haste, but was unsuccessful—all engaged for the day. So Betty must be
trusted, who sometimes did well, and at others signally failed. Lucy
spent the morning in the kitchen assisting Betty and arranging every
thing she could do, but matters above were in the mean time sadly
neglected, her children dirty, and ill dressed, the nursery in
confusion, and Lucy almost bewildered in deciding what had better be
done, and what left undone. She concluded to keep the children in the
nursery without changing their dress, and then hastened to arrange her
own, and go down stairs, as her husband and his friend had by this time
arrived. Her face was flushed, and her countenance anxious; she was
conscious that Mr. Eustace noticed it, and her uncomfortable feelings
increased. The dinner, the dinner—if it were only over! she thought a
hundred times. It came at last, and all other mortifications were as
nothing in comparison. There was not a dish really well cooked, and
every thing was served up in a slovenly manner. Lucy’s cheeks tingled
with shame. Oh, if she had only sent _in time_ for a cook. It was her
bitterest thought even then. When the dinner was over Mr. Eustace asked
for the children, expressing a strong desire to see them. Lucy colored,
and in evident confusion, evaded the request. Her husband was silent,
having a suspicion how matters stood.
Just then a great roar came from the hall, and the oldest boy burst into
the room. “Mother! mother! Hannah shut me up she did!” A word from his
father silenced him, and Lucy took her dirty, ill dressed boy by the
hand and left the room. She could not restrain her tears, but her keen
sense of right prevented her punishing the child, as she was fully
aware, had he been properly dressed, she would not have objected to his
presence, and that he was only claiming an accorded privilege. Mr.
Eustace very soon left, and as soon as the door closed on him Clifton
thought: “I never can hope to see a friend in comfort until I can afford
to keep a house-keeper. Was there ever such a curse in a man’s house as
a procrastinating spirit?” With such feelings it may be supposed he
could not meet his wife with any degree of cordiality. Lucy said, “There
was no help for it, she had done her very best.” Clifton answered her
contemptuously; wearied and exhausted with the fatigues of the day, she
made no reply, but rose up and retired to rest, glad to seek in sleep
forgetfulness of the weary life she led. Clifton had been unusually
irritated; when the morrow came, it still manifested itself in many ways
that bore hard on Lucy; she did not reply to an angry word that fell
from his lips, but she felt none the less deeply. Some misconduct in the
child induced him to reflect with bitterness on her maternal management.
She drew her hand over her eyes to keep back the tears, her lip
quivered, and her voice trembled as she uttered:
“Do not speak so harshly Clifton, if the fault is all mine, most
certainly the misery is also!”
“Of what avail is it to speak otherwise?” he said sternly, “you deserve
wretchedness, and it is only the sure result of your precious system.”
“Did you ever encourage me to reform, or point out the way?” urged Lucy,
gently.
“I married a woman for a companion, not a child to instruct her,” he
answered bitterly.
“Ay—but I was a child! happy—so happy in that olden time, with all to
love, and none to chide me. A child, even in years, when you took me for
a wife—too soon a mother, shrinking from my responsibilities, and
without courage to meet my trials. I found no sympathy to encourage
me—no forbearance that my years were few—no advice when most I needed
it—no tenderness when my heart was nearly breaking. It is the first
time, Clifton, I have reproached you; but the worm will turn if it is
trodden upon,” and Lucy left the room. It was strange, even to herself,
that she had spoken so freely, yet it seemed a sort of relief to the
anguish of her heart. That he had allowed her to depart without reply
did not surprise her; it may be doubted, although her heart pined for
it, if ever she expected tenderness from Clifton more. It was perhaps an
hour after her conversation with Clifton, Lucy sat alone in the nursery;
her baby was asleep in the cradle beside her; they were alone together,
and as she gazed on its happy face, she hoped with an humble hope, to
rear it up, that it might be enabled to _give_ and receive happiness.
There was a slight rap at the door; she opened it, and a glad cry
escaped her,—“Uncle Joshua!” she exclaimed. He took her in his arms for
a moment,—that kindly and excellent old man, while a tear dimmed his
eye as he witnessed her joy at seeing him. She drew a stool towards him,
and sat down at his feet as she had often done before in her happy,
girlish days; she was glad when his hand rested on her head, even as it
had done in another time; she felt a friend had come back to her, who
had her interest nearly at heart, who had loved her long and most
tenderly. Mr. Tremaine was the brother of Lucy’s mother—he had arrived
in town unexpectedly; indeed had come chiefly with a view of discovering
the cause of Lucy’s low-spirited letters—he feared all was not right,
and as she was the object of almost his sole earthly attachment, he
could not rest in peace while he believed her unhappy. He was fast
approaching three score years and ten; never was there a warmer heart, a
more incorruptible, or sterling nature. Eccentric in many things,
possessing some prejudices, which inclined to ridicule in himself, no
man had sounder common sense, or a more careful judgment. His hair was
white, and fell in long smooth locks over his shoulders; his eye-brows
were heavy, and shaded an eye as keen and penetrating as though years
had no power to dim its light. The high, open brow, and the quiet
tenderness that dwelt in his smile, were the crowning charms of a
countenance on which nature had stamped her seal as her “noblest work.”
He spoke to Lucy of other days, of the happy home from whence he came,
till her tears came down like “summer rain,” with the mingling of sweet
and bitter recollections. Of her children next, and her eye lighted, and
her color came bright and joyous—the warm feelings of a mother’s heart
responded to every word of praise he uttered. Of her husband—and sadly
“Uncle Joshua” noticed the change;—her voice was low and desponding,
and a look of sorrow and care came back to the youthful face: “Clifton
was succeeding in business; she was gratified and proud of his success,”
and that was all she said.
“Uncle Joshua’s” visit was of some duration. He saw things as they
really were, and the truth pained him deeply. “Lucy,” he said quietly,
as one day they were alone together—“I have much to say, and you to
hear. Can you bear the truth, my dear girl?” She was by his side in a
moment.
“Anything from you, uncle. Tell me freely all you think, and if it is
censure of poor Lucy, little doubt but that she will profit by it.”
“You are a good girl!” said “Uncle Joshua,” resting his hand on her
head, “and you will be rewarded yet.” He paused for a moment ere he
said—“Lucy, you are not a happy wife. You married with bright
prospects—who is to blame?”
“I am—but not alone,” said Lucy, in a choking voice, “not alone, there
are some faults on both sides.”
“Let us first consider yours; Clifton’s faults will not exonerate you
from the performance of your duty. For the love I bear you, Lucy, I will
speak the truth: all the misery of your wedded life proceeds from the
fatal indulgence of a procrastinating spirit. _One uncorrected fault_
has been the means of alienating your husband’s affections, and bringing
discord and misrule into the very heart of your domestic Eden. This must
not be. You have strong sense and feeling, and must conquer the defect
of character that weighs so heavily on your peace.”
Lucy burst into tears—“I fear I never can—and if I do, Clifton will
not thank me, or care.”
“Try, Lucy. You can have little knowledge of the happiness it would
bring or you would make the effort. And Clifton will care. Bring order
into his household and comfort to his fireside, and he will take you to
his heart with a tenderer love than he ever gave to the bride of his
youth.”
Lucy drew her breath gaspingly, and for a moment gazed into her uncle’s
face with something of his own enthusiasm; but it passed and despondency
came with its withering train of tortures to frighten her from exertion.
“You cannot think, dear uncle, how much I have to do; and my children
are so troublesome, that I can never systematize time.”
“Let us see first what you can do. What is your first duty in the
morning after you have dressed yourself?”
“To wash and dress my children.”
“Do you always do it? Because if you rise early you have time before
breakfast. Your children are happy and comfortable, only in your regular
management of every thing connected with them.”
“I cannot always do it,” said Lucy, blushing—“sometimes I get up as
low-spirited and weary as after the fatigues of the day. I have no heart
to go to work; Clifton is cold, and hurries off to business. After
breakfast I go through the house and to the kitchen, so that it is often
noon before I _can_ manage to dress them.”
“Now instead of all this, if you were to rise early, dress your little
ones before breakfast, arrange your work, and go regularly from one work
to the other; _never_ putting off one to finish another, you would get
through everything, and have time to walk—that each day may have its
necessary portion of exercise in the open air. That would dissipate
weariness, raise your spirits, and invigorate your frame. Lucy, will you
not make the trial for Clifton’s sake? Make his home a well-ordered one,
and he will be glad to come into it.”
And Lucy promised to think of it. But her uncle was surprised at her
apparent apathy, and not long in divining the true reason. Her heart is
not in it, he thought, and if her husband don’t rouse it, never will be.
Lucy felt she was an object of indifference, if not dislike to Clifton;
there was no end to be accomplished by self-exertion; and as there was
nothing to repay her for the wasted love of many years, she would
encourage no new hopes to find them as false as the past.
“Uncle Joshua” sat together with Dr. Clifton, in the office of the
latter.
“Has it ever struck you, Doctor, how much Lucy is altered of late?”
“I cannot say that I see any particular alteration. It is some time
since you saw her;—matrimony is not very favorable to good looks, and
may have diminished her beauty.”
“It is not of her beauty I speak. Her character is wholly changed; her
spirits depressed, and her energies gone,” and “Uncle Joshua” spoke
warmly.
“I never thought her particularly energetic,” said the Doctor, dryly.
“No one would suppose, my good sir, you had ever thought, or cared much
about her.” “Uncle Joshua” was angry; but the red spot left his cheek as
soon as it came there as he went on:—“Let us speak in kindness of this
sad business. I see Lucy was in the right in thinking you had lost all
affection for her.”
“Did Lucy say that? I should be sorry she thought so.”
“A man has cause for sorrow, when a wife fully believes his love for her
is gone. Nothing can be more disheartening—nothing hardens the heart
more fearfully, and sad indeed is the lot of that woman who bears the
evils of matrimony without the happiness that often counterbalances
them. We, who are of harder natures, have too little sympathy, perhaps
too little thought for her peculiar trials.” Gently then, as a father to
an only son, the old man related to Clifton all that had passed between
Lucy and himself. More than once he saw his eyes moisten and strong
emotion manifest itself in his manly countenance. A something of
remorseful sorrow filled his heart, and its shadow lay on his face.
“Uncle Joshua” read aright the expression, and his honest heart beat
with joy at the prospects he thought it opened before them. Always
wise-judging he said nothing further, but left him to his own
reflections. And Clifton did indeed reflect long and anxiously: he saw
indeed how much his own conduct had discouraged his wife, while it had
been a source of positive unhappiness to her. He went at length to seek
her;—she was alone in the parlor reading, or rather a book was before
her, from which her eyes often wandered, until her head sank on the arm
of the sofa, and a heavy sigh came sadly on the ear of Clifton. “Lucy,
dear Lucy, grieve no more! We have both been wrong, but I have erred the
most—having years on my side and experience. Shall we not forgive each
other, my sweet wife?” and he lifted her tenderly in his arms, and
kissed the tears as they fell on her cheek.
“I have caused you much suffering, Lucy, I greatly fear;—your faults
occasioned me only inconvenience. Dry up your tears, and let me hear
that you forgive me, Lucy.”
“I have nothing to forgive,” exclaimed Lucy. “Oh, I have been wrong,
very wrong!—but if you had only encouraged me to reform, and sustained
and aided me in my efforts to do so by your affection, so many of our
married days would not have passed in sorrow and suffering.”
“I feel they would not,” said Clifton, moved almost to tears. “Now,
Lucy, the self-exertion shall be mutual. I will never rest until I
correct the violence of temper, that has caused you so much pain. You
have but one fault, procrastination—will you strive also to overcome
it?”
“I will,” said Lucy; “but you must be very patient with me, and rather
encourage me to new exertions. I have depended too long on your looks
not to be influenced by them still—my love, Clifton, stronger than your
own, fed on the memory of our early happiness, until my heart grew sick
that it would never return. Oh! if you could love me as you did then,
could respect me as once you did, I feel I could make any exertion to
deserve it.”
“And will you not be more worthy of esteem and love than ever you were,
dear Lucy, if you succeed in reforming yourself! I believe you capable
of the effort; and if success attends it, the blessing will fall on us
both, Lucy, and on our own dear children. Of one thing be assured, that
my love will know no further change or diminution. You shall not have
cause to complain of me again, Lucy. Now smile on me, dearest, as you
once did in a time we will never forget—and tell me you will be happy
for my sake.”
Lucy smiled, and gave the assurance—her heart beat lightly in her
bosom—the color spread over her face—her eyes sparkled with the new,
glad feelings of hope and happiness, and as Clifton clasped her in his
arms, he thought her more beautiful than in that early time when he had
first won her love.
In that very hour Lucy began her work of reform; it seemed as though new
life had been infused into her hitherto drooping frame. She warbled many
a sweet note of her youth, long since forgotten, for her spirits seemed
running over from very excess of happiness. “Uncle Joshua” was consulted
in all her arrangements, and of great use he was:—he planned for her,
encouraged her, made all easy by his method and management. She had gone
to work with a strong wish to do her duty, and with a husband’s love
shining steadily on her path, a husband’s affection for all success, and
sympathy with every failure, there was little fear of her not
succeeding. ’Tis true, the habit had been long in forming, but every
link she broke in the chain that bound her, brought a new comfort to
that happy household hearth. Clifton had insisted on hiring a woman to
take charge of the children—this was a great relief. And somehow or
other, “Uncle Joshua” looked up a good cook.
“Now,” said Lucy, “to fail would be a positive disgrace.”
“No danger of your failing, my sweet wife,” said Clifton, with a glance
of affection that might have satisfied even her heart. “You are already
beyond the fear of it.”
Lucy shook her head—“I must watch or my old enemy will be back again
before I am fully rid of him.”
“It is right to watch ourselves, I know, Lucy; are you satisfied that I
have done so, and have, in some measure, corrected myself?” said
Clifton.
“I have never seen a frown on your face since you promised me to be
patient. You have been, and will continue to be, I am sure,” said Lucy,
fondly, as she raised his hand to her lips which had rested on her arm.
They were happy both, and whatever trouble was in store for them in
their future life, they had strong mutual affection to sustain them
under it.
“God bless them both,” murmured “Uncle Joshua,” as he drew his hand hard
across his eyes after witnessing this little scene. “I have done good
here, but in many a case I might be termed a meddling old fool, and not
without reason, perhaps. ’Tis a pity though, that folks, who will get
their necks into this matrimonial yoke, would not try to make smooth the
uneven places, instead of stumbling all the way, breaking their hearts
by way of amusement, as they go.”
“What is that you say, ‘Uncle Joshua?’” said Lucy, turning quickly
round, and walking towards him, accompanied by her husband.
“I have a bad habit of talking aloud,” said he, smiling.
“But I thought you were abusing matrimony, uncle—you surely were not?”
“Cannot say exactly what I was thinking aloud. I am an old bachelor,
Lucy, and have few objects of affection in the world: you have been to
me as a child, always a good child, Lucy, too—and now I think you will
make a good wife, and find the happiness you so well deserve. Am I
right, love?”
“I hope you are, uncle. If it had not been for your kindness though, I
might never have been happy again,” and tears dimmed Lucy’s eyes at the
recollection.
“We shall not forget your kindness,” said Clifton as he extended his
hand, which “Uncle Joshua” grasped warmly. “I wish every married pair in
trouble could find a good genius like yourself to interfere in their
favor.”
“Ten to one he would be kicked out of doors!” said the old man,
laughing. “This matrimony is a queer thing—those who have their necks
in the noose had better make the most of it—and those out of the scrape
keep so. Ah! you little reprobate!” he cried as he caught Lucy’s bright
eye, and disbelieving shake of the head—“you don’t pretend to
contradict me?”
“Yes I do, with my whole heart too. I would not give up my husband for
the wide world, nor he his Lucy for the fairest girl in America!”
“Never!” exclaimed Clifton—“you are dearer to me than any other human
being!”
“W-h-e-w!!” was “Uncle Joshua’s” reply, in a prolonged sort of whistle,
while his eyes opened in the profoundest wonder, and his whole
countenance was expressive of the most ludicrous
astonishment—“w-h-e-w!!”
* * * * *
PERDITI.[1]
BY WM. WALLACE, ESQ. AUTHOR OF “BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE,” “MARCHES FOR THE
DEAD,” ETC., ETC.
The following poem is respectfully dedicated to the Hon. Elisha
M. Huntington, as a tribute of respect to his head and heart, by
the
Author.
PART FIRST—ITALY.
Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright!
Where the echoless feet of the Hours
Are gliding forever in soft, dreamy light
Through their mazes of sunshine and flow’rs;
Fair clime of the Laurel—the Sword and the Lyre!
There the souls are all genius—the hearts are all fire;
There the Rivers—the Mountains—the lowliest sods
Were hallowed, long since, by the bright feet of Gods;
There Beauty and Grandeur their wonders of old
Like a bridal of star-light and thunder unroll’d;
There the air seems to breathe of a music sent out
From the rose-muffled lips of invisible streams,
Oh! sweet as the harmony whispered about
The Night’s moon-beaming portal of exquisite Dreams.
’Though Beauty and Grandeur, magnificent clime!
Have walked o’er thy Vallies and Mountains sublime,
With a port as majestic—unfading as Time—
A death-pall is on Thee! The funeral glare
Of a grave-torch, Oh! Italy, gleams on the air!
Lo! the crimes of whole ages roll down on thy breast!
Hark! Hark to the fierce thunder-troops of the Storm!
Ah! soon shall they stamp on thy beautiful crest,
And riot unchecked o’er thy loveliest form!
Oh! Land of the Beautiful! Land of the Bright!
’Though the day of thy glory is o’er,
And the time-hallowed mountains are mantled in night
Where thy Liberty flourished before;
’Though the black brow of Bigotry scowls on thy race
Which are kissing the chains of their brutal disgrace;
’Though the torches of Freedom so long hurled about
By thy heroes of old are forever gone out;
Yet! yet shall thy Beauty shine out from the gloom,
Oh! Land of the Harp and the Wreath and the Tomb!
The seal has been set! Immortality beams
Like a time-daring star o’er thy temples and streams;
And still as whole tribes from the weird future dart,
They shall kneel at thine altar, Oh! clime of the Heart!
More splendid art thou, with thy banners all furl’d
And thy brow in the dust, than the rest of the world,
For the MIGHTY—the Dead who have hallowed our earth,
In thee have their rest and from thee took their birth.
Oh! alas that we live—_we_ the boastful who leap
Like mere rills where the sun-pillar’d Truth is enshrined
Where those broad-rolling rivers no longer may sweep
With their billows of light to the Ocean of Mind.
It was a clime where mortal form
Hath never pressed the blasted soil—
Where tempest-fires and surging storm
Are struggling ever in their coil:
A sunless clime, whose dreary night
Gleams dimly with that doubtful light
Which men have seen—when Darkness threw
Around their homes its sombre hue—
The fearful herald of the wrath
That blazes on the Whirlwind’s path
Ere he has tossed his banners out
Like sable draperies o’er the Dead,
And with a wild, delirious shout
Struck his deep thunder-drum of dread;
A clime where e’en the fountains fall
With tone and step funereal:
And ever through the dark, old trees
A melancholy music rolls
Along the faintly-chiming breeze—
Sad as the wail of tortured souls.
There ghastly forms were hurrying past
Like weird clouds through the ether driven,
In fear, before the HUNTER-BLAST,
Whose vengeance purifies the heaven.
And some were pale, as if with woe,
And ever cast their eyes below;
And some were quivering with a fear
In this their dreary sepulchre;
And some, whose awful aspects wore
A look where sat the seal of age,
On their convulsèd foreheads bore
The phrenzied agony of rage;
_On some_ a dreadful beauty shone
Like rays received from fallen stars—
So dim, so mournful and so lone,
Yet brave, despite of all their scars.
Far from the throng two sat apart
Beneath a forest’s darkling plume—
In that communion of the heart
Which but the wretched can assume.
They seemed in earnest converse there,
As if with words to quench despair;
And one, along whose features grew,
A withering, deathly, demon-hue,
Wore that high, dread, defying look
Which but the Lost can dare to brook;
The other milder seemed—but he
Was shrouded, too, in mystery,
And ever threw along the sky
A fearful spiritual eye
Which in its gloomy light sublime—
Seemed half of virtue, half of crime,
Like lightning when you see its glow
Soft as a moonbeam flashed below—
And then in blasting brightness sent
Wild-quivering through the firmament.
So sat they in that dreary light,
Upon the blasted darkling mould—
Fit watchers of such awful night—
As thus the last his story told.
LORRO.
The _many_ only look to _years_;
The _many_ think _they_ only roll
The tides of happiness or tears
Around the human soul:
I know a single hour for me—
_A minute_—was Eternity,
That seemed with its fierce, lidless eye
Fixed—fixed forever in the sky
Which, circling round the Italian shore,
Was only made for bliss before:
But now it darkled like a shroud
By demon-hands in warning shaken,
From their lone, scowling thunder-cloud
Ere yet its elements awaken.