babe almost as soon as she saw the day. Our fathers were sworn friends,
and I saw the little Adela frequently, and loved her as a dear sister.
But when I began to consider myself a man, I sometimes felt as if I
could not wait for her, for she was much younger than I. Being fond of
reading, and naturally romantic, I drank in with avidity every wild and
passionate legend, and longed for some thrilling adventure. My alliance
was tasteless, because it lacked the excitement of adventure or
opposition. And yet when weary of noise and pleasure, I found it sweet
to pass an hour in her society; she was so gentle, unassuming, and
affectionate. At the age of twenty-five I departed on my travels, with a
soul thirsting for adventure. I pass over all, however, until I arrived
at Constantinople. Here among the licentious I felt that all the
passions of man’s nature had full licence. I shall not carry you by my
details into scenes by which I pray God you may never be polluted.
Suffice it that a young and lovely creature, whose innocence and fond
confiding I should have respected, forgot her alliance to her nominal
lord, and became mine with a fervor of affection which is never
equalled, or even understood in these cold climes. I thought only of
dallying with her awhile when I first sought to win her; but there was
an enchantment about her which I often fancied to be in reality the
magic of which I had often read. At length the time of my sojourn in
that unequalled city was expiring. I sought to tear myself away, for I
never dreamed of taking Alma with me. But she would not leave me. I felt
embarrassed as to the manner in which I should dispose of her if she
accompanied me to France. But my hackneyed heart felt no compunction for
the deceit I had practised upon her; and I resolved formally to retain
her, keeping her, if possible, in ignorance of our laws and customs, and
of Christianity of course; and to marry Adela according to contract. So
I gave myself up to the pleasures of her society; and she dreamed not of
the workings of the heart which she fondly considered all her own.
“‘Arrived at home, I placed her in an elegant mansion, furnished her
with attendants, and every elegance and luxury of life; and while
preparations were going forward for my union with Adela, found my
highest enjoyment in the society of the ardent Alma. She was a perfect
contrast to Adela in every particular. I loved them both, just as you
may admire the lily and the rose. The wedding-day arrived, and I pledged
to Adela a perjured vow.
“‘I had been married one year when my wife enquired of me who the
beautiful girl was whom I was in the habit of attending to places of
public amusement. I was prepared for this, and told her that it was a
Turkish lady, the wife of a sea captain, a particular friend of mine,
who was absent at sea. Adela insisted on being introduced to her, for
she said she felt a great curiosity to look on the woman whose beauty
had become the theme of every tongue. Here was a dilemma for which I was
utterly unprepared. I could make no reasonable excuse, and the hesitancy
and embarrassment of my manner excited or confirmed suspicion. It seemed
that Adela was completely a woman, and determined to gratify her
curiosity, although by so doing she made herself wholly miserable. When
I next visited Alma I found her sorrowful and pale. She had been visited
by a lady, whom, from her description, I knew to be my wife, who had
drawn from her artless tongue her whole history, and then set before her
the ignominy and sinfulness of her present situation. These were strange
words for the poor girl’s ear, yet I succeeded in calming her mind, and
left her with emotions of such sorrow as I never felt before. I fully
comprehended the wrong that I had done her, and the anguish that must
from this time be her portion. I felt angry at Adela, and yet how could
I blame her. She discovered a coldness and restraint in my manner, and
became herself cold and restrained; in short, we were all three
wretched. Adela in her zeal employed her confessor to teach Alma the
mysteries of religion. Alma was ever in tears; and Adela began to pine
and waste away. At length she became so ill that the physician declared
that nothing could help her unless it were a journey and short residence
in Italy. But before I set forward I conveyed Alma to this castle, and
placed her in the tower which superstition had cast a spell around;
entrusting her to the sole care of an aged female domestic, lest during
my absence she should be persuaded to enter a convent.
“‘I came home widowed, but not in heart. I flew to Alma, and told her
there was no drawback on our happiness now; that she should now possess
both hand and heart. She wept long and agonisingly upon my bosom, and
then told me that the magic glass of life was broken. That the clear
cold light of reality now lay upon all the ways of love. That earth to
her was no longer a blissful paradise. And finally, that she had
resolved to enter a nunnery. Oh! the agony of that hour. I sought by
every argument to divert her from her purpose, but she was unyielding.
For a long time I refused to let her go, and kept her prisoner in the
tower. But when I could by no means move her, when she turned ever
weeping from me, or kneeling besought me no longer to keep her from the
court of heaven, I gave her the keys of her prison, and left the castle.
I returned after a few days. She was gone. I was desolate; and from that
hour I have been dying.
“‘Last week my confessor put a letter into my hand, observing that it
was given him by one who said that it required no answer as the writer
was dead. It was from Alma. She said she must be brief, for her minutes
on earth were few. She bade me reproach myself on her account no more,
as she was passing away to heaven, leaving me her prayers and blessings.
She had loved me ever and alone. She begged that I would freely pardon
her if she had done me wrong. But her chief object in writing was to
entreat my protection for _our child_. Oh! my God, how that word
thrilled me. I had not dreamed of such a thing. Yet she said that during
my absence with my _injured wife_ she had borne a female child. That she
had concealed the circumstances from me, lest it should be made an
impediment to her becoming a nun. That the child was named Adela, was
now in the convent, and was ignorant of her parents. She desired me to
suffer her to continue so, if she should prefer to remain and take the
veil; but if she should leave her sanctuary, she besought me to be her
guardian. I visited the convent; I knelt on the cold marble that lies
above my Alma’s colder bosom—I saw my daughter; she told me that she
would take the veil. I passed as her mother’s uncle; told her that she
was an orphan, and offered her protection if she would leave the
convent. She replied that as she had no earthly parents she would never
leave her present place of refuge. I came home and lay down to die.
“‘I have now, my dear nephew, told you that which I had thought would
never pass my lips; but it is for the sake of my poor child. My heart
bleeds for her, orphan, and pennyless as she is. I could not speak of
her to your father; but you are young, and your heart is as yet
uncalloused. You will eventually succeed to these estates. Albert, I do
not wish my child to become a nun; I will give you a letter and casket;
you will find them in that bureau; take them to her when I am no more.
Say I bade you deliver them only to her. You will thus obtain an
interview with her. I am sure you will love her, for she is the image of
her mother. If so, take her from the convent, and make her your wife.
Promise to do this and I will die content. Your relationship need be no
obstacle, for it is known only to yourself. Will you promise?’ ‘I swear
to do all you ask, provided Adela is willing.’ ‘Thank you, my son. Now I
can depart in peace.’
“My uncle died, and was laid in the stately mausoleum of the family. I
went to execute his commission to my cousin. As I looked upon her face
and figure I no longer wondered that my uncle loved her mother. She was
beautiful beyond all description. No eye could scan her features, for
her face was like a pellucid fountain, in which all lovely objects of
earth and heaven were constantly and changefully reflected.
“As she was not of the sisterhood I was allowed to see her daily, and
converse with her through the grate, and I need not tell you that I
loved her madly. She confessed that her heart was mine, and promised to
leave the convent and become my wife. I was now obliged to go on
business into Germany. I told Adela that I would be back in eight weeks.
“I wrote to her frequently, and at length despatched a letter naming a
day for our meeting. Soon after I had mailed it, I fell on the ice and
broke my leg, beside injuring my head so severely that I was unconscious
of my own existence for nearly three weeks. As soon as I was
sufficiently recovered I wrote an account of the accident to Adela, and
continued to write at short intervals until I was able to travel.
“I arrived at home after an absence of four months, and flew to the
convent to see my soul’s delight once more. Judge of my agony when I was
told that I could not see her, and that she had taken the veil. I felt
as if the whole beautiful world had become a miserable chaos, amid the
horrors of which I was eternally lost. At length I began to hope. I got
a letter conveyed to her, in which I pictured as forcibly as language
could, the distraction of my mind, and besought her to give me some
consolation. She sent me an agonising reply. She had ever been taught
that men were false, and that love was sin. When I failed in my return
these precepts were enforced, and she gave them renewed credence. She
saw no letter from me afterward, and being urged to join the sisterhood,
in her despair and agony consented, and was now lost to me forever. But
I could not so resign her. I plead with her that her promise to me being
prior made her monastic vows null; and I urged her to elope with me to
America.
“She at length gave a reluctant consent. I gathered up a large sum of
money, and we soon found ourselves on ship-board, and plying from our
native land. Think you that I was then happy? Alas for human hopes and
passions! I was in possession of my adored and beautiful Adela, but I
was a fugitive from my country, I was fleeing like a felon from my
father’s house, and I felt that I had left mourning and bitterness in
the places where I should have been diffusing peace and joy. Of the rank
and wealth that I had relinquished I thought little, for poverty and
contempt had not then taught me to value them. But I was sad even in the
hour in which I had attained that for which I would freely have given
life itself. Adela and I were united by the chaplain of the ship, on
board of which we sailed, but he was a Protestant. Poor Adela scrupled
at the validity of a ceremony thus performed; and the prejudices of her
education, with the vows she had broken, were persecuting spirits ever
torturing her heart, and mixing gall and venom forever with the cup of
joy. Her eyes lost their lustre, and her smile was sorrowful; I saw it,
and my heart grew sad. I had one hope left, that she would regain her
spirits when we should arrive amid the novel and beautiful scenes of the
New World; and then I hoped that she would become a Protestant, in which
case she would cease to agonise over her monastic vows. The chaplain, at
my request, used every argument with her in vain; her distress augmented
and ere we had been one month at sea she was attacked by a violent
fever.
“Oh! the bitter, dreadful agony with which I watched beside her couch.
Her pains of body were intense, but her distress of mind was more
terrible still. At length her reason failed her, and her death-bed scene
was indeed agony. But as death approached more nearly, her pains
remitted, and her phrenzy passed away. She said that she was forgiven,
and ready to appear before God, leaning on the mercy of her Redeemer.
She besought me to seek His consolations, and bidding me a fond
farewell, her young spirit passed away.
“And now what remained to me of all my treasures? I had bartered every
thing for her; and a cold and rigid form was all that I had left.
Terrible and hideous as death had come to her, I longed to feel his hand
upon me also. But he turned from me. I was obliged to live and see my
poor Adela cast into the deep sea, almost as soon as her spirit had
departed. My misery was now overflowing. I was bereft, and alone in the
world. I dared not return to France, for I feared the power of the
religion whose sanctuaries I had feloniously invaded. I assumed the name
which I and all my descendants bear, and landed in Philadelphia a
heart-broken and sorrowing stranger. I was greatly disappointed; for I
had been taught to believe America a beautiful paradise, in which wealth
and happiness awaited every adventurer who was so fortunate as to set
his foot upon its shores. But I learned in time to procure a decent
livelihood; the romance of youth was dissipated; I became a reasonable
creature; I married your good grandmother with rational expectations,
and now I am an old man, surrounded by a numerous progeny, and almost
ready to depart in peace. And now girls that I have told you the story
of my life, which you have entreated of me so often, I hope you will
find instruction in it, and learn to value the frail and evanescent
things of time, less than the peace of others, and the approbation of
your own mind. Now go, and leave me to seek the repose which agitation
of mind occasioned by retracing the scenes of my youth renders so
necessary for me.”
* * * * *
THE PARSONAGE GATHERING.
BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.
The last Sabbath of the year 18— was far spent, and the little band of
worshippers who had assembled in the village church of ——, were
preparing to return to their respective homes, and digest the homily of
their worthy pastor; when deacon Gravely advanced toward the altar, with
all the dignity of official-bearing in his step, where pausing in the
measured tones of one who is in authority, he requested the congregation
to “tarry a moment.” There was a sudden revolution of faces—a quick
rustling of cloaks, and rattling of foot-stools, and then all was so
still, one might have heard a pin drop, and every eye bent with eager
curiosity on the speaker; who only wished to remind them that the annual
visit to their “beloved pastor” would take place as usual on January
first, and it was hoped there would be a general attendance on the
occasion.
An instantaneous gleam of pleasure ran over the faces of the audience,
followed by a motion for the door, which was obstructed here and there
by the meeting of female friends, who kept impatient footsteps in the
rear, whilst in audible whispers, they exchanged opinions touching the
sermon, the proposed visit, and their various domestic grievances. But
the little church was at length empty, and the sexton proceeded to
extinguish the fire in the stove, and close its sacred doors against any
week-day intruders. It would be detracting from the solemnising-powers
of the respected dominie, to say that the few words spoken by the
deacon, had been more effectual than his well-written discourse on the
departure of the year, and uncharitable to suppose that the church-going
villagers thought more and talked more on their way home, of visiting
their minister, than of attending to the admonitions he had that day
given them; and though I am telling a true story, it does not follow
that the _whole_ truth must be told; so let me pass on to the following
Monday, which dawned without a cloud.
There was an earlier stirring than usual in the village, particularly
among the farmers’ wives, who must needs get their week’s-washing out of
the way as soon as possible, that preparations might commence for the
anticipated visit, which was to take place on Wednesday. The city-reader
may not be aware that it is a custom in country villages throughout many
of the older states, to atone somewhat for the meagre salaries allotted
to the ministerial department, by donations from those whose hearts are
opened to give of such things as they have, to him who breaks the “Bread
of Life” to their souls. Furthermore, it is so arranged by the
considerate deacons’ wives, that these donations shall be sweetened on
the part of the donors, by a social cup of tea at the parsonage; which
certainly cannot be considered as among “The multitude of Sins” which
need the mantle of charity for a covering.
By the hasty moving to and fro of the villagers through Monday and
Tuesday, it was evident that until their memories were jogged by deacon
Gravely, they had thought nothing of, nor made any reservations for the
annual gathering: but to their credit be it said, that they were not
slow to act on this occasion, and designed having everything in
“apple-pie order.” The farmer unlocked the rich treasures of his
granary, corn-crib and fruitery: wheat in “good measures, pressed down”
and overflowing, was laid aside; the best of the yellow corn was
selected; the golden pippins packed systematically, and even the more
solid wealth of the pork barrel gave of its abundance to complete the
New Year’s offering. The axe too of the woodman resounded through the
neighboring forests, and many a sturdy hickory and oak bowed the willing
head, at the bright promise of adding cheerfulness and comfort to the
parsonage hearth. Nor was the ambitious house-wife to be out-done by her
lord: from the “wool and the flax,” which she had sought and worked
“willingly with her hands,” a worthy portion was chosen for the pastor’s
wife and her nursery-flock. And the store-room held out its donation of
butter and cheese; not forgetting that weightier matter of economy,
ycleped “_black_-butter”—so indispensable to the farmer’s table! (being
a mixture of quinces and apples, boiled down to sauce in sweet cider,
and eaten on bread by the children, instead of butter.) Nor was this
all: Doughnuts and twisted cakes were soon dancing merrily over the
fire, plumcakes swelling in the oven, and many a little delicacy
contrived by the inventive geniuses that were busy on the occasion;—for
it is understood that these gatherings are to be no source of trouble or
expense to the minister’s wife. One of the neighboring house-wives is
appointed to the high office of mistress of ceremonies, and some half
dozen others move at her beck and call through the parsonage-house,
making all needful arrangements, while the lady herself is but an
admiring spectator of the scene, and has only to dress and receive her
_profitable_ visiters.
The farmers were not alone in their “labors of love,” for the
enterprising shop-keepers were as busy on their part in preparation.
“Dry-goods and Groceries,” read their signs, and “the signs of the
times,” were read in the liberal offerings that were made ready for the
day, each having the savor of their trade withal.
And _the_ day at length arrived! A New Year’s sun enlivened the spirits
of the villagers, (albeit, they knew nothing of fashionable “calls” on
Time’s natal day,) and threw open the gates of the parsonage. At an
early hour might be seen gliding over the polished surface of a late
fallen snow, the farmer’s sled, bearing its ponderous load of wood; here
and there, wheel-barrows and hand-barrows, groaning with the burden of
such variety as would puzzle any head to remember, all wending their way
to the pastor’s dwelling. Two o’clock, P. M. found the elder portion of
his congregation, having sent their gifts as a passport, preparing to
appear in person before their minister. For once, the “Sunday suit” of
true blue and shining gilt, was put in requisition on a _work_-day; and
the buxom dame came forth from her toilet in her “best” gown and cap,
and when in addition, the “meeting-bonnet” and hat were donned, away
trudged the farmer and his “better half,” leaving the care of the
homestead to the young folks, who were to take their turn at
candle-light; when it was understood that the old folks were to return,
and give them a chance by themselves.
Ye who love the cheerful, unostentatious scene, peep with me in
imagination into the minister’s parlor:—see that weather-beaten group
of farmers in the corner, animated by the light of each other’s
countenances, while the crops of the late season are compared, and the
improvements in modern husbandry denounced as “innovations,” and hostile
to the wisdom and practice of their respected fore-fathers. Or if you
would hear of broken banks and money-matters in general, listen to that
trio, which comprises the chief of the village merchants: and then pass
to those social wives and spinsters who are rocking, knitting and
gossiping, all most industriously at the same moment. The latter
accomplishment they evidently excel in; as can be proved by their
remarks on the domestic qualifications of Mrs. Tidifield; the lax
government of Mrs. Gadabroad; the inferior household management of Mrs.
Carelittle, and the “high notions” of Mrs. Citybred, (a late comer among
them,) which they “_guess_ will have to come down, after she has lived
in the country awhile,” &c. &c. But as these industrious _ladies_ had no
ill _meaning_ in this species of detraction, and would do “a good turn”
for any of their erring neighbors before mentioned, we must attribute
this propensity for scandal, to the “original sin” which is inherent to
their sex. The tea “goes off” in old presbyterian style, and each
discovers something of her own handiwork amid the variety spread before
them. * * * But alas! all earthly pleasures must terminate. As the
evening shades gather without, there is a breaking up of the gathering
within, and the afternoon visiters disperse to the “quickstep” of
“Homeward bound.”
The first light that gleamed through the parsonage-windows was a signal,
that seemed well understood by the belles and beaux of the village; who
light of heart and light of step, hurried in blooming clusters to the
evening gathering, evidently reckoning on a merry-making of no common
order. But after the excitement of arriving was over, and the last guest
had been ushered into the presence of the company, there arose a
question in the minds of some, as to what they had met together for; and
in sooth no one seemed exactly to know. On one side of the ample
apartment, in bright array, were seated all the fair of the
neighborhood, in blushing, simpering silence! While opposite, in
formidable rows, sat the young farmers and shop-keepers of the village,
as “slick” as pomatum and starch could make them, twisting their thumbs
one way for lack of thought, and the other way, for lack of talk; but
not daring to cross the dividing-line, into “_fairer_ realms beyond.”
“The awful pause” was at length broken by a proposition which came from
some unknown source, to “get up a play,” and many were the bright smiles
that responded to it. Every one knows, that when the young folks of a
village once throw off the stiffness of distance, and mingle in the
unrestrained mirth of a rustic game, they are the happiest of the happy!
On this New Year’s evening, they would have had a regular
“_jollification_,” but for the timely caution of deacon Gravely, who
remained to sustain the dignity of his office, by keeping the lambs of
the flock within due bounds; reminding them that they were at the
_minister’s house_: a fact which they seemed quite willing to forget.
The deacon’s notice proved something of a damper upon their gaiety; but
after all was far less _effectual_ than that given on the preceding
Sunday; as many a chasing for the kiss which was to redeem a pawn, and
loud bursts of merriment testified; much to the discomfiture of the
deacon. But there were at the party _two_ who kept themselves aloof from
the festivities of the evening, and were observed to sit in a corner
together, engaged in conversation and apparently unconscious of the
merry scenes around them. They were none other than the daughter of Mrs.
Citybred, and the intelligent young physician of the village. It was
evident that they had been accustomed to the refinements of education
and good society, and were for the first time in their lives at a
parsonage gathering. Many were the sly jokes and whisperings
interchanged by the company touching these _exclusives_; but of none
effect on the doctor and his unsuspecting companion.
What they conversed _about_ is none of our business; but certain it was
that the lady’s countenance glowed with pleasure; and it was observed by
all that the doctor never looked happier before. On the breaking up of
the party, it did not escape observation nor remark, that the doctor
waited on Mrs. Citybred’s daughter home.