The trusting heart's repose, the paradise
Of home, with all its loves, doth fate allow
The crown of glory unto woman's brow.
MRS. HEMANS.
It has again become necessary to advance the time; and we shall take
the occasion thus offered to make a few explanations touching certain
events which have been passed over without notice.
The reason why Capt. Mull did not chase the yawl of the brig in the
Poughkeepsie herself, was the necessity of waiting for his own boats
that were endeavoring to regain the sloop-of-war. It would not have
done to abandon them, inasmuch as the men were so much exhausted by
the pull to windward, that when they reached the vessel all were
relieved from duty for the rest of the day. As soon, however, as the
other boats were hoisted in, or run up, the ship filled away, stood
out of the passage and ran down to join the cutter of Wallace, which
was endeavoring to keep its position, as much as possible, by making
short tacks under close-reefed luggs.
Spike had been received on board the sloop-of-war, sent into her sick
bay, and put under the care of the surgeon and his assistants. From
the first, these gentlemen pronounced the hurt mortal. The wounded man
was insensible most of the time, until the ship had beat up and gone
into Key West, where he was transferred to the regular hospital, as
has already been mentioned.
The wreckers went out the moment the news of the calamity of the Swash
reached their ears. Some went in quest of the doubloons of the
schooner, and others to pick up any thing valuable that might be
discovered in the neighborhood of the stranded brig. It may be
mentioned here, that not much was ever obtained from the brigantine,
with the exception of a few spars, the sails, and a little rigging;
but, in the end, the schooner was raised, by means of the chain Spike
had placed around her, the cabin was ransacked, and the doubloons were
recovered. As there was no one to claim the money, it was quietly
divided among the conscientious citizens present at its revisiting
"the glimpses of the moon," making gold plenty.
The doubloons in the yawl would have been lost but for the sagacity of
Mulford. He too well knew the character of Spike to believe he would
quit the brig without taking the doubloons with him. Acquainted with
the boat, he examined the little locker in the stern-sheets, and found
the two bags, one of which was probably the lawful property of Capt.
Spike, while the other, in truth, belonged to the Mexican government.
The last contained the most gold, but the first amounted to a sum that
our young mate knew to be very considerable. Rose had made him
acquainted with the sex of Jack Tier since their own marriage; and he
at once saw that the claims to the gold in question, of this uncouth
wife, who was so soon to be a widow, might prove to be as good in law,
as they unquestionably were in morals. On representing the facts of
the case to Capt. Mull and the legal functionaries at Key West, it was
determined to relinquish this money to the heirs of Spike, as, indeed,
they must have done under process, there being no other claimant.
These doubloons, however, did not amount to the full price of the
flour and powder that composed the cargo of the Swash. The cargo had
been purchased with Mexican funds; and all that Spike or his heirs
could claim, was the high freight for which he had undertaken the
delicate office of transporting those forbidden articles, contraband
of war, to the Dry Tortugas.
Mulford by this time was high in the confidence and esteem of all on
board the Poughkeepsie. He had frankly explained his whole connection
with Spike, not even attempting to conceal the reluctance he had felt
to betray the brig after he had fully ascertained the fact of his
commander's treason. The manly gentlemen with whom he was now brought
in contact entered into his feelings, and admitted that it was an
office no one could desire, to turn against the craft in which he
sailed. It is true, they could not and would not be traitors, but
Mulford had stopped far short of this; and the distinction between
such a character and that of an informer was wide enough to satisfy
all their scruples.
Then Rose had the greatest success with the gentlemen of the
Poughkeepsie. Her youth, beauty, and modesty, told largely in her
favor; and the simple, womanly affection she unconsciously betrayed
in behalf of Harry, touched the heart of every observer. When the
intelligence of her aunt's fate reached her, the sorrow she manifested
was so profound and natural, that every one sympathized with her
grief. Nor would she be satisfied unless Mulford would consent to go
in search of the bodies. The latter knew the hopelessness of such an
excursion, but he could not refuse to comply. He was absent on that
melancholy duty, therefore, at the moment of the scene related in our
last chapter, and did not return until after that which we are now
about to lay before the reader. Mrs. Budd, Biddy, and all of those who
perished after the yawl got clear of the reef, were drowned in deep
water, and no more was ever seen of any of them; or, if wreckers did
pass them, they did not stop to bury the dead. It was different,
however, with those who were first sacrificed to Spike's selfishness.
They were drowned on the reef, and Harry did actually recover the
bodies of the Senor Montefalderon, and of Josh, the steward. They had
washed upon a rock that is bare at low water. He took them both to the
Dry Tortugas, and had them interred along with the other dead at that
place. Don Juan was placed side by side with his unfortunate
country-man, the master of his equally unfortunate schooner.
While Harry was absent and thus employed, Rose wept much and prayed
more. She would have felt herself almost alone in the world, but for
the youth to whom she had so recently, less than a week before,
plighted her faith in wedlock. That new tie, it is true, was of
sufficient importance to counteract many of the ordinary feelings of
her situation; and she now turned to it as the one which absorbed most
of the future duties of her life. Still she missed the kindness, the
solicitude, even the weaknesses of her aunt; and the terrible manner
in which Mrs. Budd had perished, made her shudder with horror whenever
she thought of it. Poor Biddy, too, came in for her share of the
regrets. This faithful creature, who had been in the relict's service
ever since Rose's infancy, had become endeared to her, in spite of her
uncouth manners and confused ideas, by the warmth of her heart, and
the singular truth of her feelings. Biddy, of all her family, had come
alone to America, leaving behind her not only brothers and sisters,
but parents living. Each year did she remit to the last a moiety of
her earnings, and many a half-dollar that had come from Rose's pretty
little hand, had been converted into gold, and forwarded on the same
pious errand to the green island of her nativity. Ireland, unhappy
country! at this moment what are not the dire necessities of thy poor!
Here, from the midst of abundance, in a land that God has blessed in
its productions far beyond the limits of human wants, a land in which
famine was never known, do we at this moment hear thy groans, and
listen to tales of suffering that to us seem almost incredible. In the
midst of these chilling narratives, our eyes fall on an appeal to the
English nation, that appears in what it is the fashion of some to term
the first journal of Europe(!) in behalf of thy suffering people. A
worthy appeal to the charity of England seldom fails; but it seems to
us that one sentiment of this might have been altered, if not spared.
The English are asked to be "_forgetful_ of the past," and to come
forward to the relief of their suffering fellow-subjects. We should
have written "_mindful_ of the past," in its stead. We say this in
charity, as well as in truth. We come of English blood, and if we
claim to share in all the ancient renown of that warlike and
enlightened people, we are equally bound to share in the reproaches
that original misgovernment has inflicted on thee. In this latter
sense, then, thou hast a right to our sympathies, and they are not
withheld.
As has been already said, we now advance the time eight-and-forty
hours, and again transfer the scene to that room in the hospital which
was occupied by Spike. The approaches of death, during the interval
just named, had been slow but certain. The surgeons had announced that
the wounded man could not possibly survive the coming night; and he
himself had been made sensible that his end was near. It is scarcely
necessary to add that Stephen Spike, conscious of his vigor and
strength, in command of his brig, and bent on the pursuits of worldly
gains, or of personal gratification, was a very different person from
him who now lay stretched on his pallet in the hospital of Key West, a
dying man. By the side of his bed still sat his strange nurse, less
peculiar in appearance, however, than when last seen by the reader.
Rose Budd had been ministering to the ungainly externals of Jack Tier.
She now wore a cap, thus concealing the short, gray bristles of hair,
and lending to her countenance a little of that softness which is a
requisite of female character. Some attention had also been paid to
the rest of her attire; and Jack was, altogether, less repulsive in
her exterior than when, unaided, she had attempted to resume the
proper garb of her sex. Use and association, too, had contributed a
little to revive her woman's nature, if we may so express it, and she
had begun, in particular, to feel the sort of interest in her patient
which we all come in time to entertain toward any object of our
especial care. We do not mean that Jack had absolutely ever ceased to
love her husband; strange as it may seem, such had not literally been
the case; on the contrary, her interest in him and in his welfare had
never ceased, even while she saw his vices and detested his crimes;
but all we wish to say here is, that she was getting, in addition to
the long-enduring feelings of a wife, some of the interest of a nurse.
During the whole time which had elapsed between Jack's revealing her
true character, and the moment of which we are now writing, Spike had
not once spoken to his wife. Often had she caught his eyes intently
riveted on her, when he would turn them away, as she feared, in
distaste; and once or twice he groaned deeply, more like a man who
suffered mental than bodily pain. Still the patient did not speak once
in all the time mentioned. We should be representing poor Jack as
possessing more philosophy, or less feeling, than the truth would
warrant, were we to say she was not hurt at this conduct in her
husband. On the contrary, she felt it deeply; and more than once it
had so far subdued her pride, as to cause her bitterly to weep. This
shedding of tears, however, was of service to Jack in one sense, for
it had the effect of renewing old impressions, and in a certain way,
of reviving the nature of her sex within her--a nature which had been
sadly weakened by her past life.
But the hour had at length come when this long and painful silence was
to be broken. Jack and Rose were alone with the patient, when the last
again spoke to his wife.
"Molly--poor Molly!" said the dying man, his voice continuing full and
deep to the last, "what a sad time you must have had of it after I did
you that wrong!"
"It is hard upon a woman, Stephen, to turn her out, helpless, on a
cold and selfish world," answered Jack, simply, much too honest to
affect reserve she did not feel.
"It was hard, indeed; may God forgive me for it, as I hope _you_ do,
Molly."
No answer was made to this appeal; and the invalid looked anxiously at
his wife. The last sat at her work, which had now got to be less
awkward to her, with her eyes bent on her needle, and her countenance
rigid, and, so far as the eye could discern, her feelings unmoved.
"Your husband speaks to you, Jack Tier," said Rose, pointedly.
"May _yours_ never have occasion to speak to you, Rose Budd, in the
same way," was the solemn answer. "I do not flatter myself that I ever
was as comely as you, or that yonder poor dying wretch was a Harry
Mulford in his youth; but we were young and happy, and respected once,
and loved each other; yet you see what its all come to!"
Rose was silenced, though she had too much tenderness in behalf of her
own youthful and manly bridegroom to dread a fate similar to that
which had overtaken poor Jack. Spike now seemed disposed to say
something, and she went to the side of his bed, followed by her
companion, who kept a little in the back-ground, as if unwilling to
let the emotion she really felt be seen, and, perhaps, conscious that
her ungainly appearance did not aid her in recovering the lost
affections of her husband.
"I have been a very wicked man, I fear," said Spike, earnestly.
"There are none without sin," answered Rose. "Place your reliance on
the mediation of the Son of God, and sins even far deeper than yours
may be pardoned."
The captain stared at the beautiful speaker, but self-indulgence, the
incessant pursuit of worldly and selfish objects for forty years, and
the habits of a life into which the thought of God and the dread
hereafter never entered, had encased his spiritual being in a sort of
brazen armor, through which no ordinary blow of conscience could
penetrate. Still he had fearful glimpses of recent events, and his
soul, hanging as it was over the abyss of eternity, was troubled.
"What has become of your aunt?" half whispered Spike--"my old
captain's widow. She ought to be here; and Don Wan Montezuma--where is
he?"
Rose turned aside to conceal her tears--but no one answered the
questions of the dying man. Then a gleaming of childhood shot into the
recollection of Spike, and, clasping his hands, he tried to pray. But,
like others who have lived without any communication with their
Creator through long lives of apathy to his existence and laws,
thinking only of the present time, and daily, hourly sacrificing
principles and duty to the narrow interests of the moment, he now
found how hard it is to renew communications with a being who has been
so long neglected. The fault lay in himself, however, for a gracious
ear was open, even over the death-bed of Stephen Spike, could that
rude spirit only bring itself to ask for mercy in earnestness and
truth. As his companions saw his struggles, they left him for a few
minutes to his own thoughts.
"Molly," Spike at length uttered, in a faint tone, the voice of one
conscious of being very near his end, "I hope you will forgive me,
Molly. I know you must have had a hard, hard time of it."
"It is hard for a woman to unsex herself, Stephen; to throw off her
very natur', as it might be, and to turn man."
"It has changed you sadly--even your speech is altered. Once your
voice was soft and womanish--more like that of Rose Budd's than it is
now."
"I speak as them speak among whom I've been forced to live. The
forecastle and steward's pantry, Stephen Spike, are poor schools to
send women to l'arn language in."
"Try and forget it all, poor Molly! Say to me, so that I can hear you,
'I forget and forgive, Stephen.' I am afraid God will not pardon my
sins, which begin to seem dreadful to me, if my own wife refuse to
forget and forgive, on my dying bed."
Jack was much mollified by this appeal. Her interest in her offending
husband had never been entirely extinguished. She had remembered him,
and often with woman's kindness, in all her wanderings and sufferings,
as the preceding parts of our narrative must show; and though
resentment had been mingled with the grief and mortification she felt
at finding how much he still submitted to Rose's superior charms, in a
breast as really generous and humane as that of Jack Tier's, such a
feeling was not likely to endure in the midst of a scene like that she
was now called to witness. The muscles of her countenance twitched,
the hard-looking, tanned face began to lose its sternness, and every
way she appeared like one profoundly disturbed.
"Turn to Him whose goodness and marcy may sarve you, Stephen," she
said, in a milder and more feminine tone than she had used now for
years, making her more like herself than either her husband or Rose
had seen her since the commencement of the late voyage; "my sayin'
that I forget and forgive cannot help a man on his death-bed."
"It will settle my mind, Molly, and leave me freer to turn my thoughts
to God."
Jack was much affected; more by the countenance and manner of the
sufferer, perhaps, than by his words. She drew nearer to the side of
her husband's pallet, knelt, took his hands, and said solemnly,
"Stephen Spike, from the bottom of my heart, I _do_ forgive you; and I
shall pray to God that he will pardon your sins as freely and more
marcifully than I now pardon all, and try to forget all that you have
done to me."
Spike clasped his hands, and again he tried to pray; but the habits of
a whole life are not to be thrown off at will; and he who endeavors to
regain, in his extremity, the moments that have been lost, will find,
in bitter reality, that he has been heaping mountains on his own soul,
by the mere practice of sin, which were never laid there by the
original fall of his race. Jack, however, had disburthened her spirit
of a load that had long oppressed it, and, burying her face in the
rug, she wept.
"I wish, Molly," said the dying man, several minutes later, "I wish I
had never seen the brig. Until I got that craft, no thought of
wronging human being ever crossed my mind."
"It was the Father of Lies that tempts all to do evil, Stephen, and
not the brig which caused the sins."
"I wish I could live a year longer--_only_ one year; that is not much
to ask for a man who is not yet sixty."
"It is hopeless, poor Stephen. The surgeons say you cannot live one
day."
Spike groaned; for the past, blended fearfully with the future,
gleamed on his conscience with a brightness that appalled him. And
what is that future, which is to make us happy or miserable through an
endless vista of time? Is it not composed of an existence, in which
conscience, released from the delusions and weaknesses of the body,
sees all in its true colors, appreciates all, and punishes all? Such
an existence would make every man the keeper of the record of his own
transgressions, even to the most minute exactness. It would of itself
mete out perfect justice, since the sin would be seen amid its
accompanying facts, every aggravating or extenuating circumstance.
Each man would be strictly punished according to his talents. As no
one is without sin, it makes the necessity of an atonement
indispensable, and, in its most rigid interpretation, it exhibits the
truth of the scheme of salvation in the clearest colors. The soul, or
conscience, that can admit the necessary degree of faith in that
atonement, and in admitting, _feels_ its efficacy, throws the burthen
of its own transgressions away, and remains forever in the condition
of its original existence, pure, and consequently happy.
We do not presume to lay down a creed on this mighty and mysterious
matter, in which all have so deep an interest, and concerning which so
very small a portion of the human race think much, or think with any
clearness when it does become the subject of their passing thoughts at
all. We too well know our own ignorance to venture on dogmas which it
has probably been intended that the mind of man should not yet
grapple with and comprehend. To return to our subject.
Stephen Spike was now made to feel the incubus-load, which
perseverance in sin heaps on the breast of the reckless offender. What
was the most grievous of all, his power to shake off this dead weight
was diminished in precisely the same proportion as the burthen was
increased, the moral force of every man lessening in a very just ratio
to the magnitude of his delinquencies. Bitterly did this deep offender
struggle with his conscience, and little did his half-unsexed wife
know how to console or aid him. Jack had been superficially instructed
in the dogmas of her faith, in childhood and youth, as most persons
are instructed in what are termed Christian communities--had been made
to learn the Catechism, the Lord's Prayer, and the Creed--and had been
left to set up for herself on this small capital, in the great concern
of human existence, on her marriage and entrance on the active
business of life. When the manner in which she had passed the last
twenty years is remembered, no one can be surprised to learn that Jack
was of little assistance to her husband in his extremity. Rose made an
effort to administer hope and consolation, but the terrible nature of
the struggle she witnessed, induced her to send for the chaplain of
the Poughkeepsie. This divine prayed with the dying man; but even he,
in the last moments of the sufferer, was little more than a passive
but shocked witness of remorse, suspended over the abyss of eternity
in hopeless dread. We shall not enter into the details of the
revolting scene, but simply add that curses, blasphemy, tremulous
cries for mercy, agonized entreaties to be advised, and sullen
defiance, were all strangely and fearfully blended. In the midst of
one of these revolting paroxysms Spike breathed his last. A few hours
later his body was interred in the sands of the shore. It may be well
to say in this place, that the hurricane of 1846, which is known to
have occurred only a few months later, swept off the frail covering
and that the body was washed away to leave its bones among the wrecks
and relics of the Florida Reef.
Mulford did not return from his fruitless expedition in quest of the
remains of Mrs. Budd, until after the death and interment of Spike. As
nothing remained to be done at Key West, he and Rose accompanied by
Jack Tier, took passage for Charleston in the first convenient vessel
that offered. Two days before they sailed, the Poughkeepsie went out
to cruise in the gulf, agreeably to her general orders. The evening
previously Capt. Mull, Wallace, and the chaplain, passed with the
bridegroom and bride, when the matter of the doubloons found in the
boat was discussed. It was agreed that Jack Tier should have them; and
into her hands the bag was now placed. On this occasion, to oblige the
officers, Jack went into a narrative of all she had seen and suffered,
from the moment when abandoned by her late husband down to that when
she found him again. It was a strange account, and one filled with
surprising adventures. In most of the vessels in which she had
served, Jack had acted in the steward's department, though she had
frequently done duty as a fore-mast hand. In strength and skill she
admitted that she had often failed; but in courage, never. Having been
given reason to think her husband was reduced to serving in a vessel
of war, she had shipped on board a frigate bound to the Mediterranean,
and had actually made a whole cruise as a ward-room boy on that
station. While thus employed she had met with two of the gentlemen
present; Capt. Mull and Mr. Wallace. The former was then first
lieutenant of the frigate, and the latter a passed-midshipman; and in
these capacities both had been well known to her. As the name she then
bore was the same as that under which she now "hailed," these officers
were soon made to recollect her, though Jack was no longer the light,
trim-built lad he had then appeared to be. Neither of the gentlemen
named had made the whole cruise in the ship, but each had been
promoted and transferred to another craft, after being Jack's shipmate
rather more than a year. This information greatly facilitated the
affair of the doubloons.
From Charleston the travelers came north by railroad. Harry made
several stops by the way, in order to divert the thoughts of his
beautiful young bride from dwelling too much on the fate of her aunt.
He knew that home would revive all these recollections painfully, and
wished to put off the hour of their return, until time had a little
weakened Rose's regrets. For this reason, he passed a whole week in
Washington, though it was a season of the year that the place is not
in much request. Still, Washington is scarce a town, at any season. It
is much the fashion to deride the American capital, and to treat it as
a place of very humble performance with very sounding pretensions.
Certainly, Washington has very few of the peculiarities of a great
European capital, but few as these are, they are more than belong to
any other place in this country. We now allude to the _distinctive_
characteristics of a capital, and not to a mere concentration of
houses and shops within a given space. In this last respect,
Washington is much behind fifty other American towns, even while it is
the only place in the whole republic which possesses specimens of
architecture, on a scale approaching that of the higher classes of the
edifices of the old world. It is totally deficient in churches, and
theatres, and markets; or those it does possess are, in an
architectural sense, not at all above the level of village or
country-town pretensions, but one or two of its national edifices do
approach the magnificence and grandeur of the old world. The new
Treasury Buildings are unquestionably, on the score of size,
embellishments and finish, _the_ American edifice that comes nearest
to first class architecture on the other side of the Atlantic. The
Capitol comes next, though it can scarce be ranked, relatively, as
high. As for the White House, it is every way sufficient for its
purposes and the institutions; and now that its grounds are finished,
and the shrubbery and trees begin to tell, one sees about it something
that is not unworthy of its high uses and origin. Those grounds,
which so long lay a reproach to the national taste and liberality, are
now fast becoming beautiful, are already exceedingly pretty, and give
to a structure that is destined to become historical, having already
associated with it the names of Jefferson, Madison, Jackson, and
Quincy Adams, together with the _ci polloi_ of the later Presidents,
an _entourage_ that is suitable to its past recollections and its
present purposes. They are not quite on a level with the parks of
London, it is true; or even with the Tuileries, or Luxembourg, or the
Boboli, or the Villa Reale, or fifty more grounds and gardens, of a
similar nature, that might be mentioned; but, seen in the spring and
early summer, they adorn the building they surround, and lend to the
whole neighborhood a character of high civilization, that no other
place in America can show, in precisely the same form, or to the same
extent.
This much have we said on the subject of the White House and its
precincts, because we took occasion, in a former work, to berate the
narrow-minded parsimony which left the grounds of the White House in a
condition that was discreditable to the republic. How far our
philippic may have hastened the improvements which have been made, is
more than we shall pretend to say, but having made the former
strictures, we are happy to have an occasion to say (though nearly
twenty years have intervened between the expressions of the two
opinions) that they are no longer merited.
And here we will add another word, and that on a subject that is not
sufficiently pressed on the attention of a people, who, by position,
are unavoidably provincial. We invite those whose gorges rise at any
stricture on any thing American, and who fancy it is enough to belong
to the great republic to be great in itself, to place themselves in
front of the State Department, as it now stands, and to examine its
dimensions, material and form with critical eyes; then to look along
the adjacent Treasury Buildings, to fancy them completed, by a
junction with new edifices of a similar construction to contain the
department of state; next to fancy similar works completed for the two
opposite departments; after which, to compare the past and present
with the future as thus finished, and remember how recent has been the
partial improvement which even now exists. If this examination and
comparison do not show, directly to the sense of sight, how much there
was and is to criticise, as put in contrast with other countries, we
shall give up the individuals in question, as too deeply dyed in the
provincial wool ever to be whitened. The present Trinity church, New
York, certainly not more than a third class European church, if as
much, compared with its village-like predecessor, may supply a
practical homily of the same degree of usefulness. There may be those
among us, however, who fancy it patriotism to maintain that the old
Treasury Buildings were quite equal to the new, and of these intense
Americans we cry their mercy!
Rose felt keenly on reaching her late aunt's very neat dwelling in
Fourteenth Street, New York. But the manly tenderness of Mulford was
a great support to her, and a little time brought her to think of that
weak-minded, but well-meaning and affectionate relative, with gentle
regret, rather than with grief. Among the connections of her young
husband, she found several females of a class in life certainly equal
to her own, and somewhat superior to the latter in education and
habits. As for Harry, he very gladly passed the season with his
beautiful bride, though a fine ship was laid down for him, by means of
Rose's fortune, now much increased by her aunt's death, and he was
absent in Europe when his son was born; an event that occurred only
two months since.
The Swash, and the shipment of gunpowder, were thought of no more in
the good town of Manhattan. This great emporium--we beg pardon, this
great _commercial_ emporium--has a trick of forgetting; condensing all
interests into those of the present moment. It is much addicted to
believing that which never had an existence, and of overlooking that
which is occurring directly _under its nose_. So marked is this
tendency to forgetfulness, we should not be surprised to hear some of
the Manhattanese pretend that our legend is nothing but a fiction, and
deny the existence of the Molly, Capt. Spike, and even of Biddy Noon.
But we know them too well to mind what they say, and shall go on and
finish our narrative in our own way, just as if there were no such
raven-throated commentators at all.
Jack Tier, still known by that name, lives in the family of Capt.
Mulford. She is fast losing the tan on her face and hands, and every
day is improving in appearance. She now habitually wears her proper
attire, and is dropping gradually into the feelings and habits of her
sex. She never can become what she once was, any more than the
blackamoor can become white, or the leopard change his spots; but she
is no longer revolting. She has left off chewing and smoking, having
found a refuge in snuff. Her hair is permitted to grow, and is already
turned up with a comb, though constantly concealed beneath a cap. The
heart of Jack, alone, seems unaltered. The strange, tiger-like
affection that she bore for Spike, during twenty years of abandonment,
has disappeared in regrets for his end. It is succeeded by a most
sincere attachment for Rose, in which the little boy, since his
appearance on the scene, is becoming a large participator. This child
Jack is beginning to love intensely; and the doubloons, well invested,
placing her above the feeling of dependence, she is likely to end her
life, once so errant and disturbed, in tranquillity and a home-like
happiness.
THE BELLE.
BY MARY L. LAWSON.
She stands before the mirror--she is fair,
And soft the light within her beaming eyes,
But unshed tears are slowly gathering there,
Like passing clouds that float o'er summer skies;
Her cheek is wan, as blanched by thoughts of pain,
And on her snowy brow a shadow sleeps:
Are such surpassing gifts bestowed in vain?--
The pale, sad beauty turns aside and weeps!
Long, long in anguish flows the burning tide--
Dark storms of feeling sweep across her breast--
In loneliness there needs no mask of pride--
To nerve the soul, and veil the heart's unrest,
Amid the crowd her glances brightly beam,
Her smiles with undimmed lustre sweetly shine:
The haunting visions of life's fevered dream
The cold and careless seek not to divine.
Night after night unheeded glides away
'Mid mirth and music, flattery's whispered tone,
Her dreary penance--ever to be gay,
Yet longing, oh! how oft--to be alone;
But when all other hearts seek needful rest,
And heavy sleep the saddest eyelids close,
Her dreams are those the wretched only know,
As memory o'er her soul its shadow's throw.
Friends that had shared her girlhood's happier day,
And forms now mingling with the dust arise,
The early loved recalled with pensive tears,
Though once in pride half scorned and lightly prized;
Fair pictured scenes long vanished from her sight,
Soft tones of songs and voices loved of yore.
And words of tenderness and looks of light,
And fresh young hopes that bloom for her no more.
But this one hour has crowned in deep despair
The many sorrows of life's galling chain,
Yet mid those sighs that rend her aching soul
The heart's wild struggle is not felt in vain,
For she has turned to Him whose smile can cheer
The darkened mind and hopes lost light reveal,
And learns to feel 'mid trembling doubt and fear--
That HE whose power can wound is strong to heal.
While loftier thoughts to nobler purpose given
Than those long wasted amid fashion's glare,
And deep resolves the future shall be fraught
With holy deeds, her earnest musings share--
Though in the dance her step no more may glide,
The glittering circle miss its chosen queen,
Around the vacant place a closing tide
Will leave no record where her form was seen.
But where the widow's tear-drop may be dried,
And where the orphan wanders sad and lone,
Where poverty its grieving head may hide,
Will breathe the music of her voice's tone;
And if her face was blest with beauty rare
'Mid gilded sighs and worldly vanity,
When heavenly peace has left its impress there
Its loveliness from earthly stain is free.
LE PETIT SOULIER.
A STORY: IN TWO PARTS.
BY IK. MARVEL.
PART I.
I have said that the Abbe G---- had a room in some dark corner of a
hotel in the Rue de Seine, or Rue de la Harpe--which of the two it was
I really forget. At any rate, the hotel was very old, and the street
out of which I used to step into its ill-paved, triangular court, was
very narrow, and very dirty.
At the end of the court, farthest from the heavy gateway, was the box
of the _concierge_, who was a brisk little shoemaker, forever
bethwacking his lap-stone. If I remember right, the hammer of the
little _cordonnier_ made the only sound I used to hear in the court;
for though the house was full of lodgers, I never saw two of them
together, and never heard them talking across the court from the upper
windows, even in mid-summer.
At this distance of time, I do not think it would be possible for me
to describe accurately all the windings of the corridor which led to
the abbe's door. I remember that the first part was damp and low, and
after it I used to mount a crazy stone staircase, and at the top
passed through a passage that opened on one side upon a narrow court;
then there was a little wicket of iron, which, when it turned, tinkled
a bell. Sometimes the abbe would hear the bell, and open his door down
at the end of the corridor; and sometimes a lodger, who occupied a
room looking into the last-mentioned court, would draw, slyly, a
corner of his curtain, and peep out, to see who was passing. Sometimes
I would loiter myself to look down upon the lower windows in the
court, or to glance up at story resting above story, and at the peaked
roof, and dot of a loop-hole at the top.
A single small door opened into the court, and occasionally an old
woman, or bustling, shabbily-dressed man would shuffle across the
pavement; the faces at the windows seemed altogether sordid and
every-day faces, so that I came to regard the quarters of the abbe,
notwithstanding the quaint-fashioned windows and dim stairway, and
suspicious quiet, a very matter of fact, and so, very uninteresting
neighborhood.
As the abbe and myself passed out sometimes together through the
open-sided corridor, I would point into the court, and ask who lived
in the little room at the top.
"Ah, _mon cher_, I do not know," the abbe would say.
Or, "who lives in the corner, with the queer narrow window and the
striped curtain?"
"I cannot tell you, _mon cher_."
Or, "whose is the little window with so many broken panes, and an old
placard pinned against the frame?"
"Ah, who knows! perhaps a _chiffonier_, or a shopman, or perhaps--"
and the abbe lifted his finger, and shook his head expressively, and
continued,
"It is a strange world we live in, _mon ami_."
What could the abbe mean? I looked up at the window again; it was
small, and the panes were set in rough metal casing; it was high up on
the fourth or fifth floor. I could see nothing through but the dirty
yellow placard.
"Is it in the same hotel with you?" said I.
"_Ma foi_, I do not know."
I tried to picture satisfactorily to my own mind the appearance of the
chamber to which the little window belonged. Small it must be, I knew,
for in that quarter few were large even upon the first floor, and
looking upon the street. Dirty, too, it should surely be, and
comfortless, and tenanted by misery, or poverty, or sin, or, very
likely, all together. Possibly some miserly old wretch lived there,
needing only a little light to count up his hoard, and caring little
for any intrusive wind, if it did not blow away his treasure. I
fancied I could see him running over the tale of his coin by a feeble
rushlight--squat, perhaps, on the dirty tile-floor--then locking his
box, and placing it carefully under the pillow of his straw pallet,
then tip-toeing to the door to examine again the fastening, then
carefully extinguishing the taper, and after, dropping into an
anxious, fevered sleep.
I even lingered very late at the abbe's room, to see if I could detect
the old man; but there was never any light to be seen.
Perhaps it was the home of some poor gentleman who had seen better
days, and whom necessity obliged to deny himself the poor luxury of a
centime light. Possibly it was a little shopman, as the abbe had
suggested, struggling with fortune--not scrupulous in honesty, and
shunning observation; or it might be (who could tell) a sleek-faced
villain, stealing about in the dusk, and far into the night, making
the dim chamber his home only when more honest lodgers were astir in
the city.
All sorts of conjectures came thronging on me, and I cast my eyes up,
day after day, at the little window, hoping some change of appearance
might give plausibility to some one of my fancies.
Week after week, however, the corridor wore its old quietude; the
striped curtain in the wing window, and the yellow placard in the
suspicious window at the top, still kept their places with provoking
tenacity; and I could never, with all my art, seduce the good-natured
abbe into any bugbear story about the occupant of the dim chamber on
the court.
I dare say I might soon have neglected to look up at all, had I not
observed one day, after my glances had grown very careless, and almost
involuntary, a rich lace veil hanging against the same little window
where had hung the placard. There was no mistaking it--the veil was of
the richest Mechlin lace. I knew very well that no lady of elegance
could occupy such apartment, or, indeed, was to be found (I mean no
disrespect to the abbe) in that quarter of Paris. The window plainly
belonged to some thievish den, and the lace formed a portion of the
spoils. I began to be distrustful of late visits to the abbe's
quarters, and full of the notion of thievish eyes looking out from the
strange window--I used half to tremble as I passed along the corridor.
I told the abbe of the veil, and hinted my suspicions.
"It is nothing," said he, "princes have lived in worse corners."
"And yet you are not curious to know more?"
"_Mon cher_, it is dangerous to be too curious, _je suis un pretre_."
Some days after--it was on a winter's morning, when a little snow had
fallen--I chanced to glance over into the court on which the
mysterious window looked, and saw the beautiful foot-mark of a lady's
slipper. It was scarce longer than my hand--too narrow and delicately
formed for a child's foot, least of all the foot of such children as
belonged to the Rue de Seine. I could not but associate the
foot-track--so small, so beautiful, and so unlocked for in such
scene--with the veil I had seen at the window.
Through all of my morning's lesson--I was then reading _La Grammaire
des Grammaires_--I could think of nothing but the pretty foot-track in
the snow. No such foot, I was quite sure, could be seen in the dirty
Rue de Seine--not even the shop-girls of the Rue de la Paix, or the
tidiest Llorettes could boast of one so pretty.
I asked the abbe to walk with me; and as we passed the corridor, I
threw my eye carelessly into the court, as if it were only my first
observation, and said as quietly as possible, "_Mon cher abbe_, the
snow tells tales this morning."
The abbe looked curiously down upon the foot-marks, ran his eye
rapidly over the windows, turned to me, shook his head expressively,
and said, as he glanced down again, "_O'etait un fort joli petit
soulier._" (It was a very pretty little shoe.)
"Whose was it?" said I.
"_Mon cher_, I do not know."
I still kept up, day after day, my watch upon the window. It shortly
supplied me with an important link in the chain of observations. I saw
lying within the glass, against which the veil yet hung, nothing more
nor less than the same little shoe, I thoroughly believed, which had
made the delicate foot-marks on the snow in the court. Not a prettier
shoe could be seen on the Boulevards, and scarce one so small. It
would have been very strange to see such delicate articles of dress at
any hotels of the neighborhood, and stranger still to find them in
the humblest window of so dismal a court.
There was a mystery about the matter that perplexed me. Every one
knows, who knows any thing about Paris, that that part of the city
along the Rue de Seine, between the Rues Jacob and Bussy, and though
very reputable in its way, is yet no place for delicate ladies, not
even as a promenade, and much less as a residence. It is assigned
over, as well by common consent as custom, to medical students,
shop-men, attorneys, physicians, priests, lodging-house keepers,
market-men, sub-officials, shop-women, second-class milliners, and
grisettes.
Indeed a delicate lady--and such only, I was sure, could have left the
foot-print in the court, and be the owner of the shoe I had
seen--could hardly pass through the Rue de Seine without drawing the
eyes of all the lodgers on the street. Dried up hag faces would have
met the apparition with a leer; the porters would have turned to
stare, and she would have had very suspicious followers.
I loitered about the outer court of the hotel, under pretence of
waiting for the abbe, in hope of seeing something which would throw
light upon the mysterious occupant of the chamber. But the comers and
goers were all of the most unobtrusive and ordinary cast. I ventured
to question the concierge concerning his lodgers. They were all _bons
gens_.
"Were there any ladies?"
The little shoemaker lifted his hammer a moment while he eyed me--"But
one, monsieur; the wife of the old tobacconist at the corner."
I asked about the windows in the little court, beside which I
passed--did they belong to his hotel?
He did not think it.
I prevailed on him to step with me a moment into the corridor, and
pointed out to him the window which had drawn so much of my attention.
I asked if he knew the hotel to which it belonged?
He did not. It might be the next, or the next after, or down the
little alley branching out of the Rue de Seine. I asked him of the
character of the neighborhood.
It was a good neighborhood, he said--a very reputable neighborhood. He
believed the lodgers of the quarter to be all _honnetes gens_.
I took occasion to loiter about the courts of the adjoining houses,
frequently passing the opposite side of the way, with my eye all the
time upon the entrance gates. The lodgers seemed to be even inferior
to those who passed in at the court where the abbe resided.
One individual alone had attracted my attention. He was a tall, pale
man, in the decline of life, dressed in a sort of half-uniform; he
walked with a stooping gait, and seemed to me (perhaps it was a mere
fancy) as much weighed down by care as years. Several times I had seen
him going in or coming out of the court that opened two doors above
the abbe's. He was unlike most inhabitants of the neighborhood in both
dress and air.
I ventured to step up to the brisk little concierge in the court one
day, and ask who was the tall gentleman with the tarnished lace who
had just entered?
"It is _un Monsieur Very_," said the concierge.
"And poor Monsieur Very lives alone?" said I.
"How should I know, monsieur?"
"He always walks alone," said I.
"It is true," said the concierge.
"He has children, perhaps?" said I.
"_Tres probable_," said the concierge.
He was little disposed to be communicative, yet I determined to make
another trial.
"You have very pretty lodgers," said I.
"Pardon, monsieur," said he, "I do not understand you."
"Pretty--very pretty lodgers," said I.
"You are facetious, monsieur," said the concierge, smiling.
"Not at all," said I; "have I not seen (a sad lie) a very pretty face
at one of the windows on the back court?"
"I do not think it, monsieur."
"And then there are no female lodgers?"
"_Pardon, monsieur_--there are several."
Here the little concierge was interrupted by a lodger, and I could ask
no more.
I still, however, kept up my scrutiny of the attic window--observed
closely every female foot that glanced about the neighboring courts,
and remitted sadly my attention to the _Grammaire des Grammaires_, in
the quiet room of my demure friend the abbe.
Sometimes, in my fancies, the object of wonder was a young maiden of
the _noblesse_, who, for imputed family crimes, had hid herself in so
humble a quarter. Sometimes I pictured the occupant of the chamber as
the suffering daughter of some miserly parent, with trace of noble
blood--filial, yet dependent in her degradation. Sometimes I imagined
her the daughter of shame--the beloved of a doating, and too late
repentant mother--shunning the face of a world that had seduced her
with its smiles, and that now made smiles the executioners of its
punishment.
In short, form what fancies I would, I could not but feel a most
extraordinary interest in clearing the mystery that seemed to me to
hang about the little window in the court. Unconnected with the
foot-track and the slipper, the window on the court would have been
nothing more than half the courts to be seen in the old quarters of
Paris. Or, indeed, the delicate foot-prints, and articles of female
luxury would have hardly caught attention, much less sustained it with
so feverish curiosity, in any one of the courts opening upon the Rue
de Rivoli, or Rue Lafitte.
The concierge next door, I was persuaded, knew more of his inmates
than he cared to say. I still, as I have said, glanced my eye, each
morning, along the upper angles of the court, and sidled now and then
by the gate of the neighboring hotel; but the window wore its usual
look--there was the veil, and the placard, and the disjointed,
rattling sash; and in the neighboring court was, sometimes, the tall
gentleman picking his way carefully over the stones, and sometimes the
stumpy figure of a waiting woman.
Some ten days after my chat with the neighbor concierge, I reached
the hotel of the abbe an hour earlier than my usual morning visit, and
took the occasion to reconnoitre the adjoining courts. The concierge,
my acquaintance of the week before, was busy with a bowl of coffee and
a huge roll; and, just as I had sidled up to his box for a word with
him, who should brush past in great apparent haste, but the pale, thin
gentleman who had before attracted my observation.
I determined to step around at once into the open corridor of the
abbe's hotel, and see if I could detect any movement--so slight even
as the opening or shutting of a door in the chamber of the narrow
window.
It was earlier by a half hour at the least than I had ever been in the
corridor before. The court was quiet; my eye ran to the little
window--at a glance I saw it had not its usual appearance. A light
cambric handkerchief, with lace border, was pinned across it from side
to side; and just at the moment that I began to scrutinize what seemed
to me like a coronet stitched on the corner, a couple of delicate
fingers reached over the hem, removed the fastening, first on one
side, then on the other--the handkerchief was gone.
It was the work of an instant, and evidently done in haste; but I
still caught a glimpse of a delicate female figure--sleeve hanging
loose about the arm a short way below the elbow, hair sweeping, half
curled and half carelessly over a cheek white as her dress, and an
expression, so far as I could judge, of deep sadness.
I shrunk back into a shadow of the corridor, and waited; but there was
no more stir at the window. The yellow placard dangled by one
fastening; a bit of the veil was visible, nothing else, to tell me of
the character of the inmate.
I told the abbe what I had seen.
The abbe closed his grammar, (keeping his thumb at the place,) shook
his head slowly from side to side, smiled, lifted his finger in
playful menace, and--went on with his lesson.
"Who can it be?" said I.
"Indeed, I cannot tell you, _mon ami_," said the abbe, laying down his
book with a look of despair.
The morning after I was again in the corridor a full half hour before
my usual time, but the window wore its usual air. The next day, again
I was an hour beforehand, and the abbe had not put off his priest
robe, in which he goes to morning mass; still there was no
handkerchief at the little window--no wavy mesh of hair--no taper
arm--no shadowy form moving in the dim chamber.
I had arranged to leave for the south in a few days, and was more than
ever anxious for some explication of the mystery. A single further
mode only occurred to me; I would go to the concierge next door, and
under pretence of looking for rooms, would have him conduct me through
his hotel.
It had dismal corridors, and steeper stairways than even the abbe's. I
was careless about the second and the third floors; and it was not
till we had mounted a half dozen crazy pair of stairs, that I began to
scrutinize narrowly the doors, and sometimes to ask if this or that
chamber was occupied. I made my way always to the windows of the rooms
shown me, in hope of seeing the little court I knew so well, and the
abbe's half-open corridor, and yet in half fear, that I might, after
all, be looking from the very window about which hung so perplexing
mystery.
It was long before I caught sight of my old point of observation in
the neighboring corridor. The room was small, and was covered with
singular ancient hangings, with a concealed door, which the concierge
opened into a charming little cabinet. How many more concealed doors
there might have been I do not know. I put my head out the window, and
looked down in search of the strange casement; it was not below. Then
I looked to one side--there was the long window with a striped
curtain. I looked to the other side--another long window. I looked
up--there at length it was, over my left shoulder. I could see plainly
the yellow placard, and heard it flapping the casement.
I asked the concierge if he had no rooms above.
"_Oui, monsieur_--a single one; but it is too high for monsieur."
"Let me see," said I--and we mounted a miserably dim staircase. There
were three doors; the concierge opened the nearest to the landing.
"_La voici, monsieur._" It was a sad little affair, and looked out by
just such a loop-hole as was the object of my curiosity, upon a court
I did not know.
"It will never do," said I, as I came out of the room. "But what is
here?" continued I, brushing up to the next door.
The concierge caught me by the arm, and drew me back. Then he raised
himself forward on tip-toe, and whispered, "_C'nt le Monsieur Very._"
I knew from its position it must have been the little casement which
looked upon the corridor. There was another door opposite; I brushed
up to this, and was again drawn back by the concierge.
"Who is here?" said I.
"_La Mademoiselle Marie_," said the concierge, and put his finger on
his lip.
"Is she young?" said I, following the concierge down the stairway.
"_Oui, monsieur._"
"And pretty?"
"_Oui, monsieur._"
"I have never seen her," said I.
"_Ma foi_, that is not strange, monsieur."
"And she has been here--?"
"A month."
"Perhaps she is rich," said I.
"_Mon Dieu!_" said the concierge, turning round to look at me, "and
live in such a chamber?"
"But she dresses richly," said I.
"_Eh bien!_ you have seen her, then!" exclaimed briskly the little
concierge.
By this time we were in the court again. My search had only stimulated
my curiosity tenfold more. I half fancied the concierge began to
suspect my inquiries. Yet I determined to venture a single further
one. It was just as I was carelessly leaving the court--"_Mais_, _la
mademoiselle_, is, perhaps, the daughter of Monsieur Very, eh,
monsieur?"
"_Ma foi_, I cannot tell you, monsieur," said the little
concierge--and he closed his door.
I told the abbe of my search. He smiled, and shook his head.
I described to him the person of Monsieur Very, and told him he must
keep his eye upon him, and, if possible, clear up the strange mystery
of the window in the court.
The abbe shook his finger doubtingly, yet gave me a half promise.
Three days only were left to me; I cast up anxious glances each
morning of my stay, but there was nothing but the placard and a bit of
the veil to be seen--the little shoe was gone. My last evening I
passed with the abbe, and came away late. I stopped five minutes on
the corridor, just outside the wicket; the moon was shining bright,
and the stars were out, but the window at the top of the court was
dark--all dark.
PART II.
Poor Clerie! but I have told his story,[A] so I will not tell it
again. It made a sad greeting for me on the lips of the abbe, when I
first came back to the city after a half year's absence; and it will
not, I am sure, seem strange that seeing the abbe in his priest-robes,
and hearing his sad tale of poor Clerie, I should forget entirely to
ask about the little shoe, or the tall gentleman of the attic.
Nevertheless I did, as I went out, throw a glance up to the window of
the court--alas! there were more panes broken, the placard was gone,
the veil was gone--there was nothing but a flimsy web which a bold
spider had stretched across one of the comers. I felt sure that the
last six months had brought its changes to other houses, as well as
the house of Clerie.
I thought I would just step round to the conciergerie of the
neighboring hotel, and ask after Monsieur Very; but before I had got
fairly into the court I turned directly about, and walked away--I was
afraid to ask about Monsieur Very. I felt saddened by the tale I had
already heard; it had given, as such things will, a soft tinge of
sadness to all my own thoughts, and fancies, and hopes. Everybody
knows there are times in life when things joyful seem harsh; and there
are times, too--Heaven knows!--when a saddened soul shrinks, fearful
as a child, from any added sadness. God be blessed that they pass,
like clouds over the bright sky of His Providence, and are gone!
I was afraid to ask that day about Monsieur Very; so I walked
home--one while perplexing myself with strange conjectures; and
another while the current of my thought would disengage itself from
these hindering eddies, and go glowing quick, and strong, and
sad--pushed along by the memory of poor Clerie's fate.
I knew the abbe would tell me all next day--and so he did.
We dined together in the Palais Royal, at a snug
restaurant up-stairs, near the Theatre Francais. We look a little
cabinet to ourselves, and I ordered up a bottle of Chambertin.
[Footnote A: Fresh Gleanings, pp. 132, 133.]
The soup was gone, a nice dish of _filet de veau_, _aux epinards_, was
before us, and we had drank each a couple of glasses, before I
ventured to ask one word about Monsieur Very.
"_Ah, mon cher,_" said the abbe--at the same time laying down his
fork--"_il est mort!_"
"And mademoiselle--"
"_Attendez_," said the abbe, "and you shall hear it all."
The abbe resumed his fork; I filled up the glasses, and he commenced:
"You will remember, _mon cher_, having described to me the person of
the tall pale gentleman who was our neighbor. The description was a
very good one, for I recognized him the moment I saw him.
"It was a week or more after you had left for the south, and I had
half forgotten--excuse me, _mon ami_--the curiosity you had felt in
the little window in the court; I happened to be a half hour later
than usual in returning from mass, and as I passed the hotel at the
corner, I saw coming out a tall gentleman, in a cloak trimmed with a
little tawny lace, and with an air so different from that of most
lodgers in the neighborhood, that I was sure it must be Monsieur
Very."
"The very same," said I.
"Indeed," continued the abbe, "I was so struck with his
appearance--added to your interest in him--(here the abbe bowed and
sipped his wine) that I determined to follow him a short way down the
street. He kept through the Rue de Seine, and passing under the
colonnade of the Institute, crossed the Pont de Fer, continued along
the quay as far as the gates of the garden--into the Rue de Rivoli,
and though I thought he would have stopped at some of the _cafes_ in
the neighborhood, he did not, but kept steadily on, nor did I give up
pursuit until he had taken his place in one of the omnibuses which
pass the head of the Rue de la Paix.
"A week after, happening to see him, as I came home from Martin's,
under the Odeon, I followed him again: I took a place in the same
omnibus at the head of the Rue de la Paix. Opposite the Rue de Lancry
he stopped. I stopped a short way above, and stepping back, soon found
the poor gentleman picking his feeble paces along the dirty sideway.
"You remember, _mon cher_, wandering with me in the Rue de Lancry; you
remember that it is crooked and long. The poor gentleman found it so;
for before he had reached the end he leaned against the wall,
apparently overcome with fatigue. I offered him assistance; at first
he declined; he told me he was going only to the Hopital St. Louis,
which was now near by. I told him I was going the same way, upon which
he took my arm, and we walked together to the gates. The poor
gentleman seemed unable or unwilling to talk with me, and at the gates
he merely pulled a slip of paper from his pocket to show the
concierge, and passed in. I attended him as far as the middle hall in
the court, when he kindly thanked me, and turned into one of the male
wards. I took occasion presently to look in, and saw my companion half
way down the hall, at the bed-side of a very feeble-looking patient of
perhaps seven or eight-and-twenty.
"There seemed a degree of familiarity between them, more than would
belong to patient and physician. I noticed too that the attendants
treated the old gentleman with marked respect; this was, I fancy,
however, owing to the old gentleman's air, for not one of them could
tell me who he was.
"I left him in the hospital, more puzzled than ever as to who could be
the occupant of your little chamber. He seemed to me to have seen
better days; and as for your lady of the slipper, it was so long
before I saw any female with Monsieur Very, that I began to think she
had no existence, save in your lively imagination."
Here the abbe sipped his wine.
"You saw her at length, then?" said I.
"_Attendez._ One evening I caught a glimpse of the tall gentleman
going into the court of his hotel, with a lady closely muffled in
black upon his arm."
"And she had a pretty foot?"
"Ah, _mon ami_, it was too dark to see."
"And did you see her again?"
"_Attendez._ (The abbe sipped his wine.) For a month I saw neither
monsieur nor mademoiselle. I passed the court early and late; I even
went up to St. Louis, but the sick man was gone. The whole matter had
nearly dropped from my mind, when one night--it was late, and very
dark--the little bell at the wicket rung, and presently there was a
loud rap at my door. It was the concierge of the next court; a man he
said was dying, and a priest was wanted.
"I hurried over, and followed the concierge up, I know not how many
stairs, into a miserable little chamber. There was a yellow placard at
the window--"
I filled the abbe's glass and my own.
"Poor Monsieur Very," continued the abbe, "was on the couch before me,
dying! The concierge had left the chamber, but there was still a third
person present, who scarce seemed to belong to such a place."
The abbe saw my earnestness, and provokingly sipped his wine.
"This is very good wine, monsieur," said the abbe.
"Was she pretty?" said I.
"Beautiful," said the abbe, earnestly.
I filled the abbe's glass. The garcon had taken away the _fricandeau_,
and served us with _poulet roti_.
"Had she a light dress, and long, wavy ringlets?" said I.
"She was beautiful," said the abbe, "and her expression was so sweet,
so gentle, so sad--ah, _mon ami_--_ah, pauvre_--_pauvre fille!_"
The abbe had laid down his fork; he held his napkin to his face.
"And so poor Very died?" said I.
"It was a sad sight," said the abbe.
"And he confessed to you?"
"I was too late, _mon ami_; he murmured a word or two in my ear I
could not understand. He confessed to God."
"And mademoiselle--"
"She sat at the foot of the couch when I went in, with her hands
clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed on the poor gentleman's face;
now and then a tear rolled off her cheeks--but she did not know it.
"Presently the dying man beckoned to her. She stole softly to the head
of the couch, and laid her little white hand in his withered fingers.
"'Marie,' said he, 'dear Marie, I shall be gone--soon.'
"The poor girl burst into tears, and gathered up the palsied hand of
the old man in both hers, as if she would not let him go.
"'Marie,' continued he, very feebly, 'you will want a friend.'
"Again the poor girl answered by a burst of tears. She could say
nothing.
"'I have seen Remy,' continued the old man, still addressing the girl,
who seemed startled at the name, notwithstanding her grief. 'He has
suffered like us; he has been ill, too--very ill; you may trust him
now, Marie; he has promised to be kind. Marie, my child, will you
trust him?'
"'Dear father, I will do what you wish,' said the girl, weeping.
"'Thank you, Marie,' said the old man, and he tried to carry the white
hand to his lips, but he could not. 'And now, Marie--the little
locket?'
"Marie stepped softly across the chamber, and brought a small gold
locket, very richly wrought, and put it in the old man's hand; the old
man raised it toward his face.
"'A little more light, dear Marie,' said he.
"Marie stepped to the window and removed the yellow placard.
"'A little more--light, Marie,' said the old man, feebly. He was
getting lower and lower.
"Marie set the door ajar, and, stepping to the window, she pulled a
little handkerchief from her pocket, and tried to rub some of the dust
from the glass.
"'Light, Marie; dear Marie--more light!' He said it scarce above his
breath, but she heard it, and looked at me. I shook my head. She saw
how it was, and caught the stiffening hand of the old man.
"'Dear, dear father!' and her tears streamed over it. Her sobs roused
the old man for a moment.
"'Marie,' said he, and he raised his hand with a last effort, till it
rested on her head, 'Marie--God bless you!'
"I could hear nothing now but the poor girl's sobs. The hand of the
old man grew heavier and heavier on her head. She sunk down till her
knees touched the rough floor of the chamber, and her face rested on
the couch. Gradually the hand of the old man slipped down and lay upon
her white, smooth neck.
"Presently she lifted her eyes timidly till they looked on the eyes of
the old man--they must have looked strangely to her.
"'Father, dear father!' said she. There was a little clock at the
foot of the couch, and it ticked very--very loud.
"The poor girl gave a quick, frightened glance at me, and another
hurried look into the fixed eyes of the old man. She thought how it
must be; ah, _mon ami_, if you had heard her cry, '_Mon Dieu! il est
mort!_--_il est mort!_'"
For a moment the abbe could not go on.
"She was right," continued he, presently, "the old man was dead!"
The garcon removed the chicken, and served us with a dozen or two of
oysters, in the shell. For ten minutes the abbe had not touched his
wine--nor had I.
"He was buried," resumed the abbe, "just within the gates of Pere la
Chaise, a little to the right of the carriage way. A cypress is
growing by the grave, and there is at the head a small marble tablet,
very plain, inscribed simply, '_a mon pere_, 1845.'
"I was at the burial. There were very few to mourn."
"You saw mademoiselle?"
"Yes, I saw her; she was in deep black. Her face was covered with a
thick black veil--not so thick, though, but I could see a white
handkerchief all the time beneath; and I saw her slight figure
tremble. I was not near enough to hear her sobs, when they commenced
throwing down the earth upon the coffin.
"_Oui_, _mon ami_, I saw her walk away--not able to support herself,
but clinging for very weakness to the arm of the man whose face I had
seen at St. Louis. They passed slowly out of the gates; they entered a
carriage together, and drove away."
"It was Remy, I suppose?" said I.
"I do not know," said the abbe.
"And when did you see her again?"
"Not for months," said the abbe; and he sipped his wine.
"Shall I go on, _mon cher_?--it is a sad story."
I nodded affirmatively, and filled the abbe's glass, and took a nut or
two from the dish before us.
"I called at the hotel where monsieur had died; mademoiselle had gone,
the concierge could not tell where. I went to the hospital, and made
inquiries for a Monsieur Remy--no such name had been entered within a
year. I sometimes threw a glance up at the little window of the court;
it was bare and desolate, as you see it now. Once I went to the grave
of the old man--it was after the tablet had been raised; a rose-tree
had been put at the foot of the grave. I did not know, but thought who
must have set it there. I gave up all hope of seeing the beautiful
_Marie_ again.
"You remember, _mon ami_, the pretty little houses along the Rue de
Paris, at Passy, with the linden trees in front of them, and the clear
marble door-steps?"
"_Tres bien, mon cher abbe._"
"It is not many months since I was passing by them, and saw at the
window of one, the same sad face which I saw last at the grave. I went
in, _mon ami_. I made myself known as the attendant on her father's
death. She took my hand at this--ah, the soft white hand."
The abbe sipped his wine.
"She seemed sadly in want of friends, though there were luxuries
around her. She was dressed in white, her hair twisted back, and
fastened with a simple gold pin. Her sleeves were loose, and reached
but a little way below the elbow; and she wore a rose on her bosom,
and about her neck, by a little gold chain, a coral crucifix.
"I told her I had made numerous inquiries for her. She smiled her
thanks.
"I told her I had ventured to inquire, too, for the friend, Remy, of
whom her father had spoken; at this she put both hands to her face,
and burst into tears.
"I begged pardon; I feared she had not found her friend.
"'_Mon Dieu!_' said she, looking at me earnestly, '_il est_--_il etait
mon mari!_'
"She burst into tears. What could I say? He is dead, too, then?"
"'_Ah, non, non, monsieur_--worse--_Mon Dieu! quel mariage!_' and she
buried her face in her hands.
"What could I do, _mon cher_? The _friend_ had betrayed her. They told
me as much at Passy."
Again the abbe stopped.
"She talked with a strange smile of her father; she wanted to visit
his grave again. She took the rose from her bosom--it was from his
grave--and kissed it, and then--crushed it in her hand--'Oh, God!
what should I do now with flowers?' said she.
"I never saw her again. She went to her father's grave--but not to
pick roses.
"_She is there now_," said the abbe.
There was a long pause. The abbe did not want to speak--nor did I.
At length I asked if he knew any thing of Remy.
"You may see him any day up the Champs Elysiens," said the abbe. "Ah,
_mon ami_, there are many such. Poverty and shame may not come on him
again; wealth may pamper him, and he may fatten on the world's smiles;
but there is a time coming--it is coming, _mon cher_, when he will go
away--where God judgeth, and not man."
Our dinner was ended. The abbe and myself took a _voiture_ to go to
Pere la Chaise. Just within the gateway, a little to the right of the
carriage-track, were two tablets, side by side--one was older than the
other. The lesser one was quite new; it was inscribed simply--"Marie,
1846." There were no flowers; even the grass was hardly yet rooted
about the smaller grave--but I picked a rose-bud from the grave of the
old man. I have it now.
Before I left Paris, I went down into the old corridor again, in the
Rue de Seine. I looked up in the court at the little window at the
top.
A new occupant had gone in; the broken glass was re-set, and a dirty
printed curtain was hanging over the lower half. I had rather have
seen it empty.
I half wished I had never seen _Le Petit Soulier_.
EARLY ENGLISH POETS.
BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES.
MILTON.
Learned and illustrious of all Poets thou,
Whose Titan intellect sublimely bore
The weight of years unbent; thou, on whose brow
Flourish'd the blossom of all human lore--
How dost thou take us back, as 't were by vision,
To the grave learning of the Sanhedrim;
And we behold in visitings Elysian,
Where waved the white wings of the Cherubim;
But, through thy "Paradise Lost," and "Regained,"
We might, enchanted, wander evermore.
Of all the genius-gifted thou hast reigned
King of our hearts; and, till upon the shore
Of the Eternal dies the voice of Time,
Thy name shall mightiest stand--pure, brilliant, and sublime.
DRYDEN.
Not dearer to the scholar's eye than mine,
(Albeit unlearned in ancient classic lore,)
The daintie Poesie of days of yore--
The choice old English rhyme--and over thine,
Oh! "glorious John," delightedly I pore--
Keen, vigorous, chaste, and full of harmony,
Deep in the soil of our humanity
It taketh root, until the goodly tree
Of Poesy puts forth green branch and bough,
With bud and blossom sweet. Through the rich gloom
Of one embowered haunt I see thee now,
Where 'neath thy hand the "Flower and Leaflet" bloom.
That hand to dust hath mouldered long ago,
Yet its creations with immortal life still glow.
ADDISON.
Thou, too, art worthy of all praise, whose pen,
"In thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," did shed,
A noontide glory over Milton's head--
He, "Prince of Poets"--thou, the prince of men--
Blessings on thee, and on the honored dead.
How dost thou charm for us the touching story
Of the lost children in the gloomy wood;
Haunting dim memory with the early glory,
That in youth's golden years our hearts imbued.
From the fine world of olden Poetry,
Life-like and fresh, thou bringest forth again
The gallant heroes of an earlier reign,
And blend them in our minds with thoughts of thee,
Whose name is ever shrined in old-world memory.
DISSOLVING VIEWS.
OR, A BELLE IN A NEW LIGHT.
BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC.
CHAPTER I.
"You had better leave Harry alone about that girl," said Tom Leveredge
to his sisters, who were talking very fast, and sometimes both
together, in the heat and excitement of the subject under discussion.
"You only make Harry angry, and you do no good. Take my advice, and
say no more to him about her."
"And let him engage himself without one word of remonstrance,"
exclaimed Miss Leveredge, despairingly.
"You don't know that he means to engage himself," argued Tom; "and if
he does, opposition wont prevent him. On the contrary, it may settle a
passing fancy into a serious feeling; and if he does not mean it now,
you are enough to put it into his head, with all the talk you make
about it."
"_She'll_ put it into his head," ejaculated Miss Leveredge,
scornfully. "Leave her alone for that. She'll get him--I know she
will," she continued, almost in tears at the thought. "It's too bad!"
"What do you think about it, Tom?" inquired Mrs. Castleton, earnestly.
"Do you think with Emma, that it will end in his having her?"
"I should not be surprised," replied Tom, coolly.
"Then you think he is in love with her?" continued his sister,
mournfully.
"There's no telling," replied Tom. "He's a good deal with her; and if
he is thwarted at home, and flattered by her, I think it very possible
he may fancy himself so, whether he is or not."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, "that would be melancholy, indeed--to
be taken in without even being attached to her!"
"Don't be in such a hurry," said Tom. "I don't know that he is not in
love with her, or that he is going to be taken in; but I do say, that
Emma's course is very injudicious."
"What is that?" inquired Mrs. Castleton.
"Oh, abusing the girl so--saying she is vulgar, and--"
"I am sure I did not say any thing that is not true," said Emma, with
some spirit. |
"Perhaps not," replied Tom; "but it is not always wise to be forcing
the truth upon people at all times, and in all tempers."
"Where on earth did Harry become acquainted with her?" asked Mrs.
Castleton.
"That's more than I can tell you," replied Tom. "He told me that
Jewiston introduced him."
"I never could bear that Jewiston," remarked Miss Leveredge; "I always
thought him very under-bred and vulgar. Why will Harry have any thing
to do with him?"
"Who--Jewiston? He's a clever fellow enough," said Tom.
"Oh, Tom! how can you say so!"
"So he is," persisted the young man. "He's not very refined or
elegant, I grant you--but still a very good fellow."
"And so you think, Tom," continued Mrs. Castleton, still intent on the
main theme, "that in all probability Miss Dawson will be our
sister-in-law?"
Emma shivered.
"I don't think it probable, but very possible," replied the young man,
"particularly under the present system of family politics."
"And it would be very bad." pursued Mrs. Castleton, inquiringly.
"Oh, dreadful!" ejaculated Emma.
"There's nothing very _dreadful_ about it," remonstrated Tom; "it
would not be pleasant, certainly--but that's all. There's no use in
making the matter worse than it is."
Emma looked as if that were impossible, but said nothing, while Mrs.
Castleton continued with--
"What kind of a set is she in--and what are the family?"
"Very low, vulgar people," said Emma.
"Now, Emma, there again you are exaggerating," rejoined Tom. "They are
_not_ a low set--vulgar, I admit."
"The same thing," persisted Emma.
"It's not the same thing, Emma," said the young man, decidedly. "They
are very far from being _low_ people. Her father is a highly
respectable man, and, indeed, so are all the family--not fashionable,
I grant you."
"Fashionable!" ejaculated Emma, with a smile full of scornful meaning.
"But I admit," continued Tom, "that it is not a connection that would
altogether suit us. I should be as sorry, perhaps, as any of you to
see the thing take place."
"And what is the girl in herself," pursued Mrs. Castleton.
"A vulgar, forward, ugly thing," said Emma, speaking quickly, as if
she could not help herself--the words must out, let Tom say what he
would.
Tom said nothing, however.
"Is she?" said Mrs. Castleton, looking very much distressed, and
turning to her brother.
"Emma will have it that she is," he replied.
"Now, Tom, you know she is," expostulated Emma.
"No, Emma," said Tom, "if you will permit me, I know no such thing."
"You surely don't admire her, too," said Emma, with a look of mingled
alarm and disgust.
"No," said Tom, "she is as you say, vulgar, and somewhat forward--but
not ugly. On the contrary, she is decidedly handsome."
"Handsome!" repeated Miss Leveredge. "Do you call her handsome, with
all those hanging curls, and that _feroniere_, and her hat on the very
back of her head; with her short petticoats and big feet--and such
bright colors, and quantity of tawdry jewelry as she wears, too."
"You women never can separate a girl from her dress," said Tom,
laughing. "Miss Dawson dresses execrably, I grant you; but give her
one half of the advantages of the girls that you see around you in
society, and she would be not only pretty, but beautiful."
"Then she may be improved," said Mrs. Castleton, hopefully.
"Not much of that," said Tom. "She is very well satisfied with
herself, I imagine."
"Oh, it's evident she's a public belle and beauty in her own set,"
said Emma. "She's full of airs and graces."
Mrs. Castleton sighed.
"It's a bad business, I am afraid," she said, mournfully.
"No," said Tom, stoutly, "it's not pleasant, and that's all. The girl
may make a very good wife, though she does dress badly. She looks
amiable, and I dare say has sense enough."
"It's not her dress only," persisted Emma, "but her manners are so
bad."
"Well, many a flirty girl has settled into a very respectable married
woman," continued Tom.
"Where have you seen her, Emma?" asked Mrs. Castleton.
"Tom pointed her out to me one night at the theatre; and I have since
seen her in the street frequently."
"Then you do not know her at all?" continued Mrs. Castleton, with some
surprise in her tone. "How, then, do you know any thing about her
manners, Emma?"
"It's not necessary to know her to know what her manners are," replied
Emma. "One glance across the theatre is enough for that. She had two
or three beaux with her--indeed, I believe she was there only with
them--"
"Her mother was with her, Emma," interposed Tom, decidedly.
"Well," continued Emma, a little provoked at being set right, "she
ought to have made her behave herself, then."
"But how did she behave, Emma?" pursued Mrs. Castleton, who had been
absent from the city during the rise and progress of this flirtation,
and was now anxious for as much information as could be obtained on
the subject.
"Oh, laughing, and flirting, and shaking her long curls back, and
looking up to their faces--perfectly disgusting!"
Mrs. Castleton looked at her brother in the hopes of some amendment
here on his part; but he only smiled, and shook his head, and said,
"Pretty much so, Emma."
"And then, dressed--oh, you never saw a girl so bedizzened!"
"Strange!" said Mrs. Castleton. "that Harry should admire such a girl.
He is generally rather critical--hates particularly to see you at all
over-dressed, Emma. He never would admire Fanny Lewis, you know,
because she had something of that manner. I wonder he should admire
this girl."
"Oh, it all depends very much upon the _clique_ in which a man sees a
girl how she strikes him," said Tom. "Miss Dawson's manners are very
much those of the girls around her, quite as good, if not better; then
she is really handsome--moreover, very much admired, the belle of the
set; and Harry's vanity is rather flattered, I suppose, by the
preference she shows him."
"You think, then, she likes him?" said Mrs. Castleton.
"I know nothing more about it than you do," replied Tom. "I suppose
she must, for she certainly could marry richer men than Harry if she
wanted to. She has the merit, at least, of disinterestedness."
"Harry would be a great match for her," said Emma, indignantly--"and
she knows it. She might get more money, perhaps, but think of the
difference of position."
"Yes, I suppose that has something to do with it," replied Tom. "You
women all think so much of such things."
"Strange!" repeated Mrs. Castleton, "I don't know how Harry can fancy
such a girl."
"Don't you know all objects vary according to the light they are in,"
said Tom. "If Harry saw Miss Dawson among young ladies of a different
style and stamp, the changes of the 'dissolving views' would not be
greater. The present picture would fade away, and a new, and in all
probability a very different one, would take its place."
"That's a good idea!" exclaimed Mrs. Castleton, suddenly, and clapping
her hands joyfully. "I'll call and ask her to my party for the bride."
Emma looked at her for a moment aghast, as if she thought she had
suddenly gone crazy.
"What do you mean, Laura?" she exclaimed.
"Why, to follow out Tom's idea," she said. "It's excellent! I'm going
to give Mrs. Flemming a party. I'll make it very select, and not
large; invite all the prettiest and most elegant girls, and then play
amiable to Harry, by telling him I'll call upon his Miss Dawson and
invite her."
Emma looked very dubious, and said,
"I don't like our countenancing the thing in this way."
"You need have nothing to do with it," returned her sister. "As it
seems you and Harry have had words about it, you had better not; but
_I_'ll call--I'll have her. And it shall be such an elegant, select
little affair that it will show her off to charming advantage," she
continued, with much animation, delighted with her own cleverness in
the scheme. "He can't help but be ashamed of her. Don't you think so,
Tom?"
The young man laughed.
"Now, Tom," said she, a little disappointed, "don't you think so?"
"There's a good chance of it, certainly," he replied. "You can but try
it."
"Then why do you laugh," she continued, still dissatisfied.
"Only to see what spiteful creatures you women are," he continued,
smiling. "To see the pains you'll take to put down a girl you don't
happen to fancy."
"Surely, you yourself, Tom," commenced Mrs. Castleton, seriously, and
"I am sure, Tom," chimed in Emma, in the same breath, "you have always
said--" and then they both poured forth such a torrent of reminiscences
and good reasons for wishing to prevent the match, that he was glad to
cry for mercy, and ended by saying seriously,
"I am sure I hope you may succeed."
CHAPTER II.
"Harry," said Mrs. Castleton, in her prettiest and most winning
manner, "I am going to call on your friend, Miss Dawson, and invite
her for Thursday evening."
Harry looked up very much astonished, hardly knowing whether to be
pleased or not, and said,
"What put that in your head?"
"I want to know her," continued Mrs. Castleton. "They tell me you
admire her, Harry; and if she is to be my future sister, as people
say--"
"People say a great deal more than they know," said Harry, hastily.
"Well," rejoined his sister, playfully, "be that as it may, Harry, I
should like to see the young lady; and beside, I want as many pretty
girls as I can get, they always make a party brilliant--and you say
she is pretty, don't you, Harry?"
"Beautiful," he replied, with an earnestness that startled Mrs.
Castleton. "You'll have no prettier girl here, I promise you that,
Laura," he added, presently, more quietly. "But what will Emma say,"
he continued, bitterly. "She'll never give her consent, depend upon
it, to your calling."
"It's not necessary that she should," said Mrs. Castleton, good
humoredly; "so perhaps I had better not ask her."
"Emma gives herself airs," continued Harry, angrily. "She thinks that
all the world are just confined to her one little _clique_; that
there's neither beauty, nor sense, nor any thing else out of her
particular set. Now I can tell her that there's more beauty among
those who don't give themselves half the airs, and who she looks down
upon, than there is to be found among her 'fashionables.' But Emma is
perfectly ridiculous with her 'exclusive' nonsense," he continued,
with much feeling, evidently showing how deeply he resented his
sister's reflections upon the style and stamp of his present
admiration, Miss Dawson.
"Oh," said Mrs. Castleton, soothingly, "it's a mistake all very young
girls make, Harry. They know nothing out of one circle. Of course,
they disparage all others."
But Harry was not to be quieted so easily. He was not satisfied until
he had poured forth all his complaints against Emma; and Mrs.
Castleton found it best not to take her part, but trust to the result
of her experiment of the next week with putting him in good humor with
her again.
"Will you call with me?" she continued, presently. "I have ordered the
carriage at one."
He looked pleased, and said he would. But after a little while he
seemed to grow nervous and fidgetty--walked about the room--asked a
good many questions, without seeming to attend much to the answers,
and at last said, hurriedly,
"Well, Laura, it's rather late, and I have an engagement down town--do
you care about my calling with you? You know it's only necessary for
you to leave your card. You need not go in even, if you don't care
about it."
"Oh, certainly," she replied. "No, don't wait for me."
And he took his hat and darted off like light, as if he had made an
escape from he hardly knew what.
Mrs. Castleton could not but laugh as she heard him shut the
hall-door, almost before she was aware he had left the room, well
pleased with this indication of susceptibility on his part, which she
took as a good omen of the future, fully believing that "future events
cast their shadows before." "If Harry were nervous already, what would
he be on Thursday evening."
The call was made. Miss Dawson was out. A card was left, with an
invitation, which, in due time, was accepted.
"Are you going to ask the Hazletons," inquired Emma.
"No," said Mrs. Castleton; "I don't want to have too large a party. I
want just enough to fill my rooms prettily, so that you can see
everybody, and how they are dressed--just one of those small, select,
pretty parties, where everybody is noticed. I have hardly asked a
person--I don't know one--who is not in some way distinguished for
either dress, manner, air, or beauty. I have taken pains to cull the
most choice of my acquaintance. The rooms will be beautifully
lighted--and I expect it to be a brilliant affair."
"If it were not for that Miss Dawson to spoil all," said Emma,
dejectedly--for she had never liked the scheme, though she did not
oppose it. "I declare, Laura, I wonder at your moral courage in having
her. I don't think _I_ could introduce her among such a set, even to
be sure of breaking it off. You will be terribly ashamed of her. You
don't know, I think, what you have undertaken."
Mrs. Castleton could not but laugh at the earnestness, not to say
solemnity, of Emma's manner.
"Not I, Emma--why should I be ashamed of her. If she were Harry's
wife, or if even he were engaged to her, the case would be
different--I should blush for her then, if she is vulgar. But merely
as a guest, how can her dress or manners affect _me_. My position is
not to be altered by my happening to visit a girl who dresses vilely,
and flirts _a discretion_."
But still Emma looked very dubious, and only said, "Well, don't
introduce me."
"Don't be alarmed," replied her sister. "I don't mean to. Come, come,
Emma," she continued, laughing, "I see you are nervous about it, but I
think you may trust me for carrying it off well," to which her sister
replied,
"Well, Laura, if any one _can_ get out of such a scrape gracefully,
you will."
Mrs. Castleton laughed, and the subject dropped.
What Emma had said was true. There was an airy grace, a high-bred ease
about Mrs. Castlelon, that could carry her through any thing she chose
to undertake.
Thursday evening arrived at last. Mrs. Castleton's rooms were lighted
to perfection, and she herself dressed with exquisite taste, looking
the fitting priestess of the elegant shrine over which she presided.
Emma, with her brothers, came early--and one glance satisfied Mrs.
Castleton. The simplicity and elegance of Emma's _toilette_ were not
to be out-done even by her own. Tom looked at them both with great
pride; and, certainly, two prettier or more elegant specimens of
humanity are not often to be met with.
He made some playful observation to his sister, expressive of his
admiration of her taste, and looking about, said,