women. I had sisters, and thought all women pure and saint-like,
like my dear cousin. I never could attach an improper sentiment to
any of the sex. I cannot now think them mean and deceitful, though I
have strong proof of their being so. I am willing to be deceived in
this respect. I hope I always may be. I make it a principle to think
myself mistaken, when a woman of respectable standing in society
appears to be in fault.
I suspected nothing wrong in this case. I was excited and happy, and
I did not look to mar my own enjoyment. I was fascinated, although
Miss Clair did not appear so well in a ball-room as in a simple
dress at home--I mean not so loveable. Dressed in rich ornaments,
she looked too unapproachable, too like a queen, an Indian queen, if
you will; her high and commanding forehead, her glancing eye, her
unshrinking gaze. And then she did not dance well. She often told
me she hated the trouble. I think she was too intellectual to care
much for dancing, or her ear was in fault. She never sang; though I
believe she loved the music of the drum and fife. Do not infer, kind
reader, that she was masculine--far from it. I have seen the tears
roll out from her open eyes, when she was strongly affected by some
pathetic tale, or some choice poetry; and when in our walks and rides
we stopped to gaze upon some beautiful or grand scene of nature, she
would weep from the very excess of her delight--perhaps from some
association she did not confide to me. When at home, in a natural
state of mind, surrounded by her family, and engaged in her duties,
she was all delicate attention to the wants of others.
I had hardly become acquainted with her, when she suddenly left the
village for an absence of three months. I cannot describe the pain I
underwent during that time. I could not study or read, even novels.
She promised to correspond with me, and all I did was to write
letters to her. I wrote every day, and at night threw them into the
fire. They did not suit me. Sometimes they were too warm. What I had
written in the morning, seemed a different thing in the afternoon. I
was now angry, now penitent, and in that conflicting state of mind
which lovers, particularly young ones, know so well; and which I will
venture to say they all agree is the most unenviable state of feeling
in the world.
At last she returned. She would not see me for a week, for some cause
or other--I never could discover what. When I did see her, at last,
she received me with stately coldness. I did not know what to make of
it. It made me feel very unhappy, and I recollect I did not think of
blaming her, but supposed the fault lay in myself.
This fickleness of hers did not cool my passion, but rather inflamed
it. During these formal visits, there was always a look given, or a
flower, or some appeal to me in a matter of literature, from which I
drew encouragement that she was not indifferent to me--something I
always carried away to dwell upon with pleasure; that kept her in my
thoughts, and kept me from giving up the pursuit of such a charming
object.
Things went on in this way for weeks. At last, if my calls were not
frequent, she would ridicule my apathy to society; if I walked with
another lady, I could see her eyes flash with indignation when she
met me. She evidently considered me as her property, and I was doomed
to submit patiently to all her caprices.
I now understand her. She did love me, as the sequel will show; but
she dared hardly confess it to herself. She had seen very few young
men from cities, or of much rank. Her idea of young men of fortune
was drawn chiefly from novels. She feared I was fickle, and only bent
upon a little amusement. She acted on the defensive. She only wished
to be assured of my true affection for her, to pour out upon me all
the repressed tenderness of her nature. Her coldness was assumed to
conceal her feelings; for she was a creature of extremes. Her only
safety, she thought, was to shield herself in frowns. Easy politeness
would have been torture to her. Before I left her, she usually gave
me one kind word, enough, if I loved her, she thought, to anchor my
heart to hers. She knew the nature of the passion. Her absence was
to try me. She has told me that she loved me at first sight, as I
certainly did her.
Her father was an open-hearted man, of profuse hospitality. He liked
me, and invited me to his house whenever we met. He was an easy man,
who had married, himself, from prudent motives; he could not imagine
how there could be any romance in his family, if he understood the
true meaning of the word. I rode, walked, and sat with his daughter a
good deal of the time. We were happy; he saw we were, and supposed it
was the happiness of youth and prosperity.
He had been gay himself, when young, and loved the girls. He had no
Byron to read--no Moore to ponder over--no stories of Petrarch and
Laura to inflame his imagination. He did not see our danger. And
this, by-the-by, is a fault of no small magnitude in the education
of the young; that parents do not enough know the reading of their
children. Books change with time. The novel of the present day is
no more the novel of our father's day, than the fashion of a dandy
now-a-days is the fashion of the exquisite of the last century.
Parents do not know the minds of their children, or the effects of
their reading. Not knowing their books, how can they judge? Children
are always reserved before their parents; and as a general remark,
applicable to children, we may say, that parents know less of their
own children than they do of their neighbors'. They, good easy souls!
suppose all is right. Like geese, who hide their heads, and think (if
geese do think) their bodies are safe, so parents shut their eyes,
and hope for the best. 'Well,' they say, 'we can't tell what is to
become of him,' looking at the child some one is praising to his
face; 'he may make a man: heaven, I hope, will take care of him.' And
so this pious, conscientious father attends to his business, and the
child is left to the chance of being ruined.
The effect of the books young ladies read is immense, upon their
principles. They are so much alone; taking and plausible sentiments
sink so deep into their hearts; they have so little to disturb
or counteract the impressions of injudicious books. Nay, society
oftentimes rivets the chains of a bad impression around their
very necks, and custom gives it a place in their hearts. Educate
young ladies as you will; that is, send them to what school you
please; give them the advantages of accomplishments in the arts
and society, and at the same time let them have the range of a
circulating library, and they will inevitably very often imbibe
matter and notions for severe struggles, and heart-burnings, and
shame, if not of crime. The books young people of both sexes read,
is not considered a matter of sufficient consequence. It is left to
chance--to superficial advice--to fashionable cant.
In those oil-fed hours we steal from sleep to pore over the exciting
tale, or tragic story, we do more to fix our characters, to plant the
seeds of some kind of principle, either good or bad, in our hearts,
than in all our school hours, trebly counted.
The character of this high and impetuous young lady was the effect
of books acting upon a very susceptible temperament. My own
character was quite as impetuous as her own, though not so high and
disinterested. Having been, as I thought, in love before, I had a
certain familiarity of acquaintance with emotion. ''Twas love I
loved.' She loved me. She acted from strong feeling, and so did I;
but I am ashamed to record, that my movements were tempered with a
vein of calculation, that detracted from my enjoyment.
But how much we did enjoy! Here for the first time did I fold a
woman in my arms, and impress upon her lips--giving all that lips
can give--burning kisses! I played with the rich black hair upon her
forehead. I kissed her white hand, and encircled her waist. I laid my
head upon her bosom, and felt, the heavings of her heart.
Oh God! what scenes of agonizing bliss! I never can know you again!
Age, care, and want, have come upon me, and I am dying in a foreign
land, without one tear to water my grave!
When Alice Clair first confessed her love for me, it was with
weeping, and an excess of emotion, which alarmed me. Her whole frame
was shaken, as if by an ague. I had endeavored, for a long time, to
wring the secret from her. I wished her to say the words, '_I do love
you!_' I wished her promise. I now can easily see her hesitation.
She knew me better than I did myself. She saw I was capable of any
thing, and yet insensible to every thing, but pleasure. She was
ambitious. She wished her lover--her serious and true lover--the man
she expected to marry--to possess strength. Perhaps she felt her own
weakness, and saw her need of some strong staff to lean upon. She saw
that I had not much determination in any course that interfered with
my pleasure. Hence her unwillingness to acknowledge me as her lover,
to the world. She wished to keep me in her chains--to hold me from
others--and, although she loved me, I am convinced, still at times
there was a taint of coquetry in her manner to me in public, that
made me appear ridiculous. I could not, would not, bear this, and I
determined to offer myself to her, and in case of refusal to go--I
knew not where.
I know of nothing so laughable as feigned passion. It must put people
to a world of trouble, to play extatics, to weep tears, to kiss
passionately, to embrace, while the heart is ice, and the temper
clouded; to be playing lover, while one is thinking how long it is
before dinner.
I had worked myself up into quite a passion. I thought my whole soul
was absorbed in this affair. I wished to be married forthwith. I
could not think of delay; and in these moods used to press my suit
with a mad earnestness, and ask her acknowledged love, with all my
heart, and with a temporary sincerity.
One night, we were walking late on the banks of a river, in a
beautiful meadow. The town was far above us. Every sound of labor
was hushed, and we were alone, in the stillness of a moonlight
night, with no witnesses except the stars, and the long shadows of
our figures, as we alternately walked and sat by the way. The scene
was a bewitching one; the river was calm, and reflected the heavens;
the night was balmy with new-mown hay. We were alive with health,
and youth, and love. I had been singing low, plaintive airs to her,
expressive of ill-requited affection, as we walked along. She said
but little. Her face looked pale and thoughtful, as ever and anon she
turned her large eyes full upon me, as if to search my very inmost
soul. She was deliberating upon my proposal. I was unsuspecting, but
free and open to tell her all. Suddenly she threw her arms about
my neck, and seemed fainting, by the weight that pressed upon me.
I seated her upon the bank of the river, and still she wept, and
spoke not a word, while her tears flowed, and her frame trembled. I
cried out for help, but she stopped me; and as no one came, I waited
till she recovered herself. That night we sat long by the bank of
the river, and she gave me her heart, and the compact was sealed by
the first kiss I had ever given to pure lips. She then confessed to
me all her doubts, and in a dignified manner, which confused while
it charmed me, told me the risks she incurred in yielding to her
feelings. I had nothing to boast of in the conquest, for while it
displayed to me the weakness and tenderness of woman, it told me how
weak and inferior I was, in all the essentials of a useful man. It
certainly was the most singular confession and compact that ever took
place between man and woman, since the time Adam took Eve to wife, in
the garden of Paradise.
After this, her manner changed toward me entirely. There was no
reserve. She pointed out my faults; she endeavored to excite me to
honorable exertion. Often has she ran away from me, to force me to
go and study; and if, when I returned, I bore the marks of mental
fatigue, how happy it used to make her! She was aware that I might
rise to respectability in my profession; but she did not know the
cruel negligence of my early life; she did not know the long-riveted
habits of idleness I had indulged; she did not know how hopeless and
blank my prospects really were.
If I appear indifferent and cold-blooded to the reader, he knows
nothing of human nature. There is a point to which a man sometimes
arrives, which to all intents amounts to a kind of fatality. Does the
drunkard lose his moral agency? Yes! when his faculties are deadened.
Is there a man who could resist food, if placed before his eyes just
as he was dying of starvation? Is there not a moral deadness of the
faculties, produced by habits of idleness and pleasure, equally
binding, equally calling for indulgence? Nothing is impossible to
God; but man's powers, even in his own favor, are limited; and I am
disposed to think, that the vicious man is punished, partly, in this
world. He sees, by the examples around him, his certain destiny. He
is ever, in his solitary moments, looking over the abyss into which
he knows he must fall. He makes effort after effort to escape. It is
all fruitless, unless the power of God assist him, as it sometimes
does. He is like the sailor standing upon the shattered wreck of
his good ship, and looking at the mountain wave approaching, that
he knows will engulf him in the deep. Added to this, there are the
stings of an upbraiding conscience, and the fear of everlasting
punishment.
But there were times when we forgot all unpleasant reflections;
when we talked of our prospects of happiness. I was to inherit a
fortune--to distinguish myself at the bar. We were to travel over
Europe together; perhaps find some delightful retreat in the classic
south, and there (I loving only her) we were to spend a life of love
and blessedness.
I can hardly believe that she yielded as implicitly to these
illusions as I did. I had got myself worked up into a perfect madman;
and though at times I knew how false and fleeting were all these
plans, yet in her presence, and after talking upon such subjects, my
imagination took the reins of my reason, and I made these fanciful
excursions with sincerity, and took a pleasure in the anticipation
more than equal, I am convinced, to any they could have afforded
in reality. I do not think she felt with me here. As I remember
her, with her strong sense, her conception of the ridiculous, and
exaggeration in others, her keen wit and cutting sarcasm, it seems
impossible that she should. Nevertheless, every one is conscious
of strange inconsistencies of feeling. A scene strikes us to-day
with awe and pathetic effect, which to-morrow we pass coldly by.
Every thing depends upon the state of the nervous temperament, the
attending circumstances, our previous reading, the chain of events.
And by the way, this is the chief use of philosophy, that it enables
us to look at every thing with an investigating eye, and never to
yield to impulse. The mind is taken up in sound reflection, and
it has no time to lose itself in the mazes of the imagination.
Age, necessity, torpor of the blood, experience, produce the same
effects; while youth, and romantic ardor, and the poetical parts of
life, run wild, solely from a want of habits of reflection.
It seems, no doubt, a strange inconsistency, that I did not exert
myself, if I so loved this noble girl. We must distinguish between
passion and affection. The very nature of the first admits of no
reflection. The last is all reflection, and quiet yielding of its
own convenience for the happiness of the loved object. Passion is
the lava of the volcano, which covers up and ruins all things under
it; affection is the refreshing shower, the gentle dew, making the
pastures green, and the earth glad. A good, well-regulated mind would
have done otherwise than I did, but it would likewise have loved
otherwise than I did.
I yielded to nature and my temperament. I had not two wills, one to
oppose the other; there was not in my nature any thing to oppose my
nature. I have all along described myself as a foolish creature of
impulse; and I was, and am, and never shall be any thing else.
One night, after some irregularity caused by lovers' quarrel, and the
consequent restlessness, which sought relief in pleasure, she was
representing to me the consequences of such habits of dissipation,
as tenderly as she could, and I was moved by her earnestness to
tears. She followed up her advantage, and throwing herself upon her
knees before me, she wept, herself, in sobs, for some moments. Then
raising her tearful eyes, she begged, she implored, she entreated
me, to change my course of life; not to bring ruin upon us both; not
to blight our prospects, by such cruel neglect of every honorable
pursuit. She seemed to feel that every thing depended upon me; she
saw me on the brink of a precipice; she exerted eloquence that might
have drawn tears from a statue; and I was earnest, that night, in
my resolutions, as I laid my head upon my pillow. But I did not ask
assistance from God; and herein lay my error.
I have since found, that all resolutions are futile and useless,
unless we confirm and strengthen them by prayer. The very exercise
of prayer is its own answer. Prostration of ourselves before God
produces a calm and dispassionate frame of mind, and a sense of our
accountability. As our thoughts, in such seasons, dwell upon the
truth of an eternal existence, the world and its vanities recede, and
appear in their true insignificance. We then are prepared to take
the first steps in goodness. Who that has passed out of a life of
vice into a life of virtue, ever turns back? The first step is the
important one. Let that be taken, in good faith, and each succeeding
one opens wider and wider the peace of the path of virtue.
THE BLUE BIRD.
SWEET bird! how gladly thy cerulean wing
Opens o'er all the loveliness of spring;
As thy slow shadow, sailing far on high,
Tells me the 'time of birds' is drawing nigh.
Perchance the down of that pure azure breast
On trees of Italy was lately prest;
Or mid the ivy of the crumbled fane,
Thy nest was sheltered from the sparkling rain:
Till to thy heart a whisper, as from home,
Told thee of melting snows, and bade thee 'come!'
G. H.
DUCHESS DE LA VALLIERE.
''T were best that I should wed! Thou said'st it, Louis;
Say it once more!
LOUIS.
In honesty I think so.
DUCHESS.
My choice is made, then--I obey the fiat,
And will become a bride!'
BULWER.
* * * * *
''T WERE best that I should wed!' 'Tis Louis' voice
Has sped Fate's summons to this breaking heart;
The vassal of his will, I make my choice,
And bid my love for earth and him depart!
No! not my love for _him_! I will resign
The court's gay mockery, and the courtiers' praise--
The incense offered on a baseless shrine,
Which truth and honor gild not with their rays.
''T were best that I should wed!' how strangely cold
These few yet bitter words fall on my brain!
The sum of life's brief day-dream has been told,
By one who cares not what may be the pain;
But I submit--yea, hail the sacrifice;
And like some sleeper startled from a trance,
I of my saddened spirit take advice--
Asking the meaning of this strange romance.
For Hope's the food of life, and Love its dream,
To cheat our fancy o'er Time's rugged way:
'Tis man's false text. 'Tis woman's holiest theme,
And in her bosom holds supremest sway.
She lives to love--her soul, sustained thereby,
Makes to itself a 'green spot' on Life's sea--
Where every feeling for repose may fly,
And sorrow, penury, _guilt_, forgotten be.
But man's affection's like the sun-born flower
That gaily flaunts, to woo and to be won,
And quickens, blossoms, ripens in an hour,
Yet fades before the sun his race has run;
So with man's love, a strange and wayward thing,
Its opening, flashing in the rays of Truth;
But oh! how brief the time, ere change will fling,
The locks of age upon its brow of youth!
Oh, Louis! thou art throned in majesty--
Thy sway as boundless as thy realms are wide;
And millions hail thee from the boundless sea,
To where the Rhine pours down its sounding tide.
But mighty as thou art, thou canst not scan
That one frail thing, a woman's trusting heart;
Thou may'st search out the purposes of man,
But woman's truth defies thy potent art!
Thou wert not worthy, Louis, of the love
Which in my breast for thee hath garnered been;
Thou wert the pole-star gleaming from above,
Swathing my feelings in its radiant sheen:
Thou wert my all! a mother's broken heart,
A noble soldier's fortunes, paled by me,
Attest too well that I have read my part
In Misery's calends--_written there by thee_!
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.
COMFORT MAKEPEACE.
A NEW-ENGLAND SKETCH: BY THE AUTHOR OF 'MASSANIELLO, A TALE OF
NAPLES.'
'A man severe he was, and stern to view.'--GOLDSMITH.
THERE is no employment more pleasant or profitable to the reflective
mind, than that of scanning the various characters that come within
the scope of one's acquaintance. Even though that acquaintance be
limited to the precincts of a retired village, there will be found
the same variety of character, though perhaps less strongly developed
than in the great city of the world. In its business transactions and
social relations, the same passions are found to agitate, that in a
wider sphere of action convulse entire continents, and fill the world
with wonder. Many an obscure person would have been a hero, in time
and place of heroic actions.
COMFORT MAKEPEACE was a lineal descendant from one of the original
puritans. The name of his ancestor stood recorded with those of
Carver, Winslow, Brewster, and Standish; and no lordly stem of a
noble stock ever prided himself more on the score of descent. His
father, and his grandfather, and every other descendant of the
primitive settler, that went before them, were as decided puritans
as ever trod the turf. The name, as he himself bore it, had been
transmitted from father to son, as far back as could be traced the
genealogical tree of the family. The old homestead on which he lived
had been cleared and settled by a grandson of the first Comfort that
crossed the Atlantic; it had descended regularly from thence through
every first son to the worthy owner in the time of my childhood,
and there stood, ready to take the noble patrimony, at his father's
death, a Comfort, junior, in every way worthy to connect the stout
chain with remotest posterity. Of course Comfort made proud show
of the strongly-marked characteristics for which his ancestors and
their compeers were distinguished. A follower of Old Noll himself
never walked more zealously in the rigid puritanical path, nor
could any one have kept more faithfully every observance that had
been handed down from the passengers in the good bark that first
anchored off Plymouth-rock. While in his family, one might readily
imagine himself transported back to that of some Roundhead Captain
Fight-and-Praise-God, or Colonel Smite-'em-Hip-and-Thigh, in the
service of the Great Protector.
Comfort Makepeace had married early in life, and he displayed no
ordinary depth of judgment in the selection of one, scarce if
any less than himself attached to the devotional customs of his
puritanical ancestry. Faithful was an obedient wife and managed the
household concerns with a prudence and care that would have done
credit to the noblest. She rivalled the emblematic bee in industry,
and helped her husband to make some substantial additions to the
ample means that had descended to them. She bore him sons and
daughters, in no stinted number; and under her maternal oversight,
they grew up strong and comely, the pride of both. Comfort often
spoke of her as a crown to her husband, and no one ever repeated with
more sincerity the saying of the wise man of old.