my former acquaintance, "The Post Captain;" for the last time "We
met--'twas in a crowd"--and I had not an opportunity of saying more
than a few words to him. He was not in his usual spirits, having
lately been jilted by the beautiful but "Faithless Emma," who knew
not how to value "The Manly Heart" that had so long been devoted to
her. He was accompanied by a "Smart Young Midshipman," and followed
at a respectful distance by some hardy-looking "Tars of Columbia,"
who, whether exposed to the storms of "The Bay of Biscay," or
sailing before the wind with "A wet sheet and a flowing sea," or
engaged in contest with "The Mariners of England," are always ready
to venture life and limb in the cause of "America, Commerce, and
Freedom."
After them came a motley group whose homes were to be found in
every part of the world, and amongst whom even "The Gipsies' Wild
Chant" was heard at intervals. Looking as if he had just issued
from "The vale of Ovoca," and wrapping around him a damp overcoat,
threadbare wherever it was whole, came an "Exile of Erin," who
proved to be the famous serenading robber, "Ned of the Hills." Near
him was another outlaw, "Allen-a-Dale," who, being something of an
exquisite (notwithstanding his deficiency in ploughland and
firewood) looked with hauteur on "The wayworn Traveller." The
Hibernian freebooter was not, it is true, as well supported as when
"Proudly and wide his standard flew;" having found by recent
experience that it is not always safe to go a-robbing with flying
colours: but he was not without his followers (what Irishman is?)
and he and they returned with interest the contemptuous glances of
the English brigand.
There were representatives of every nation and of every period in
which the voice of music has been heard. Some were serious and some
were gay--some were dignified, and others very much the
contrary--some had always moved in the first circle, and some were
in the people's line. I saw a "Bavarian Broom Girl" endeavouring to
persuade "Mynheer Van Clam" to waltz with her round the hill: but
finding it impossible to induce in him a rotatory motion, and that
his steps never could be made to describe a circle, she wisely gave
him up for a "Merry Swiss Boy," who whirled round with her to her
heart's content, though his sister would not dance, but was
perpetually wailing "Oh! take me back to Switzerland." There was
also the disdainful "Polly Hopkins" sailing round her ill-used but
persevering lover, "Tommy Tompkins." Among others came the foolish
"Maid of Lodi," ambling on her poney; the deplorable "Galley
Slave;" the moaning "Beggar Girl;" and several others with whose
company I could well have dispensed.
The sound of voices now came from the sea, and we saw several boats
approaching the shore--"Faintly as tolls the evening chime," we
distinguished the Canadian rowers. Next came the fellow-fishermen
of Masaniello chanting their Barcarole; and next we recognised the
swiftly-gliding and "Bonnie Boat" of a party of musical Caledonians
on their return from a fruitless attempt to wake the "Maid of
Lorn." I looked in vain for my sensible and excellent friend, "The
Pilot," whom I was afterwards informed by his daughter, "Black-eyed
Susan," had gone to the assistance of an endangered vessel, whose
"Minute Gun at Sea" he had heard the night before.
I went down with the other ladies to the portico to receive the
company that was every moment arriving, and I found the avenue that
led to it already filled. Among the Hibernians, we saw a wandering
musician who had "Come o'er the sea" to pursue his profession.
However, he succeeded but badly; after several attempts, finding it
impossible even to "Remember the glories of Brian the Brave." The
truth is, he was confused and disconcerted by discovering, when too
late, that the harp he had in haste brought with him, was the
identical one which had hung so long on Tara's walls that its soul
of music was undoubtedly fled; all the strings being broken. This
_contre-tems_ excited the sneers of the English part of his
audience, but I besought them to "Blame not the bard," whose
countrymen I saw were beginning to kindle in his behalf, and
knowing that "Avenging and bright are the swift swords of Erin," I
made peace by ordering refreshments to be brought out, and sending
round among them the "Crooskeen Lawn."
Again the sound of distant music floated on the air from "Over the
hills and far away." At first, we thought that "The Campbells were
coming" (none of that noble and warlike clan having accompanied the
numerous "Sons of the Clyde" that had already arrived), and the
male part of our company were preparing to "Hurrah for the Bonnets
of Blue." But as the sounds approached, they were easily
distinguished for the ever-charming and exhilarating notes of "The
Hunters' Chorus," that splendid triumph of musical genius. We soon
saw the bold yagers of the Hartz forest descending the path that
led round the hill, their rifles in their hands, their oak-sprigs
in their hats, and looking as much at home as if they were still in
their "Father-land."
I welcomed the whole company, though well aware that among them all
there was "Nobody coming to marry me;" and, as "Twilight dews were
falling fast," I invited them into the house, which fortunately was
large enough to accommodate them. The evening was spent in much
hilarity. "Merrily every bosom boundeth," and "Away with
melancholy," was the general feeling. A toast was suggested in
compliment to their hostess; but unwilling that they should "Drink
to me only," I proposed "A health to all good lasses," and it went
round with enthusiasm.
Our festivity met with a little interruption from "The Maid of
Marlivale," who, while taking one of her usual moonlight rambles,
had been frightened by something that she supposed to be "The Erl
King," and she rushed in among us, in a state of terror which we
had some difficulty in appeasing.
After supper, at which "Jim Crow" was chief waiter (till his
antics obliged me to dismiss him from the room), music and dancing
continued till a late hour. At length "I knew by the smoke" that
the lamps were about to expire, and I was not sorry when the party
from Scotland broke up the company by taking leave with "Gude
night, and joy be wi' you a'"--and in a short time "All the blue
bonnets were over the border." I must tell you in confidence, my
dear Ombrelina, that "A chieftain to the highlands bound" presented
me "The last rose of summer," and was very importunate with me to
become the companion of his journey and the lady of his castle; but
I had no inclination to intrust my happiness to a stranger, and to
bid "My native land, good night."
Hitherto, whenever, "I've wandered in dreams," it has generally
been my unlucky fate to lose all distinct recollection of them
before "The morn unbars the gates of light." This once I have been
more fortunate. But still, my dear Ombrelina, I think it safest to
intrust to your care this slight memorandum of my singular vision.
And should you lose it, and I forget it, we have still the
consolation that "'Tis but fancy's sketch."
ARIELLA SHADOW.
"In truth," said Merrill, folding up the letter, after making various
comments upon it, "on the subject of music, this young lady seems quite
_au naturel_. I fear for her success in society."
"Then," observed Cavender, "you must exert your influence in inducing
her to change or suppress her opinion on this topic, and perhaps on some
others in which she may be equally at variance with _les gens comme il
faut_."
"My influence?" replied Merrill. "Is it possible that I know the lady?"
"You know her so well," answered Cavender, "that I wonder you are
unacquainted with her autograph; but I suppose your courtship has been
altogether verbal."
"Emily Osbrook!" exclaimed Merrill. "Is she, indeed, the author of this
letter? It is singular enough that I have never yet happened to see her
handwriting; and once seen, I could not have forgotten it. But I can
assure you that she has sufficient knowledge of the art to be fully
capable of appreciating its difficulties and understanding its beauties,
and of warmly admiring whatever of our fashionable music is really good;
that is, when the sound is not only a combination of beautiful tones,
but also an echo to the sense. We have often lamented that so many fine
composers have deigned to furnish charming airs for common-place or
nonsensical poetry, and that some of the most exquisite effusions of our
poets are degraded by an association with tasteless and insipid music.
But when music that is truly excellent is 'married to immortal verse,'
and when the words are equal to the air, who does not perceive that the
hearers listen with two-fold enjoyment?"
"Two-fold!" exclaimed Cavender.--"The pleasure of listening to
delightful notes, with delightful words, uttered with taste and feeling
by an accomplished and intellectual singer, is one of the most perfect
that can fall to the lot of beings who are unable to hear the music of
the spheres and the songs of Paradise."
SOCIABLE VISITING.
"Shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it."--ADDISON.
After a residence of several years at their country-house in the
vicinity of Philadelphia, circumstances induced Mr. Heathcote to
establish himself again in the city. This removal gave great
satisfaction to his family, particularly to his wife and to his two
elder children, Harriet and Albert, as they all had very good reasons
for preferring a decided town-life to the numerous conveniences of
ruralizing at a villa both in winter and summer. They were called on in
due time by all their former city friends; most of whom, indeed, had
sedulously kept up their acquaintance with the Heathcote family by
frequent visits to them during their long sojourn in the country.
By all these friends, the Heathcotes were invited to tea in form,
sometimes to large parties, sometimes to small parties, and sometimes to
meet only the family circle. And Mrs. Heathcote had made a return for
these civilities by giving an evening party, which included the whole
range of her friends and acquaintances, while her husband got rid of his
similar obligations by a series of dinners.
These duties being over, and the family settled quietly down into
every-day life, the invitations for particular times became less
frequent; gradually subsiding into pressing entreaties from their
friends to waive all formality, and to come sociably and take tea with
them whenever they felt an inclination, without waiting for the ceremony
of being regularly asked. These intimations were at once declined by
Mrs. Heathcote, who declared herself "no visitor," her large family (for
she had eight children) giving her always sufficient occupation at
home. Such excuses, however, were not admitted from Harriet, who was
handsome, lively, and intelligent, and much liked by all who knew her.
She was fond of society, and had no objection to visiting in all its
branches. Her days were generally passed in constant and rational
employment, and though her evenings were pleasant enough at home, still
she liked variety, and thought it would be very agreeable to visit her
friends occasionally on the terms proposed; and she anticipated much
quiet enjoyment at these extemporaneous tea-drinkings. We must premise
that the sociable visits performed by our heroine did not, in reality,
all follow each other consecutively, though, for the sake of brevity, it
is expedient for us to relate them in that manner. Between some of them
were long intervals, during which she, of course, received occasional
invitations in regular form; and a due proportion of her evenings was
spent in places of public amusement. Our present design is merely to
give a sketch of the events which ensued when Harriet Heathcote, taking
her friends at their word, availed herself of their earnest entreaties
to visit them _sociably_: that is, without being either invited or
expected.
In compliance with the oft-repeated request of her old acquaintances,
the two Miss Drakelows, to spend a long afternoon with them, coming
early and bringing her sewing, our heroine set out on this visit at four
o'clock, taking her work-basket in her hand. The Miss Drakelows, indeed,
had urged her to come immediately after dinner, that they might have the
longer enjoyment of her company; and Harriet, for her part, liked them
so well (for they were very agreeable girls), that she had no
apprehension of finding the visit tedious.
On arriving at the house, the servant who opened the door informed her
that both the young ladies were out. Harriet, much disappointed, was
turning to go home again, when their mother, old Mrs. Drakelow, appeared
at the door of the front parlour, and hastening forward, seized her by
both hands, and insisted on her coming in, saying that Ellen and Fanny
had only gone out shopping with Mrs. Eastwood (their married sister),
and that she was in momentary expectation of their return. Harriet found
it so difficult to resist the entreaties of the old lady, who was always
delighted to see visiters, that she yielded and accompanied her into the
parlour.
"Well, my dear Miss Harriet," said Mrs. Drakelow, "I am really very glad
that you have come, at last, just as we wished you, without any
ceremony. I always think a visit the more agreeable for being
unexpected. Do take off your cloak. My daughters will be at home in a
few minutes, and I dare say they will bring Mrs. Eastwood with them, and
then we will make her stay to tea. We shall have a charming evening."
Miss Heathcote took out her work, and Mrs. Drakelow resumed her
knitting, and endeavoured to entertain her guest by enumerating those
among her own acquaintances that persisted in using knitting-sheaths,
and those that could knit just as well without them by holding the
needles in a different manner. She also discussed the relative merits of
ribbed welts and rolled welts, and gave due honour to certain
expeditious ladies that could knit a pair of large stockings in three
days; and higher glory still to several that had been known to perform
that exploit in _two_ days.
In truth, the old lady was one of those dull wearisome people, that are
only tolerated because they are good and respectable. She had no
reading; no observation, except of trifles not worth observing; no
memory, but of things not worth remembering, and her ideas, which were
very limited in number, had all her life flowed in the same channel.
Still, Mrs. Drakelow thought herself a very sensible woman, and believed
that her conversation could not be otherwise than agreeable; and
therefore, whenever she had an opportunity, she talked almost
incessantly. It is true, that when her daughters were present, she was
content to be comparatively silent, as she regarded them with great
deference, and listened to them always with habitual admiration.
Evening came, and the young ladies did not return; though Mrs. Drakelow
was still expecting them every moment. Finally, she concluded that Mrs.
Eastwood had prevailed on them to go home and take tea with her. "So
much the better for me," said Mrs. Drakelow, "for now, my dear Miss
Harriet, I shall have you all to myself." She then ordered tea to be
brought immediately, and Harriet saw nothing in prospect but a long,
tedious evening with the prosing old lady; and she knew that it would be
at least nine o'clock, or perhaps ten, before her brother came to see
her home.
The evening, as she anticipated, was indeed tedious. Mrs. Drakelow took
upon herself "the whole expense of the conversation," talked of cheap
shops and dear shops, and specified the prices that had been given for
almost every article of dress that had been purchased by her daughters
or herself during the last year. She told a long story of a piece of
linen which her friend Mrs. Willett had bought for her husband, and
which went to pieces before it was made up, splitting down in streaks
during the process of stroking the gathers. She told the rent that was
given by all her acquaintances that lived in rented houses, and the
precise price paid by those that had purchased their dwellings. She
described minutely the particulars of several long illnesses that had
taken place among her relations and friends; and the exact number of
persons that attended their funerals when they died, as on those
occasions she said she made it a rule always to count the company. She
mentioned several circumstances which proved to demonstration, that the
weather was usually cold in winter and warm in summer; and she gave a
circumstantial history of her four last cats, with suitable episodes of
rats and mice.
The old lady's garrulity was so incessant, her tone so monotonous, and
her narratives so totally devoid of either point or interest, that Miss
Heathcote caught herself several times on the verge of falling asleep.
She frequently stole anxious glances at the time-piece, and when it was
nine o'clock she roused herself by the excitement of hoping every moment
for the arrival of Albert.
At length she heard the agreeable sound of the door-bell, but it was
only a shoemaker's boy that had brought home a pair of new shoes for
Mrs. Drakelow, who tried them on, and talked about them for half an
hour, telling various stories of tight shoes and loose shoes, long shoes
and short shoes. Finally, Albert Heathcote made his welcome appearance,
and Harriet joyfully prepared for her departure; though the old lady
entreated her "to sit awhile longer, and not to take away her brother so
soon."
"You cannot imagine," said Mrs. Drakelow, "how disappointed the girls
will feel, at happening to be from home on this afternoon above all
others. If they had had the most distant idea of a visit from you
to-day, they would, I am sure, have either deferred their shopping, or
made it as short as possible. But do not be discouraged, my dear Miss
Harriet," continued the good old lady, "I hope you will very soon favour
us with another sociable visit. I really do not know when I have passed
so pleasant an evening. It has seemed to me not more than half an hour
since tea."
About a fortnight afterwards, Miss Heathcote went to take tea, sociably,
with her friend Mrs. Rushbrook, who had been married about eighteen
months, and whom she had known intimately for many years. This time, she
went quite late, and was glad to be informed that Mrs. Rushbrook was at
home. She was shown into the parlour, where she waited till long after
the lamp was lighted, in momentary expectation of the appearance of her
friend, who had sent down word that she would be with her in a few
minutes. Occasionally, whenever the nursery door was opened, Harriet
heard violent screams of the baby.
At length Mrs. Rushbrook came down, apologized to Miss Heathcote for
making her wait, and said that poor little George was very unwell, and
had been fretful and feverish all day; and that he had just been got to
sleep with much difficulty, having cried incessantly for more than an
hour. Harriet now regretted having chosen this day for her visit (the
baby being so much indisposed), and she offered to conclude it
immediately, only requesting that the servant-man might see her home, as
it had long been quite dark. But Mrs. Rushbrook would not listen to
Harriet's proposal of going away so soon, and insisted on her staying to
tea as she had intended; saying that she had no doubt the baby would be
much better when he awoke. At her pressing instances, Miss Heathcote
concluded to remain. In a short time Mr. Rushbrook came home, and his
wife detailed to him all the particulars of the baby's illness. Harriet,
who was accustomed to children, saw that in all probability the
complaint would be attended with no serious consequences. But young
married people are very naturally prone to take alarm at the slightest
ailment of their first child: a feeling which no one should censure,
however far it may be carried, as it originates in the best affections
of the human heart.
Though Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook tried to entertain their visitor, and to
listen to her when she talked, Harriet could not but perceive that their
minds were all the time with the infant up-stairs; and they frequently
called each other out of the room to consult about him.
After tea, the baby awoke and renewed its screams, and Mr. Rushbrook
determined to go himself for the doctor, who had already been brought
thither three times that day. Finding that it was a physician who lived
in her immediate neighbourhood, Harriet wisely concluded to shorten her
unlucky visit by availing herself of Mr. Rushbrook's protection to her
own door. Mrs. Rushbrook took leave of our heroine with much civility,
but with very evident satisfaction, and said to her at parting, "To
tell you the truth, my dear Harriet, if I had known that you designed me
the pleasure of a visit this evening, I would have candidly requested
you to defer it till another time, as poor little George has been unwell
since early in the morning."
Harriet's next sociable visit was to the two Miss Brandons, who had
always appeared to her as very charming girls, and remarkable for their
affectionate manner towards each other. Being left in affluent
circumstances at the decease of their father (the mother died while they
were children), Letitia and Charlotte Brandon lived together in a very
genteel establishment, under the protection of an unmarried brother, who
was just now absent on business in the West. Harriet had always imagined
them in possession of an unusual portion of happiness, for they were
young, handsome, rich, at their own disposal, with no one to control
them, and, as she supposed, nothing to trouble them. She did not know,
or rather she did not believe (for she had heard some whispers of the
fact), that in reality the Miss Brandons lived half their time at open
war; both having tempers that were very irritable, and also very
implacable, for it is not true that the more easily anger is excited,
the sooner it subsides. It so happened, however, that Miss Heathcote had
only seen these young ladies during their occasional fits of
good-humour, when they were at peace with each other, and with all the
world; and at such times no women could possibly be more amiable.
On the morning before Harriet Heathcote's visit, a violent quarrel had
taken place between the two sisters, and therefore they were not on
speaking terms, nor likely to be so in less than a fortnight; that being
the period they generally required to smooth down their angry passions,
before they could find it in their hearts to resume the usual routine of
even common civility. There was this difference in the two ladies:
Charlotte was the most passionate, Letitia the most rancorous.
When Harriet arrived, she found the Miss Brandons alone in the back
parlour, sitting at opposite sides of the fire, with each a book.
Charlotte, who was just the age of Harriet, looked pleased at the sight
of a visiter, whose company she thought would be preferable to the
alternative of passing the evening with her sister in utter silence; and
she had some faint hope that the presence of Miss Heathcote might
perhaps induce Letitia to make some little exertion to conceal her
ill-humour. And therefore Charlotte expressed great pleasure when she
found that Harriet had come to spend the evening with them. But Letitia,
after a very cold salutation, immediately rose and left the room, with
an air that showed plainly she did not intend to consider Miss Heathcote
as in part her visiter, but exclusively as her sister Charlotte's.
Charlotte followed Letitia with her eyes, and looked very angry, but
after a few moments, she smothered her resentment so far as to attempt a
sort of apology, saying, "she believed her sister had the headache." She
then commenced a conversation with Harriet, who endeavoured to keep it
up with her usual vivacity; but was disconcerted to find that Charlotte
was too uncomfortable, and her mind evidently too much abstracted,
either to listen attentively, or to take the least interest in anything
she said.