decidedly; but as they were afterward seen riding together several times
in a very _exclusive_ looking vehicle; and as the doctor has never
before been known to ride out with a lady alone, since he settled in the
village, of course there were _rumors_ of a wedding to take place before
the next gathering, and much commiseration wasted on the doctor in
anticipation of his “extravagant wife.” But as the next New Year’s day
found him still a bachelor, it yet affords matter for gossip and
conjecture among the villagers whether the Dr. and Mrs. Citybred’s
daughter will ever be married or not.
Liberty, Pa. April, 1841.
* * * * *
TO AN OLD ROCK.
BY G. G. FOSTER.
Well! hands of friends have all been pressed—
My mother’s kiss is on my cheek—
My father’s hands and eyes have blessed
His first-born—though he could not speak!
And now I break the ties that bind
Me to the last of my own kind.
But yet, to thee, my old grey rock,
I hasten as in days of yore;
And memories sweet and pleasant flock
In throngs around me, as I pour
My last heart-gushes over thee,
Friend of my wayward infancy!
For oft ere yet my tongue expressed
The wild emotions of my soul,
And strange, proud feelings heaved my breast,
Like tides beneath the moon’s control,
I’ve wandered to this cool retreat,
The Spirit of the place to meet.
And often in the solemn night,
While kissing winds slept on the lake
Which murmurs at thy base, and light
And starry music kept awake
The thronging fires of thought within,
I’ve stolen to thee an hour to win
From all the carking care which rushed
Over my untamed spirit’s mood,
And leaned on thee, like infant hushed,
And felt, as thus secure I stood,
The god whose shrine was in my brain,
Return to his old haunts again!
And when the friends of youth grew cold,
And loving eyes were turned away,
And even Hope was growing old,
And all my heart-flowers withered—aye,
I turned to thee, my firm old rock,
And learned, like thee, to bear the shock.
But now, I go—Old Rock, farewell!
And thou my tiny lake, adieu!
Proud Hope my wandering steps impel
O’er yonder mountain calm and blue.
When fame is won and withered too,
Old friends! I will return to you.
* * * * *
TO THE “BLUE-EYED LASSIE.”
BY THE LATE J. G. BROOKS.[2]
They tell me thine eyes are blue, lassie,
They tell me thy cheek is fair.
May grief never spoil its hue, lassie,
Nor give its bloom to the air.
The world lies before thee now, lassie,
And when time rolls a few more years
Its troubles may blight thy brow, lassie,
And dim thy blue eyes with tears.
Thou art come to a stormy life, lassie,
Where often the hurricanes lower—
Where wild are the waves of strife, lassie,
And strong is affliction’s power.
Where flowers soon fade away, lassie,
And strew their leaves to the blast—
Where one moment the sky is gay, lassie,
The next with clouds overcast.
Thou art the new-born rose of spring, lassie,
As soft, as fair, and as frail—
The hands of the storm oft fling, lassie,
The rose of spring to the gale.
May that hand never fall on thee, lassie,
To blight thy rose in its pride,
Mayst thou glide o’er a sunny sea, lassie,
On a calm and gentle tide.
May the cup of thy life never cloy, lassie,
May thy heart e’er be light and gay;
Mayst thou meet with the smile of joy, lassie,
And a blest, and a cloudless day.
-----
[2] Through the kindness of the mother of the poet, (the well-known and
lamented _Florio_) we are enabled to present our readers with the above
sweet little poem—one of his earliest compositions, and certainly not
one of his worst. By mere accident it has hitherto remained
unpublished.—Eds.
* * * * *
LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO.
THE ROBBERY AND MURDER.
_Macd._ O, horror! horror! horror! tongue, nor heart,
Cannot conceive nor name thee!
_Macbeth._
“James,” said a mild but feeble voice, “cheer up, God will yet send us
relief. Has he not said that he heareth even the young raven’s cry, and
think you that he will suffer us to starve? Oh! no,” continued the sick
wife, forgetting her own sufferings in those of her husband, “believe it
not. Succor will yet come: we shall once more see happy days—”
“Ay!” answered the husband, bitterly, “when we are in our graves. Ay!
when want has driven the nails in our coffins: but not till then. My
God!” he exclaimed suddenly, with the fierceness of despair, “was it for
this I was sent into the world?”
“Oh! James,” said the meek wife, bursting into tears, “I can bear all
except such terrible repinings. Father,” she continued, raising her
streaming eyes to heaven, “forgive him, for he knows not what he says.”
The husband was moved. He turned his head away from his wife, perhaps to
hide a tear; but if so, his weakness vanished as he gazed upon the
ruinous and desolate apartment to which poverty had driven them, while
all the bitterness of his soul once more lowered on his face.
The room was a low garret, black with age, and tottering to ruin. In its
best days it had been at most but a wretched apartment, for at its
highest part it would scarcely admit of a man standing upright, while on
the opposite side the cracked and leaky ceiling shelved down until it
met the floor. The walls had once been plastered, but age had long since
peeled them nearly bare; and the time-stained beams of which the
building had been constructed—it was a wooden one—now gaped through
many a crevice. In several places even the weather-boarding without had
given way or rotted off, admitting in copious draughts, the biting
wintry blast which roared around the house. A solitary candle burned in
the room, flaring wildly as the gusts whirled through the apartment.
There was no fire-place in the garret—God knows it was well
enough!—for the poverty-stricken inmates had not wherewithal to
purchase food, much less fuel. No furniture was in the room, except an
old chest, a broken cup or two, and the ricketty bedstead, on which,
with a mattress of straw beneath her, lay that suffering wife. She was
pale, emaciated, and evidently ill, but, amid it all, you could see on
her wasted countenance, traces of the rarest beauty. The marble
forehead; the classic eye-brow; the Grecian contour of face; the finely
chiselled mouth and throat; and above all, the dark blue eye, its
chastened expression lighting up the whole countenance as with an
angel’s purity, told what must have been the loveliness of the sufferer,
before care, or poverty, or woe had driven their iron ploughshares
through her soul. Oh! well might it fill her husband’s heart with agony
to look upon her now, and think of the day when in far different
circumstances, he led her a blushing bride, to his home. But if such
were his feelings when gazing on his angelic wife, how far more poignant
did they become as his eye fell upon the almost famished babe lying in
her arms. Poor little thing! it had fallen asleep at length, after
crying long for that sustenance which its mother had not to give,
although she would have drained her heart’s blood, if, by so doing, she
could have appeased the hunger of her babe. By its side lay a boy,
apparently about four years of age, his little delicate face worn with
hunger and privation, and his thin fingers tightly grasping the
bed-clothes, as though he feared lest some one should snatch the scanty
covering from around his form. Alas! he had been early introduced to
misfortune. Often had he gone supperless to bed of late, forbearing even
to ask for food, because he knew his mother had it not, and that it
would only pain her to refuse him; and often, too, when her husband
being absent in the vain search after employment, his mother would
indulge freely in the tears she checked in his presence, her little boy
would climb upon her knee, and throwing his wan arms around her neck,
kiss her and tell her not to cry. At such times the mother’s tears would
only fall the faster, and clasping her babes convulsively to her bosom,
she would find a melancholy pleasure in the sympathy of her child. But
all these things were now forgotten by the boy. He lay in the deep sleep
of infancy; and as he slumbered a smile played across his little face.
Perhaps he was dreaming of the angels in heaven.
James Stanhope was a young man of good family, a fine personal
appearance, and the manners of a gentleman. Destitute, however, of a
fortune, he obtained a livelihood by acting as a clerk in a public
office. He moved in good society, and enjoyed a moderate income, which,
by proper economy afforded him, at least once a year, the means of
spending a fortnight at one of those public places of amusement to which
beauty, wealth, and fashion annually resort. During a visit to one of
these summer pleasure haunts he met, and formed an acquaintance with
Miss Howard, a young lady, scarcely seventeen, a beauty, and an heiress,
who was spending a month at the watering-place, with a maiden cousin for
a chaperon. An intimacy was the result of a casual introduction, which
soon ripened into that most dangerous of all things to two young
hearts—an acknowledged friendship. In one short word, they loved, and
loved as few have done. But Stanhope, while he addressed the younger,
did not neglect the older cousin; and the consequence was that the
simple-hearted spinster fancied that it was her company to which the
handsome young stranger was attracted. She thus shut her eyes
effectually to the increasing intimacy between the young people, and
their love had become not only unconquerable, but so evident as to be
the theme of general remark, before the deluded chaperon, became aware
of Miss Howard’s entanglement. She was then thunder-struck at her own
indiscretion. She was more: she was enraged at the deception which had
been practised upon her, or rather which she had practised upon herself.
Dreading, moreover, the consequences of Mr. Howard’s displeasure, she
determined at once, by flying from the place, to escape the attentions
of Stanhope. Her carriage was instantly ordered to the door, their
baggage hastily collected, and with scarcely an hour’s warning, Miss
Howard was torn from her lover’s presence, without a moment being
afforded her to communicate with him. She was not able even to wave him
a silent adieu, as he was absent that morning on a ride. Disturbed by a
thousand fears lest her lover should think her faithless, and compelled
to listen to the bitter recriminations of her cousin, when sympathy was
rather needed for her tortured mind, the poor girl lay back in the
corner of the carriage and wept with a bitterness of heart such as she
had never experienced before. Oh! who can picture the agony of one thus
rudely torn from the object of her love. Life seemed to her to have lost
its charm. Death, in those first moments of crushing anguish would
almost have been welcome.
But if such were Miss Howard’s feelings, what were those of her lover
when, on returning from his ride, he learned her sudden departure! A
thousand doubts tortured him. At length, however, he gleaned enough of
the real cause of Miss Howard’s disappearance, to convince him that her
flight did not, as he had at first feared, originate in herself. Oh! the
joy, the bliss of that knowledge. Ellen still loved him, loved him as
warmly as ever. But here another reflection shot across his mind. With
the sanguine temper of youth he had indulged the hope that his want of
fortune would be overlooked by Mr. Howard, especially as his cousin had
suffered the intimacy between his daughter and Stanhope to continue so
long unopposed; but now—how could he resist the intimation so plainly
given to him? Few can tell the agony of the lover’s feelings who have
not passed through the same terrible ordeal.
“I will follow her,” at length he said, “I will see her once more. To
live without beholding Ellen is more than I can endure,” and having come
to this conclusion the ardent young man set out within a day to the city
which was the residence alike of himself and his mistress.
We will not detail the progress of these two young beings’ passion. As
in every like case opposition only fanned their love. Young, ardent, and
uncalculating they had already exchanged those vows, which are only less
lasting and holy than the marriage ones,—and the pure mind of Miss
Howard looked upon it as sacrilege to break her troth, even had her
heart whispered a willing assent thereto. But, on the contrary, all that
was said against her lover, only increased her admiration of his
character, and consequently heightened her affection. There is nothing
like injustice to draw a woman’s heart closer to that of her lover. In
vain they originated slanders to lower him in her eyes; in vain they
even brought pretended letters to convince her of his infidelity; she
remained inflexible, for every one, who knew Stanhope, joined in
asserting his innocence, and it was impossible to conceal this from her
without secluding her wholly from society. How often does a woman, in
some trying circumstances, rise above herself, and display a sudden
energy of character which those who had known her for years had thought
foreign to her. Thus it was with Miss Howard. How long this reliance in
her lover’s unabated integrity might have continued, if she had remained
without meeting him, we know not; but Stanhope soon found a means to
open a communication with his mistress, which effectually checked all
danger, and deepened incalculably their mutual love.
Foiled in his attempts to obtain an interview with his mistress,
Stanhope had found out the church which she attended, and thither he
resorted every Sunday, to enjoy the happiness of at least, beholding, if
he could not address her. It was not long before Ellen detected his
presence, and the stolen glances they exchanged across the church, were
mutual assurances of their unabated love. How Stanhope’s heart fluttered
as he saw her enter the church, and move up the aisle to her father’s
splendid pew. And if, perchance, when the family turned to depart, Ellen
could, unobserved, give him a smile and a nod of recognition, how would
he long to clasp the dear girl to his arms, and thank her for her
kindness. Weeks passed in this manner, however, before the two lovers
found an opportunity for an interview. At length one Sunday morning
Ellen came alone. As Stanhope beheld her enter the door unattended, he
could hardly contain himself in his seat, so great was his joy. The
moment the service was over he hurried down stairs, and amid the crowd
in the vestibule, with a beating heart, awaited her. Her agitation was
scarcely less than his own, as he addressed her. A thousand eyes seemed
to her fancy to be bent upon her, and she turned pale and trembled by
turns. They had proceeded some distance down the street before either
could speak more than the common words of salutation. At length Stanhope
broke the silence.
“Ellen, dear Ellen, do we meet at last?” he said, in a low tone, “oh!
how can I describe the joy of this moment. Since we last parted what
agony have I not endured: doubt, fear, hope, despair have all succeeded
each other in my mind.”
“How could you be so unjust?” said the sweet girl, reproachfully, “oh!”
she thought to herself, “if he only knew what I have suffered for his
sake.”
“Pardon me, dear Ellen, but though I felt convinced of your truth, yet I
knew not what false accusations might be made against me. It was that
which troubled me. I never doubted you, believe me. But oh! you cannot
know how terrible it is to be forever excluded from your presence. How
often have I watched your window at night, hoping to catch even a
glimpse of your shadow, and how long and hitherto how fruitlessly have I
waited for this blessed opportunity, if only to assure you of my
unabated love, and to ask if you are still my own Ellen. Answer me but
once more, dearest: let me hear it from your own lips again.”
The arm of Ellen trembled within her lover’s during this passionate
address, and, as he continued, her agitation increased so visibly that
when he ceased, and looking up into his face, she essayed to answer him,
for a moment, she could not speak. At length she murmured brokenly.
“Why do—you ask me—such a cruel question?” and giving her lover a look
of mingled reproach and affection that dissolved him with tenderness,
she continued, “you know I love you!” and overcome, by her emotions, and
even forgetting her public situation, she burst into tears.
If Stanhope could have that moment clasped her to his arms, and poured
forth upon her bosom his thanks for her renewed avowal, what would he
not have given! But he could only press her arm as it lay within his
own, and murmur his gratitude. Oh! the ecstacy of that moment: it
repayed him for all he had suffered during the months he had been
separated from Ellen.
Their conversation was long and full of moment to their future lives.
Urged passionately by her lover, and half persuaded by her own heart,
Ellen consented at length to meet Stanhope in her morning walks; and
then, bursting afresh into tears, left him at the corner of the street,
not far from her father’s princely dwelling, and hurried home. It was a
hard task for her that day at the dinner table to conceal her emotion;
but she did so. When the meal was over, she hurried to her room to
indulge in her feelings. Had she done right in thus consenting to meet
her lover clandestinely? Her heart answered yes—her reason no. A fresh
flood of tears came to her relief, and thus tortured by conflicting
emotions, she sank toward morning into a troubled sleep.
Well—they met—once—twice—daily. It was a dream of bliss, but it
could not last. Every time they saw each other their love grew stronger.
Yet Ellen, although urged by her lover to elope, was unwilling to
consent to it. Indeed on this point she was inflexible. With tears she
said to herself in the solitude of her chamber, that if she had erred at
first through her inexperience, and allowed her affections to be placed
irrevocably on one whom her parent even unjustly disapproved of, she
would not go farther on the path of disobedience. She was young, and she
_hoped_. She trusted that time would make all right. But a bolt was
about to fall upon her head, which, for the honor of human nature, we
would gladly escape recording.
We have said little as yet directly of Mr. Howard, though a glimmering
of his character must have been perceptible in the foregoing pages.
Mean, crafty, purse-proud, haughty, and inflexible to obstinacy, he had
nothing in common with his daughter, except the tie of relationship.
Ellen was like her mother in every thing, but that mother had been long
since dead,—and could the secrets of her grave have been unfolded,
perhaps it might have been seen that she died of a broken heart. Yes!
her husband was her destroyer. But he did nothing which made him
amenable to the law. No. He was always outwardly respectful to his wife.
It was only at home that his brutality broke forth; and Mrs. Howard was
too meek and forgiving to publish her own sufferings. And thus like too
many gentle beings in our midst she drooped, and sickened, and died; and
when they laid her in her gorgeous coffin, and bore her to her tomb,
amid all the splendor of wealth, how little did they think that she had
been murdered—aye! murdered by her husband’s brutality. God help the
thousands who thus die of a broken heart!
With such a father had Ellen now to do. He had forbidden her all
communication with her lover as soon as he suspected that they met,
threatening to disown her at once if she disobeyed, and Ellen was
returning from a parting interview with Stanhope, in which she had told
him of her father’s commands, and rejecting every proposal to elope, had
signified, with a burst of tears, her determination to obey her parent,
when on reaching the door-step she met Mr. Howard. He was in a towering
passion, though he affected at first to conceal it.
“Very well, Miss, very well. You’ve seen fit to disobey my orders,” he
commenced, “have you? I’ve watched you, you hussy, myself,” he
continued, following his daughter into the hall, and closing the door,
“what have you to say?”
Ellen made a vain attempt to speak, but her emotions overpowered her,
and looking up imploringly into his face, she burst into tears.
“By G—, Miss, I’m not to be answered this way,” said Mr. Howard, not
longer affecting to conceal his rage, and brutally seizing his
daughter’s arm he shook it violently, “why don’t you speak? None of your
whining: Answer me!” and again he shook her.
Never before had her parent used her thus. This personal indignity,
added to his brutal language, cut her to the heart, and brought on a
fresh flood of tears, which only increased her father’s rage. By this
time, too, the servants had gathered in the hall, and were witnesses of
the whole of this deplorable scene.
“D—n it,” he said, his face flushing with passion, as he again shook
her violently, “I’ll bring an answer out of you—I will. Ain’t you going
to speak? I told you I’d disown you for this,—and,” here he muttered an
oath I dare not repeat, “I will. You and your beggarly, upstart
paramour”—oh! had that father a heart?—“may go to the alms-house
together. Out of my door this instant. You are no daughter of mine. Out,
I say. Open the door, John.”
The man hesitated an instant. It only increased the rage of Mr. Howard.
“Open the door, I say. By G— am I to be disobeyed by all of you? I’ll
remember you for this, you villain—you—”
“I’m sure I don’t care,” said the man, almost crying; for he had lived
in the family since Ellen was a babe, and loved her as his own, “for if
you are going to turn my poor dear mistress out of doors the sooner I
follow the better. I’d not live with such a brute,” continued he,
boldly, “for millions.”
“Out of the house, both of you, out, I say,” roared Mr. Howard, with a
volley of curses, for he was now stung to an ungovernable rage, and
cared not what he did, “begone!” and taking his daughter by the
shoulders he pushed her violently toward the door.
Up to this period of the scene, the events of which had passed in less
time than we take to describe them, Ellen, stupefied and astonished, had
been unable to utter a word. Her father’s unparalleled barbarity called
forth continued floods of tears. But she now spoke.
“Oh! father,” she said, “do not turn me from your doors. You are my only
parent, and I will, I would have told you all. I only went to bid
farewell to him—indeed, indeed I did—”
“You met him, you own to it,” said Mr. Howard, almost choked with rage,
“before my face. This is too much—out I say.”
“Father! Father!” said Ellen, falling on her knees, “do not cast me off.
For the love of heaven do not. I will be all you ask. I will never see
him again; I have parted with him forever—oh! father! father—”
“Yes! you may father, father me now till you are tired; but it’s too
late. Go, and see if your beggar of a clerk can help you. Go, and God’s
and a father’s curse go with you!” and, with the fury of a madman the
brutal parent seized his daughter by the arms, lifted her up, and
pushing her so violently from the door that she went reeling down the
steps, slammed it to after her. Ellen was alone—no! not alone, for the
faithful John, who had sacrificed his place for her was at her side, and
as the innocent outcast looking wildly up at the portal which was thus
forever closed upon her, gave a faint cry, and fell insensible to the
pavement, he caught her in his arms, and bearing her to a neighboring
shop, gave her in charge to the females there, to restore her.
Shall we pursue the details of this melancholy story? Oh! let us rather
hurry to its close. It terminated as might have been expected. Thrust
from her father’s doors, dreading his brutality even if she could
return, and knowing not where to seek protection in this sudden
emergency, Ellen yielded to the solicitations of her lover, and was
married. Poor girl! though she never looked lovelier than on her
wedding-day, in her pale, sweet face might be seen the traces of that
sorrow which had already begun to darken her life.
From the hour when Mr. Howard so inhumanly turned his daughter from his
doors, he never was heard to make the slightest enquiry respecting her.
He seemed to have discarded her forever from his mind. He never even
mentioned her name; he appeared to feel no remorse for the deed into
which his passion had hurried him. Not that his conscience never smote
him. God knows that would have displayed a malignity of heart worthy of
a fiend. But no one ever saw these visitings of remorse,—for his pride
forbade him to betray them, as much as it hindered him from re-opening
his doors to his daughter. Yet day by day he grew more irascible. The
worm was at his heart: he felt, though he would not own its sting.