mother to whom he was ever dutiful, and a daughter that he had never
seen; but his letters were cold and formal. His child was married,—he
congratulated her. A grand-child was born to him;—he sent her his
blessing. His daughter became a widow;—he condoled with her upon her
loss. But nothing could arouse him from his bootless labor for
superfluous gold!
At length, as age approached, he felt wearied with his monotonous
existence. With the decline of his bodily powers came the desire for
rest:—with the weakening of his mental energies, the longing for
sympathy grew stronger and stronger. _He did not wish to die alone!_
Dreams of his juvenile days came over him, and he sighed for the
quietude of the old family mansion, and the warm welcome of his mother
on his return from the cares of business. When the sudden twilight of
the tropics sunk abruptly into night, he dreamed of the lingering
glories of an American evening. When he heard the cry of the bramin
kite, the harsh call of the adjutant crane, and the chattering of a
thousand obscene birds retiring to their roosts, gorged with their
horrible repast on the corpses that pollute the Ganges, he longed for
the wild notes of the whip-poor-will, the rushing sound of the
night-hawk, and the melancholy hooting of the owl, that render night
musical in the bright green woods of his native land.
He knew that the growing city had swept far beyond the retreat of his
earlier days—that many magnificent residences had risen over the site
of his boyish play-grounds, and that even the relics of his dead had
been removed from their original resting-place, to make room for the
house of the stranger. He had permitted—_he had even advised these
changes_, but, he could not realize them! The old mansion with its broad
elms, the garden, and the pine-grove with the monuments beneath its
shade, were ever present to his mind, and his letters were painfully
charged with allusions to scenes and persons whose existence was blotted
from the page of history.
With every year, these feelings became more and more intense, until
incipient childishness made its appearance, and he became affected with
a confirmed nostalogia. At length he closed his concerns, remitted the
unappropriated balance of his earnings, and launched himself once more
upon the ocean, on his homeward route.
As he drew near his native shore, memory retraced more and more vividly,
the scenes of other days, until his failing intellect began to confuse
the present with the past, and, at times, he dreamed of once more
welcoming the little circle of the loved and cherished, in the same old
wainscotted parlor,—around the same wide, hospitable, antique
fire-place, where he slept with head reclined upon his mother’s knee
when the presence of company obtained him the privilege of sitting up an
hour beyond his usual bed time.
The vessel neared the port. The pilot, ever the first to welcome the
wanderer home, ascended the deck and distributed the “papers” of the
previous day. With one of these, Mr. A—— hastily retired to the cabin.
Not even the blue hills of his native land, now full in sight, could
wean him from the fatal record. His eye glanced rapidly over the leading
article, but the struggle of contending candidates had no charm for him.
He furtively regarded the items of foreign news;—was shocked at the
long record of crimes and casualties made piquant and racy with details
and comments which the purer manners of his early years would not have
tolerated; and, for the first time in his life, he turned from the
_price current_ in disgust, but why did he start, turn pale, and tremble
when his eye rested upon the ominous black lines that cross the final
column of the second page? The identical paper is still preserved, and I
extract the notice!—Read!
* * * * *
Died, suddenly, of apoplexy, on the 29th inst., in the 96th year of her
age, Mrs. C—— A——, the venerable relict of the late Hon. W——
A——, and mother of Mr. H—— A——, the distinguished American
merchant at ——.
* * * * *
The cup was full! There breathed not in the land of his birth one
kindred being to unite him with the past!—His daughter!—she was a
stranger! How should he recognise her in the stranger crowd!—The mind,
already weakened, was crushed!—The cracked vase was shivered!
The moment the anchor dropped, he leaped into a boat, and hurried on
shore. Calling the nearest coach he ordered it in haste and sternly, “To
——’s lane, half a mile from the turnpike gate of the —— road!”
The astonished driver stared as he replied, “There’s no such lane now,
sir! I heard of it when I was a boy, but it’s all built up long ago, and
I never knew even where it was!”
“Then drive me to my mother’s,” cried Mr. A——, in a voice almost of
fury; and holding forth the paper, which had never left his hand, he
pointed to the notice. An old man, standing by, struck by the haggard
and maniacal look, perused the article and simply said, “Drive to the
marble building, No. 20 —— Place.”
The grieving survivers of the family of Mrs. A—— were sitting silently
in the darkened parlor, on the morning after the funeral, when a loud
appeal at the bell startled the whole household—so ill did it accord
with the silence of grief brooding over all who had lived under the mild
influence of the departed! A female attendant hurried to the door, and
was instantly thrust to the wall by one who rushed furiously past her,
crying aloud and wildly, “Where is my wife!—my mother!” Mr. A——
actually sprang into the presence of the ladies; for he was endowed for
the moment with unnatural strength by the intensity of feeling. The
figure of the elder lady, as she started to her feet in terror on the
sudden intrusion, appeared to awaken some long dormant recollection, for
he checked, on the instant, his precipitate advance, regarded her
intently for a moment, and approaching gently, but before her alarm
permitted her to move, he laid his hands upon her shoulders, and read
her features with a steady and protracted gaze that seemed to search her
very soul! “No! no!” he cried, “You are not my Jane!” and fainted at her
feet.
* * * * *
In the cemetery of ——, where the eye stretches wide and far over
beautiful wooded slopes and a broad expanse of water—rock, ravine,
spire, hamlet, and the distant city—where all is peace, and the weary
soul is tempted to covet the repose of those who wait beneath,—now rest
the remains of Mr. A——.
“After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well!”
Standing beside his grave, as the moon-beams flickered on the marble,
contending with the shadows of o’erhanging leaves that rustled in the
night-breeze, I thought how rapidly every haunt of my own bright,
holiday youth was yielding to the inroads of another populous capital.
The pond on which we used to ply the armed heel when winter ruled the
year, has disappeared.—Its site is occupied with civic palaces. The
shady glen where the winged hours of starry summer nights flew all
unheeded by in converse with the loved who are no more, lies bare and
sered beneath the August sun!—The very stream that wound so gracefully
among the trees is dry!—The dews of heaven that fed its crystal sources
fall now in vain upon a mountain mass of marble—column,—plynth and
dome—rising in mockery of _posthumous benevolence_,—a long enduring
witness of perverted trust! Where are the few and fondly cherished who
shared the converse of those happy hours?—One lies deep in the coral
groves of the Hesperides!—One fell a victim to a philanthropic spirit
when the plague of Indoostan ravaged the vallies of the
West!—Another!—Strangers tread lightly round his narrow house in the
gardens of Père-la-Chaise!—The last—
“Peace to thy broken heart and early grave!”
But why repeat these woes that are the lot of all?—Who is there that
has learned the value of the baubles that entice us _here_—Wealth!
Fame! Power! or sublunary Love!—but will join in the secret aspiration
with which I left the silent resting-place of a perturbed spirit—“Take!
oh! Take me home!”
* * * * *
WESTERN HOSPITALITY.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
Hard by I’ve a cottage that stands near a wood,
A stream glides in peace at the door,
Where all who are weary, ’tis well understood,
Receive hospitality’s store.
To cheer that the brook and the thicket afford,
The stranger we freely invite:
You’re welcome to come and partake at the board,
And afterwards rest for the night.
The birds in the morning will sing from the trees,
And herald the young god of day;
Then with him uprising, depart if you please,
We’ll set you refresh’d on your way.
Your coin for this service we sternly reject,
No traffic for gain we pursue,
And all the reward that we wish or expect,
We take in the good that we do.
Mankind are all travellers on life’s rugged road,
And myriads would wander astray
In seeking eternity’s silent abode
Did mercy not point out the way.
If all would their duty discharge as they should,
To those that are helpless and poor,
The world would resemble my cot near the wood,
And life the sweet stream at my door.
* * * * *
THE LADY AND THE PAGE.
A STORY OF MOORISH SPAIN.
BY MARY S. PEASE.
Many years ago there dwelt, not far from Seville, in a castle so old it
was a wonder what kept it from tumbling down, a Spanish hidalgo,
remarkable for but two things—a very beautiful daughter, and the very
strict manner in which he secluded her from the world. In every other
respect this hidalgo was like other hidalgos, full of pride, sporting a
pair of Spanish mustachios, and wearing a stiletto by his side.
The wonderful beauty of his daughter, the Doña Ysabel, had somehow—in
spite of the seclusion in which she was kept—become proverbial, and the
fame thereof had spread from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees. Not a caballero
of that chivalric country but would have given his best steed for one
glance from the eyes of the hidalgo’s daughter—eyes which shrouded
under their long lashes, were like diamonds winning across the midnight.
Her hair was silky and soft, darker and more glossy than the raven’s
wing—and in such luxuriance did it grow that she might almost have hid
herself in it, as did “the lady of the golden locks” in the fairy tale.
Her face was fitful as an April day. It was the clear and faithful
mirror to the warmest, purest heart in all Spain. And never did a young
heart beat within a lighter and more graceful form than that of the Doña
Ysabel.
The castle where the hidalgo resided with his daughter was built on a
rocky eminence, in one of the wildest parts of the country. Tradition
said it had been erected by a powerful and wealthy Moor, from whom it
had been conquered by the strong arm of one of the present occupant’s
ancestors. The father of Ysabel had resided there but rarely until the
death of his wife; but, after that event, he had retired almost
broken-hearted to this wild retreat. Here, from early childhood, the
Lady Ysabel had been brought up. Wanting the care of a mother, she had
always been left to have her own way, and a more self-willed, impetuous
sylph never dashed the dew from the wild flowers that grew so
luxuriantly around the Moorish castle.
One day, when the Doña Ysabel had nearly attained her sevententh year,
the Count de Llenaro, her father, stood within the deep embrasure of the
richly carved corridor, absorbed in thought. His eyes were fixed on the
shadows that played so fancifully on the rocks below. A light step was
heard and a fairy form entered the apartment.
“_Bella mi cara nina_, I was thinking of thee, I would speak with thee.”
And the gentle girl stood beside the proud lord. “What wouldst thou my
father?” The maiden’s voice was low and silvery soft. Her dark eye
looked up into her father’s with an expression soft and confiding as
childhood. One little snow-white hand rested upon his shoulder, while
the other nestled within his own.
“How old are you, Ysy?”
“I shall be seventeen come next Michaelmas.”
“’Tis even as I thought. Thou art getting to be a great girl, Belle,—I
have something to say to thee; wilt thou listen?”
“Dear papa, thy word is my law.”
“Is it so?” and the father fixed his eyes upon the girl with a look so
penetrating that her own eye fell, and the rich warm blood rushed from
her young heart and burnt upon her brow.
Llenaro seated himself upon a low _turco_, and drawing his child towards
him, he fondly kissed her glowing cheek.
“I fear, Belle,” said he, putting back the world of curls that had
fallen over her brow, “thy will hath never yet been broken. Thou art but
a wild one.” Count Alcaros fell into a long fit of musing. The silver
breathing tones of the Doña’s soft voice broke the stillness.
“What wouldst thou with thy child, papa? my birds, and young flowers,
even now mourn my absence.”
“And canst thou not give one hour unto thy father, Ysy? What will thy
birds and flowers do when I bring thee a right noble bird, an eagle
among birds, for thine own? Wilt thou then give up all others and love
but only that?”
“What does my papa mean?” tremblingly replied the maiden.
“I mean that thou art to be a child no longer.”
“But, papa, all my pretty birds and—”
“Thou shalt have a bird worth the whole, a right proud gallant bird.
Ysy, dost thou remember the Marquis of Talavera?”
“What of him, dearest papa?”
“Dost thou remember him?”
“Yes, papa.”
“This Marquis hath sought thee, Belle, in marriage, and I have said thou
shalt be his bride.”
The girl started to the ground in unfeigned surprise.
“Why, papa! he is old enough to be my grandfather, and besides, he is
ugly enough to—”
“He is just the age of thy father, Ysabel. His years will serve to guide
thy wayward ones. He is all that is brave and noble, besides being one
of the richest, and most powerful lords in Spain. You may know, Belle,
how well I think of him—he is almost the only one of my many _friends_,
that I admit into this our wild retreat.”
“But, papa—”
“Nay, Belle, I will have no buts. It must be as I say.”
“But, papa.” The Count’s brow darkened. “But, papa, I do not love him.”
“Love—pah!”
“Papa, I _cannot_ love him.”
“Pah!”
“Papa, I _will not_ love him!” and the Doña’s eyes grew bright and
large.
“Ysabel!”
“Dear papa,—I mean I cannot—” and the little lady burst into tears.
“Ysabel,—hear me—I have said thou shalt become the bride of the
Marquis of Talavera. What I say I never unsay—that thou knowest. Two
weeks from this. The day thou art seventeen—is the day decided upon. It
_must, it shall be so_! Wilt thou do thy father’s bidding, Belle?”
The girl answered not a word but her eye lit up and her little mouth was
tightly compressed. Every line of her statue-like form expressed
firmness and resolution.
“Wilt thou do thy father’s bidding, Ysabel?” again demanded the Count.
“Thou hast ever been an indulgent father to me, never hast thou crossed
my slightest wish, and now, father, I must say firmly _no_! I never can
become the bride of him thou namest.”
“Girl! thou shalt not even be consulted. Thou hast had thine own way
seventeen years, _now_ I will have mine. Thou shalt wed the Talavera if
I have to drag thee to the altar. Nay, no fawning.” The girl had twined
her soft round arms about her father’s neck—her eyes looked
beseechingly into his. But he pushed her from him, saying—“Go to thy
room, Ysabel, and there remain until thy reason comes to thee. Dost thou
hear me?”
The Spaniard strode from the room, and the weeping lady sought, with a
heavy heart, her own turret.
It was the first time her father had been unkind to her, and she threw
herself down, on a low couch, in all that utter hopelessness of grief
youth alone can feel. It was her first sorrow.
There came a soft rap at the door,—but she heeded it not;—and not
until a hand, soft as woman’s, held her own,—and a voice, whose deep,
low tones were breathing music, whispered in her ear, did she know her
father’s handsome page was kneeling by her.
“Weep not, mi cara Ysabel,” soothingly said he, “or rather let me share
thy grief. I know it all—thy father hath told me, and sent me here to
bring thee to reason, as he said. Can I do it sweet lady?” and the
handsome page smiled.
It was wicked in him to smile when her heart was so full of grief—and
so the lady thought. But she had learned to love, and when love is warm
and new, all the loved one says or does is more than right.
“Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head,
Faultless, immortal”——
The Doña Ysabel loved her father’s page,—loved him as an ardent-souled
daughter of sunny Spain knows how to love. The father!——he did not
even dream of such wickedness. (If he had he could not have slept for at
least six months)—the unpardonable wickedness of a daughter of his—his
bright, beautiful Ysabel—the high born lady of Llenaro,—loving her
father’s page!—a nameless page!—and so he slept secure. The thought
was too preposterous. And the Doña Ysabel loved. Love is all
trustfulness, all watchfulness, all hopefulness. The page was handsome;
the page was graceful, witty, accomplished. He was indeed an uncommon
page;—and so thought the Doña’s father,—and _so_ thought her father’s
daughter. He could sing to the music of Ysabel’s guitar, most divinely;
he could dance, fence, was perfectly skilled in all horsemanship,
moreover he was acquainted with all the then lore of bright Spain. He
wrote poetry too; and sang the words of his own composing. In sooth he
was a most marvellous page—a perfect paragon of a page; and then his
eye—why it was wilder than lightning shot from a midnight sky. The
servants all feared and hated him. To Ysabel alone was he all that was
gentle,—and to her father, for her sake. He was her teacher; her
patient, faithful, untiring teacher. They drank together at the pure
well of learning—a well too often untasted in those days of fair Spain.
“Weep not, sweetest; thy noble father would see thee wed with the
Marquis of Talavera, and thou canst not love him. And it is for that
thou weepest. Is it not so sweet lady?”
“I was happy,” replied the sorrowing girl. “I did not dream of love, or
that I had a heart. I only felt that I was happy. And now—”
“And now, my gentle Ysabel?”
“And now,” said the Señorita, deeply blushing, “now I feel I have no
heart to give.”
“Bless thee, dearest, for those words. Ysabel hear me for I must speak.
I love thee Ysabel—I am other than I seem. I am no hireling—I am the
heir to a noble house. One year ago, having heard so much of thy
wondrous beauty, and full of curiosity and daring, I contrived to get
admitted into the castle as thy father’s page. To see, is to love
thee—but to be near thee day after day—to read thy gentle thoughts—to
gaze in thy liquid, truthful, soul-beaming eyes—to feel thy soft hand
within my own. Ysabel, a being cut from granite to see thee thus could
not help loving thee. I love _a soul_—a soul thou hast sweet Ysabel—a
reflecting, gentle, trustful, ardent, heart-ful soul. Ysabel I love
thee, wilt thou love me?”
“Jose, I will, I do love thee”—and the girl’s eyes were soft as she
rested them in his.
He took her hand—her little, warm, white hand, and covered it with
kisses. Then drawing her gently towards him, he clasped her silently to
his heart. She nestled like a bird in his bosom—and rested her head
there. At intervals a low sob swelled her little heart, like that of a
wearied infant, worn out with much crying. At length her sighs came less
and less frequent; and when the page bent over to gaze upon her face,
she had sunk into a calm, gentle sleep. A bright tear still glistened on
her silky lash—that long black fringe that reposed so quietly on her
pale, fair cheek.
There is something inexpressibly touching in the quiet and calm repose
of a beautiful girl. And when we feel that that youth and beauty is all
we love on earth—that it is near us—nestling in sweet trust within our
arms—our all—our own—life of our life—heart of our heart—soul of
our soul—what other happiness can earth give more pure, more holy, more
unalloyed?
The page Jose almost wished the Doña might never awake—but she did
awake. And when she did, she looked up in his eyes and smiled. There was
everything in that smile, love, hope, faith, gentleness, truth, trust,
joy. It was a droll smile too; there was archness in it—Jose never
forgot that smile!—Strange, that an outward symbol of the inner world
can express so much.
The page attempted to kiss the bright smile into his own heart—but the
lady’s mood had changed. Half ashamed, half in sport, she broke from him
with a laugh—her own peculiar laugh—bird-like in its silvery
clearness; and like a bird, as wild, and sweet.
“Sit down, dear Ysabel—I would talk with thee calmly—wilt thou be
mine? Ysabel, I love thee. Oh! how I love thee. Naught on earth is half
so dear as thou—life—ten thousand lives, were they mine, would I give
for thy love. Wilt thou be mine? my own?”
The girl put both her little hands in his—that was her only answer. And
then the page drew her again to his heart and kissed her brow and lips.
And then—and then—and then—why then, and there, right up before
them—with curled lip and cloudy brow—stood the castle’s lord!—the
proud hidalgo!—the Count Alcaros de Llenaro!—the Doña Ysabel’s
father!—the handsome page’s master!
“Ha!” exclaimed he, “is this the way ye obey my commands? Ah, I see!
Thou’rt doing my bidding, sir page. Hast thou won the self-willed lady
to think as I do? Away, girl!—Back, I say! Away with thee, page!”
Pale, drooping, quailing beneath her father’s angry glance, the gentle
girl silently twined her arms around his frame, and strove to kiss away
the angry spot upon his brow.
“Back! Judas!” exclaimed he, pushing her rudely from him. “When thou
hast learned to do thy father’s wishes, _then_ will he accept thy
caresses.”
Frightened—crushed—she shrunk within herself, like the sensitive plant
at some rude touch, nor dared to raise her gentle eye to the
fire-darting ones of her angry sire.
And the page?
The father glanced from the drooping form of his daughter to the
unbending one of the presumptuous lover.
“And so, sir menial, thou art aspiring—we like ambition. Thou thinkest
to love my daughter—the daughter of the noble house of Llenaro—good!”
“Count of Llenaro—hear me. I ask of thee thy daughter. My house, proud
lord, is full as noble as thine own—perhaps more ancient. I am no
page—I am the only son of——”
“I will not even hear who thou art—wert thou the monarch of the
universe, thou shouldst not wed my daughter. I have sworn she shall
become the bride of the Talavera—I never recall an oath.”
The group as they stood there would have made a picture for the pencil
of a Salvator. The proud, determined figure of Llenaro, standing with
his arms folded, looking lightning on the no less proud form of the
handsome page, as he stood in the glow of his young manhood’s strength
and beauty. Then the shrinking form of the Doña Ysabel—slightly leaning
forward, with clasped hands—her head partly raised—the speechless,
imploring agony of her lovely face.
The room contributed not a little to the scene—all around was purely,
beautifully feminine. The low damask ottomans—the bright-eyed birds in
their glittering gold cages—the rich, mellow paintings hanging around
the room. Among them was her own soft eyed mother. The sweet, dreamy
eyes of the Italian seemed to look down on the father of her daughter
reproachfully for his harshness to that daughter. The parting beams of
the sun, as he bade adieu to his love the fair earth, streamed in the
room, gilding with their warm glow the expressive faces of the three. A
ray more softened fell on the calm, angel face of the wife,—the mother.
“Alcaros de Llenaro, I entreat thee to listen to me. On my knees I
supplicate thee to give me thy daughter. Doom her not to misery. She
loves me. Think upon thy child’s mother—on the love vows given and
taken before thy child was born. When she—the mother, the wife, was all
in all to thee. Thou _didst_ love once, and she thou didst love, was the
mother of the child thou’rt dooming to wretchedness—and now that mother
looks down upon thee, imploring happiness on her child.”