Like distant music upon the ear,
Bubbling light, sparkling bright, bounding still
With a joyous laugh adown the hill,
Clapping its hands with a noisy glee,
Shouting I’m bound for the sea, the sea!
I’ll bear my spoils to the Ocean’s tide—
Hurrah! hurrah! the earth’s my loved bride;
I came through a lovely grassy glade,
And caught the dew-drops from every blade;
I stopped awhile in a shady spring
Hearing the summer-birds sweetly sing,
And I just ’scaped being pris’ner caught,
A maiden to fill her pail there sought;
But I laughed aloud with a careless ring,
As off I rolled from the crystal spring.
Small though I seem, I’m part of the tide
That’s to dash against a tall ship’s side,
Bearing silken goods far o’er the sea,
Bringing back ingots of gold for me—
For me to seize and to bury deep
Where thousands of pearls and diamonds sleep
Scorn me! who dares? I tell thee now,
_I’m_ monarch, and _mine_ is the lordly brow.
Oh! all is beautiful, all is fair—
High Heaven, and earth, and sea, and air,
The sun, the moon, and the stars on high,
The clouds, the waters, and sands that lie
Far away down where the mermaids roam
And the coral insects build their home.
* * * * *
KATE RICHMOND’S BETROTHAL.
BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
I must warn my readers given to sober-mindedness, that they will
probably rise from the perusal of the sketch before them, with that pet
exclamation of the serious, when vexed, or wearied with frivolity,
“vanity, vanity, all is vanity!” I can, indeed, promise no solid reading
nor useful information—no learning nor poetry—no lofty purpose nor
impressive moral—no deep-diving nor high-flying of any sort in all that
follows. For myself, I but seek to wile away a heavy hour of this dull
autumn day, and for my reader, if I may not hope to please, I cannot
fear to disappoint him, having led him to expect nothing—at least
nothing to speak of.
As a general thing, I have a hearty horror of all manœuvring and
match-making, yet must I plead guilty to having once got up a private
little conspiracy against the single-blessedness of two very dear
friends. There is a wise and truthful French proverb, “_Ce que femme
veut, Dieu le veut_,” which was not falsified in this case. But I will
not anticipate.
My most intimate friend, during my school-days, was a warm-hearted,
brave, frank, merry and handsome girl, by name Kate Richmond. In the
long years and through the changing scenes which have passed since we
first met, my love for this friend has neither wearied nor grown cold;
for, aside from her beauty and unfailing cheerfulness, she has about her
much that is attractive and endearing—a clear, strong intellect, an
admirable taste, and an earnest truthfulness of character, on which I
lean with a delicious feeling of confidence and repose.
As I grew to know and love Kate better, and saw what a glorious
embodiment of noble womanhood she was, and how she might pour heaven
around the path of any man who could win her to himself, I became
intensely anxious that her life-love should be one worthy and
soul-satisfying. One there was, well known to me, but whom she had never
met, who always played hero to her heroine, in my heart’s romances; this
was a young gentleman already known to some few of my readers, my
favorite cousin, Harry Grove.
I am most fortunate to be able to take a hero from real life, and to
have him at the same time so handsome a man, though not decidedly a
heroic personage. My fair reader shall judge for herself. Harry is not
tall, but has a symmetrical and strongly-built figure. His complexion is
a clear olive, and his dark chestnut hair has a slight wave, far more
beautiful than effeminate ringlets. His mouth is quite small—the full,
red lips are most flexible and expressive, and have a peculiar quiver
when his heart is agitated by any strong emotion. His eyes are full and
black, or rather of the darkest hue of brown, shadowed by lashes of a
superfluous length, for a man. They are arch, yet thoughtful; soft, with
all the tenderness of woman, yet giving out sudden gleams of the pride
and fire of a strong, manly nature. Altogether, in form and expression,
they are indescribably beautiful—eyes which haunt one after they are
once seen, and seem to close upon one never.
In character my kinsman is somewhat passionate and self-willed, but
generous, warm-hearted, faithful and thoroughly honorable. Yet, though a
person of undoubted talent, even genius, I do not think he will ever be
a distinguished man; for he sadly lacks ambition and concentration, that
fiery energy and plodding patience which alone can insure success in any
great undertaking. He has talent for painting, music and poetry, but his
devotion to these is most spasmodic and irregular. He has quite a gift
for politics, and can be eloquent on occasion, yet would scarcely give a
dead partridge for the proudest civic wreath ever twined. As a
sportsman, my cousin has long been renowned; he has a wild, insatiable
passion for hunting, is the best shot in all the country round, and rare
good luck seems to attend him in all his sporting expeditions.
For the rest, he is a graceful dancer, a superb singer, and a finished
horseman; so, on the whole, I think he will answer for a hero, though
the farthest in the world from a Pelham, a Eugene Aram, a Bruno
Mansfield, or an Edward Rochester.
“In the course of human events,” it chanced that a year or two since, I
received an urgent invitation from my relatives, the Groves, to spend
the early autumn months at their home, in the interior of one of our
western states. Now for my diplomatic address; I wrote, accepting, with
a stipulation that the name of my well-beloved friend, Miss Catharine
Richmond, who was then visiting me, should be included in the
invitation, which, in the next communication from the other party, was
done to my entire satisfaction. Kate gave a joyful consent to my
pleasant plan, and all was well.
One fine afternoon, in the last of August, saw the stage-coach which
conveyed us girls and our fortunes rolling through the principal street
of W——, the county-seat, and a place of considerable importance—to
its inhabitants. We found my uncle, the colonel, waiting our arrival at
the hotel, with his barouche, in which he soon seated us, and drove
rapidly toward his residence, which was about two miles out of town. On
the way, he told me I would meet but two of his seven sons at
home—Harry, and an elder brother, on whom, for a certain authoritative
dignity, we had long before bestowed the sobriquet of “the governor.” He
also informed us that his “little farm,” consisted of about eight
hundred acres, and that the place was called “Elm Creek.”
As we drove up the long avenue which led to the fine, large mansion of
my friends, I saw that my good aunt and Cousin Alice had _taken steps_
to give us an early welcome. I leaped from the barouche into their arms,
forgetting Kate, for a moment, in the excitement of this joyful reunion.
But my friend was received with affectionate cordiality, and felt at
home almost before she had crossed the threshold of that most hospitable
house. My grave cousin, Edward, met us in the hall—bowed profoundly to
Kate, and gave me a greeting more courtly than cousinly; but that was
“Ned’s way.” Harry was out hunting, Alice said, but would probably be
home soon.
After tea, we all took a stroll through the grounds. These are very
extensive, and the many beautiful trees and the domesticated deer,
bounding about, or stretched upon the turf, give the place a park-like
and aristocratic appearance. Elm Creek, which runs near the house, is a
clear and sparkling stream, which would be pleasantly suggestive of
trout on the other side of the Alleghanies.
Suddenly was heard the near report of a gun, and the next moment Harry
appeared on the light bridge which spanned the creek, accompanied by his
faithful Bruno, a splendid black setter. On recognizing me, he (Harry, I
mean, not the dog) sprung forward with a joyous laugh, and met me with a
right cousinly greeting. I never had seen him looking so finely—he had
taste in his hunting-dress, which became him greatly; and it was with a
flush of pride that I turned and presented him to Kate. Harry gave her a
cordial hand-shake, and immediately after, his dog, Bruno, gravely
offered her his sable paw, to the no small amusement of the company.
I soon had the satisfaction of seeing that there was a fine prospect of
Kate and my cousin being on the very best terms with each other, as they
conversed much together during the evening, and seemed mutually pleased.
The next morning my gallant and still handsome uncle took us out to the
stable and invited us to select our horses for riding. He knew me of old
for an enthusiastic equestrian, and Kate’s attainments in the art of
horsemanship were most remarkable. Kate chose a beautiful black mare,
Joan, the mate of which, Saladin, a fiery-spirited creature, was Harry’s
horse, and dear to him as his life. I made choice of a fine-looking but
rather coltish gray, which I shall hold in everlasting remembrance, on
account of a peculiar trot, which kept one somewhere between heaven and
earth, like Mohammed’s coffin.
The fortnight succeeding our arrival at Elm Creek, was one of much
gayety and excitement—we were thronged with visiters and deluged with
the most cordial invitations. Ah! western people understand the science
of hospitality, for their politeness is neither soulless nor
conventional, but full of heartiness and truth. Long life to this noble
characteristic of the generous west.
Colonel Grove was an admirable host—he exerted himself for our pleasure
in a manner highly creditable to an elderly gentleman, somewhat inclined
to indolence and corpulency. Every morning, when it was pleasant, he
drove us out in his barouche, and by the information which he gave, his
fine taste for the picturesque, and the dry humor and genuine good
nature of his conversation, contributed much to our enjoyment. In the
sunny afternoons, we usually scoured the country on horseback—Harry
always rode with Kate and I with “the governor,” who proved an
interesting, though somewhat reserved companion. My Cousin Alice was
unfortunately too much of an invalid for such exercises.
In our evenings we had music and dancing, and occasionally a quiet game
of whist. Now and then we were wild and childish enough to amuse
ourselves with such things as “Mr. Longfellow looking for his key-hole,”
“Homeopathic-bleeding,” and the old stand-by, “Blind Man’s Buff.”
One rather chilly afternoon, about three weeks after our arrival, Alice
Grove entered the chamber appropriated to Kate and myself, exclaiming,
“Come, girls, put on some extra ‘fixings’ and come down, for you have a
call from Miss Louisa Grant, the belle and beauty of W——, the fair
lady we rally Harry so much about—you remember.”
We found Miss Grant dressed most expensively, but not decidedly _à la
mode_, or with much reference to the day or season. She was surprisingly
beautiful, however—a blonde, but with no high expression; and then she
was sadly destitute of manner. She seemed in as much doubt whether to
sit, or rise, nod or courtesy, as the celebrated Toots, on that delicate
point of propriety whether to turn his wristbands up, or down; and like
that rare young gentleman, compromised the matter.
Miss Louisa talked but little, and that in the merest commonplaces; she
had a certain curl of the lip, and toss of the head, meant for queenly
hauteur, but which only expressed pert superciliousness; so, undazzled
by her dress and beauty, I soon sounded her depth and measured her
entire circumference. But Kate, who is a mad worshiper of beauty, sat
silent and abstracted, gazing on her face with undisguised admiration.
When the call was over, we accompanied our guest to the door, and while
we stood saying a few more last words, Harry came up, having just
returned from hunting. At sight of his fowling-piece, Miss Louisa
uttered a pretty infantine shriek, and hid her eyes with her small,
plump hands. Harry, taking no notice of this charming outbreak of
feminine timidity, greeted her with a frank, unembarrassed air, and
throwing down his gun and game-bag, begged leave to attend her home. She
assented with a blush and a simper, which left me in no doubt as to her
sentiments toward my handsome cousin. Ah! how perilously beautiful she
seemed to me then, while I watched her proud step as she walked slowly
down the avenue, with a bitter feeling, for all the world as though I
was jealous on my own account. I was somewhat pacified, however, by
Harry’s returning soon, and bringing Kate a bouquet from Louisa’s fine
garden.
That evening we were honored by another call extraordinary, from a young
merchant of the place—the village D’Orsay—by name, La Fayette Fogg,
from which honorable appellation the gentleman, by the advice of
friends, had lately dropped the “Marquis”—his parents, at his
christening, having been disposed to go the whole figure. But he had a
title which in our “sogering” republic would more than compensate for
any of the mere accidental honors of rank—he had recently been
appointed captain of a company of horse, in W——, and had already
acquired a military bearing, which could not fail to impress the vulgar.
A certain way he had of stepping and wheeling to the right and left,
suggestive at once of both a proud steed and a firm rider—a sort of
drawing-room centaur. But Captain Fogg was beyond all question
strikingly handsome. I never saw so perfect a Grecian head on American
shoulders. There was the low, broad forehead, the close, curling hair,
the nose and brow in one beautiful, continuous line, the short upper
lip, round chin, small ears, and thin nostrils. A classical costume
would have made him quite statuesque; but, alas! he was dressed in the
dandiacal extreme of modern fashion. His entire suit of superfine
material, fitted to an exquisite nicety, and he revealed a consciousness
of the fact more Toots-ish than Themistoclesian. He moved his Phidian
head with slow dignity, so as not to disturb his pet curls, slumbering
in all the softness of genuine Macassar. His whiskers and imperial were
alarmingly pale and thin, but seemed making the most of themselves, in
return for the captain’s untiring devotion and prayerful solicitude.
The expression of this hero’s face, _malgré_ a Napoleonic frown which he
was cultivating, and a Washingtonish compression of the lips, was soft,
rather than stern—decidedly _soft_, I should say,—and there was about
him a tender verdancy, an innocent ignorance of the world—all in
despite of his best friends, the tailor, the artist in hair, and the
artist in boots.
During the first half hour’s conversation, I set the gallant captain
down as uneducated, vain and supercilious; but I was vexed to see that
Kate, dazzled by his beauty, regarded him more complacently. It was
evident from the first, that Kate pleased him decidedly, and he “spread
himself,” to use a westernism, to make an impression on her heart, whose
admiration for his _physique_ spoke too plainly through her eyes. While
he talked, Kate watched the play of his finely chiseled lips, and when
he was silent, studied with the eye of an artist, the classic line of
his nose. The attentive, upward look of her large, dark eyes, was most
dangerous flattery—it loosened the tongue of our guest marvelously,
till he talked quite freely, almost confidentially. Among other things,
he informed us that he “was born in the chivalrous south,” and had been
“a _native_ of W—— for only the five years past.” I glanced
mischievously at Kate, and she, to turn the tide of talk,
exclaimed—“Oh, Mr. Fogg, we had a call from Miss Grant to-day!
Exquisitively beautiful—is she not?”
“Why,” drawled the captain, stroking his imperial affectionately, “she
is rather pretty, but wants cultivation; I can’t say I admire her
greatly, though she is called the _Adonis_ of this country.”
Kate colored with suppressed laughter, bit her lip, and rising, opened
the piano, saying—“Do you sing, Mr. Fogg?”
Fortunately, Mr. Fogg did sing, and that very well. He declined
accompanying Kate in “Lucy Neal,” saying that he “never learned them low
things;” but on many of Russell’s songs he was “some,” and acquitted
himself with much credit.
During all this time Harry had taken little part in the conversation,
and when asked to sing, drily declined. I thought him jealous, and was
not sorry to think so. I saw that Kate also perceived his altered mood,
yet she showed, I regret to say, no Christian sympathy for his
uneasiness, but chatted gayly, sung and played for all the world as
though earth held neither aching hearts nor dissatisfied Harrys.
At last my cousin rose hastily and left the room. I said to myself, “He
has gone out to cool his burning brow in the night air, and seek peace
under the serene influences of the stars.” But no, he crossed the hall,
and entered the family sitting-room. Soon after I followed, and found
him having a regular rough and tumble with Bruno, on the floor. He
raised his head as I entered, and said with a yawn,
“Has that bore taken himself off?”
“No,” I replied.
“Well, why the deuce don’t he go—who wants his company?”
“I don’t know,” said I, “Kate, perhaps.”
“Very likely,” growled Harry, “you intellectual women always prefer a
brainless coxcomb to a sensible man.”
“Yes, Cousin Harry, in return for the preference you men of genius give
to pretty simpletons.”
The captain’s “smitation,” as we called it, seemed a real one, and his
sudden flame genuine—at least there was some fire, as well as a great
deal of smoke. He laid resolute siege to Kate’s heart, till his
lover-like attentions and the manifestations of his preference were
almost overwhelming. In a week or two Kate grew wearied to death of her
conquest, and was not backward in showing her contemptuous indifference,
when Harry Grove was not by. But, oh, the perverseness of woman! in the
presence of my cousin, she was all smiles and condescension to his
rival; and he, annoyed more than he would confess, would turn to Miss
Louisa Grant with renewed devotion.
Yes, Harry was plainly ill at ease to mark another’s attentions
pleasantly received by my friend—that was something gained; but such
jealousy of a mere tailor-shop-window-man, was unworthy my cousin, as
well as a wrong to Kate; and for my part, I would not stoop to combat
it.
In the captain’s absence, however, all went admirably. Harry seemed to
give himself up to the enjoyment of Kate’s brilliant society, her
cleverness, her liveliness, her “infinite variety,” with joyous abandon.
They sung, read, danced, strolled, and rode together, always preserving
the utmost harmony and good-will.
For Kate’s success in the part I wished her to play, I had never any
fear. Aside from her beauty, which is undeniable, though on the brunette
order, and her accomplishments, which are many, she has a certain
indescribable attractiveness of manner, an earnest, appealing, endearing
way—a “_je-ne-sais-quoi-sity_,” as a witty friend named it, which would
be coquetry, were it not felt by all alike, men, women, and children,
who find themselves in her presence. It is without effort, a perfectly
unconscious power, I am sure.
Thus, I did not fear for Kate, provided Harry was heart-whole; but this
fact I could not settle to my entire satisfaction. My Cousin Alice
sometimes joked him about a certain fair maid he had known at New Haven,
while in college, evidently wishing it to appear that she knew vastly
more than she chose to reveal; and then Miss Grant was certainly a
dangerous rival—far more beautiful, according to the common acceptation
of the term, than my friend, with the advantage, if it be one, of a
prior acquaintance.
One morning, as we were returning home, after having made a call on Miss
Louisa, Harry, who once, for a wonder, was walking with me, began
questioning me concerning my opinion of her. I evaded his question for
awhile, but at length told him frankly that I could not speak freely and
critically unless assured that I should give him no pain thereby.
“Oh, if that’s all,” replied Harry, with a laugh, “go on, and ‘free your
mind, sister’—I shall be a most impartial auditor.”
“Indeed, Harry!—has there, then, been no meaning to your attentions in
that quarter?”
“Why, as to that,” he replied, “I have always admired the girl’s beauty,
and have flirted with her too much, perhaps, but there is not enough in
her to pin a genuine love to; I have found her utterly characterless;
and then, she affects a ridiculous fear of fire-arms, and behaves like a
sick baby on horseback.”
“But, cousin,” I rejoined, “you do not want a wife to hunt with you, and
ride horseback; Miss Grant is a young lady of domestic virtues and
refined tastes—is she not?”
“Yes, and no. I believe she is a good housekeeper; she takes pains to
let one know that—a perfect walking cookery-book; but for her
refinement! Have you never noticed her coarse voice, and how much use
she makes of provincialisms? She might sing well, but always makes
mistakes in the words. She professes a passion for flowers; but last
spring, coz, I helped her make her garden, and heard her say ‘_piney_’
and ‘_layloc_’—I never could marry a woman who said ‘_piney_’ and
‘_layloc_!’ and then she called pansies—‘pansies, that’s for
thoughts’—those flowers steeped in poetry as in their own
dew—‘Jonny-jump-ups!’ Bah! and then, she vulgarizes her own pretty name
into _Lo-izy_!”
Need I confess that I was far from displeased with this little speech of
my cousin’s. I was silent for a few moments, and then, with my head full
of Kate and her fortunes, said, while pulling to pieces a wild-flower,
which Harry had just gallantly presented to me,
“Well, then, cousin, you don’t love any body in particular, just now, do
you?”
I raised my eyes when I had said this, to meet Harry’s fixed on my face,
with a strange, indefinable expression—something of what is called a
“killing look,” so full of intense meaning was it; but around his mouth
lurked a quiet drollery, which betrayed him, even while he replied to my
singular question in a tone meant to _tell_,
“Why, my dearest cousin, at _this moment_, I cannot say that I do not.”
I broke at once into a laugh of merry mockery, in which he joined at
last, though not quite heartily; and we hastened to rejoin Ned, Kate and
Alice, who were somewhat in advance.
On reaching our room I told Kate enough of my conversation with Harry to
prove that he was really not the lover of Louisa Grant; and with a blush
and a smile, she kissed and thanked me. Why should she thank me?
Thus matters went on—Captain Fogg’s star declining visibly, and Harry
Grove’s evidently in the ascendant, until the last week of our stay,
when a little incident occurred which had quite a disturbing influence
on the pleasant current of my thoughts and Kate’s. One afternoon, while
Harry was out shooting woodcock, of which Kate was very fond, on going
up to my room, I perceived the door of Harry’s open, and saw his easil
standing before the window, with a picture upon it. I could not resist
the temptation of seeing what this might be, and entered the room. The
picture was a small female head—the face rather fair, with dark blue
eyes. It was probably a portrait, still unfinished. The likeness I did
not recognize, though it looked like half a dozen pretty faces I had
seen—Kate’s and Miss Grant’s among the number. To the bottom of the
picture was attached a slip of paper, bearing these lines:
“Glow on the canvas, face of my beloved!
Smile out upon me, eyes of heavenly blue!
Oh! be my soul’s love by my pencil proved,
And lips of rose, and locks of auburn hue,
Come less obedient to the call of art,
Than to the pleading voice of my adoring heart!”
When I had read this verse, I remained standing before the picture in a
thoughtful trance. I was finally startled by a deep sigh, and turning,
saw Kate just behind me. She had also seen the portrait of the unknown,
and read those passionate lines. She turned immediately and passed into
her room.
When I rejoined her, a few moments after, she was reading, apparently
deep in “Martin Chuzzlewit,” but tears were falling on the page before
her.
“Martin’s return to his grandfather is a very affecting scene,” she
observed.
I naturally glanced over her shoulder; the book was open at that
“tempest-in-a-teapot” scene, the memorable misunderstanding between
Sairey Gamp and Betsey Prig.