street, near Ninth. It was one of the most imposing mansions in the
street. Miss Clayton lived there with her old father—the two alone! For
several years after freeing herself from Leslie, she lived in hopes of
marriage, but in vain. The men were afraid of her. Her mortification
when she found Leslie restored to perfect health, knew no bounds. She
had a secret hope that he would yet re-address her; but from that period
she never received more than a cold and civil bow from him. She could
have poisoned herself with vexation. But as years passed away, and she
saw that he still remained unmarried, she consoled herself with the idea
that she was the cause—and that he could never love any one as he had
loved her. This devoted bachelorism was Clara’s only and greatest
consolation. It was a healing balm to her wounded spirit. So he married
not, she felt she could forgive herself for her folly in not marrying
him. It is true, she watched his course to forty with some anxiety, lest
he might yet marry; but when he had passed that climax, she gave herself
no farther uneasiness, and rested in the conscious assurance of his
eternal celibacy. This idea was the rainbow that spanned her darkened
skies—the sweet in her bitter cup of life. But, alas! she was soon to
see the rainbow disappear, and her horizon become dark with storms!
Alas! she was to drink the remainder of the cup with additional
bitterness mingled with its dregs.
She was seated in her usual sitting room when Mary arrived. Her hair was
drawn back above her ears and tied untidily with a dirty yellow ribbon;
she wore a loose wrapper, and her stocking feet were thrust into red
slippers. Her fingers were loaded with rings, and ear drops hung from
her ears. Her complexion was something coarser for the wear and tear of
time, and had very plain traces of being now indebted to white paint and
rouge, for whatever pretensions it claimed. Her forehead was crossed by
horizontal impatient wrinkles, and a deep frown was cut between her
eyebrows. She was thin about the breast and shoulders, and very slender
in the waist, more so than in her youthful prime. The general expression
of her face was querulous and sour—precisely such an expression as she
might have been expected to wear. As Mary was shown in she looked up
with a sharp, impatient gesture.
“So, Miss, you have come for the amount of your bill!”
“Yes, m’m, if you please.”
“Don’t _mem_ me as if I was fifty, Miss.”
“No, m’m.”
“Did I not forbid your saying _marm_ to me—what is the amount of the
bill?”
“You have it, m’—— I mean Miss.”
“That is better. Ah, yes, here it is, $17 19, What did your mistress say
about the 19 cents?”
“That she would take it off.”
“Very well; here is seventeen dollars. Receipt it.” Mary took a pen from
an inkstand on the table and acknowledged the payment.
“Humph, you write too pretty a hand for an apprentice girl,” said Miss
Clayton, glancing contemptuously at Mary’s beautiful chirography. “I
dare say you can dance too?”
“Yes, Miss,” said Mary slightly smiling.
“And sing and play,” more contemptuously still.
“Yes, Miss.”
“Humph. Read Byron, Moore, Scott, doubtless, and perhaps the French
poets?” she continued with a contemptuous smile of incredulity.
“Yes, Miss.”
“Yes, Miss. I suppose if I should ask you if you read French and sung
Italian, you would reply with your parrot phrase, ‘yes, Miss.’”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Upon my word! Ha, ha, ha! here’s a linen-draper’s apprentice for you! I
suppose you look to marry some nobleman at the least, with all them
accomplishments, if you can! What package is that beneath your arm, my
pretty minx,” for Miss Clayton had conceived a sudden and unaccountable
(save that her youth and beauty were the cause,) dislike for Mary. And
without waiting for a reply she snatched it from her.
“_For_ Major Leslie Pierpoint,
No. 27, South Sixth St.”
“You are sent with this to Major Pierpoint’s, are you?” she asked
sharply and with a suspicious look at the young and guileless girl.
“Yes m’m,” answered Mary quietly.
Miss Clayton let her eyes rest on the superscription for a few moments,
and then lifted them steadily to the face of the maiden.
“You had best return directly to your shop with the amount of your
mistress’ bill, lest you lose it on the way. I will dispatch my footman
with this package to his lodgings.”
“I thank you, but I am ordered to take it there myself,” said Mary
firmly.
“Indeed; but it would not be prudent for so young a person as you to go
to a bachelor’s rooms alone. I will send it for you. Do you know Major
Pierpoint?”
“No, m’m,” answered Mary with embarrassment.
“Have you never seen him?”
“He was in the shop last evening,” answered Mary evasively.
“Did he speak to you?”
“If you please I will take the package and go,” said Mary, half angry at
this singular inquisition upon her affairs.
“Take it, trollop,” said Miss Clayton, flinging it towards her, “and
tell your mistress when she has occasion to send any one to me again,
she will oblige me by sending some civil person.”
Mary stared with surprise, at a loss to account for the lady’s humor,
and gladly took her departure.
The heavy tocsin of the State House had struck the last stroke of
twelve, as Mary timidly pulled the bell at Major Pierpoint’s handsome
residence. It was opened by Cato.
“Massa says de young woman will please walk up and wait,” said Cato, as
Mary offered to leave the bundle in his hand. Mary hesitated an instant,
and then, trembling, (she could not tell why,) she followed him to the
library. The door was opened, and Cato ushered her in with one of his
best bows. Leslie pretended to be very busily engaged in a book as she
entered, though he had been walking his room, or watching through the
blinds with ill-concealed impatience till he heard the street door bell.
He permitted Cato to leave the room, and Mary to advance half way to the
table, before he gave signs of her presence. He then suddenly rose up
and turned round.
“Ah, Miss Lee,” he said, with tender respect, “you have brought the
gloves.”
“Yes, sir,” said Mary, without lifting her eyes.
“Sit down, if you please, while I examine the package.”
Mary quietly took a seat, and Major Pierpoint began to look over the
parcels. But evidently his thoughts were not with this pursuit. His
fingers trembled—he shockingly rent several pairs of gloves; put six of
the handkerchiefs, one after another, into his pocket; blew his nose on
a pair of silk hose, and at length sprung from the table in the most
admirable confusion of mind in which a bachelor, at such a moment, could
well be. After thrice striding the room to gather courage, he approached
the surprised, embarrassed, yet not _unexpecting_ Mary. No woman of any
sense, or feeling, or mind, could be blind at such a time. He approached
and seated himself beside her.
“Miss Lee——”
Mary trembled and remained silent. The Major gazed upon her tell-tale
face, and then furtively sought her hand. She withdrew it instinctively,
and half rose.
“Nay, my dear Miss Lee! pardon me! I meant no injury to your delicacy.
Pray be seated!” and he took her hand and gently drew her to the chair
which she had left. “I beg you to listen to me one moment. I have
conceived for you a deep and respectful passion. Your beauty, grace and
intelligence have made an impression upon my heart no time can ever
efface. It is true you are young and full of life and beauty—I have
passed half the allotted life of man. But the disparity is in years
only. My heart is as young as your own, my feelings as buoyant, my hopes
as bright. I have sought to meet you to-day to make a confession of the
sentiments with which you have inspired me, to tell you how intimately
my happiness is involved in your existence, to throw myself upon your
generosity. You are an orphan, alas! and a cold, unpitying world is
before you! Your loveliness and helplessness claim protection. Permit me
to fill that delightful position near you while life lasts. I offer you
my heart, my hand, my fortune, and promise to devote my life to the
promotion of your happiness.”
The Major, after ending his eloquent appeal, gazed upon her downcast
face several moments in silence. She made no reply! He still continued
to hold her hand. Slowly he lifted it to his lips. There was no
resistance. He again sought her eyes. Tears were silently gushing from
them, and rolling in sparkling globules down her lovely cheeks.
“Good God, Miss Lee, have I offended you?”
“No, sir,” said Mary, lifting her eyes, the lashes dewy with tears, and
sweetly smiling.
“Why these tears, then?”
“I do not know, indeed, unless it be that they flow from gratitude,” she
answered, looking into his face with a radiant smile, like sunshine in
an April shower.
The Major’s eyes filled also, and the next moment he pressed the happy
girl to his heart.
* * * * *
Yes, Mary Lee became Major Leslie’s wife through _gratitude_. They were
married, for he well knew gratitude would grow to love, and a brief time
proved that he judged rightly. One month from the day on which he
confessed his passion he led to the altar his charming bride. They were
married publicly in church.
“Ah, Major, so you—don’t know her—some milliner’s apprentice, eh?”
laughingly said a gentleman present, after the ceremony was over.
Clara Clayton, hearing that Leslie Pierpoint was to be married, went to
the church, disguised in a strange bonnet and long green veil—but
Leslie recognised her by her taper waist, and felt that his triumph and
(if such a feeling really existed in his breast) his revenge were
complete. Yes, Clara Clayton witnessed the ceremony, and when she saw it
and recognised the bride’s face as she turned from the altar, she could
scarcely suppress a shriek of mingled anger and disappointed malice. She
went home and died the same year, the victim of her own selfishness.
Leslie Pierpoint and his beautiful lady are now travelling in Europe.
Mary makes him an excellent wife, proving to be as good as she is
beautiful.
* * * * *
THE CHRISTIAN’S DREAM OF THE FUTURE.
BY ROBERT MORRIS.
How brief our earthly span! Youth, Manhood, Age—
We creep—we walk—we totter off life’s stage,
A thin, weak voice—a fuller, stronger tone,
A peevish, child-like cry, and then a groan!
How quick yon star shoots down the illumined sky—
’Tis gone! And yet we see not where on high,
Its bright lamp shone! ’Tis thus with feeble man—
He twinkles here a moment, and, is gone!
On rolls the world! Each evanescent year
Bears on its current to some distant sphere,
Myriads of mortal forms—vain things of time,
Youth in its hour of hope—and Manhood’s prime—
Beauty, and all its fading hues of clay,
The tints that _are_ not, but were yesterday!
The eyes whose light enkindled many a flame—
The lips that breathed in love some cherished name—
The fair slight hand—the cheek so like the rose,
The form where Grace herself had sought repose—
The music voice—the shadowy locks and all
That touched the heart—or glittered in the ball;
These all have been—but Death has claimed them now—
The look of scorn—the proud and lofty brow—
Vice, with its heartless sneer, and Wealth and Pride,
Lifeless and still, now slumber side by side!
And is there then no grace to mortals given,—
No hope to brighten here and lead to Heaven?
No faith to lift the soul from worldly ties,
And point the way to Joy and Paradise!
Look to thy heart, vain mortal, question there,
Of life and death—of glory and despair—
Ask, if within a spirit may not dwell—
A viewless tenant of thy bosom’s cell—
Whose thin small voice, in accents soft and sweet,
May oft be heard to warn thy erring feet—
“Beware—avoid—beyond is Heaven’s high road,
Where knees are bent, and souls commune with God—
There, where the meek of heart, the pure and mild,
Walk hand in hand with Virtue’s dove-eyed child—
There, where the widow gives her liberal mite,
And points the orphan in the way aright—
There, where soft Feeling sheds the heart-wrung tear,
And bends in sorrow o’er the sinner’s bier—
Where patient Grief leans on her thin white hand,
And smiling, dreams of the unshadowed land—
Look—mortal look—the pathway is not bright—
But mark, it closes in a world of light—
The clouds that hang above its troubled way,
Melt in the distance into perfect day!
Such is the Christian’s Future! There are seen
Eternal sunshine—vales of softest green,
Grottos, savannahs, deep and flowery glades,
Clear sparkling streams and rainbow-lit cascades,
Thick shadowy woods, where many a voice of song
Gladdens the hours, as fast they flit along;
No care to mar their brightness, and no gloom
To whisper “onward, onward to the tomb”—
Bright Youth and Hope, by Grace and Beauty’s side,
No look of scorn—no air of worm-like pride,
No voice of woe, to pain the spirit ear—
No orphan’s cry—no widow’s heart-wrung tear—
No secret fear, to chill the hour of bliss,
No hollow heart—no false or Judas kiss—
No wan Disease, to steal the rose away!
And write at Beauty’s door, “Decay, Decay”—
Oh! no—the Future, Virtue’s happy clime—
The land beyond the grave, untouched by time,
Where the worn soul throws off its mortal clay—
And, god-like, springs to Heaven’s eternal day—
The realm of bliss—where, with a joy half wild,
The mother clasps and cherishes her child—
The widow claims her long lost son—the maid
Her plighted lover, years to her a shade—
Where friends embrace, and souls again unite,
Fond faces greet, and gladden on the sight—
The buried sire once more his idol boy
Clasps to his breast with more than human joy—
And well remembered voices—looks of love—
Kind words that sweeten every lip above;
Where, as we downward gaze, and distant far,
The world appears a faint and feeble star,
Where Life and Bliss their arms together twine,
And Nature’s charms are added, Heaven, to thine—
Where “moth nor rust,” nor chance nor change may come,
Forever wandering and forever home;
Joys brightening in our footsteps as we pass,
And Hope before us with his magic glass—
Each sound and song, each object, every thought,
With some new pleasure, some fresh feeling fraught—
Where one pure Spirit animates the whole,
One thrill excites the universal soul!
’Tis these, and joys like these, the Future brings,
When ’midst her depths we soar on Virtue’s wings—
When from the Past the light of hope we borrow,
And throw its brightness o’er the coming morrow,—
When, as we wander through life’s devious way,
The realm beyond this mere domain of clay
Shall, like some beacon on a rocky strand,
Win the strained gaze and nerve the feeble hand—
Shall point where danger lies, and where at last
Our bark may ride in safety from the blast!
Such is the Christian’s dream of time to come,
The land of light and love—the happy home—
Where the worn spirit, freed from earthly ties,
Above the things of dust and time shall rise,
And mount on angel pinions to the skies!
* * * * *
THE ROWSEVILLERS.—No. I.
O’DONNELL’S PRIZE.
“To be plain with you,” said the barber, shaking his head, “I
can scarce believe what you say.” _Gil Blas._
When I was in the dragoons, we were quartered, for a while, not far from
Rowseville, and it was my lot to receive a general invitation to the
dinners of the club. A jollier set of fellows never drew cork or emptied
a decanter—heaven be merciful to them for their sins! They always had
the best a-going; could tell north from south side Madeira,—and tossed
off their bumpers, hour in and hour out, as easily as an old spinster
drinks her tea. As for their president, Captain Humphreys, he was a
paragon of a good fellow. Short, square, deep chested, and muscular as
Hercules, he was just the man to keep a set of such spirits in order;
and, I verily believe, if any of the youngsters had ventured to dispute
his will, he would have tossed them over the marquee as easily as I
could hurl a racket ball. He had spent most of his life at sea, having
seen service in every latitude. He could tell a good story, and danced a
jig to perfection. He was, moreover, something of a _gourmand_; always
presided over our culinary rites; and made the best chowder of any man
in the States, or, for that matter, as the old cook said, “in the
’varsal world.”
There is nothing like fishing, and a table on the green sward, to give
one an appetite; and it would have done your heart good to have seen us
on the day I first dined with the club—but especially to have beheld
Humphrey’s jovial face, when he announced the opening toast. And then
such a time as followed. Sherry, Port, Madeira, Jamaica and
Cogniac!—why they chased each other from the table faster than the
witches did old Tam O’Shanter, in the road by Ayr. Some of the
youngsters soon began to grow noisy; and even one or two of their
seniors winked a good deal unnecessarily; but Humphreys, and a set of
the older stagers at the head of the table, kept it up, without drawing
a rein, until I began to think they could fag down even Bacchus himself.
And all this time their jests would have made a hermit die with
laughter! Yet Humphreys never suffered his youngsters to indulge beyond
a certain point, and he had a story to account for this circumspection
which made my ribs sore for a week after hearing it.
“Silence, you addle-heads,” he thundered, as soon as he saw they were
getting beyond their depths—“can’t one of you sing at a time, without
keeping up such an infernal clatter of Dutch, French, English and Congo
songs? You remind me of a set of chaps I had the honor to dine with in
Boston—no, not the honor, for they all drank to excess—and a man in
that state” (and here the worthy speaker, by way of corollary, tossed
off a bumper) “is a shock to my moral feelings. Keep in soundings if you
can’t sail safely out of them; but, for heaven’s sake, don’t disgrace
our table with a set of indecent inebriates.
“But, to come back to my story—you must know that the Governor’s
Guards, in Boston, are a gay set of youngsters, and, at their annual
dinner at the State House, they make the corks fly as I’ve seen only
grape shot showering from a battery. Well—no disrespect to the
cloth—their dinner is always opened and closed by a parson; and a good
rule it is; for when the governor sees that his youngsters are getting
heady, he has but to give a nod—the benediction is pronounced, and they
are forced to break up. When I was there, however, his excellency
postponed the dismissal rather too long, so that when he gave the signal
to the parson, there wasn’t a chap, at the lower end of the table, who
could carry his wine to his mouth without spilling half of the liquid. A
blessed sight it was to see them then—as proper a set of youngsters, in
general, as you’d wish to look upon—shouting, laughing, singing,
standing in chairs, waving their glasses on high, and altogether cutting
a figure not the most pleasant for a moral man like me to behold. They
saw the parson get up and they heard him begin to speak, but they were
too far gone to distinguish either his person or his words.
“‘Hilloo, Bill,’ said one to his neighbor, ‘is that a new toast? What
does he say?’
“‘Can’t—make—it out,’ hiccuped Bill, with drunken gravity, ‘but I
guess—it’s—it’s—something con—found—ed fine. Let’s give the old
cock three cheers,’ and the whole set sprang to their feet and huzzaed
’til the very roof above us seemed to tremble with the din. The poor
parson hesitated, stopped, and looked in bewilderment at his
excellency—who could only keep himself from laughing, so inexpressibly
ludicrous was the whole scene, by hanging his head down and cramming his
handkerchief into his mouth. As for the rest of us, there was no
resisting it—we laid back in our chairs and laughed until the tears ran
out of our eyes,—while the ladies in the gallery, the dear creatures,
almost burst their boddice strings.
“His excellency explained all to the parson the next day, and made a
thousand apologies—but the good man never could be got again to ask a
benediction over the Governor’s Guards.”
“I suppose you tell that for the morals of your table, eh!” said one of
the party.
“Exactly,” answered the president, laughing, “and I never saw one yet
whom it didn’t cure of excess at table, except a fellow who used to say
it was hereditary in him, by the mother’s side, to have the cholic, and
that brandy was the only cure. That chap was a character: I’ve a story
I’ll tell you about him some of these days.”
“Why not now?” asked a dozen in a breath.
“Well, I suppose if I must I must,—but first pass us the bottle, and
let us drink to his memory—he died, poor fellow, in Florida, where many
a brave man has laid his bones. Here’s to Tim O’Donnell.”
A silence of a few moments having elapsed, during which all eyes were
turned on the president, that personage, after hemming twice, thus
began.
“Never was a handsomer fellow than Tim O’Donnell, lieutenant in the
——. Tall, well shaped, with the eye of a young eagle, and a pair of
jet black whiskers, that were worth, to a fortune-hunter, fifty thousand
dollars, Tim was the perfect picture of a soldier—and, to use his own
phrase, ‘a divil of a chap among the girls.’ He made more conquests in a
week than I would in a year; and, as you may see,” and here he stroked
his chin complacently, “there are few fellows as good looking as I am.
But Tim was after money, and used to flirt with the dear creatures only
to keep his hand in for an heiress, when one should present. At length
he was introduced to a lovely creature at a ball,—blue eyes, auburn
hair, the shape of a goddess, and lips that would make your mouth water,
even if you were as dry as old mahogany—and, for a while, he scarcely
knew whether he was standing on his head or on his feet. He even paid
court, so much was he smitten, to a long, scraggy, hatchet-shouldered
spinster of an aunt, who attended his charmer as a sort of _chaperon_.
The next day he was somewhat cooled down—at least he determined to
check his raptures until he inquired after the fortunes of Miss Wheeler,
for so his charmer was called. He left me for this purpose about noon,
and in an hour rushed into my room perfectly insane with joy.
“‘Och—give me your hand—shower the blessings on my head,’ he
exclaimed, dancing round the room, ‘sure and I’m in heaven the
day—ouch, ullabaloo, was there iver such luck?—ten thousand acres, the
dear sowl, and a rint roll as long as a rigiment’s line: I’m a made
man—hurrah!’ and throwing his cap up he caught it again, and then
capered around the room, even carrying his antics so far as to leap over
sundry chairs. I was nearly dying with laughter—and as yet I was
totally ignorant of the cause of this joy.
“‘What do you mean?’ said I, ‘you haven’t told me what all this
congratulation is to be about.’
“Never did I see a fellow look more astonished than Tim. He stopped
still, stared at me incredulously, and then gave vent to his wonder.
“‘Blood and ages, and is the man drunk? Don’t ye know it’s all about
Miss Araminta Wheeler, and the immense fortune she’s to bring me? The
only living child—all the rest dead of scarlet fever, praise to the
saints! and her owld father expected to kick the bucket everyday. Ouch,
ullaloo-o-o, ain’t I the happy man? It’s marry the girl I will, this
blessed week.’
“‘But will the ‘owld father’ consent—eh! Tim?’
“‘Divil a bit do I care whether he consents or not, if the daughter says
‘yes’—oh! such a jewel of a woman,—and what an iligant pattern the
young O’Donnells will be!’
“‘Suppose the father guards her too well to permit an elopement? That
dragon of an aunt looks as if she was kept to play the duenna.’
“‘Arrah, my lad,’ said Tim, with a knowing wink, ‘I’ll soon fix that, or
my name isn’t Timothy O’Donnell, of Ballywhangle, of the county of
Clare, standing six feet two in my stockings. Can’t I pretend to make
love to the owld hag when the niece isn’t by? Oh! trust me for _brushing
the dew_ into her eyes.’