emphasis, the word that had produced it. 'The ruin?' said I;
'impossible!' and as I raised my eyes toward heaven, at the thought
of such a sacrifice, they caught those of the victim in the picture.
I could have wept aloud, so powerful was the influence of the gaze
that I encountered. There sat the loveliest creature that the world
e'er saw; an artless, careless child; health, hope and happiness
beaming in her sweet fair face; her lips, although the choicest
target for his aim, the foil of Cupid's darts, so pure, so modest was
the smile that parted them. Her eyes, the beacon lights of virgin
chastity; her joyous look the Lethe where pale care could come but
to be lost, it scared off wo. And were these made for ruin to write
shame upon? Oh man, monster, ingrate, fiend! Heaven, pitying the dull
clod of nature's 'prentice work, sends an ethereal solace to your
aid, and when the blessing comes with three-fold charms, to make the
bounteous gift more welcome still, you seek, with whetted, graceless
appetite, to abuse it, and know no bounds that limit less than
infamy, to make up the mortal sum of your ingratitude.
I was roused from my reverie, by the perseverance of the good dame,
who thus took up the thread of her discourse that my exclamation and
subsequent reflection had broken:
'Ah, poor dear Mr. George! if he had lived, all would have been
well. I make bold to say, for certain sure, they would have been man
and wife by this time; for though she used to go on finely at 'that
doctor,' as the darling girl used to call him, because he was the
cause of her being taken into the garden so often, without knowing
why, for all that she loved him in her heart, as well she might; for,
as I said before, he fairly doated upon her; and yet so delicate was
his noble mind, he could never, as it were, talk seriously to her;
that is to say, not to make any kind of love to her, you know, Sir.
He had known her from a precious babe, and although his whole heart
and soul, I do believe, were set upon one day making her his wife,
if so be as she should not refuse him of her own free will, still,
he felt so almost like a father to her, though he was not more than
eight or nine years older than she, that he never could bring himself
to fairly pay court to her, as a lover, you see.'
'God bless his noble heart!' said David, as he rested his elbow on
his knee, and his chin on the palm of his hand; 'he always said he
should be drowned; there's fate ag'in, Bessum, sure enough.'
'And did he die by drowning?' said I.
'Ay, Sir,' replied the dame; 'and scarce was he dead, as if they only
waited for that, than our sweet child's misfortunes began.'
'Destiny, indeed,' thought I, as a superstitious feeling seemed to
prepare me for the proofs of it.
'She was just sixteen, and that's nearly five years ago, when she
lost him that would have been more than all the world to her, as a
body may say; and when Lieutenant H---- brought permission from a
certain quarter to court her for his wife, heavy was my poor heart
at the thoughts of parting with the blessed child, but more so, ten
times over, though I couldn't tell why, at the idea of who I was
going to part with her to. She was proud of the conceit of being
married, and pleased with the gold lace and cocked hat of the young
sailor. I don't believe the thought of love for him ever once entered
her head; but that was nothing, for she would have loved any one who
behaved kindly to her; and then to be a wife, and her own mistress,
and the mistress of a house, alack-a-day! she little knew what she
was doing, when she promised her hand where her heart had not gone
before, and where none was beating for her. But it was well she made
no objection, for it was to be, whether or not; so she was spared at
least the pain of being forced against her will.
'Well, Sir, the wedding-day came, and never do I remember such a day
as it was; in vain did the bells ring, and the sun shine. Folks,
spite of all and of themselves too, couldn't be merry. They smiled,
and talked, and tried to appear gay; but to my plain honest thinking,
there was not a light heart in the village. Poor George, to be sure,
was dancing with delight, for he saw the preparations, and the fine
clothes; and he heard the bells ringing, and the neighbors talking,
and he understood that all was for and about 'his lady,' as he then
called his old play-mate; and the idea of so much fuss and bustle
on her account, made him as proud and happy as if he were to be the
sharer of it. Little did he imagine, that it was to end in robbing
him of the only comfort of his life, poor fellow! And as the bride
and bridegroom came from church, where, to the very altar, he had
followed, like a guardian saint, his watchful eye, faithful in its
duty to the last, he picked up here and there a flower that the
villagers had strewn, on which she trod, and stuck them in a row in
the button-holes of his waistcoat. But when the time came that our
dear child was to be torn from our arms, there was a scene I never
shall forget. She bade us one by one good-bye, as if she didn't dream
of being gone from us a day. It fairly seemed as though Providence
had deprived her of all thought. But when she came to take her leave
of George, she appeared to shrink from bidding him farewell. She took
his hand, and with a fluttering smile, said, 'George, I am going for
a ride'--and she was gone. For full three hours after, George was
missing; and when the twilight made us stir to find where he could
be, there by the garden-gate he stood, with the old wheel-barrow at
his side; his handkerchief spread out upon it, as he was wont to do
when he used to wheel his little play-mate in it years agone; there
was he, waiting till she should come to ride. Poor, poor creature!
He had no idea of the journey that she meant when she told him she
was going for a ride. He knew that he had been her coachman many a
time and oft, and he thought of no other carriage than that which he
had driven. I burst out a crying at the very sight of him. There he
stood, as confident that she was coming, as if he had seen her on the
threshold of the door, with her gipsy hat on her head. Three hours
he had waited, and when I saw him, it would have melted a heart of
stone to watch his look, and think upon the misery in store for him.
The sun had gone down, and there was not a sound to hear, but now
and then the melancholy pipe of a robin, or the distant tinkle of a
sheep-bell. Every thing seemed sorrowing in silence at our loss; and
he that would pine most, alone was ignorant of it. I hadn't courage
to call him away, and tell him his misfortune; but when David brought
him in, and told him that his lady had gone for a ride with the new
footman, as the poor fellow called the lieutenant, the anguish in his
face was more woful than you can think of, Sir. Every day, at the
same hour, he brought the wheel-barrow to the garden gate, and kept
it there till sunset; then, till he went to bed, he'd sit arranging
the withered flowers in his waistcoat. He was never obstinate in
refusing to do as he was desired; but unless he had been bidden to
eat and drink, no morsel would have passed his lips. He never thought
of hunger or of thirst. His little mistress, his old play-mate, and,
as he thought her, his only friend, alone occupied the mind that
never wandered now. It was fixed upon one object, and on that it
dwelt. Ten months he pined and lingered for his loss, and then, more
sensible than he had ever been before, poor George, Sir, died.'
'And happy for him that he is no more,' said I, anticipating the
sequel of little Harri's story; 'he has gone down to the cold bed, it
is true; but his pillow is far smoother than the down that is pressed
in vain for quiet and repose by the heartless and unfeeling.'
'True, very true, Sir,' said David; and I was half in doubt whether
the handkerchief would be put in requisition again; but it kept its
place across the knees of my host, and Bessum continued:
'From the day she left us, Sir, we saw no more of our dear child for
two years; but sad was the tale that reached us before she had been
gone a month. Think of her wrongs, Sir. The man who had taken her
to be parted but by death, left her the very next day after he had
robbed scores of honest sighing hearts of the chance of proving the
sincerity of their love by a life of cherishing and devotion.'
'God forgive him!' said David, 'for I fear I never can.'
'The gallows pardon him, for I never would,' cried I, in an ecstasy
of vengeance and regret. 'And what became of the deserted wife?'
Bessum, who had for nearly an hour stifled the feelings to which
she was all that time hankering to give vent, finding this either
too seasonable or powerful an occasion to resist, burst into tears,
while David, as a counterpoise to the grief which he had heretofore
monopolized, evinced a well-timed symptom of stoicism, by folding
up his handkerchief at least three times as small as the usual
dimensions to which laundresses or common consent have established,
time out of mind, a limit; and then thrusting it into the salt-box
pocket of his coat, as being the last place, at that particular
crisis, to which, under the influence of his senses, he certainly
must have intended its destination.
'I shall make short work of the rest on't, I promise you, Sir,'
sobbed the tender-hearted foster-mother; 'it be n't much use to dwell
upon the finish.'
'End it at once,' said I, impatient of farther melancholy detail.
'Twenty-four hours had not passed, Sir, after the heartless fellow
had become a husband, before he was aboard ship, and on his way to
the East Indies. He had completed his bargain; he had married our
blessed child, and received his wages for the job. He took her to the
house of one of his relations, near London, and without telling her
whither he was going, or when, if ever, he should return, left her
as I have described. Fancy her sufferings, Sir; think what she felt,
when she found herself a widow before she was fairly a wife. Oh, my
heart bleeds when I recollect her wrongs! Well, Sir, she pined and
fretted till those with whom she lived would fain have got rid of
her; and it was not long before they had their wish.'
'And did the poor child die of her distress?' said I; 'alas! so
young!'
'Not just then, Sir; you'll scarcely think that the worst of her
troubles had yet to come, but so it was. As fate would have it, she
was one day met and followed home by a gentleman who, she couldn't
help observing, appeared so struck with her, that though he did not
offer to speak to her, seemed determined upon finding where she
lived. Every day, for more than a week, did he watch the house
nearly all day long; and when at last she went out of doors, he made
the best of the opportunity, and began in the most woful manner to
tell her how much he loved her, and what he was suffering on her
account; and to beg and pray of her not to be angry with him for what
he couldn't help. Well, Sir, he spoke so mild and respectful, and
seemed so truly miserable, that the wretched widow couldn't for the
life of her speak harshly to him, and so she made no answer at all.
He told her that he saw she had something on her mind that distressed
her, and said he was certain he could make her happy, and that not
even her displeasure should make him cease from the attempt. And sure
enough, to her, poor thing, he seemed to be as good as his word;
for though she forbade him to approach her in any way again, still
he hovered about the house as much as ever, and wrote such letters,
telling of his misery and anxiety on her account, that, tired out by
the ill treatment of those to whose tender mercies she was abandoned;
sinking under the pangs of her desertion, and beset by the arts and
entreaties of a fine young man, who seemed to speak so fairly for her
comfort and good; in an evil hour, the poor deluded and distracted
creature flew to his arms for that protection which in vain was
pledged her by a husband.
'I have already told you, that in my opinion she never had a thought
of any love for the man she had married; it is not to be wondered at,
then, that one who at least professed to be all that a husband should
be, found no great difficulty or delay in gaining her affections
and confidence in return. In short, her young heart, that had never
before known the feeling, was now fixed upon this man with all the
fondness and devotion of a first love. It was no hard matter for him,
therefore, to persuade her to whatever he liked; and the first advice
he gave her for her good was, to take a house in the neighborhood
of one of the parks, which he made his home; eating, drinking, and
riding about at her expense. For twelve or fourteen months, this was
a life of uninterrupted happiness for our poor Harri. She had quiet
or company, as she liked, and the society of one whom she loved to
madness. She didn't trouble herself about what folks called the
meanness of a man in a profession being clothed and kept by a woman;
so long as there was the money, what mattered which had it, or which
laid it out? This was the argument of a doating girl; and the best
proof that it was a sufficient one is, that she was content. The
first sign of an interruption to the joys that alas! are always too
dearly bought at the sacrifice she had made, was the news of the
arrival in England of her husband; and within two days after that,
his appearance at her house. Here was a fine to do indeed! She was
alone in her drawing-room, and no one else in the house but the two
maid servants. In vain did she resist, and entreat him. By main
force he carried her out of the house, put her into a hackney-coach,
without bonnet or shawl, and drove away with her to the house of his
mother. That man was born to be her torment and ruin. He had left
her when he ought most to have been in her company, and he returned
when his desertion had driven her, in misery and despair, to seek
for happiness in the expectation of which with him he had deceived
her; to disturb the comfort his heartlessness had neglected to afford
her. Don't fancy that he loved her, Sir; 'twas no such thing, as I
shall soon make clear to you. However, not six hours after she had
been taken away, the dear child was home again, and in the arms of
the man for whom she would have risked her life. Here was devotion,
Sir. She got out of a one pair of stairs' window, by letting herself
down with the bed clothes, as far as they would reach, and by jumping
the rest; and just as she had been taken from her home, without a bit
of out-door covering, off she set, in the cold and wet of a December
night, and had to walk for full a mile and a half, before she got the
coach that carried her home. Did her husband love her, Sir? Day after
day he rode or walked past the house, and sent letters to her; but
never once offered to seek out the man who kept his wife from him.
Can he have loved her, Sir, to leave her in the quiet possession of
another, and take himself off again to the Indies? So much for the
husband, and now for the lover, as he called himself.
'Matters, I don't know what, took him to France; and he was to return
to her, who was weary of her life in his absence, within a month.
He had not been gone a fortnight, before she received a letter from
him, written in a French prison, where he was confined for debt. That
hour she started post for Dover, and in three days they were on their
road home together. Little Harri had released the man she adored, and
brought him away from his troubles in triumph and in joy.'
David's handkerchief, notwithstanding the depth into which it had
been plunged, and the compactness with which it had been doubled up,
was out of his pocket, unfolded, and across his knees in an instant;
while the dame took occasion to fortify herself for the coming trial
with a considerable pinch of Scotch snuff.
'They didn't reach home, Sir,' resumed she, 'for more than a
fortnight; for they staid a day here, and a day there, to see
the sights, and such like; and because she, poor girl, was in no
condition for much hurry, though she had forgotten that, as she did
every thing, when she started, but her devoted love for him whom she
went to rescue. But when they did arrive, dearly did she pay for
the fault a husband's cruelty had driven her to commit; and bitter
was the punishment of Providence. But it was all fate, I'm sure it
was, it must have been; for surely her crime didn't call for such a
dreadful judgment as befell her. Oh, good heart, Sir; after all she
had undergone, in a long journey to a foreign land, where she had
never been before, and all alone, too, Sir, without a friend to help
or to advise her; she had left a house fitted and furnished like a
little palace, as a body may say, the homestead of her high-priced
fatal happiness; think of her reaching what she thought a home, and
finding none! What can have been her feelings? She was soon to be a
mother, and she had not a bed to lie down upon! In the short time
that she had been away, the servant, in whose charge she left her
house, by the aid and advice of a villain she kept company with, had
carried off every thing, under the pretence that he was moving for
her mistress. Ah, you may look surprised, Sir, and with reason; but
'tis just as true as you and I sit here.'
'God's will be done!' sobbed David; 'she's out of harm's way now,
Bessum; God's will be done!'
'She didn't rave and take on, Sir,' continued Bessum; 'the hand of
destiny was on her, and she felt it. As calmly as though nothing had
occurred, she bade the coachman drive to a certain hotel. She seemed
to reckon but for a moment between what she had lost and what she had
regained; and she was satisfied with the account as it stood. All
in the world for which she cared, was still spared to her. She had
herself preserved him; the author of her dishonor, the cause of her
loss, and only compensation for it, the father of her child! These
were all she prized on earth, and he who was one and all, now sat
beside her. With a look of resignation, confidence, and content, she
said: 'What's to be done?'
The eyes upon the canvass seemed to ask _me_ for an answer. I felt
that I could beg subsistence for such a woman--become a drudge, a
slave, or yield my life up for her sake. 'And what was his answer?'
cried I, in an ecstasy of impatience.
'Good advice! good advice, Sir!' replied Bessum. '_He asked her, if
she didn't think she had better go to her old nurse!_ This was all
the comfort she got from her lover; and she asked him for no more.
She didn't upbraid him. Her wrongs were too great to be humbled by
complaint. He had dealt her death-blow, and she followed his advice.
She came to her old nurse, Sir--God be praised!--and I and David
closed her precious eyes for ever, after they had lingered, in their
last dim sight, on the lifeless image of him whose name, with her
forgiveness and prayer to heaven for his happiness, were the last
words upon her sweet, sweet lips!'
'And if a special hand is not upraised to strew his path of life with
tenfold the sharp pangs that drove his victim to an early grave,'
cried I, 'it can only be, that it has already sent the monster to his
last fearful account.'
My heart was faint and sick at the recital I had heard. I returned to
my inn, and all that night--for it was in vain that I attempted to
sleep--I mused upon this awful dispensation of the wrath of heaven;
and, dare I own it, I felt that had I been the sentencer, I must
have incurred the blame of partiality, by a verdict in which pity
would have blunted the keen edge of that just severity with which the
wisdom of vindictive Providence had stricken the transgression of
'_Poor little Harri_!'
M.
SONNET.
THE moon is gliding on her clear blue way:
I've watched her, as she rose above the clouds which lay
Darkly along the horizon; as she threw
A glorious halo round them, and then drew,
With her still power, away the fogs which night
Gathers upon the earth; then touched with light
The tree-abounding city, till its stately domes
Of Gothic and of Dorian art, and quiet homes,
Slept 'neath a sea of beauty. Then, sweet lady, I
Was bidden in my heart, remember thee--
How thou hast risen in thy angel purity,
And light of heavenly truth, to beam on me,
And scatter far the darkness, doubts, and fears,
Which rose from out the tomb of my young misspent years.
G. P. T.
STANZAS.
THINE is the hour of joy;
The heart untouched by sorrow,
And bliss without alloy
Is pictured on to-morrow:
To-morrow!--it may come
To robe thy brow in sadness,
Make desolate thy home,
And rob thy heart of gladness.
But fear thou not the storm,
Though it pass in fury o'er thee;
The rainbow's smiling form
Still bends its arch before thee:
It tells thee joy may fade,
And winter strip the bower,
Hope in the grave be laid,
And withered every flower:
Yet there's a home on high,
Where sorrow enters never,
Where pleasure cannot die,
And friendship lives for ever.
'Tis where the good are blest
With happiness unending
A world of heavenly rest,
And there thy steps are tending!
_November 4, 1826._ J. H. B.
ORNAMENTAL GARDENING.
'Unweeded gardens;
Things rank and gross in nature
Possess them merely.'
THERE is nothing more subject to the notice of a traveller in the
United States, than the want of ornament about the residences, not
only of the poorer but of the richer class of inhabitants. It would
certainly seem, that the manners of the New-Englanders, so aptly
described by the worthy historian of the three Dutch governors of
New-York, had not yet entirely fallen into desuetude. He who has seen
the many huge and ungainly, though perhaps less rickety and flimsy,
palaces that frequently adorn a wide landscape, cannot think that
the age of air-castles has wholly departed: it lacks but the relics
of the old family wardrobe, petticoats, hats and breeches, thrust in
the windows, to complete the idea, that one is in the land and age
alluded to by the same veracious historian I have mentioned. How far
an inside view of our modern shingle palaces might betoken a similar
want of energy or means in the proprietors, it does not beseem my
present purpose to inquire.
Certainly, the little attention that is paid to external ornament,
around the situations of the wealthy and the great of our land, is
evidence of a want of that refined taste which all should desire to
see more common. It cannot be attributed to want of means, or of
disposition to expend them, in decorating the family mansion; for
enough is often laid out in the bare edifice that 'rears its bulky
form against the sky,' if judiciously expended, not only to give to
the building itself a far more tasteful appearance, but to surround
it with ornamental work, and shrubbery, that shall add tenfold to its
beauty, and very much to its comfort. It is the want of judgment and
taste manifested in the expenditure of the vast sums annually devoted
to the erection of retired family residences, which I esteem more
particularly worthy of notice.