I have no doubt she would have sent an
invitation had she known I had a friend visiting me."
"Not improbable. I do not, however, feel much inclination just now to
go to a party. Had it not been for that, I should have sent my card to
Mrs. Goldsborough after my arrival. I met her at the springs last
summer, and received much politeness from her."
"Mrs. Goldsborough is a very polite woman--very much disposed to be
civil to every one," said Mrs. Smith; "by the bye," she added, "Pelby
and I have it in contemplation to give a large party ourselves."
"Indeed? I thought you were not party-giving people; Cousin Pelby
assured me so."
"And never would be if Pelby Smith had his own way. To be sure, we are
not in circumstances to entertain much, conveniently, but for the sake
of a firmer place in society, I am always willing to strain a point.
As to Pelby, he has so little spirit that he would as soon be at the
bottom of the social ladder as at the top. I can speak of it without
impropriety to you, as you are his relation, not mine. He has been a
perpetual drag and drawback upon me, but, notwithstanding, I have
accomplished a great deal. Five or six years ago we were merely on
speaking terms with the Goldsboroughs, and the Pendletons, and the
Longacres, and the Van Pelts and that set, and now I visit most of
them, and receive invitations to all their general parties. I have
always felt ashamed of not having entertained them in return, and now
I am resolved to do so, as a favorable opportunity offers of doing it
advantageously. I mean the coming out of Julia Goldsborough, Mrs.
Goldsborough's only daughter. It will be something to say that I have
given her a party."
"Do the family expect the compliment of you?" asked Miss Incledon,
looking at her in surprise; "I did not know that you were on such
intimate terms."
Mrs. Smith smiled in conscious superiority. "Ah, Cousin Sabina!" said
she, "you are very unsophisticated. Don't you know that a party goes
off with much more _eclat_ for being associated with some name of
importance. Now Julia Goldsborough, from her beauty and vivacity, and
the fashion and fortune of her family, is to be the belle of the
season, and a party got up for her must necessarily make a sensation.
All her friends, and they are at the head of society, will attend on
her account, if for nothing else, and everybody else will be glad to
go where they do. Then the Pendletons and the Longacres and the Van
Pelts, several of them, will give her parties--so it is
understood--and it will be worth an effort to make mine one of the
series."
A faint expression of sarcastic humor passed over the placid
countenance of Miss Incledon, but she made no comment.
Mrs. Pelby Smith entered the brilliant rooms of Mrs. Goldsborough that
night with an elated spirit, seeing in herself the future hostess of
the fashionable throng there assembled. Instead of standing in a
corner, listening with unctuous deference or sympathy to any who
chanced to come against her, as was her wont, proffering her fan, or
her essence-bottle, or in some quiet way ministering to their egotism,
she now stepped freely forth upon the field of action, nodding and
smiling at the young men to whom she might have been at some time
introduced; whispering and jesting with some marked young lady, while
she made an occasion to arrange her _berthe_ or her ringlets, and
adding herself, as if by accident, to any trio or quartette of
pre-eminent distinction. She had at length the anxiously desired
opportunity to put out her feelers at Mrs. Goldsborough.
"What a lovely creature Julia has become, Mrs. Goldsborough!" she
exclaimed; "it seems but a few months since she was a little fairy
only _so_ high, and now she is so well grown and so commanding in her
figure! and her manners, they are as pronounced and _distingue_ as if
she were twenty-five; they appear the more remarkable for her sweet,
youthful face. I have been watching her the whole evening, and seeing
every one offering her their tribute, I have gotten quite into the
spirit of it myself. I'm sure you will smile at me, for you well know
that I am not at all in the habit of such things, but I really must
give her a party. I have known her so long, almost since she could
first run about, and I always loved the little creature so much! I
feel as if I have almost a right to be proud of her myself. Have you
any engagements for the beginning of next week? If not, unless you
positively forbid it, I shall send out invitations at once."
"You are very kind, indeed, Mrs. Smith," said Mrs. Goldsborough,
smiling cordially, for she was a fond mother, and also was full of
courtesy and amiability; "it will be an unexpected compliment to
Julia. She will be flattered that your partiality for her is as warm
as ever. We have no engagements for the first of next week. The
parties with which my friends will try to spoil Julia do not come on
so soon."
Her scheme having been not unfavorably received, Mrs. Smith whispered
it to one and another, until it was known to half the company before
they dispersed that Miss Goldsborough was to be _feted_ next by Mrs.
Pelby Smith.
Our heroine ought to have overheard the conversation which took place
at the late breakfast of Mrs. Goldsborough the following morning.
"You could hardly guess whom you have charmed into party intentions
toward you, Julia," said Mrs. Goldsborough; "I suppose you have not
heard? Mrs. Pelby Smith."
"Defend me from Mrs. Pelby Smith!" laughed Julia; "but are you in
earnest, mamma?"
"Certainly, my dear; she told me last night that she intended to give
you a party in the beginning of next week."
"That intolerable, toadying Mrs. Pelby Smith!" exclaimed young Frank
Goldsborough; "I would not allow her to cover the iniquities of her
ambition with my name, Julia, if I were you. Depend upon it, she has
some sinister design in this thing."
"I agree with Frank," rejoined Miss Pendleton, Mrs. Goldsborough's
sister; "such as elevating herself in society on your shoulders,
Julia, or rather those of your family."
"Charity, charity! you know I don't like such remarks," interposed
Mrs. Goldsborough, but with little show of severity; "we have no
reason to decide that Mrs. Smith does not really mean a kindness. She
always seemed very fond of Julia when a child."
"And so she would have appeared, mamma, of any other that might have
happened to be a grandchild of General Pendleton and Judge
Goldsborough. I had sense enough to understand her even then. She used
to call me in on my way to school, to warm my hands, when they did not
need it, and inquire after the health of my mother and grandmothers
and grandfathers and aunts and uncles, and admire my clothes, and wish
her little Jane was old enough to run to school with me, and flatter
me on the beauty of my hair and eyes and complexion, in such a way
that very few children would have been so stupid as not to have seen
through it. Could you not have said something to discourage the new
idea, ma'ma?"
"Not without rudeness, Julia, though, I confess, I would rather it
could have been done. Even presuming that she is sincere in her
professions of regard, I do not like the thought of a person in her
circumstances going to what to her must be serious trouble and expense
on our account. The easiest way to reconcile myself to it would be by
believing with you all, that she has some personal motive in it."
At that same hour Mrs. Smith was immersed in her preliminary
arrangements.
"I shall have to ask you to write some of the invitations, Cousin
Sabina," said she to Miss Incledon; "I am not much in the habit of
writing, even notes; and Pelby, who has not time to attend to it, says
that you write a very pretty hand. Here are pen and paper to make out
the list--I will give you the names. In the first place, there are all
the Goldsboroughs and Pendletons, and Longacres, and Van Pelts--"
"You forget," interrupted Miss Incledon, "that it is necessary to name
them individually."
"True, I had forgotten--I have so many things to think about.
Beginning with the Goldsboroughs--Mrs., Miss, and Mr.; then General
and Mrs. Pendleton, Miss Pendleton, Mr. and Mrs. John, Mr. and Mrs.
Henry, and Mr. and Mrs. James Pendleton;" and so Mrs. Smith kept on in
continuous nomenclature for a considerable time. It was only as she
came down into the lower ranks of fashion, after a regular gradation,
that she hesitated for a moment--and then her pauses grew longer and
longer.
"Perhaps I can assist your memory, Cousin Sarah," said Miss Incledon;
"I have seen several of your acquaintances, and have heard of a good
many more; there is Mrs. Wills, with whom you were taking tea the
evening of my arrival."
"I have reflected upon that, and conclude that I shall not ask Mrs.
Wills," replied Mrs. Smith; "she is a plain person, and seldom goes to
parties, which I can make a sufficient excuse for leaving her out,
though, to be sure, she would come to mine, if I invited her; and to
prevent her from being offended, I shall send for her a few days after
to come socially to tea, with a few others of the same set. There
will, of course, be plenty of refreshments left, and it will,
therefore, be no additional expense."
"Then Mrs. Salisbury and her two daughters, who called yesterday."
"I believe not; they are not decidedly and exclusively of the first
circle, though, as you seemed to consider them, quite superior
women--very accomplished and agreeable. They have not much fortune,
however, and have no connections here. On the whole, I do not see that
any thing could be gained by inviting the Salisburys."
"I have not your neighbor, Mrs. Streeter down," observed Cousin
Sabina.
"No; I don't see the necessity for having Mrs. Streeter; she is a good
creature--very obliging when one needs a neighbor, in cases of
sickness, or the like, but would be far from ornamental. I can have an
excuse for omitting her in never having received an invitation from
her--she does not give parties. She will be very well satisfied, I
dare say, if I send her a basket of fragments afterward. You must
understand, Cousin Sabina, that as this is my first party, I mean it
to be very select."
"Then you will also, I presume, leave out Mrs. Brownell."
"By no means; I calculate a great deal on Mrs. Brownell. She has the
greatest quantity of elegant china and cut-glass, which it will be
necessary for me to borrow. My own supply is rather limited, and I
must depend chiefly on my acquaintances. It was on that account that I
set down the Greelys. They have the largest lot of silver forks and
spoons of any family I know--owing, it is whispered, to their having,
where they came from, kept a fashionable boarding-house. Also, you may
put down Mrs. Crabbe."
"Mrs. Crabbe?--did I not hear you describe her as a very low person?"
"Peculiarly so in her manners--but what am I to do? I must have
persons to assist me; and Mrs. Crabbe makes the most beautiful jellies
and the most delicious Charlotte-Russe I ever tasted. She has a
natural talent for all sorts of nice cookery, and with my little
experience in it, she will be of the greatest service to me. It saves
a great deal to make every thing except the confectionary at home; and
I shall go at once and ask Mrs. Crabbe if she will prepare the
materials for my fruit-cake, and mix it up."
"You have said nothing about your Aunt Tomkins, of whom Cousin Pelby
has talked to me, and of the different members of her family--they are
to have invitations, of course?" suggested Miss Incledon.
"No--that is--I shall attend to it myself--I mean you need not mind;"
and Mrs. Smith hurried to the door, beginning to perceive something
she would rather escape in the countenance and interrogatories of
Cousin Sabina. "Bless me!" she exclaimed, turning back, "I almost
forgot--and what a mistake it would have been! put down Miss Debby
Coggins; I should never have been forgiven if I had neglected her. She
has a great many oddities, but she is related to all the first
families, and one must keep on her right side. Have you the
name?--Miss Deborah Coggins."
We shall not follow Mrs. Smith into the turmoil of her preparations,
which would have been much more wearisome and bewildering, from her
inexperience in getting up a large entertainment, had it not been for
the good judgment and quiet activity of Miss Incledon, and which the
night of fruition at last terminated.
All was ready, even the lighting of the rooms, when Mrs. Smith, before
commencing her own toilette, entered the apartment of her guest. Miss
Incledon, who considered herself past the time of life for other than
matronly decorations of the person, was laying out a handsome
pelerine, and a tasteful cap, to wear with a rich, dark silk dress.
"My dear Cousin Sabina," said Mrs. Smith, "do help me out of a
difficulty; I have no one to remain on duty in the supper-room, and
there certainly ought to be some one to sit there and see that nothing
is disturbed--for there is a great quantity of silver there, mostly
borrowed, and with so many strange servants about, I feel uneasy to
leave it a moment."
"Are you not able to get some one for that service?" asked Miss
Incledon.
"No, indeed; I thought of Aunt Tomkins, but the truth is, I could not
request her to do it without sending invitations to the whole family,
which I concluded would not be advisable: there are so many of them,
and as they would not be acquainted with the rest of the company, it
seemed best not to have any of them. I thought, too, of old Mrs.
Joyce, who sometimes does quilting and knitting for me, but she has a
large family of grandchildren, some of whom she always drags with her
when she goes to where there is any thing good to eat; and it would
never do to have them poking their fingers into the refreshments. So
it struck me that perhaps you might oblige me. You don't appear to
care for parties, and as you would be a stranger in the room, it is
not likely you would have much enjoyment. Of course, if I believed you
would prefer the trouble of dressing, and taking your chance among the
company, I would not ask it of you."
Nothing daunted by the glow of indignation which followed a look of
astonishment on the face of Cousin Sabina, she paused for a reply.
After a moment's reflection, Miss Incledon answered calmly, "I am your
guest, Sarah--dispose of me as you please;" and returning her cap and
white gloves to their boxes, she refastened her wrapper to enter upon
the office assigned to her.
The party passed off with the crowding, crushing, talking and eating
common to parties. The supper was a handsome one--for Mr. Smith wisely
decided that if the thing must be done at all, it should be done
well--and therefore he had hinted no restrictions to his wife as to
the expense. Many "regrets" had been sent in, but still Mrs. Smith was
at the post she had coveted for years--that of receiving a fashionable
assemblage in her own house; and if her choicest guests courted her
notice as little as they would have done any where else, she was too
much elated and flustered, and overheated to think about it. One of
her principal concerns was to keep her eye on her husband, who, being
a shy, timid man, with very little tact, was not much calculated for
playing the host on such an occasion. He had, however, been doing
better than she expected, when, a little before supper, he wandered
through the crowd to where she was standing, for the moment, alone,
and asked, "Where is Cousin Sabina?"
"In the supper-room. It is necessary at such times to have some one
behind the scenes, and I had to get her to remain in the supper-room,
to watch that things went on properly; and, in particular, to see that
none of the silver was carried off, nor the refreshments wasted after
supper."
Mr. Smith looked disturbed, and exclaimed, rather too loudly, "Is it
possible that you could ask a woman like Sabina Incledon to do such a
thing! one of my most respectable relations, and a visiter in my
house?"
"Don't speak so loudly. I left out all my own relations, and I dare
say they would, any of them, have looked as creditably as Sabina
Incledon. When we have established our own standing, Mr. Smith, it
will be time enough for us to bring out such people as your Cousin
Sabina. To be sure, if I had had any one to trust in her place, I
should not have objected at all to her coming in."
Mrs. Smith was turning away, when she saw, at her elbow, Mrs.
Goldsborough and Miss Pendleton, who must have overheard the
conversation. To her it was the mortification of the evening.
The next morning at the breakfast-table Mrs. Smith was too much
occupied in descanting upon the events of the night, describing the
dresses, and detailing the commendations on different viands of the
supper, to notice that Miss Incledon spoke but little, and when she
did, with more dignity and gravity than usual. On rising from the
table, she unlocked the sideboard, and taking from it a basket of
silver, she said, "I would thank you, Cousin Sabina, to assort these
forks and spoons for me. It will be something of a task, as they have
to go to half a dozen different places. When you have got through I
will look over them to see that all is right;" and she was hurrying
off to commence some of the multifarious duties of the day.
"Excuse me, Sarah," said Miss Incledon; "I'll expect that a carriage
will be here in a few minutes to take me into the country."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, looking disappointed and somewhat
displeased; "I thought I should have your assistance in putting away
things--I had no idea of your leaving us to-day."
"You may remember my telling you, Cousin Pelby," said Miss Incledon,
addressing Mr. Smith, "that I would be but a few days with you. I took
advantage of traveling in this direction to renew our old family
intercourse; but the principal object of my journey was to visit a
very particular friend, Mrs. Morgan Silsbee."
"Mrs. Morgan Silsbee!" said Mrs. Smith--"are you not mistaken, Cousin
Sabina? I presume you mean Mrs. Edward Silsbee. Mrs. Morgan Silsbee
lives ten or twelve miles out; their place is said to be magnificent,
and I know that she and her husband drives a coach-and-four on state
occasions. Mrs. Goldsborough made a splendid dinner for them a short
time ago. Mrs. Edward Silsbee I have met often; I didn't know that you
were acquainted with her."
"I am _not_ acquainted with Mrs. Edward Silsbee," said Miss Incledon,
with dignity; "I mean her sister-in-law, Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. She is
an old friend of mine, and I have been under engagement to her since I
met her last summer, at the Springs, to make this visit. I had a note
from her last night, written from one of the hotels, saying that she
would stop for me this morning at nine or ten o'clock--your party
preventing her from calling in person."
Had a halo suddenly appeared around the head of Cousin Sabina, Mrs.
Smith could hardly have changed her countenance and manner more
markedly. "If I had only known it," she exclaimed, "how gratified I
should have been to have had an invitation, with my card, sent to her,
and to have had her at my party. But, surely, Cousin Sabina, you will
soon return to us?"
"I shall certainly pass through town on my way homeward, but will stop
at a boarding-house," said Miss Incledon.
The conscious Mrs. Smith reddened violently, but was relieved by the
interruption of a handsome carriage, though not the coach-and-four,
stopping before her house. Miss Incledon stepped to the parlor-door,
to answer the footman, who inquired for her.
"Mrs. Morgan Silsbee's compliments, ma'am," said the man, "and the
carriage is at your service whenever you are ready. We are to take her
up at Mrs. Goldsborough's, where she got out to wait for you."
It took but a moment for Cousin Sabina to reappear bonneted and
shawled, and to have her baggage put on the carriage. Then kindly
bidding Mr. Smith farewell, she gave her hand to his wife, escaping
the embrace in preparation for her, and was rapidly driven away.
"You see there are some persons who can appreciate Cousin Sabina,"
said Mr. Smith; and afraid to wait for a reply, he hastened to his
place of business.
"And so Cousin Sabina is the friend of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, the friend
of Mrs. Goldsborough!" said Mrs. Smith to herself, while a series of
not very satisfactory reflections ran through her mind. But her
attention was claimed by other things. What with putting away and
distributing the fragments of the feast, washing and sending home
table-furniture, gathering up candle ends, and other onerous duties,
the day wore on. At last, late in the afternoon, with aching head and
wearied limbs, she sat down in her rocking-chair in the dining-room to
rest. A ring at the door-bell soon disturbed her. "Say I'm engaged,
unless it is some person very particular," said she to the servant.
"It is Miss Debby Coggins, ma'am," said the colored girl, returning,
with a grin; "I let her in, because she's very partic'lar."
Miss Deborah Coggins, from being connected in some way or other with
each of the great families of the town, and having money enough not to
be dependent on any of them, was what is called a privileged
character--a class of individuals hard to be endured, unless they
possess the specific virtue of good-nature, to which Miss Debby had no
claim. She talked without ceasing, and her motto was to speak "the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." She was of a thin
figure, always dressed in rusty black silk, which must sometimes have
been renewed or changed, though no one could ever tell when, and a
velvet bonnet, of the same hue, with a peculiar lateral flare, which,
however, was really made to look something like new once every three
or four years. She wore a demi-wreath of frizzly, flaxen curls close
above her shaggy eyebrows, which were of the same color; and her very
long, distended nose was always filled with snuff, which assisted in
giving a trombone sound to as harsh a voice as ever passed through the
lips of a woman.
She had drawn up the blinds, and opened the sash of the windows when
Mrs. Smith entered the front parlor. "How're you this evening, Mrs.
Smith?" said she, in answer to the bland welcome she received; "I was
just telling your black girl that if you ever should happen to have a
party again, she should open the rooms and have the air changed better
the next day; and as you are not used to such things yourself, I
thought I might as well let you know it, too. I raised the windows
myself. Now," she added, "the room is too cold to sit in, and I would
prefer going to your dining-room, or wherever you were when I came
in."
"Certainly, certainly, Miss Debby," said Mrs. Smith, marshaling the
way.
"Stop!" said Miss Debby, "I want to take a look at your wall paper--I
never noticed it before. I can't say I like your taste; though, no
doubt, you took it for the sake of economy--ugly papers sometimes go
very cheap."
"You are quite mistaken, I assure you, Miss Debby," began Mrs. Smith,
eagerly.
"Well, it's of no consequence," interrupted Miss Debby, "only I heard
Matilda Shipley say yesterday, that there would be no use in dressing
much for Mrs. Pelby Smith's party, as her low rooms, with their dingy,
dirt-colored paper, could never be lighted up to make any one look
well."
Mrs. Smith cleared her throat, but said nothing, recollecting by this
time that all retort or explanation was lost upon Miss Deborah
Coggins. To change the subject she remarked, "How disappointed I was
at your not coming last night, my dear Miss Debby--one of the friends
I most wished to see."
"I have been rather sorry myself that I did not come, since I heard
that the party turned out better than could have been expected. I
supposed that there would have been a great many here that I did not
know, and that my own set, mostly, would have stayed away, like
myself, not caring much to meet them."
"What an idea, Miss Debby! there was scarcely one in the room that you
did not know. My company was very select."
"So I was told to-day. Mrs. William Van Pelt said that you had invited
every body that would not thank you, and, as she had been told, had
left out those that had the best right to expect invitations. I should
like to have had a share of the supper," continued Miss Debby. "I
heard that you had worried yourself nearly to death preparing it, and
that it was really good, considering that you were not used to such
things. Young John Pendleton said that it made him some little amends
for being forced to go to a place where he made a mistake every time
he addressed his entertainers and called them Joneses."
Sorely wincing as Mrs. Smith was, she did not forget Miss Debby's
notoriety for following close upon the heels of a party for a share of
the good things left. Accordingly, she opened her sideboard, and
produced a choice variety of her store.
"I suppose it is too late to get some of the ice cream?" said Miss
Debby, losing no time in attacking what was set before her; "you have
used it, or let the ice run out, I dare say?--though, now that I think
of it, I made up my mind that I would not care to have any of it, for
old Mrs. Longacre told me that what she got was bitter, from being
made partly of milk, she supposed, that had been burnt in boiling."
This was more than Mrs. Smith could stand. "It is totally erroneous!"
she exclaimed; "I used none but the purest cream, and that without
boiling; I don't know how the old lady could have made such a mistake,
unless it was that she got some of the almond, which, perhaps, had too
much of the bitter-almond flavor for her taste."
"Perhaps so; and she said that she did not venture to taste the
Charlotte-Russe, fearing it might turn out to be nothing but
sponge-cake and custard, without jelly or whipped cream. But if it was
all like this, nobody could complain of it;" and, absorbed in the
gratification of her palate, Miss Debby gave her auditor a few minutes
respite.
"Your party, on the whole, made something of a talk, Mrs. Smith," she
resumed.
Mrs. Smith bowed and smiled, taking the observation for a compliment.
"I was out making calls the day the invitations went round. You know
making calls is a business with me, when I undertake it. I commence
directly after breakfast, and keep on till night, eating my dinner
wherever I suppose dinner chances to be ready. Well, the first I heard
of your intentions was from Mrs. Harvey, who said she wondered you
could think yourself under obligations to give a party to Julia
Goldsborough, though, to be sure, like some other of your devices, she
supposed that was only a _ruse_; and she was surprised that the
Goldsboroughs were willing to be cat's paws to help you along in
'society.'"
Mrs. Smith's face grew as red as the _bon bon_ paper she was nervously
twisting.
"That was to Mrs. Nicolas and me," pursued Miss Debby; "and Mrs.
Nicolas wondered how upon earth the Pelby Smiths could afford to give
a party at all. She concluded that you would have to live on bacon and
potatoes for the remainder of the season, to retrieve the cost, and
would have to turn that changeable silk of yours the third time."
"Oh, I don't mind what people say," observed Mrs. Smith, with a
distorted smile.
"I know you don't, or, at least, that you don't resent any thing
toward persons of such standing as those two, or I would not have
repeated the conversation. But, is it true, that you had some trouble
to get the party out of your husband?"
"Mr. Smith and I always act in concert," said Mrs. Smith, looking
dutiful.
"Do you? well, that's a happy thing. I understood quite the contrary,
though, that you always carried the day, from what Mrs. Joe Culpepper
said. I was at her house when your invitation came in, and after she
had opened it, she exclaimed, with her sly laugh, 'Only think, Miss
Debby, that manoeuvring, pushing Mrs. Pelby Smith has at last worried
her poor husband into giving a party!' and from the way she pitied Mr.
Smith, I inferred she must have some reason to believe that if you did
not wield a pretty high hand, he would not be quite such a man of wax
as he seems."
Had Miss Debby been any thing less than a relation in common to the
"Goldsboroughs, the Pendletons, the Longacres, and the Van Pelts,"
Mrs. Smith would have been tempted to request her to leave the house;
but as it was, her policy taught her to endure whatever Miss Debby
might choose to inflict. So she leaned back hopelessly in her chair,
while the old lady snapped and cracked a plate of candied fruits with
a vigor of which her teeth looked incapable.
"Had you any of your borrowed things broken?--for I heard that you had
to borrow nearly every thing," resumed her torturer.
"Not any thing at all but two or three plates, which can easily be
replaced," replied Mrs. Smith, not knowing what next to expect on that
point. But Miss Debby tacked about.
"I believe," said she, "you had a visiter staying with you for a few
days?"
"Yes--a cousin of Mr. Smith's--Miss Sabina Incledon--"
"That's the name," interrupted Miss Debby, nodding; "the person that
went out home with Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, this morning, I presume?"
"The same," replied Mrs. Smith, feeling her consequence looking up;
"Cousin Sabina is a very particular friend of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, who
for a long time had been soliciting the visit."
"Then, surely, she could not have been the person you set to watching
the kitchen and supper-room! Susan Goldsborough and Lydia Pendleton
were talking about it, and repeating to each other what they overheard
of a conversation between yourself and your husband, who seemed
greatly shocked that you had done it. Susan Goldsborough remarked that
if she had known that you had so little sense as to undervalue such a
woman in that way, or so little feeling and good-breeding as to
violate the laws of common hospitality and politeness so grossly, she
would assuredly have declined the party for Julia when you proposed it
to her."
Mrs. Smith had grown quite pale, and could only answer tremulously,
"What a misconstruction!--dear me--it was Cousin Sabina's wish--how
strange a mistake."
"It certainly is strange if they were so mistaken, and stranger still
that a woman of so much dignity, and so accustomed to society as Miss
Incledon, should have preferred watching your servants to taking her
proper place among your guests. I thought to myself whilst they were
talking, that it seemed hardly consistent with your usual way of doing
things, to put upon such duty a person who in all probability would
soon be Mrs. Colonel Raynor, and the aunt of Mrs. Morgan Silsbee. I
shouldn't wonder if the match came off in a month."
"Cousin Sabina likely to be married in a month!--and to Colonel
Raynor!" exclaimed Mrs. Smith, startled out of her usual tact, and her
lips growing yet bluer.
"Bless me! didn't you know the story?" said Miss Debby, in her turn
looking surprised; "they met last summer at the Springs, and the
colonel was so pleased with her unpretending good sense, excellent
principles, and superior mental cultivation, that he proposed to her
before she went away. She deferred her answer until she and his
children should have become acquainted. You know he is a widower with
three daughters--two of them married. She has been in correspondence
ever since with Mrs. Morgan Silsbee, the colonel's niece, who has been
trying to make the match, and who, that her cousins may meet her, has
insisted upon the present visit. They are lovely young women, the
daughters, whom she cannot fail to like, and as they know how to
appreciate such a woman as Miss Incledon, there is no doubt of the
marriage taking place. It will be a great thing for you, Mrs. Smith;
the connection will do more for you than a dozen parties. And such a
charming place as you will have to visit! The colonel lives like a
prince, and at only a few hours' drive from here. You can go there in
the summer with your children, and meet a constant run of company more
choice than at a watering-place, and all without any expense. When
your cousin comes back to town, be sure to let me know, that I may
call upon her. Susan Goldsborough is fretted enough that she was not
apprised of her being here, and so are some of the Longacres; they
blame you with it all."
Mrs. Smith did not attempt to reply, and Miss Debby rose to go.
"It is getting late," said she, "and I must walk. If you have no
objection I will take those slices of fruit and almond cake, and a
paper of candied fruit and _bon bons_ with me--and perhaps you can
spare some more Malaga grapes--or could you send them home for me by
one of your servants? I should like to stop at Susan Goldsborough's to
tell her that you knew nothing about the good fortune in prospect for
your cousin, and it is probable she will wish me to stay for tea."
Mrs. Smith restrained herself until she had escorted her visiter to
the door, and then returning to her rocking-chair, she indulged in a
fit of weeping that looked very much like hysterics. Her most
prominent thought was, "If I had only given the party to Cousin
Sabina!"
This she had ample opportunity to reiterate--for time proved to her
that the prime object of her grand effort had failed--those who
comprised her select party never including her in any of theirs. More
particularly did it recur to her, when, some months afterward, Mrs.
Colonel Raynor, though she sometimes stopped to exchange a few kindly
words with Mr. Smith at his place of business, evaded every invitation
to his dwelling, while she went the rounds of sumptuous feting among
the Goldsboroughs, Pendletons, Longacres & Co.
SPIRIT-VOICES.
BY CHARLES W. BAIRD.
"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,
As in morning's hour it stole
Speaking to thee from the home of its choice,
Deep in the unfathomed soul:
Telling of things that the ear hath not heard,
Neither the mind conceived;
Bringing a balm in each gentle word
Unto the heart bereaved?"
O, I have heard it in days of the spring,
When gladness and joy were rife.
'Twas a voice of hope, that came whispering
Its story of strength and life.
It told me that seasons of vigor and mirth
Follow the night of pain;
And the heaven-born soul, like the flowers of earth,
Withers, to live again!
"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,
At the sunny hour of noon;
Bidding the soul in its light rejoice,
For the darkness cometh soon;
Telling of blossoms that early bloom
And as early pine and fade;
And the bright hopes that must find a tomb
In the dark, approaching shade?"
Yes, I have heard it in summer's hour,
When the year was in its strength:
'T was a voice of faith, and it spoke with power
Of joys that shall come at length.
It told how the holy and beautiful gain
Fruition of peace and love;
And the blest ones, freed from this world of pain,
Flourish and ripen above.
"Hast thou heard ever a spirit-voice,
At the solemn noon of night,
When the fair visions of memory rise
Robed in their fancied light.
When the loved forms that are cold and dead
Pass in their train sad and slow;
And the waking soul, from its pleasures fled,
Turns to its present wo?"
Oft have I heard it when day was o'er;
And the welcome tones I knew:
Like the voices of those who have gone before,
The Beautiful and the True.
And it turned my thoughts to that blissful time
When ceaseth cold winter's breath;
When the free spirit shall seek that clime
Where there is no more death.
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.]
(_Concluded from page 98_.)