Grahame more to my heart. About this time she received letters from
home, announcing the death of Mrs. Grahame’s only sister, Mrs. Dutton;
and, also, that the latter’s eldest child, a daughter, one year older
than Evelyn, had been adopted by her aunt. Mrs. Grahame wrote in the
most flattering manner concerning Sarah Dutton; and from the letters the
young girl herself wrote Evelyn, I was led to entertain a high opinion
of her mind and heart. Evelyn had often visited her aunt, and therefore
knew her cousin well. She often spoke to me in the warmest manner of
Sarah’s beauty and amiability.
In the meantime, Arthur Noel, Eva’s lover, remained at sea; but the time
was drawing near when he would return. The months rolled swiftly by; and
as the period approached for her leaving school, Evelyn became more
impatient each day. She was expecting her father to come on for her,
when a letter arrived, telling her that it was impossible for him to
leave his business, and that she would be obliged to remain at school
for a few weeks longer, until some good opportunity offered for her to
reach home.
Eva was very much distressed at this. She felt sure that Arthur would
reach Mobile before her, and she had promised to meet him there. But she
was forced to submit; and after some little persuasion, consented to
accompany me to my father’s summer residence on the North River. She was
charmed with the scenery of the Hudson, and arrived in much better
spirits than I expected at “Lily Grove”—the fanciful name my dear
mother had bestowed upon our dear, beautiful home. The day after our
arrival, Evelyn received a letter, which had been forwarded to her from
school, where it was directed. It was from Arthur Noel, the first she
had ever received from him. How brightly her eyes beamed as she read it.
Fourteen months of separation had failed to erase her image from his
heart. He was at Pensacola, and thinking she would soon be on her return
home, designed meeting her in Mobile.
“O, Ellen!” she exclaimed, when she had finished reading the precious
missive, “I never felt before how truly, how devotedly I am his.” Poor
Evelyn! she loved with a woman’s first, deep, passionate love—a love
that either makes or mars her happiness—a love that rude neglect may
chill, but naught but death destroy.
The next week brought my dear Eva another tender letter. Arthur had
reached Mobile, and though much disappointed at not meeting her there,
felt obliged, he said, to smother his desire to fly to New York for her,
as so sudden a move, before he had visited his own family, would cause
“very unpleasant remarks.” Evelyn was chagrined at this, and so was I.
We had both yet to learn how little of the world’s opinion a man is
willing to sacrifice for the sake of the one he pretends to love. My
friend said little upon the subject, however; but I saw that she
anxiously awaited the coming of the following week, when she felt sure
of hearing again from her lover. The week came, but brought
disappointment—there was no letter. Three weeks more of great anxiety
were passed, and still Evelyn heard nothing from home. She was beginning
to be seriously alarmed, when one morning, at the beginning of the
fourth week, I flew to her room with a letter that the servant had just
brought from the village post-office. She grasped it eagerly—the
superscription was Arthur’s. She broke the seal, but, as if a sudden
presentiment of evil had come over her, she laid it down, and sinking
into a chair, burst into tears. “Ellen,” said she, “you must read it
first—I have not courage; I feel as if it contained bad news.” I
laughed at her, but she insisted upon my reading it first. I took it up,
opened it, and silently read as follows:—
_Mobile, May 20, 18—._
Dearest Eva,—You will be surprised upon receiving this, to find
that I am still in your city instead of being with my own family
in New Orleans. But you will, I fear, be pained to learn the
object that detains me. Oh, Eva! would to God we had never met;
or rather, would that I had died, ere I strove to win your fond,
pure heart to myself. But, Eva, I know you well; beneath a
gentleness which angels might covet, you bear a proud, firm
spirit; and I know further, that you would rather learn the
truth now, painful as it may be, than some time hence, when it
would be too late to repair the evil. I came here, my Eva, with
a heart full of love and joy at the prospect of seeing you
again. I was disappointed, most sincerely so, at not meeting
you. But another filled your place in the family circle—our
orphan cousin, Sarah. I will not say aught in her praise, for
you have seen and loved her; but—must I confess it—day after
day found me lingering at her side, listening to the music of a
voice that I have never heard equaled; and, ere long, I learned
to know how sadly I had mistaken my feelings toward you, Evelyn.
Condemn me, curse me, if you will—I love, madly love, Sarah!
Oh, Evelyn! what words to write to you my own, noble-hearted
cousin; but you may, perhaps, thank me for my candor. As yet, I
have not committed myself to Sarah—all rests with you. To you I
owe all my duty and my hand; say but the word, dear Eva, and it
is yours forever. I do not ask you to release me from my
engagement; but, having told you all, shall most anxiously
expect your answer. My heart is breaking, dear Eva, at the
thought of the pain this may cause you; but with your own brave
spirit, cast from you the image of one who is unworthy of you;
one who has so traitorously repaid your love.
Arthur Noel.
The letter had evidently been penned in a state of great agitation. I
thought it the wildest thing I had ever read, but at the moment,
indignation mastered every other feeling. I continued silent for some
moments after I had finished reading it—for I was too much distressed
to speak. I did not know how to break the matter to my friend. I knew
she had been watching my face for some seconds, and my feelings must
have revealed themselves very strongly; for when she saw me standing so
long silent, she said, “Tell me what that letter contains, to move you
thus.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, but seeing me still silent, she
sprung toward me, and grasping my hand, exclaimed, “have mercy on me,
Ellen. Tell me what it is; I can bear all, any thing, so that Arthur is
well!”
“He is well, Evelyn,” said I; “it would be better for you, poor girl, if
he were dead.”
“Oh! say not that,” she again exclaimed, “you would have me think him
false; but that cannot be. Arthur loves me; oh, God! say that he loves
me still.”
She sunk at my feet as she said this, and burying her face in my dress,
sobbed violently.
“Evelyn,” I cried, endeavoring at the same time to raise her, “Evelyn,
you have a hard trial before you, but one which I know your woman’s
pride will enable you to bear with fortitude. I will leave you; read
that letter yourself, and when I come again in an hour, let me find that
my friend has been true to herself.” I gently disengaged my dress from
her clasp, placed the letter in her hand, kissed her cheek, and left the
room.
I retired to my own room, and there wept for my friend, as I had never
wept for myself. I trembled for the consequences that might ensue. I
knew how deeply Arthur was beloved; and I could not but fear that even
Eva’s firm spirit would not bear the blow with fortitude.
In an hour I knocked at her door, and called her by name. “Do not come
in yet,” she said, but in a voice so hoarse and hollow, that I could
scarcely believe it hers; “do not come in yet, I am not what you wish to
see me.”
Once again that morning I attempted to see her, but she still refused to
admit me; and it was not until eight o’clock in the evening that my maid
came and told me that Evelyn wished to see me.
Never, never shall I forget the look with which she received me. Her
color was more brilliant than I had ever seen it, but her eyes were dull
and fixed, and a ghastly smile played round her mouth, as she bade me
enter; but the expression of her forehead, if I may use such a term,
shocked me more than all else. It seemed to have grown old—twenty years
in advance of the rest of her face. It was wrinkled, and literally old,
with the agony of thought she endured.
“Ellen,” said she, in the same hollow tone with which she had addressed
me at the door, “Ellen, I have sent for you, to ask you where is now all
my boasted firmness; where my pride, my dignity? Ah, Ellen! I was never
tried before. You think me calm—despair makes me so. I did not arrive
at despair even without a hard struggle; and now, my heart, full
freighted as it was with the fondest hopes girl ever cherished, lies
crushed and dying beneath the waves of that gloom which will henceforth
be my portion in life.” She ceased, and for a moment stood silent; then
suddenly looking up, she said in a calmer voice, “I am very silly to
talk in this way to you. Do not weep, dear Ellen; you see I can bear my
sorrow without weeping. Read my answer, and tell me how you like it.”
Mechanically I took the paper she handed me. Through my tears I read the
following concise letter:—
“Miss Grahame presents her compliments to Mr. Noel, and is
extremely happy that she has it in her power to gratify him. Mr.
Noel might have spared himself any anxiety on the occasion, as,
had he known Miss Grahame better, he would have felt sure that
she would never have laid a serious claim to a midshipman’s
promise, made to a thoughtless school-girl. He will, therefore,
accept Miss Grahame’s congratulations on the prospect of
felicity before him; and believe that no better wishes will
follow him and his bride to the altar than will be offered by
her.
_“Lily Grove, June 2d._”
And this was the letter. Not one word of the breaking-heart; not a word
of the anguish that had so wrung her gentle spirit that day. Ah, Evelyn!
I did not mistake you, noble girl. I have since entertained a different
opinion of that letter. It was sent, and for a day or two Evelyn was as
cheerful, apparently, as usual; but I saw the effort with which she
concealed her grief, and anxiously watched her. Gradually, however, her
calmness left her, and she would sometimes give way to bursts of grief,
fearful to behold. This continued until she received letters from home,
urging her return, as Sarah and Arthur were soon to be married. There
was no scorn on her lips as she read Sarah’s account of her approaching
nuptials; but the words were perused again and again, and she seemed to
drink in every syllable as if it were her last draught of happiness.
I must now hasten to the close of my sad tale. A friend of Mr. Grahame
called on us a few days after Evelyn had received the letters urging her
return, and informed her that he was about starting for Mobile, and
would be pleased to act as her escort home. To my surprise, she excused
herself by saying she still hoped her father would come on, and she
would prefer waiting for him. When the gentleman left, she said to me,
“Ellen, I do not wish to go until all is over, I can then meet them
calmly, but now it would be impossible.”
Sarah was married without her, for Arthur had his own reasons for urging
the matter. It will be remembered that no one but myself knew of Eva’s
unfortunate attachment, and therefore there was no restraint in the
letters she afterward received, giving a description of the wedding, and
the happiness of the newly married pair. Alas! could one of them have
seen the change that had come over Evelyn, happiness must have fled. A
few weeks of misery had made sad havoc among the roses of her cheeks.
She was now pale and drooping, her step had lost its lightness, and she
seldom smiled.
As soon as the news of the marriage reached her, she made preparations
for her return, and an opportunity offering shortly afterward, she left
me, promising to write as soon as she reached home. I remember looking
after her as she walked down the lawn, and wondering if I should ever
see her again. Little did I then think how and where I should see her. I
never received the promised letter from her, but one from her mother
informed me of what I am about to relate. Arthur Noel had expected to
leave for New Orleans a few days after his marriage; but an unexpected
summons to attend as witness on a court-martial, then in progress in
Mobile, detained him; and he and his wife were still at Mrs. Grahame’s
when Eva arrived. She had not been expected until the next day. The
family were all assembled in the drawing-room, when the door was thrown
open, and the old negro porter exultingly announced, “Miss Evelyn.” All
sprung forward, except Arthur, and he stood spell-bound. Evelyn advanced
hastily into the room, but as soon as her eye fell upon him, her early,
her only loved—a shriek, so wild, so shrill, burst from her lips, that
none present ever forgot it. With one bound she was at his side, and
looking into his face with an expression of wo impossible to describe,
she faltered out his name, and sunk senseless on the floor, for Arthur
had no power to move. It was no time now for Mrs. Grahame and Sarah to
inquire into the meaning of this. Arthur was aroused to lend his aid in
placing the prostrate girl on a sofa. A physician was sent for, but she
lay insensible for many hours; and when she did awake, it was only to
make those who loved her so fondly, more wretched. Reason, which for
weeks had been tottering on her throne, had fled forever—and Evelyn
Grahame, the lovely, the idolized daughter, was a raving maniac!
* * * * *
It was in the Spring of ——, two years after the events related above,
that, with a party of friends, I visited the city of ——. The morning
after my arrival, the servant brought me up a card, and said a gentleman
was waiting in the drawing-room to see me. I read the name—it was
“Arthur Noel, U. S. Navy.” I started, and almost fainted. _That_ name!
how vividly it recalled the past. Eva, my never-forgotten friend, stood
again before me in all her pride of beauty, and then—I shuddered, and
dared not end my reflection. A hope, however, soon rose in my breast
that Arthur might bring me cheering news; and with a lighter heart I
descended the stairs. I had never seen Mr. Noel, but Evelyn had often
described him to me; and I expected to see a very handsome man. What was
my astonishment, therefore, when I entered the room, to behold a tall,
pale, haggard-looking man, with a countenance so sad, that I almost
trembled as I looked at him.
“Miss M——, I presume,” said he. I bowed, and requested him to be
seated.
“I arrived here this morning,” continued he, “from Norfolk, and seeing
your name upon the register, have taken the liberty to call and ask a
great favor of you.” He paused, and seemed to be endeavoring to suppress
some violent emotion. He then resumed, in a faltering tone, “You were
Evelyn Grahame’s dear friend.”
“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed, “what of Evelyn—how is she—where is she?”
His voice was stern, as he replied, “she is still what my baseness made
her. Where she is, I will show you, if you will go with me. I must
go—but I cannot go alone.”
I rang the bell, sent for my hat and shawl, and we went out together. I
could not help shuddering, as I saw that my companion led the way to the
Lunatic Asylum. As we walked along, I ventured to ask after his wife.
“She is dead,” said he; “she died in giving birth to a little girl, whom
I have named Evelyn. Oh! Miss M——, if Eva could only be restored! It
is the harrowing thought of my conduct toward her, that has made me what
I am—a gloomy, forlorn man. I shun mankind, and feel unworthy to look
my little daughter in the face. But the physician who attends dear Eva,
has given me a hope that the sight of me might cause a reaction, which
would give a favorable termination to her malady. Your presence at the
same time may assist this.”
“God grant it!” I fervently ejaculated; and at that moment we entered
the court-yard of the Asylum. The matron met us at the door, and Arthur,
having given her a note from Dr. ——, she immediately led us to Eva’s
apartment.
“She is asleep now,” said the good woman, “but you can go in, and wait
until she awakes; she is perfectly gentle, and will give you no
trouble.”
We entered the small, but very neat room, and approached the bed,
whereon lay all that remained of Evelyn Grahame. I felt as if my heart
would burst as I looked upon her. She lay upon her side, one arm
supporting her head. Her breathing was soft and gentle as an infant’s.
Her beautiful hair had long been cut away, and the exquisitely shaped
head was fully exposed. Her beauty had all fled. She looked forty years
old; and the contraction of the muscles about the mouth, peculiar to
lunatics, gave her face so stern an expression, that I could scarcely
believe she was the gentle Evelyn of happier days. My tears flowed fast,
while Arthur stood and gazed intently upon her, his arms folded, and a
look of settled misery on his face. We had stood at her side about ten
minutes, when she suddenly started up—“Mother!—Arthur!” she cried.
“I am here, Eva, my own!” exclaimed Arthur, throwing his arm around her.
Her face instantly flushed up, her eyes kindled; she leaned eagerly
forward, and gazed upon him; it was but for a second—her head fell
back, and she fainted.
Assistance was immediately called, and she soon opened her eyes, looked
around, then closed them again. But that look was enough. We saw that
reason had again assumed its empire. The wildness of the eyes was gone,
and the mouth looked natural. Involuntarily Arthur and myself fell upon
our knees. My heart was full of thankfulness, and I prayed; but he,
burying his face in his hands, sobbed aloud. The noise roused Evelyn.
She again opened her eyes, passed her hand across her brows, and then
raising herself with an effort, said faintly, “Where am I—where have I
been. Arthur! and you, too, Ellen! what does this mean; quick, some
water! Oh, God! I am dying.”
Arthur sprung to his feet, and let her head droop upon his arm. She took
his hand in hers, then motioning me nearer, grasped mine also; and for
some moments did not move. She then looked in my face, and whispered, “I
remember all, now; but Arthur—dear Arthur! I do not blame you. I hope
you are happy—I soon will be. I feel that I am dying. Surely, Sarah
would not grudge me the happiness I feel in breathing my last in your
arms.”
“Oh, Evelyn!” cried Arthur, while his sobs almost choked his utterance,
“you must not, you shall not die. You must live to forgive me, and let
me make some reparation for the wrong I have done you. Speak to me, Eva!
tell me that you will live.”
The poor girl made an effort to speak, but it was in vain—one grasp of
the hand—a short sigh—and the pure spirit of Evelyn Grahame had fled
to a brighter sphere.
* * * * *
Arthur Noel still lives, a poor, broken-hearted victim of remorse.
* * * * *
REALITY VERSUS ROMANCE,
OR THE YOUNG WIFE.
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.
CHAPTER I.
With the engagement of Rupert Forbes and Anna Talbot, started up a host
of scruples and objections among the friends of the parties—not only
manifested in the ominous shakings of very wise heads upon several very
respectable shoulders, in prophetic winks and upturned eyes—but also
found vent in speeches most voluble and fault-finding.
Rupert Forbes was a young physician in moderate circumstances, yet in
good practice, established in a pleasant country village, some two
hundred miles from the metropolis. Anna Talbot, the youngest of the four
unmarried daughters of a wealthy citizen; a pet, a beauty, and a belle,
who had been educated by a weak, fashionable mother to consider all
labor as humiliating, and to whom the idea of waiting upon one’s self
had never broken through the accustomed demands upon man-servants and
maid-servants, who from her cradle had stood ready at her elbow, so that
there seemed to be after all some ground upon which the discontent of
friends might justifiably rest.
“To think of Anna’s throwing herself away upon a country physician,
after all the expense we have lavished upon her dress and education—it
is absolutely ungrateful!” said Mrs. Talbot, stooping to caress a little
lap-dog reposing on the soft cushion at her feet.
“To give up the opera and the theatre for the psalm-singing of a country
church—horrible!” exclaimed Belinda, humming the last new air.
“So much for mama’s bringing Miss Anna out at eighteen, just to show her
pretty face, instead of waiting, as was _our_ right!” whispered Ada to
Charlotte. “Had she kept her back a little longer, we might have stood
some chance.”
“_We!_” cried Charlotte, contemptuously. “I thank you, I am in no such
haste to be married—do you think _I_ would stoop so low for a husband!
For my part I am glad Anna will be punished for all her airs—she was
always vain of her beauty—see how long it will last! If she has been
such a simpleton as to snap up the first gudgeon her beauty baited, why,
let her take the consequences!”
“To be forever inhaling the smell of pill-boxes—_pah_!” said Ada.
“Instead of a heavenly serenade stealing upon one’s blissful dreams—to
be roused with, ‘Ma’am, the doctor’s wanted—Mrs. Fidget’s baby is
cutting a tooth,’ or ‘Deacon Lumpkin has cracked his skull!’” added
Belinda.
“And then such a host of low, vulgar relations—in conscience I can
never visit her!” quoth Charlotte.
“Well, well, girls, I’m not sure after all but Anna has done wisely,”
said Mr. Talbot. “Forbes is a fine young fellow, and will make her a
good husband. Poor thing! she will have many hardships, I don’t
doubt—on that account only, I wish her affections had been given to
some one better able to support her in the style to which she has been
accustomed.”
“I consider it, Mr. Talbot, a perfect sacrifice of her life!” said his
good lady.
Such were a few of the remarks on the lady’s side, while on the part of
the gentleman was heard:
“How foolish to marry a city girl! A profitable wife she’ll make, to be
sure!” cried one.
“Why couldn’t he have married one of his own folks, I should like to
know!” said a second.
“Well, one thing is pretty certain; Rupert Forbes never will be
beforehand—he has got to be poor enough all his days, and it is a pity,
for he is a clever lad!” exclaimed a third.
“And I warrant she will hold her head high enough above her neighbors,”
chimed in a fourth.
“Pride must have a fall—that’s one comfort”—added another, “and I
guess it wont be long first, either!”
In addition to which charitable speeches, Rupert received many long
lectures, and many kind letters, warning him against the fatal step he
had so unwisely determined upon.
Opposition is often suicidal of itself, by bringing about the very event
it most deprecates. In the present case, certainly, it did not retard
the anticipated nuptials, for upon a certain bright morning in May,
Rupert bore off his lovely young bride from her gay, fashionable home to
his own quiet little nook in the country.
When Anna exchanged her magnificent satin and blonde for a beautiful
traveling dress, had any one demanded what were her ideas of the new
life she was now entering upon, she would have discoursed most
eloquently upon a cottage _ornée_, buried amid honeysuckles and roses,
where, on the banks of a beautiful stream, beneath the shadow of some
wide-spreading tree, she could recline and listen to the warbling of the
birds, or, more delightful still, to the music of Rupert’s voice, as he
chanted in her ear some romantic legend of true love—from this charming
repose to be aroused only by a summons from some blooming Hebe,
presiding over the less fanciful arrangements of the cottage, to
banquet, like the birds, upon berries and flowers!
Had the same inquiry been made of Rupert, as he looked with pride and
love upon the young creature at his side, he would have traced a scene
of calm domestic enjoyment, over which his lovely Anna was enthroned
both arbitress and queen. To grace his home all her accomplishments were
to be united with her native purity and goodness—her good sense was to
guide, her approbation inspire his future career, and her sympathy
alleviate all the “ills which flesh is heir to!”
This was certainly expecting a great deal of a fashionable young beauty,
whose life might be summed up in the simple word—pleasure; and whose
ideas of country life were gathered from very romantic novels, or
perhaps a season at Saratoga! But then Rupert was very much in
love—walking blindfolded, as it were, into the snares of Cupid!
One thing certainly the fair young bride brought to the cottage, along
with her accomplishments—viz., a large trunk, filled with the most
beautiful and tasteful dresses which fashion could invent—laces,
handkerchiefs of gossamer texture, gloves the most delicate, fairy
slippers, brooches, bracelets, rings, shawls, mantles, not omitting a
twenty dollar hat, with bridal veil of corresponding value. Such was the
_trousseau_ of the young physician’s wife!
Anna herself had no idea that such costly and fanciful articles were not
perfectly proper for her new sphere, and if her mother thought
otherwise, as most probably she did, her desire to impress the “_country
people_” with a sense of her daughter’s importance, and of the great
condescension it must have been on her part to marry a country doctor,
overcame her better judgment.
CHAPTER II.
“Look, my dearest Anna, yonder is our pleasant little village!”
exclaimed Rupert, pointing as he spoke to a cluster of pretty houses,
nestling far down in the green valley below, now for the first time
visible as the carriage gained the summit of a hill, while here and
there the eye caught bright glimpses of a lovely stream winding along
the luxuriant landscape.
“What an enchanting spot!” cried Anna, pressing the hand of her husband
to her lips—“how romantic!”
“It is indeed lovely, Anna—but remember ‘’tis distance lends
enchantment;’ a nearer view may destroy some of its present beauty,”
said Rupert.
“Yet it will be lovely still, dear Rupert, for our home is there!”
exclaimed Anna.
No wonder the heart of the happy husband bounded with delight at such
words from such beautiful lips!
“Now you can discern the church through those venerable elms, which were
planted by hands long since mouldering in the dust,” said Rupert. “And
see, dear Anna, as we draw nearer, how one by one the cottages look out
from their leafy screens, as if to welcome you.”
“O it is all perfectly charming, Rupert! Now which of these pretty
dwellings is to be our abode?” inquired Anna.
“Just where the river bends around yonder beautiful green promontory; do
you see two large trees whose interlacing branches form as it were an
arbor for the little cottage reposing in the centre? There, my beloved
Anna, there is your future home!”
“O it is a perfect beauty spot—how happy, how very happy we shall be!”
exclaimed Anna with enthusiasm.
“May your bright anticipations, my dear one, be realized,” said Rupert.
“Sure I am that if the tenderness and devotion of a fond heart can
secure you happiness, it will be yours—yet as on the sunniest skies
clouds will sometimes gather, even so may it be with us, and our
brilliant horizon be darkened.”
“No, no, talk not so gravely, Rupert,” cried Anna, “depend upon it, no
clouds but the most rosy shall flit o’er our horizon! But do order the
coachman to drive faster—I am impatient to assume the command of yonder
little paradise.”
The carriage soon drew up within the shadow of those beautiful trees
which Rupert had already pointed out to his fair young bride, and in a
few moments Anna found herself within the walls of her new home, and
clasped to the heart of her happy husband, as he fondly impressed upon
her brow the kiss of welcome.
Like a bird, from room to room flitted the gay young wife, so happy that
tears of tenderness and joy trembled on her beautiful eyelids. True,
here were no costly mirrors to throw back the form of beauty—no rich
couches of velvet inviting repose—the foot pressed no luxurious carpet,
nor did hangings of silken damask enshroud the windows; yet the cool
India matting, the little sofa covered with snowy dimity, the light
pretty chairs, and thin muslin curtains looped gracefully over windows
looking out upon a charming shrubbery, were all infinitely more
agreeable to Anna. No doubt, accustomed as she had ever been to all the
elegancies of life, the very novelty of _simplicity_ exerted a pleasing
influence—still affection must claim its due share in her
gratification. When at length every nook and corner had felt her light
footstep, and echoed with her cheerful tones, they returned to the
little sitting-room, and while the soft evening wind stole through the
honeysuckles, and twilight deepened into darkness, the happy pair traced
many golden-hued visions, stretching far into the dim future.
Professional duties summoned Rupert from home early the following
morning, and Anna was left to her own disposition of time. While the
dew-drops yet quivered on the fresh, green grass, she had tripped
through the orchard, the meadow, and garden, inhaling the pure morning
air, and listening with unspeakable delight to the music of the birds.
To her uninitiated view the scene was perfectly Arcadian, where all her
visions of rural felicity were to be more than realized. Anna was,
perhaps, “born to love pigs and chickens,” for each in turn received a
share of attention worthy even the heroine of Willis, and neither did
the faithful dog, or more wheedling grimalkin escape her notice.
Somewhat tired at length with her rambles, she returned to the house,
and now, for the first time, faint shadows of reality rested upon love’s
romance. She was surprised to find the rooms in the same disorder she
had left them—her trunks were yet unpacked, and the chamber strewed
with all the litter of traveling. She wondered if the maid would never
come to arrange things—it was certainly very shocking to have no place
to sit down, properly in order. She looked for a bell—she might as well
have looked for a fairy wand to summon the delinquent housemaid. That
she could do any thing toward a more agreeable _at-home-ness_ was a fact
which did not occur to her; so she threw herself upon the sofa,
resolving to wait patiently the appearance of the servant. In the pages
of a new novel she had already lost her chagrin, when the door was
suddenly thrown wide open, and a tall, strapping girl—how unlike the
Hebe of her imagination!—putting her head into the room, exclaimed,—
“Well, aint you coming to get up dinner, I should like to know; the pot
biles, and _he_’ll be here in a minute, for it’s e’en a’most noon!”
“Who are you speaking to?” said Anna.
“You must be smart, _Miss_ Forbes, to ask that! Why, I guess, I’m
speaking to you; I don’t see nobody else. Maybe you don’t know it’s
washing-day; and I aint used to cooking and doing every thing on such
days, I can tell you!”
Anna had good sense enough to know that the girl did not mean to be
impertinent, so she answered mildly, “Very well, I will come.” And
putting down her book, she followed her into the kitchen.
Kitty immediately resumed her station at the wash-tub, leaving her young
mistress to solve alone the mysteries of that glowing fire-place, and
heedless of her presence, struck up a song, pitching her voice to its
highest key, and in the energy of her independence, splashing and
swashing the glittering suds far above her head.
Poor Anna looked around despairingly. What was _she_ to do—what _could_
she do! There was the pot boiling, fast enough, to be sure; so fast that
the brown heads of the potatoes came bobbing up spitefully against the
lid, as if determined to break through every obstacle in the way of
their rising ambition. There, too, was a piece of meat, raw and
unseemly, stretched out upon a certain machine, ycleped a gridiron, by
old housekeepers, yet of whose use or properties Anna was sadly at
fault. To extricate herself from her embarrassment she knew she must
first crave light, so feeling as if about to address some pythoness of
those mysterious realms, she humbly demanded,—
“Well, Kitty, what can I do?”
“Do—I guess you’d better lift off that pot pretty quick, _Miss_ Forbes,
or the ’taters will be all biled to smash!”
Lift off that pot—that great, heavy iron pot! _She! Anna!_ whose
delicate hands had never scarcely felt a feather’s weight! Anna was
confounded.
“I wish you would do it for me,” she said.
“Well, I guess I aint going to crock my hands when I’m starching the
doctor’s shirts!” quoth Kitty, with a toss of her head.
After many awkward attempts, poor Anna at length succeeded in _tilting_
the huge pot from off the hook which held it suspended over the
crackling flames, though not without imminent danger of scalding her
pretty feet.
“Sakes alive, what a fuss!” muttered the girl, “and a nice grease spot,
too, for me to scour up!”
The mildness and patience of Anna, however, at length overcame the
stubbornness of Kitty—so true it is that the most obstinate natures
will yield to kindness and gentleness. Wiping her sinewy arms upon her
apron, which she then took off and threw into a corner, she came
forward, evidently rather ashamed of herself, to the assistance of the
perplexed young housekeeper.
“I guess, _Miss_ Forbes, if you’ll just set the table in there, before
_he_ comes, I’ll do the steak, and peel the ’taters; maybe you aint so
much used to this sort of work.”
Anna, gladly yielding up her place, proceeded to prepare the little
dining table, which she managed with more tact, yet keeping a watchful,
inquiring eye upon the movements of Kitty, that she might be more _au
fait_ to business another time. Still the high-bred beauty, as she
continued her employment, missed many things which she had always
considered indispensable—inquired for silver forks—napkins—and even
puzzled poor Kitty’s brain by demanding where the finger-glasses were
kept.
“Silver forks!” cried Kitty, “I never heard of such a thing. Do tell,
now, if city folks be so proud! Napkins! I guess you mean towels. Why
_he_ always wipes on that are roller in the back _pizaz_.
Finger-glasses! Sakes alive!—what does the woman mean?
_Finger-glasses!_ Well, that beats all creation, and more too!” and with
a hearty laugh, she slapped the steak upon the platter just as the gig
of Rupert stopped at the gate.
The happy wife, now forgetting all annoyances, flew to meet her beloved
husband, and while partaking of their simple dinner, greatly amused him
by her artless details of that morning’s experience.
But Rupert was obliged to go out again immediately, leaving Anna once
more solitary. She had, however, learned a lesson; and knowing it would
be vain to look for Kitty’s assistance, she herself unpacked her
beautiful dresses, feeling sadly at a loss for commodious bureaus and
extensive wardrobes to contain her splendid paraphernalia. To hang up
those rich silks and satins on wooden pegs against a white-washed wall,
seemed desecration; so these she refolded, and placed once more in her
trunk, determining in her own mind that Rupert must at once supply those
essential articles, which she was very sure it would be impossible to do
without. Countless bareges, cashmeres, and mousselines, however, cast
their variegated tints through the chamber, and the one bureau, and the
little dressing-table were loaded with finery.
After arranging every thing in the best manner she could, Anna exchanged
her white morning negligée for a light silk, and drawing on a pair of
gloves, went below to await the return of Rupert.
Hardly had she sat down, when she perceived several ladies coming up the
walk, while a loud knocking at the street-door almost immediately, as
certainly announced them to be visiters. Supposing, of course, Kitty
would obey the summons, she remained quietly turning over a book of
engravings. The knocking was several times repeated, and Anna beginning
to feel uneasy at the delay, when—
“_Miss_ Forbes!” screamed Kitty, from the kitchen, “why on arth don’t
you let them folks in! I guess I aint a going to leave my mopping, and
my old gown all torn to slits!”
For a moment indignation at the insolence of her servant crimsoned
Anna’s brow. This was, indeed, an episode in the life of a city
belle—to be ordered by a menial to attend the door—to appear before
strangers in the capacity of a waiter.
Happily, the unceremonious entrance of the ladies relieved her
perplexity. She received her visiters with that ease and grace of manner
so peculiarly her own, at once placing the whole party upon the footing
of old acquaintances, and _almost_ disarming even the most prejudiced,
by her affability and sweetness. To have wholly done so would have been
a miracle indeed, so much were many of her new neighbors for doubting
that any good or usefulness could pertain to one brought up amid the
frivolities of the city.
CHAPTER III.
The little village of D—— was primitive in its tastes and habits.
Remote from any populous city or town, it was neither infected by their
follies, nor rendered more refined by association. Railway speed had not
there conquered both time and space; the journey to the city was yet a
tedious one of days, over high hills and rocky roads, consequently, an
event not of very frequent occurrence. Yet, however these “dwellers of
the valley” might lack for refinement, or the high-bred polish of
fashionable society, there was a great deal of honest worth and
intelligence among them—true hospitality, and genuine benevolence both
of precept and practice.
True, scandal here, as elsewhere, found wherewith to feed her craving
appetite; and busy-bodies, more at home in their neighbor’s kitchens
than their own, walked the streets inspectingly; yet, as the same may be
said of almost every place, let not our little village be therefore
condemned.
In the course of a week almost every person in the town had called to
see Anna, from various reasons, no doubt; some from real neighborly
kindness, others solely out of regard for the young doctor, and not a
few from curiosity; yet as they carried not these motives in their
hands, Anna, of course, could not determine by their pressure, whose
welcome was the most hearty and sincere, and therefore extended to all
the same courteous reception. Also, in the same short space of time, her
work-basket was filled with all sorts of odd recipes for all sorts of
odd things—candles, cake, bread, bruises, beer, puddings, pickles,
pies, and plasters, soap and sausages, as gratuitous aids to the young,
ignorant housekeeper, by her well-meaning neighbors.
The opinion, by the by, which Anna’s new acquaintances formed of her,
may, perhaps, be best gathered from a colloquy which took place one
afternoon at Mrs. Peerabout’s, over a social cup of tea.
“Well,” exclaimed that lady, who from her bitterness was generally
considered as the _aloes_ of the neighborhood, “well, I, for one, have
been to see the bride, as you call her, and of all the affectedest
rigged up creatures I ever see, she beats all.”
“She certainly has one of the sweetest faces I ever saw,” said another.
“Don’t you think, Mrs. Peerabout, she is very pretty?”
“No, indeed, I don’t! ‘handsome is that handsome does,’ I say. Pretty!
why I’d rather look at our Jemima’s doll, that her Aunt Nancy sent her
from Boston. Gloves on!—my gracious! At home in the afternoon, a
sitting down with _gloves_ on, looking at pictures! A useful wife she’ll
make Rupert Forbes, to be sure!”
“And they say, too,” said Miss Krout, “she can’t even cook a beefsteak,
and almost cried because she had not a silver fork to eat her dinner
with.”
“Yes,” added Mrs. Peerabout, “so she did, and could not even put on a
table-cloth without help, Kitty says!”
“Well, but, Aunt,” interposed a pretty girl, “Kitty also said that she
was so pleasant, and spoke so pretty to her, that she really loved to
help her.”
“And what beautiful eyes she has!” exclaimed another.
“Well, I have not said any thing against her eyes, but just look at her
rigging, Susan,” put in Mrs. Peerabout, draining her fourth cup.
“You must remember, Mrs. Peerabout,” said Mrs. Fay, the lawyer’s wife,
“that Mrs. Forbes has never lived in the country, and has probably
always been accustomed at home to dress just as much, if not more. You
must excuse me if I say I really think you judge her too hard. For my
own part, I confess myself favorably impressed by what I have seen of
her. Recollect, she is entirely ignorant of our ways.”
“Then she had better have stayed in the city,” interrupted Miss Krout,
spitefully; “for my part, Mrs. Fay, I don’t like such mincing fol de lol
ways as she has got!”
“But she will learn,” said Mrs. Fay mildly, “she will conform to our
customs I do not doubt.”
“_Learn!_ I guess so—a sitting with gloves on and curls below her
girdle—I aint a fool, Mrs. Fay!” said Aloes.
CHAPTER IV.
Although Anna was really much pleased with the majority of her new
acquaintances, their manners and conversation, as also their style of
dress, so entirely different from what she had been accustomed to, did
not escape her criticism, yet, for the sake of her husband, she was
resolved to overcome her prejudices, if so they might be called.
Speaking of them one day to Rupert, she said:
“No doubt they are very excellent, worthy people, but it does not appear
to me _now_ that I can ever really learn to take any pleasure in their
society—yet I hope I shall always treat them with perfect politeness,
and kindness too, for they are very warm friends of yours, Rupert.”
“Thank you, Anna—they are indeed good friends of mine, and so will they
be, too, of yours, when they know you better; and you also, my dearest,
will find that beneath their plain exterior and homely speech they have
warm hearts, and minds far above many of those who figure largely in
what is termed the _best society_.”
“I do not doubt it, Rupert,” replied Anna. “Well, I must try to conform
myself to their habits, I see, and for your sake I hope they will love
me, for it is very plain to me, from some words which one of the good
ladies accidentally let fall, that they consider me now a most useless,
unprofitable wife—a mere image for a toy-shop, and that I shall prove a
perfect stumbling-block in the way of my dear husband’s advancement. Now
tell me,” she continued, and tears filled her beautiful eyes, “what can
I do to gain their friendship, and convince them that I prize my dear
Rupert’s respect and affection too highly not to exert myself to be
worthy of them—tell me, Rupert, what I can do?”
“Act yourself, my darling wife,” said Rupert, kissing her, “be as you
ever are, kind and lovely. It is true many of my best friends do not
approve of my choice, but do not trouble yourself about their
approbation—only act in your new sphere as your own good sense and
native kindness prompts you, and you will be sure of it. I sometimes
think it was cruel in me to woo you away from your home of splendor to
this retired, uncongenial spot. I fear you can never be really happy
here, and in spite of your love for me, will often sigh for the luxuries
you so cheerfully gave up for my sake.”
“O say not so, dear Rupert—I shall be most happy here, indeed I
shall—with your love and approbation how can I be otherwise—they will
stimulate me to conquer many false notions, inherent from my cradle. I
will not deny,” continued Anna, “for I scorn evasion, and will make a
clean breast of my follies, that I have already _fancied_ the necessity
of many things to render me even comfortable—you smile, Rupert, and
there have been moments of _ennui_, when I have felt almost contempt for
things around me—I have even given way to anger at what I at first
supposed insolence in Kitty. She is, to be sure, a rough, unmannerly
girl, but it is because she has never been taught better; I know she has
a kind heart, and that with a little management I shall soon be able to
convince her of the impropriety of many things she now does from
ignorance—not willfulness.”
“You must be cautious, Anna—Kitty will take umbrage at the slightest
hint, and be off without a moment’s warning.”
“No, I think better of her,” said Anna. “We shall see. I have been
thinking,” she continued, “how much many mothers are to be blamed for
not better preparing their daughters for the duties of domestic
life—that sphere where a woman’s usefulness and influence are most
felt. There is no denying that almost before little Miss slips her
leading-strings, she is taught to regard marriage as the chief aim of
her life—she is taught to sing and dance—she has drawing-masters and
music-masters, French and Italian—and for what reason? Why is she kept
six hours at the piano, and scarcely allowed to speak her mother
tongue?—why, that she may get married! That object cared for—the
_future_ is left a blank—”
“Yes,” interrupted Rupert, “very much like rigging out a ship with
silken sails and tinseled cordage, and then sending her forth on a long
voyage without provisions!”
“Exactly, Rupert. To my mind housekeeping in all its branches should be
considered as much of an accomplishment in the education of young
ladies, as a perfect knowledge of music or any of the fine arts! Had my
parents spent one quarter the time and expense upon my acquirements as a
_wife_, which they did to render me fashionable and agreeable in the
fastidious eyes of _their_ world, how much better satisfied I should
feel—how much more confidence that I have not imposed upon your
affection by a total unfitness for the duties of a wife—indeed, my dear
Rupert,” said Anna, smiling, “you ran a great risk when you fell in love
with me!”
We will not trace the daily walk of our heroine further, but leave it to
the reader to fancy from what has already been said, how thickly the
thorns mingled with the roses on her path of new married life!
But at the close of one year mark the result—one year of patient trial
to our young wife! Many vexations, both real and imaginary, had been
hers, yet she loved her husband, and resolved to overcome all the errors
of her education, that she might be to him the helpmate—the friend—the
beloved companion she felt he deserved. Where there is a will, it is
said, there is always a way, and Anna bravely conquered the difficulties
which at first presented themselves. Even those who most criticised her
first attempts at housekeeping might now have taken lessons themselves
from the neatness and order which reigned throughout her establishment.
The rebellious Kitty yielded gradually to the gentle dominion of her
charming mistress. Miss Krout sweetened her vinegar visage, and even
presented Anna with a jar of pickles of her own preparation, while Mrs.
Peerabout acknowledged that the “Doctor’s city wife was
wonderful—_considerin’_!”
May my simple story encourage the young wife to meet those trials in her
domestic path, from which none are wholly exempt, with patience and
meekness—let her remember that “_Love considereth not itself_,” and
“That if ye will be happy in marriage,
_Confide, love, and be patient: be faithful, firm, and holy_.”
* * * * *
THOU ART COLD.
Anna! methought thou wert a raptured saint,
Like those who loved and worshiped here of old,
In whom the fire of heaven and earth were blent:
But—thou art cold!
I dreamed thou wert an angel sent to me,
With radiant countenance, and wings of gold
All glowing with the tints of yon warm sky:
But—thou art cold!
An angel sent to breathe upon this heart,
Crushed and still quivering with pangs untold.
To soothe its anguish with some heavenly art;
But—thou art cold!
No pain responsive moves thy snowy breast—
No blushes dye thy cheek of Phidian mould—
No thoughts of love disturb thy dreamless rest;
Alas! thou’rt cold!
The flashes of thy deep and changeful eye,
The music from thy lips that trembling rolled,
The burning thoughts that rapt my soul on high;
These seemed not cold.
But rubies with a crimson lustre gleam;
Diamonds within them seem a fire to hold;
And the dank forest breathes its wand’ring flame:—
Like them thou’rt cold.
Oh fate! that one so beautiful and bright,
So fit t’inspire the meek, to daunt the bold.
To nerve ambition to its loftiest flight,
Should still be cold!
And yet, I love thee, Anna; in my heart,
As in a shrine, thine image I’ll enfold;
I’ll love thee, marble goddess as thou art,
Divine, though cold.
Then hie thee to thy far-off mountain dell!
Its roses long thy coming to behold,
They’ll lend their hues to make thy cheek less pale,
And seem less cold.
S.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Painted by E. Corbould. Engraved by A. B. Walter.
THE SPANISH LOVERS.]
* * * * *
THE SPANISH LOVERS.
WITH AN ENGRAVING.
Swing, lady, swing! the birds do swing
Upon the boughs above,
As, swayed by breezes soft and warm,
They sing their songs of love.
A fairer and a purer thing,
And far diviner, thou.
Swing, swaying to thy lover’s hand,
Beneath the greenwood bough!
The winter cold may come ere long,
And soon the autumn rain,
But saddened ne’er the birds’ gay song
With thought of future pain.
So love, which hath its summer time,
Its winter too may know,
But quaff thou, lady, present bliss,
Nor dream of future wo.
* * * * *
REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.
_Homes and Haunts of the Most Eminent British Poets. By William
Howitt. The Illustrations Engraved by H. W. Hewett. New York:
Harper & Brothers. 2 vols. 12mo._
The Harpers have issued this charming book in a form of appropriate
elegance. The paper, printing, binding, and illustrations are all that
could be desired. Few volumes have been published during the season more
worthy of a place upon the parlor table. The title of the book hardly
conveys an idea of its full contents. It is in fact biographical and
critical as well as descriptive, and portrays the poets in their homes
and haunts, giving copious extracts from their writings, illustrative of
their personal character, and tracing the history of their minds as they
were influenced by events and circumstances. It must have cost the
author much time and labor. Facts and anecdotes have been carefully
culled from a wide variety of books, and England, Scotland and Ireland
have been personally explored in search of the “homes and haunts.” The
latter are described from the author’s own observations. Much interest
is given to this portion of the work by a detail of the curious little
adventures which occurred to the author in his wanderings, and the
strange sort of prosers he found domesticated among places and scenes
consecrated by song.
In criticising the writings and character of his band of poets, Howitt
is often acute and sympathizing, but occasionally allows his own
passions and prejudices to pervert his view. The chapter on Southey is
an instance. Howitt is a liberal of the extreme school, and is
consequently much of a bigot in politics and religion. Many uncharitable
judgments, much heedless invective, and some mean malice, deform his
volumes. We should judge him, in spite of his Quaker coat, to be proud
and revengeful, and very impudent. The latter quality is as manifest in
his praise as denunciation. Were we unfortunate enough to be a living
poet, and Mr. Howitt unfortunate enough to include us in his collection,
we should have a strange inclination to “insert” a dagger into him, or
contrive in some way to break his neck. There is no delicacy in his
personal references. Those qualities which make the book piquant to the
reader, must be very offensive to the objects of its blame or eulogy.
Mr. Howitt tells a great many things and hazards a great many
conjectures, in regard to the personal character of late and living
poets, which are at once exceedingly interesting and impertinent. To
read these portions of his volumes is like getting information from a
spy. We devour the narrative and despise the narrator.
The book contains chapters on Chaucer, Spenser, Shakspeare, Cowley,
Milton, Butler, Dryden, Addison, Gay, Pope, Swift, Thomson, Shenstone,
Gray, Goldsmith, Burns, Cowper, Keats, Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, Scott,
Mrs. Hemans, Campbell, Southey, Wordsworth, Wilson, Moore, Rogers,
Elliott, Landor, Tennyson, and some dozen others. It will be seen that
the work is large in its subject, and that the materials are ample. It
would not be fair to test the book by its value as literary history or
criticism, though these are largely mixed up with the descriptive
portions; but considered as a brilliant series of sketches, half way
between familiar chat and refined delineation, it has very great merits,
and is full of interest. Some of the anecdotes are excellent. At
Stratford, Mr. Howitt saw in a country school a little boy of ten years
old, who turned out to be a descendant of Shakspeare’s sister Joan. The
father of the lad was wretchedly poor, and kept a low dram shop. Mr.
Howitt gave the boy sixpence, and told him he hoped he would make as
great a man as his ancestor. The money created a strong sensation in the
school, and young Will became a lion. When Howitt was seen in the
streets afterward, he was pointed out by the boys as “that gentleman who
gave Bill Shakspeare sixpence.”
The chapter on Crabbe is well done. There is one anecdote given about
Lord Thurlow, which had escaped our memory. When he presented Crabbe a
couple of livings in the church, he accompanied it by the characteristic
remark—“By —, you are as like Parson Adams as twelve to a dozen.” The
account of Coleridge is replete with anecdotes of his earlier life and
his family. His father, an Episcopal clergyman, was a miracle of absent
mindedness. His wife once directed him, when he went on a journey, to
put on a clean shirt every day. He followed her orders literally, but
forgot to remove the one underneath. He came back six-shirt deep. In his
sermons he gained vast reputation among the poor and ignorant by quoting
Hebrew liberally, they thinking themselves especially favored in hearing
“the very words the Spirit spoke in.” For his successor, who addressed
them in simple English, they entertained a kind of contempt. At school
young Coleridge was very miserable. The author of Cristobel was there a
martyr to the itch. His appearance as a boy is indicated by the opinion
expressed of him by his master after a whipping. “The lad was so
ordinary a looking lad, with his black head, that I generally gave him
at the end of a flogging an extra cut; for,” said he, turning to
Coleridge, “you are such an ugly fellow.” Coleridge’s first attempt at
verse was in commemoration of his maladies at the age of ten:
O Lord, have mercy on me!
For I am very sad!
For why, good Lord! I’ve got the itch,
And eke I’ve got the tad!
Tad is schoolboy_ese_ for ringworm.
When Coleridge left college he enlisted as a common soldier in the
dragoons, under the name of Silas Tomken Comberbache. “Do you think,”
said the examining officer, “you could run a Frenchman through the
body?” “I don’t know,” replied Coleridge, “as I never tried; but I’ll
let a Frenchman run me through before I’ll run away.” “That will do,”
was the answer of the officer. He was so bad a horseman that the
drill-sergeant had continually to warn the members of his squad—“Take
care of that Comberbache! take care of him, for he will rids over you!”
In the chapter on Wordsworth there is a very ingenious attempt to prove
the poet a Quaker, both in the doctrine and spirit of his poetry. This
is altogether the best thing in the book, and to a high-churchman, like
Wordsworth, must be very gratifying. Howitt makes out a good case. At
the end he asserts that the writings of the old Quakers “are one mass of
Wordsworthianisms.” In some particulars, it is asserted Wordsworth hath
not reached the moral elevation of his masters; as in regard to war, “he
is martial, and thinks Slaughter God’s daughter. They, very sensibly,
set Slaughter down as the daughter of a very opposite personage.”
It would be easy to quote a hundred anecdotes from these volumes,
interesting either in themselves, or from their relation to interesting
persons. We must, however, refer the reader to the book itself, and can
guarantee him a large fund of enjoyment from its perusal.
* * * * *
_Poems. By George H. Calvert. Boston: Wm. D. Ticknor & Co. 1
vol. 12mo._
The best of these poems are but of average ability, and together they
make but an indifferent volume. They are deficient in fancy,
imagination, melody and originality—four qualities of some importance
to the reader, if not to the writer. Mr. Calvert is a scholar, a
traveler, has studied the best writers of England, Germany and Italy,
has had every advantage of mental culture, and yet has committed the
impropriety of publishing a volume which would give no reputation to the
poet of a village newspaper. Better things than he has included in his
collection are born and forgotten every day. The most readable pieces in
the volume are the translations from Goethe. We give a few specimens:
One says—“I’m not of any school;
No living master gives me rule:
Nor do I in the old tracks tread;
I scorn to learn ought from the dead.”
Which means, if I have not mistook,
“I am an ass on my own hook.”
—
For what is greatest no one strives,
But each one envies others’ lives:
The worst of enviers is the elf
Who thinks that all are like himself.
—
But do what’s right in thy affairs,
The rest’s done for thee unawares.
—
Divide and rule—strong words, indeed,
But better still—unite and lead.
Mr. Calvert has given a few epigrams of his own. The following has
point:
Philosophers say, in their deep-pondered books,
It were well if each man found his level.
Sage sirs, this is not quite so good as it looks,
For ’twould send a whole host to the devil.
Here is a hit at “great statesmen,” a kind of sharp-shooting very
popular with literateurs, who are unable to manage men as they can words
and verses:
Like plummet in mid ocean sounding,
Like him who crystals would be rounding,
Are they who rule and fashion laws—
Things that are chiefly made of flaws.
And yet men dub them great; the while
Angels or weep or pitying smile.
But why, blind as they are, why rail about them?
The world’s so bad, it cannot do without them!
If a reviewer were malicious, he might turn the reasoning in the last
line against the author, and conclude that the philosophy it so
concisely expresses, made him hope that the world could not do without
his own poems.
* * * * *
_The Orators of France. By Viscount de Cormenin. Translated by a
Member of the New York Bar. With an Essay by J. T. Headley.
Edited by G. H. Colton. New York: Baker & Scribner. 1 vol.
12mo._
The popularity of this book in France has been very great. The present
translation is from the fourteenth Paris edition, and shines with the
author’s last polishing touches. The introductory essay by Headley, on
the rise of French Revolutionary eloquence, and the orators of the
Girondists, contains much information which the reader of the sketches
will find useful. Mr. Colton has ably edited the work, and supplied some
fifty pages of biographical addenda.
The work itself is written in sharp, snapping style, each sentence
exploding like a percussion cap, and abundantly charged with French
enthusiasm and French affectation. The translator has happily seized the
spirit of the book, especially its tone of military precision and
authoritativeness. The work is comprehensive in its subjects, sketching
the prominent orators of the Constituent Assembly, the Convention, the
Empire, the Restoration, and the Revolution of July. The portraits of
Mirabeau, Danton, Napoleon, M. de Serre, General Foy, Constant, Royer
Collard, Manuel, Sauzet, La Fayette, Odillon-Barrot, Dupin, Berryer,
Lamartine, Guizot and Thiers, are exceedingly interesting, as
introducing us to men who are familiar to everybody by name, but of
whose personal appearance and style of oratory few readers have had an
opportunity of knowing much, from the descriptions of an independent eye
and ear witness. The volume is very readable in spite of its affected
conciseness and elaborate rhodomontade, and we have little doubt conveys
many accurate impressions of the French politicians and orators whose
merits it discusses. We know of few volumes better calculated to give
the reader a notion of the modern French mind. Where the author,
however, criticises politicians to whom he is opposed in principle, he
falls generally short of his mark. He has little notion of the meaning
of wisdom as applied to action.
* * * * *
_The Life of Wesley; and Rise and Progress of Methodism. By
Robert Southey, L.L.D. Second American Edition, with Notes, &c.
By the Rev. Daniel Curry, A. M. New York: Harper & Brothers. 2
vols. 12mo._
This is an excellent edition of a most valuable and fascinating
biography. Its diction has all the charm of Southey’s fluent and
graceful style, and the subject is made intensely interesting by the
singular felicity of its treatment. No person who has in his nature the
slightest religious feeling can read the book without instruction and
delight. The present edition is enriched with the notes and observations
which Coleridge penciled in his copy of the work. They are exceedingly
characteristic, and worth all the rest of the notes put together. The
American editor’s remarks are often presumptuous and out of place. They
serve no good purpose, except in a few instances where they correct some
mistake in matters of fact. As a whole, however, the edition is a very
good one, and may be said to supplant all others. It will doubtless have
a vast circulation, not merely among the Methodists, but among all
classes, literary and sectarian. We will guarantee that no reader who
once commences the book can leave it unfinished. It is as interesting as
one of Scott’s novels.
* * * * *
_The Horse and his Rider. By Rollo Springfield. New York: Wiley
& Putnam. 1 vol. 16mo._
This is a captivating little volume, half way between a book for men and
a book for boys. It is full of information and interesting anecdotes,
contains a number of elegant illustrations, and is written in a style of
much simplicity and clearness. The author almost exhausts the subject
for the general reader. That portion devoted to the turf is especially
racy. The intelligence and humanity of the noble animal have full
justice done to them. The volume might be called a voice from the animal
kingdom.
* * * * *
_Notes on the Early Settlement of the North-Western Territory.
By Jacob Burnet. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 8vo._
The author of this volume is one of those who write history, not from
books or hearsay, but from direct observation of events, or from a
connection with the actors. The work has, therefore, great value and
great freshness. To all who are interested in the vast region to which
it relates, it presents strong claims to attention.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Obvious typesetting and
punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Other errors have
been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some caption text may
be missing or incomplete due to condition of the originals available for
preparation of the eBook.
Le Follet, _Mantille de_ Violard, ==> _Mantilles de_ Violard,
Le Follet, _Mouchoirs _ L. Chapron & Dubois, ==> _Mouchoirs de_ L. Chapron
& Dubois,
Le Follet, _Ombrelle_ Lemaréchal, ==> _Ombrelle de_ Lemaréchal,
page 65, “_coleur de rose_,” ==> “_couleur de rose_,”
page 73, affectionately in her dark ==> affectionately into her dark
page 73, His kinds words ==> His kind words
page 87, which had got lose, ==> which had got loose,
[End of Graham’s Magazine, Vol. XXXI, No. 2, August 1847]