It was a calm autumnal evening. The late bright green that had clothed
the forests, had given place to a rich and almost endless variety of
colors. In other lands the fairy pencillings of fancy may have
pictured beauties like these, but in our own American woods there is a
charm art and genius may strive in vain to imitate or describe. And
who is it that can gaze on such a scene without a soft, delicious
melancholy? It has a voice to the contemplative mind impressive yet
sweet. The rustling of the fallen leaves—the murmur of the breeze
through the thinly clad boughs—the gay and almost magic hues of the
richly variegated foliage—more lovely as it approaches more nearly to
its fall—all conspire to still the troubled passions of the mind—to
elevate the spirit above the transitory things of time, and remind us
of the solemn truth, that all the beauties and pleasures of this world
are fleeting as the summer flower—transient as the splendor of an
autumn wood. Ten years had passed since last I stood beneath the lofty
oaks that cast their shade over the silent sepulchres of the dead.
Tired of the greetings of friends and gaze of strangers. I sought the
spot where rested the ashes of those that once had been among the
friends of my youth.
I strolled from tomb to tomb, and sought on the pages of memory the
history of many I had once known and loved, but often did I inquire of
my companion, to gather more fully the recollection which time had
partially obscured. At length a simple, yet elegant tomb attracted my
attention. Near it stood one of an imposing appearance, in which art
and munificence seemed to have exerted their skill, to make it tower
above the rest. On the first was this simple, but affecting
inscription—
SACRED
To the memory of
MATILDA WILLIAMS.
On living tablets of the heart,
Her virtues are engraved;
Then seek not on the works of art,
The record of her praise.
It bore no dates, but was evidently recently erected. The name I did
not recognize, but the tender, unpretending inscription, sensibly
touched my heart, and I felt a strong desire to know the history of
her whose virtues needed no external record. My friend read my
feelings, and immediately drew my attention to the next tomb-stone. It
bore a long list of lineage, beauty, amiability, &c. &c. and as I read
the long and beautiful detail, I almost questioned the justice of
Omnipotence in thus snatching, in early life, from mortal gaze, so
pure, so beautiful a pattern of every female grace and excellence.
“Only twenty-four,” I exclaimed, “and yet so highly exalted, so much
beloved.” My friend smiled archly and remarked, “Have you seen so much
of the world and not yet learned that real merit rarely has loud
trumpeters?” Her manner surprised me, and I inquired the meaning. It
is too late now, said she, to enter into the narrative about which you
feel so much interested; to-morrow I will relate the history of both
these women, whose tombs are not more strikingly different than were
their lives and characters. United in life by a strange destiny, or
rather by strange circumstances, it is fit that their last dwellings
should be near each other, and that their monuments, like their
characters, should stand forth in striking contrast.
* * * * *
Matilda Clayton was the only daughter of the poor widow who removed to
this village a short time before you left here, and who for years has
taught the village school.
Perhaps you remember the interest her coming gave to all the lovers of
mystery in our circle. She was dressed in black. Her child was about
twelve or fourteen; beautiful as a fairy, and seemingly a visitor from
some etherial sphere—so delicate, so gentle was her every glance and
movement. They brought with them an elegant harp and guitar, and two
richly painted portraits. Of their characters or former home, nothing
could be gathered. She rented that house which you see among those
lofty oaks, and furnished it in a style of neat simplicity and taste.
Soon after she came, she issued proposals for a school, but few at
first seemed disposed to patronize her; and though curiosity was
strongly manifested to know who and what she was, all that could be
gathered was the assertion that she was the widow of an officer, whose
untimely death had left her friendless, and induced her, to seek among
strangers, a home and support. Months passed by, and her correct
deportment—the pure elegance of her manners, and her various
accomplishments, gained her the good-will and confidence of some of
the leading characters in the village, by whose influence a
considerable number of scholars was soon procured. Among her friends
and patrons was Mr. Wilton; and his daughter Clara, then {781} about
the age of Matilda, was the first committed to her care.
Soon did the widow and her daughter engage the affections of the
scholars, and a great intimacy took place between Matilda and Clara.
The Wiltons were wealthy, and their influence great; yet,
notwithstanding their efforts to induce Mrs. Clayton to mingle with
society, she and Matilda remained secluded from all the gaieties and
pleasures of the village. Often did their acquaintances stroll to the
cottage to listen to their sweet voices as they sung to their
instruments; and never shall I forget the tender tears I shed as I
stood one moonlight evening near the lattice, and heard the widow play
and sing these touching lines:
How hard it is with calmness to survey,
The scenes which memory bringeth to my view;
I fain would drive its spectre forms away,
And think ideal, what I know is true.
She brings back scenes of bliss beyond compare,
Recalls the joys which are forever fled—
I bathe their memory with my bitter tears,
And leave this spot to weep around the dead.
I gaze on thee, my own, my darling child—
I see “thy father’s softened image there;”
And oh! my tears arise to check thy smile,
And bid thee share thy widow’d mother’s care.
I’ve asked not pity, for too cold’s this world
To share the sorrows of the suffering poor;
From wealth’s high summit, when the wretch is hurled,
Alone they’re left their misery to deplore:
But conscious virtue will our solace be—
Perhaps we yet some feeling hearts may find;
While sweet’s the task to teach and succor thee,
My own Matilda, my dear orphan child;
And to our God our evening hymn we’ll raise,
For He did hear, when in our wo we cried;
The widow’s spouse—the orphan’s friend we’ll praise,
And dry our tears in hopes of bliss on high.
Even now I almost fancy I can hear her sweet tremulous voice, as it
rose on the silent evening breeze, and still I seem to gaze on that
lovely, though pallid face, as with tearful uplifted eye she sang
those last lines of tender heart-touching piety and faith. But I have
wandered from my narrative. Years rolled by, and still the widow’s
school increased, and with it love and respect for her and her
daughter. Clara Wilton had been the constant companion of the latter
for near three years, and her proficiency in both solid and ornamental
branches of education should have satisfied even her ambitious
parents. But the fashionable error that a young lady’s education could
never be completed at home, had found its way here, and Clara, with
others, was removed from Mrs. Clayton’s maternal care, to mix with
strangers, careless of their principles, and uninterested in their
happiness.
You, who have known the course pursued in fashionable boarding
schools—you who have seen the disappointed hopes—the perverted
minds—the corrupted hearts which have been the result of injudicious
plans of education, will not wonder when I tell you that the artless,
affectionate Clara returned home, after two years _polish_, an
altered, a sadly altered being. Matilda was now assisting her mother
in the duties of the school-room. That budding beauty which in
childhood charmed, was mellowed, refined, by the graces and dignity of
the woman. That quiet spirit, whose benign influence had been felt by
so many in the morning of life, now shed its purifying influence in a
more extended circle. Matilda was admired—beloved. Many sought her
society—she treated all with that amiable politeness which springs
from a pure heart: but few could gain her confidence or tempt her from
that deep retirement she had learned to love.
Clara still loved Matilda. Though fashion, folly, show and pleasure
had filled her mind, still she often left the bustle of gay life, to
spend an hour in that quiet, lovely spot, where she had spent her
happiest days. Often did she strive to enlist Matilda under the
banners of her leading pleasures, but she strove in vain. When crossed
or afflicted at any real or imaginary loss, she told her the troubles
that annoyed her; and often did Matilda point out the transitory
nature of her favorite joys, and point her unsatisfied heart to the
only fountain of perfect bliss.
Clara had many admirers, and frequently had the cottage been visited
in her evening rambles by her and her friends, to listen to the
elegant performance of its inmates, while Clara often joined the
concert with her own clear and highly cultivated voice.
Among the number who had thus become known to Matilda, was James
Williams, long an ardent admirer and evident favorite of Miss
Wilton’s.
Long had he solicited her hand, but she would not decide his fate.
Almost constantly with her, he had imagined her necessary to his
happiness, and so long had been kept in a feverish excitement of love,
and hope, and doubt, that he scarcely cared to have his case
permanently fixed. Believing himself beloved, he rather enjoyed than
disliked her frequent changes of deportment towards him, and had not
yet learned that there was a deep and holy feeling meant by love, that
he had never yet enjoyed.
But he saw Matilda. Again and again he repaired to the cottage, and
ere he knew that he was in danger, he found himself completely
enslaved by the artless, lovely manners, and rich and highly
cultivated mind of her who never thought of conquest. But he was
shackled, and how to break his bonds he knew not. Only one means
presented itself, and that was to urge Clara to a decided and
immediate step relative to him. She, unsuspecting his motive, and
believing his happiness in her power, rejected him, vainly expecting
to hear renewed declarations of affection, and to witness a sorrow and
despair which she would, ere long, turn into hope and gladness.
But, like the captive bird, who after weeks of imprisonment finds the
door of his cage unbarred, he exulted in his newly gained liberty, and
with delightful speed burst asunder every tie that bound him to his
captor, and sought again those joys which he had feared were lost to
him forever. Clara loved him, if the heart of a gay unthinking girl
could love. Little had she dreamed that in the lowly Matilda she could
find a rival, and that too, in the only heart whose worship she had
ever really valued. But in his speaking countenance she read that her
rejection gave no pain, nor was she long in discovering the cause of
his alienated affections. Clara was now awoke from more sleeps than
one—she had awoke from confidence in love, to prove that she had been
bewildered with an _ignis fatuus_; her feelings of resentment, envy
and revenge, which had slumbered so long, were now aroused and glowed
with the intensity of a long smothered flame.
{782} When she first left her native village, she was a stranger to
the vices so prevalent among the young in modern times. But easy is
the task to imbibe wrong sentiments—to learn that revenge is
noble—that the end justifies the means, and that she who can best
dissemble, most secretly effect her purposes, is most praiseworthy and
admired.
Her feelings naturally ardent, needed but an exciting cause to call
into active exercise some of the most uncontrollable, and unamiable
passions. Clara might have made, with proper government when young, an
excellent woman. But no early discipline had prepared her for
usefulness and happiness. An only daughter, the heiress of a large
estate and honorable name, and possessed of many personal graces—she
had known no restraints—met with no crosses to her inclinations, and
had been taught, by precept and example, that admiration, conquest,
dress and fashion, were the objects at which she should tend—the
summit of her ambition. Mrs. Clayton had endeavored to instil good
principles in all her pupils’ minds; but what can the lessons of the
school-room effect, when the family circle extinguishes all the good
feelings produced during a few hours instruction? Self-love was
Clara’s idol—self-love, alas! is too often the destroyer of its
worshipper.
Williams soon became an open admirer of Miss Clayton. Gifted with
talents, fortune, and a person of uncommon elegance, his mind well
stored with literature, and his heart, though uninfluenced by solid
piety, yet feelingly alive to many noble and brilliant virtues, he was
formed to love with all the deep fervor of a virtuous soul, and formed
to be beloved by one who could appreciate his character. No sooner did
Williams declare himself the friend and equal of Miss Clayton, than
the line of demarkation which had been drawn by the proud and rich
gave way, and it soon became quite as fashionable to admire the gentle
Matilda, as it had been to pay homage to her wealthier cotemporaries.
Nor did Williams alone desert Miss Wilton’s ranks. Among her former
suitors was a young man of dissipated character, but polished manners,
who would, no doubt, have been a successful competitor for her hand,
had not Williams appeared upon the stage. Between these two, no good
feelings existed; and no sooner did Dudley discover his attachment to
Matilda, than he determined to oppose him. For some months no event
occurred worth recital. Rumor declared Williams the future husband of
Matilda; while Dudley, tired of his new flame, again returned to
flatter the beautiful Clara.
It was evident that she was not happy, and also that the desertion of
Williams was a source of real mortification; yet still her fondness
for her rival continued, and she even seemed more devoted than ever to
the society of her friend. Matilda loved her, and fondly imagined that
she was likewise beloved. But the time for her marriage drew near.
Clara possessed her confidence, and apparently enjoyed the approaching
good fortune of her friend. At this juncture, business called Williams
unexpectedly from the state. With a beating heart he bid adieu to his
betrothed, promising to write every post, and extorting from her a
like favor. One letter only was received from him, and that was cold
and brief. Added to this, she was told that his departure was a
finesse to avoid the fulfilment of his engagement—that he had spoken
disrespectfully of her, and that she need not expect any farther
tidings from him. But Matilda believed it not. She wrote. In a short
time her letter was returned unopened. Still she could not believe him
false. A month rolled by—a month of anguish, of suspense—but nothing
farther was heard from him.
During this time Williams had received letters from his friends
advising him to return no more—that Matilda had deceived him—that her
conduct was improper in the extreme—that the story of her mother’s
widowhood was an artful tale, invented to conceal the ignominious
birth of her daughter, and that they were proved to be exiles from
home, forced off by the resentment of their family. He, too, received
a letter from Matilda, requesting to be exonerated from her vows,
alleging a former attachment as the cause, which she declared herself
unable to overcome. Nor did it end here. Dudley and Clara had so
managed that the minds of the public should be prepared for the event
of Williams’ desertion; and the unhappy girl soon found that not only
had her lover fled, but with him her character, and of course her
peace. At Williams’ request their school had been dismissed, and thus
were they left, with sullied fame, and without the means of future
support. In vain did they endeavor to investigate the matter. No one
stepped forward to assist them, save some who lacked the ability to
succor those whom they believed innocent. Two years passed by, and
found their situation deplorable indeed. A deep melancholy had seized
the widow’s mind; their efforts to re-assume their former office
failed, and they were poor, friendless and afflicted. Matilda bore it
with becoming dignity—all that industry and prudence could effect was
done—but the rose was fled from her cheek, and the smile of peace was
gone. Only by the bed side of the poor and dying, or afflicted, and
within the walls of the house of God, did she venture to stray. But
the influence of virtue will sooner or later be felt. Public sentiment
cannot long remain stationary, and a reaction seemed gradually taking
place in the Claytons’ favor. Again they requested to be patronised,
and a few persons resolved again to try them. The fever of excitement
was passed, and the minds of the community, as they grew more calm,
began to look more closely into the nature of the case; and many now
wondered that they had been so credulous as to believe what was so
slightly proven. But it is needless to descend to particulars—suffice
it to say, that they were again placed in a situation of comparative
comfort; and many who had secretly shown some kindness to the
sufferers, now boldly espoused their cause, and openly declared their
belief in their innocence. Clara was still unmarried, and her deep
hatred to Matilda now began to assume a more tangible form. No
opportunity escaped her and Dudley, to asperse her character; and so
marked was their enmity, that it attracted general attention.
Twelve months passed by, and their school increased, and with it their
favor with the greater portion of their acquaintances. Dudley and
Clara were to be married, and a great excitement existed in
expectation of the gaieties of the scene. Never had such preparations
been known, and consequently the approaching marriage was the theme of
every tongue. The evening before the wedding, a large party of the
young men of the village {783} and its vicinity, had assembled to
celebrate some anniversary in which they were interested. After the
business of the meeting was over, they agreed to drink to the
happiness of Dudley and his Clara. One sally of mirth gave way to
another, until Dudley and several others felt much exhilarated by
their large potations. Dudley at length mentioned Williams—tauntingly
alluded to his former attachment to Clara—attributed his rejection by
her to his own influence—and wound up by asserting that it was not the
only favor for which his friend had to thank him. Encouraged by the
mirth his witticisms excited, he proceeded to state, in a strain of
deep ridicule, that had not his superior discernment discovered the
true character of Miss Clayton, and given the alarm, she would have
now been the wife of Williams; and that, for the favor he had done him
in getting him out of that dilemma, he should seek out the exile, and
claim, by way of reward, a handsome legacy for his first. Among the
number present was one who long had loved the innocent girl whose name
was thus unceremoniously handled; a suspicion that Dudley was the
cause of her ruin, darted through his mind, and he resolved to take
him by guile. He accordingly asked if friendship for Williams had
prompted him to the task of breaking off his chains. “No, indeed: I
had a double motive. She, a proud wretch, had rejected me; and he, a
villain, once had rivalled me; for a reason, good or bad, they loved
each other, and I made them feel what they will not forget.” “And you
can prove all that was said?” continued the other. Dudley was now
alarmed, for there was something in young Maxwell’s look that showed
he had said more than he intended to be understood. “Prove it!” said
he, “assuredly I did it; and if necessary, can prove a great deal more
than you have ever heard.”
The party dispersed at a late hour, but Maxwell arose next morning
unrefreshed. He fancied he had found the clew to the labyrinth, and
resolved, unsuspected and secretly, to discover, if possible, the
mystery which he now saw had been so long thrown over that
transaction. Maxwell, too, was Williams' friend. He alone knew his
present residence, and he resolved, if possible, to investigate the
matter, and restore, if innocent, happiness and fame to her whom he
now believed unjustly deprived of both.
* * * * *
The halls of Wilton Lodge were glittering with a thousand lights—the
merry peals of the violin resounded through the mansion—the gay
dancers were seen in every direction—while feasting and profusion
marked the splendid scene. Maxwell leant beside a lofty column,
decorated with flowers and variegated lamps, and looked on the festive
scene with a saddened heart.
Clara was arrayed in almost regal splendor. The jewels glistened in
her hair—the pearls gave their pure forms to decorate her snowy neck
and arms; every thing combined to make her happy and gay, and yet he
thought that she was sad.
Wearied with the dance, she seated herself near the spot where Maxwell
stood. He approached, and laughingly inquired why she looked so
serious, where all was so gay and bright. She denied that such was the
case, when he jestingly remarked, that he should think she was sighing
for her old flame, young Williams, unless she looked more like a happy
bride. A deep blush overspread her cheek, and with deep feeling she
replied, that Matilda Clayton might grieve for him, for they suited
better than any two she had ever known. He asked her why? Because,
said she, her heart is false as a traitor’s, and his, like hers,
inconstant and base. “You astonish me,” said Maxwell. “I know them
both,” she replied, “and Mr. Dudley knows them too.” Maxwell said no
more, and Clara rejoined the dance.
* * * * *
One month had scarcely elapsed since the marriage of Dudley, when the
village was again excited by the appearance of Williams. No sooner had
he arrived than a thousand vague reports and ideas were afloat, and
the general sentence was, that his business was to see Matilda. He
refreshed himself at the hotel, and taking Maxwell’s arm, strolled
towards the cottage. The sun had set, and the moon was shining with an
unusual brightness, and gave to the flowers and shrubberies around the
cottage a more than natural beauty. They approached softly, for they
recognized Matilda’s voice, and listening, heard these words:
Yes, false to me has been this world;
Its malice tore thy heart from me:
The shaft which at my peace was hurled,
Was deeply felt, I know, by thee.
Still conscious virtue is my stay,
Though yet a dart does rankle here—
He thinks me base and false as they
Who tore my bosom with despair.
I’ll blame him not; the poisonous breath
Of malice forced him thus to stray;
And fain I’d clasp the tyrant Death,
To wash that guiltless stain away.
Williams’ agitation became so great that his friend with difficulty
prevented his betraying his nearness to the house; but caution was
necessary, as it had been planned that Maxwell should go in alone, and
by degrees apprise Matilda of W.’s arrival, and his object. He
accordingly knocked at the door. Mrs. Clayton asked who was there. His
name was given, and he immediately entered.
Seating himself near Matilda, he asked what event on earth could give
her most pleasure? She blushed deeply, and replied, “to see all the
world convinced that I am not deserving of the scorn which has been
heaped upon me; true, a reaction has already taken place, but where
there is mystery there is doubt, and doubt is the fruitful source of
distrust. But why did I answer thus; excuse me, for as you entered I
was brooding over the past—the bitter past.” “And did you ever suspect
the enemies who at that dark period caused your sorrow?” “No,” she
replied, “I would not be so unjust as to censure merely from
suspicion; but let us drop so painful a theme—I was wrong to allude to
it.” But Maxwell was resolved that it should not thus be dropped.
“Miss Clayton,” said he, “did you never think that Dudley and his wife
were deeply concerned in that nefarious business? Answer me, for I do
believe that they were the entire cause.” He then proceeded to relate
what he had heard from the lips of both, and concluded by saying, “I
have written to Williams, stating my suspicions, and when he comes, I
doubt not a full explanation and investigation will be the result.”
“Williams!” repeated Matilda; “and do you know where he is? But I must
thank you for the interest you have ever taken in my fate. Words are
weak to paint the {784} feelings of a grateful heart. Oh! that you may
be rewarded, even should your noble endeavors fail.” “But you have not
told me,” he continued, “whether or not you think my charges against
those persons just.” “I have feared it,” said she, “but I resolved to
condemn no one until I _knew_ that they deserved it. Those who have
writhed under the tortures of unmerited charges, will be the last to
give like pangs.” “Farewell, Miss Clayton,” said he, “when next we
meet, may it be to tell you that the sun of happiness has dawned again
in your horizon, and that your wrongs are revenged.” “Talk not of
revenge,” she replied; “I would not have it taken. ‘Judgment is mine;
I will repay, saith the Lord,’ and to _him_ will I leave it.” She
could say no more—tears streamed down her cheek. The widow pressed his
hand, and exclaimed, “The Lord will bless, will reward thee!” Maxwell
left the room, and rejoined the impatient Williams.
* * * * *
The excitement which reigned during the time that Williams and Maxwell
were investigating the mystery of Matilda’s injuries cannot be
described. Suffice it to say, that a complete exposure of a deep and
villainous plot was the result. Dudley, exasperated at his conduct and
that of his wife being detected, challenged Williams to a duel; but he
refused, and wrote him a letter declaring his contempt of him and his
wife, and his determined purpose neither to meet him or any other man
for a purpose so ungentlemanly, and at direct variance with the laws
of God and man. A suit against them was expected, but Matilda
positively refused her consent to such a measure, declaring that money
was no atonement for sorrow, and that, her innocence attested, she
neither sought nor wished to punish her enemies, as she well knew they
would suffer far more than they had forced her to endure. Need I add,
that she soon became the wife of the only man she ever loved. A short
time before their marriage the brother of Mrs. Clayton sought her out.
Her father had died. On his death-bed he forgave her for marrying
against his will, and left her a large estate. But happiness is brief
at best. It was soon too evident that Matilda was not long for earth.
Excitement and sorrow had undermined her health, and her husband saw
but too plainly that the seeds of death were already sown.
But to return to Dudley. Disgraced and despised by the virtuous and
good, he plunged into excesses of every kind. He and his wife were
miserable; for, mutually sunk in each other’s estimation, their
conduct manifested to all who knew them, the object for which they
sacrificed their honor: truth and peace defeated, all was too much for
even them to bear. Mr. Wilton did not long survive the shock his
feelings had received. He died in less than twelve months after
Williams’ return.
Clara’s health failed; penitence perhaps was little felt—but shame and
wounded pride, and a cold neglectful husband, added to the pangs of a
reproving conscience, carried her to the grave. She left one child,
but that too has lately been laid by her side. Dudley is a bankrupt
and a wanderer. Where he is I am unable to inform you. Rumor says that
he has fallen a victim to the fury of a mob. And who reared that
splendid monument to Clara’s memory? Her husband, neglectful, cruel to
her while living, had it erected, as if in mockery—for it serves but
to remind all who see it how little she deserved its inscription. But
Matilda, my heart bleeds to think on her. She was the mother of one
lovely child; but her health was gone. Her husband spared no pains to
arrest the progress of disease; but it was in vain that he took her
from north to south, from place to place: after two years absence from
this village, she returned but to die. But how different was her end
from that of her once beloved friend. The sympathy of all, the love of
all, the blessings of the poor, accompanied her to her last home.
Never shall I forget the joyful peace that illumined her dying
face—nor the anguish of her mother, the agony of her husband, when,
for the last time, she clasped her infant in her arms, poured out her
heart in prayer, forgave her enemies, blessed her friends, and
clasping her husband’s hand to her heart, breathed her last. You saw
her tomb, and do you wonder that it says no external record is
necessary for her praise. Two months ago, and I saw her laid in her
last bed.
And what became of Maxwell? Williams had an only sister; she is an
inestimable woman, and she is his wife. He has met a rich reward for
his generous conduct towards Matilda and her husband. He lives in that
beautiful spot where the Wiltons once resided. Williams has taken his
child and its grandmother, and gone to reside among her friends. His
heart is deeply wounded, but the piety of his wife has induced him to
look above for comfort. Long might I dwell on the moral of this
narrative, but it needs no comment with you.
The two tombs are called the “Contrast,” and justly do they deserve
the appellation. Strangely blended in their destinies while living, it
seems fit that they should thus repose near each other, if but to
remind those who pass by, that _virtue_ and _vice_ alike meet their
reward.
_Editorial_.