Night wanes—the vapours round the mountain curled
Melt into morn, and light awakes the world.
Man has another day to swell the past,
And lead him near to little but his last.
BYRON’S LARA.
The double night of ages, and of her,
Night’s daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wraps
All round us; we but feel our way to err!
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE.
The adventure of young Stanley, recorded in the last chapter, made a
strong impression on his mind. The more he reflected on what he had
beheld, the more he became convinced that it was no mere conjuration of
his fancy. Nothing in his feelings at the moment, absorbed as they were
with thoughts of the little truant he had been seeking, could have
suggested to his imagination the image which arose before him. That it
was an embodiment of some kind he became therefore convinced, though he
could not believe either that it was human, when he remembered the
sudden and mysterious manner of its disappearance.
Frank Stanley was by nature neither timorous nor credulous, and a course
of reading, more extensive than usual for boys at his age, had in some
degree fortified his mind against the attacks of superstition; but he
would have been an actual prodigy, if, living in New England in the end
of the seventeenth century, he had possessed a philosophy which did not
exist there until much later. Those, therefore, who will recall to mind
the superstitious feelings at that time prevalent among the early
settlers, will not be surprised that our youthful hero should have
closed his reflections with the conviction that he had beheld a
supernatural visitant. That its mission, however, was not an unholy one
he might have believed, when he recollected that he had seen it keeping
watch over the lost child of his boyish love, and that its voice had
been the means of directing him to the spot where she lay. But he had so
strongly imbibed the common idea that all supernatural indications were
demonstrations of the Evil One, that his cogitations the rather resolved
themselves into fears that she who had been so guarded by one of His
emissaries, though in the form of the being of light that he had beheld,
was marked out as a victim of future destruction.
This idea became agony to the sensitive mind of the boy, whose heart had
outstripped, in a great measure, his years, and was fixed with
sentiments of strong attachment upon the little girl. He determined,
therefore, to keep constant watch upon the child’s movements, and should
he behold her again in the hands of the tempter, by timely warning to
her sister to enlist her in attempts to destroy the power of the enemy
by fasting and prayer.
Thoughts of the kind described had disturbed Stanley’s mind during the
whole night succeeding his adventure, and caused him the first sleepless
pillow he had ever known. He rose earlier than usual the next day.
Feeling languid from want of his customary rest, he walked out to
recover his freshness in the morning air. Even to those who, like
Stanley, have spent a sleepless and anxious night, the breeze of the
dawn brings strength and quickening both of mind and body. He bent his
steps involuntarily toward the place of the previous day’s innocent
revel.
The day was delightful. There was just enough motion in the air to
disturb the little fleecy clouds which were scattered on the horizon,
and by floating them occasionally over the sun, to checker the landscape
with that variety of light and shade which often gives to a bare and
unenclosed scene, a species of charm approaching to the varieties of a
cultivated and planted country.
When Stanley had reached the borders of the grove in which the party had
dined, he cast his eyes upward on the hills where he had climbed in
search of Jessy Ellet. Curiosity suggested to him to ascend again to the
spot where he had beheld the strange apparition. Fear for himself knew
no place in his brave young soul. He felt that his virtuous and strong
heart was even proof against the power of Satan and his agents. He
proceeded, therefore, to remount the hills, in hopes that he might again
behold the shadowy spirit, and perchance have time to question it of its
errand to earth, ere it a second time disappeared. When he arrived
beneath the well-remembered rock, he raised his eyes, more however in
the expectation of being disappointed in the object of his quest, than
with any actual idea of meeting a return of his former vision.
It was consequently with the astonishment of one utterly unprepared,
that he beheld, standing upon the rocky elevation, the same figure of
the mist which had filled his waking dreams throughout the night. The
sudden sight took from him, for the instant, both speech and motion. It
seemed as if his imagination had raised up a phantom presenting to his
outward senses the object that engrossed his mind. She seemed clad in
white, and her hair of threaded gold, while her complexion looked
radiant and pure through the rising beams that reflected upon it. In the
morning vapor she appeared even more transparent than in the sunset dew;
so much so, that the broken corner of the rock which she had chosen for
her pedestal, would have seemed unsafe for any more substantial figure
than her own. Yet she rested upon it as securely and lightly as a bird
upon the stem of a bush. The sun, which was rising exactly opposite,
shed his early rays upon her shadowy form and increased its aereal
effect. Internal and indefinable feelings restrained the youth from
accosting her as he had thought to have done. These are easily explained
on the supposition that his mortal frame shrunk at the last moment from
an encounter with a being of a different nature.
As the boy gazed, spell-bound, he observed that this being of the vapor
was not alone. Ere long, however, he became aware that near her, in the
middle of the rock, where the footing was more secure, stood another
form. Fixing his bewildered gaze steadily upon this second object, in
order to scan it as carefully as he had done the other, he became
convinced that it was a familiar figure. For a moment his memory failed
him, and he could not place that round and coquetish form, with its garb
of rich pink, nor that face, with its sparkling eyes of jet, and its
raven braids. His doubt, however, lasted but for an instant. It was Lucy
Ellet whom he beheld. She perceived his proximity before her companion,
for, turning to the phantom-form, she pointed to him just as he himself
was about to speak. Ere his words were uttered, the misty figure had
vanished from her side, and she remained upon the rock alone.
Awe-struck, the youth turned to depart. “Both the sisters, then,”
thought he, “are in league with this spirit-messenger of darkness. Alas!
each so fair in their different styles, so idolized in the village, one
of whom, too, I have treasured up her childish image in my heart, and
mixed it with all my young dreams of the future!” He perceived,
moreover, that such an association as he had witnessed with the
emissaries of evil, might not only be a soil upon the virtue of Lucy and
Jessy Ellet, but a lasting disgrace to their names, should the knowledge
of it come to the ears of the pious community. Congratulating himself
that he alone was privy to the unhappy circumstance, he was wending his
way down the declivity when his meditations were interrupted by the gay
voice of Lucy Ellet behind him.
“Out on your vaunted politeness, Master Frank, to trudge down hill in
front of a lady, and never turn to offer her your arm.”
“Excuse me, Miss Lucy,” replied Stanley, stopping and much embarrassed,
“methought you would not desire to be troubled with my company.”
“I honour your delicacy, Frank,” resumed Lucy, taking his arm, as they
walked on. “You saw me but now in circumstances which you rightly judge
I intended to be secret, and would not mortify me by forcing me to meet
you just at the moment of my detection.”
After an instant’s pause, she continued. “I will let you into the
secret, Frank, for there may one day be need to employ your services;
and I am sure I may rely on your judgment and discretion not to divulge
what I shall unfold. Your occasional assistance is the only return I
demand for my confidence. Yon stranger lady is——”
“Hold, Miss Ellet, I cannot consent to obtain any knowledge of your
secret under the condition that I am to become a party in the sinful
affair. I not will unite in league with any daughter of the clouds or
spirit of darkness.”
“Then you deem her whom you saw beside me on the rock one of those
visionary beings you mention?” asked Lucy, looking at him steadily, to
learn if he were in earnest, and an arch smile curling on her mouth, and
sparkling in her eyes, when she perceived that he had spoken seriously.
“What else can I think of one who hath scarce the weight of a feather,
is transparent as a cloud, and dissolveth in a moment into air?”
Lucy Ellet here laughed outright. But instantly checking herself and
looking grave, she replied in a mysterious tone, “I have, indeed, a
strange associate in yonder lady of the mist. And you positively decline
an introduction to her?”
“I did not think thou would’st thus seek to destroy others as well as
thyself, Miss Ellet. Is it through thine influence that thy sister has
been made acquainted with the evil spirit?”
“Oh, thou fearest for her, dost thou?” said Lacy, mischievously seizing
the opportunity of turning the conversation. “Thou wouldst have her kept
stainless from sin in order that she may be thine when thou art a man,
eh, Frank? Nay, you need not blush, though you see I read your heart.”
Stanley’s thoughts were now completely diverted from the first topic of
conversation, and talking on indifferent subjects, Lucy Ellet and
himself entered the village.
[_To be continued._
* * * * *
URIEL.
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
A HAUGHTY, high-born maiden was the Lady Uriel,
With stately step, majestic mien and royal falcon eyes,
Whose glory scintillated like auroras in the skies.
She sat her steed, and held her hawk, and ruled her father’s board,
Among her maidens, like a queen; and all her noble guests
Swore fealty to her beauty, and obeyed her least behests.
From East to West, from North to South, the wonder of her charms
Had been the theme of troubadours, who sang, with many sighs,
The splendor of her beauty and the grandeur of her eyes.
From East and West, from North and South, came many a gay gallánt,
Like pilgrims to Jerusalem, to worship at her shrine;
And each one swore that song did wrong to beauty so divine.
All day in panoply of steel these young chivalrous knights
Strove gracefully and gallantly in deeds of bold emprise,
Seeking to call down sunny smiles from her imperial eyes.
All night, beneath the icy orbs of the unheeding moon,
The invisible breath of music filled the castle’s gray arcades;
But Uriel’s heart replied not to her lovers’ serenades.
Some sought her father—paladins, whose names for centuries
Had sparkled, like a necklace, on the snowy bust of fame,
With hosts of anxious aspirants who struggled for a name.
And haughty merchant-princes, who, in countless argosies,
Possessed the wealth of Orient Ind, sued humbly at her feet;
And monarchs put aside command and followed in her _suite_.
But all in vain, for Uriel loved none, nor cared to love;
She only prized her sire and home; she sought no other ties;
So not a single suitor saw his image in her eyes.
More beautiful with every moon became the maiden’s face,
More queenly still her stately step, more luminous her eyes,
Until her lovers thought her charms translations from the skies.
One day, perchance attracted by the maiden’s marvelous fame,
An unknown knight, in humble guise, rode slowly to her gate.
No page, no man-at-arms had he; he came in simple state.
His armor was as dark as night, his tossing plumes were black,
As was his gaunt gigantic steed;—no arms were on his shield—
Only a deadly night-shade shone upon its ebon field.
Next day the tournament gave birth to doughty deeds of arms,
For down before the Nameless Knight the lady’s suitors went;
And, strange to say, that Uriel’s eyes now sparkled with content.
Next night a mournful melody swept from the plain below,
And from her oriel, bright as stars, peered Uriel’s luminous eyes:
Her heart made echoes to the strain, and answered it with sighs.
Hunting, or hawking, in the dance when jewels made the hall
Shine like the heavens on starry evens, the tall and shadowy knight
Followed her form from place to place, as darkness follows light.
And Uriel’s cheek grew crimson, and Uriel’s glorious eyes
Shone brighter when his step was heard in palace, or on plain,
Though her other guests shrunk from him with expressions of disdain.
For all her father’s titled friends—the lords who sought her hand—
Hated the bold adventurer; but no one spoke a word—
They only looked their anger;—they knew he wore a sword.
And sadly as he came he went, and Uriel’s anxious eyes
Followed him, step by step, until the distance closed their view;
And when her guests came once more round, they saw them moist with
dew.
And Uriel’s cheek grew pallid, and Uriel’s eyes grew dim,
And Uriel’s form grew slender, and her beauty, day by day,
Seemed stricken like the morning moon, and sinking to decay.
Her father called her to him, and he kissed her icy brow,
And gave her gentle names; for he saw her mother’s eyes
Looking pleadingly upon him from her daïs in the skies.
A warm and rosy brightness, like the bloom upon a peach,
Blossomed on Uriel’s marble cheek, and the light in Uriel’s eyes
Came back at once, like light to stars, when clouds have left the
skies.
For Uriel’s sire, forgetting his long ancestral line,
Consented that his gentle child should wed the nameless knight:
What wonder, then, that Uriel’s eyes resumed their olden light!
—The chapel bells were ringing; the priest was in his place,
And the incense clomb in clouds from the censers by his side,
While the organ’s billowy melodies breathed a welcome to the bride.
The princely train came slowly in, for Uriel’s satin feet
Fell fainter on the pavement than the snow-flake on the stream,
As she walked, in silence, by her groom, like a vision in a dream.
But when she reached the altar, grandly, and like a sun,
Shone out the marvelous brightness of her supernatural eyes
So vividly, the aged priest stepped back in mute surprise!
But the groom—his eyes shone brighter still, like lightning in the
night.
As he motioned to the monk to expedite the rite;
But Uriel’s cheek grew pale again, and her eyes became less bright.
Slowly the priest proceeded, while the organ’s swan-like song
Swept toward the gilded dome and died, and lived and died again,
As the monk in mellow monotones chanted his deep refrain.
The priest was silent: with a sigh the bride sunk on the breast
Of him she loved so wildly, as a bird sinks on its nest,
As her sire, her bridemaids and her friends around the couple prest.
Suddenly, like an expiring lamp, her large, unusual eyes
Flashed, and went out, as forward, with a simple rustling sound,
The noble Lady Uriel fell lifeless to the ground!
The maidens shrieked in terror when she sunk, as through a mist,
For where the bridegroom stood was space—his form was gone in air;
And the lonely sire embraced his child in agonies of despair!
From his place behind the railing came the shorn and shaven priest,
And quoth he, while the expectant crowd stood mute and held their
breath—
“Take up the dead: _its_ Nameless Groom was the _Invisible_ DEATH.”
* * * * *
OUT OF DOORS.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
’TIS good to be abroad in the sun,
His gifts abide when day is done;
Each thing in nature from his cup
Gathers a several virtue up;
The grace within its being’s reach
Becomes the nutriment of each,
And the same life imbibed by all
Makes each most individual:
Here the twig-bending peaches seek
The glow that mantles in their cheek—
Hence comes the Indian-summer bloom
That hazes round the basking plum,
And, from the same impartial light,
The grass sucks green, the lily white.
Like these the soul, for sunshine made,
Grows wan and gracile in the shade,
Her faculties, which God decreed
Various as Summer’s dædal breed,
With one sad color are imbued,
Shut from the sun that tints their blood;
The shadow of the poet’s roof
Deadens the dyes of warp and woof;
Whate’er of ancient song remains
Has fresh air flowing in its veins,
For Greece and eldest Ind knew well
That out of doors, with world-wide swell
Arches the student’s lawful cell.
Away, unfruitful lore of books,
For whose vain idiom we reject
The spirit’s mother-dialect,
Aliens among the birds and brooks,
Dull to interpret or believe
What gospels lost the woods retrieve,
Or what the eaves-dropping violet
Reports from God, who walketh yet
His garden in the hush of eve!
Away, ye pedants city-bred,
Unwise of heart, too wise of head,
Who handcuff Art with _thus and so_,
And in each other’s foot-prints tread,
Like those who walk through drifted snow;
Who, from deep study of brick walls
Conjecture of the water-falls,
By six feet square of smoke-stained sky
Compute those deeps that overlie
The still tarn’s heaven-anointed eye,
And, in your earthen crucible,
With chemic tests essay to spell
How nature works in field and dell!
Seek we where Shakspeare buried gold?
Such hands no charmed witch-hazel hold;
To beach and rock repeats the sea
The mystic _Open Sesame_;
Old Greylock’s voices not in vain
Comment on Milton’s mountain strain,
And cunningly the various wind
Spenser’s locked music can unbind.
* * * * *
FANNY.
A NARRATIVE TAKEN FROM THE LIPS OF A MANIAC.
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.
I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
KING LEAR.
THEY tell me I am mad—_mad_! No, I am not mad! In this den of horror I
at least am sane. Reason bursting from the heavy shackles which would
press her down to death, now asserts her right—yes—I am sane—though
they tell me I am mad—_mad—ha! ha!_
Around me I hear the incoherent ravings of insanity—the wild screech
and terrific yells of demoniac rage as the unhappy wretch dashes against
the iron bars and tears his very flesh in torture. Bursts of laughter
echo around my prison walls, and eye-balls red and wild glare at me
through yonder grating—but _I_ am not mad!
Fanny! Fanny! where are you, my life, my love!
Ah-h! now the past comes up before me. Distinct as the clouds mirrored
in some placid lake do the events of my life float by.
Stay—stay—fleeting images of pleasure and of wo—let me trace
distinctly as your wavelets sweep over my soul the causes which have
brought me here!
A boyhood spurning parental control. A youth of wild, ungoverned
passions. These—these—first point the path I trod. And whither—ah
whither have they led me!
My God—to a mad-house! _But I am not mad!_
At twenty, giddy with the possession of uncontrolled riches, which, as
an only son, fell to me at the death of my parents, I plunged wildly
within the Maelstrom of dissipation. On—on in its soul-destroying
vortex I was whirled for months—nay, years—madly, blindly, sweeping to
my destruction. In a fortunate hour my reason, even as now, was restored
to me—for remember I am not mad!
I suddenly became disgusted with that which had before seemed to me the
_all_ that life was designed for. I forsook my gay companions. I filled
my library with the choicest books—my walls with the rarest
paintings—my halls with master-pieces of sculpture.
I traveled—not to see life in the haunts of folly—but the
world—poised in the Creator’s hand—to learn from her majestic
mountains, heaped up to the skies—from her mighty rivers—her foaming
torrents—from the wild cataract and the flaming volcano, the power of
God—and the insignificance of man!
It was in Italy, pure land of song, that I first met Fanny—the bright,
the beautiful star of my destiny.
Ah, pause memory—pause on this blest vision! Pass not too soon from my
tortured brain—but for a moment stay, and soothe me into forgetfulness
of all save Fanny and love!
A wasting malady had brought the father of Fanny from the bleak climate
of Canada to the pure skies and genial airs of Italy, in the flattering
hope that health would once more invigorate his feeble frame—and she,
ministering angel, came with him.
The lily is not purer than was the soul of Fanny—nor the rose more
beautiful than her cheek. She had been nurtured in the lap of
indulgence—heaven’s breath scarce allowed to fan her brow—her delicate
foot to touch the earth.
And I—I won this peerless one to be my bride!
Has Heaven aught in store for the blessed can rival that rapturous
moment when I called Fanny mine! Fanny! Fanny! where are you now, my
beautiful, my injured wife? And I—where am I—the tenant of a
mad-house—the companion of maniacs—but I am not mad—no, not mad!
We laid her father, in the sleep of death, among the vine-clad hills,
and then to my native shores I brought my lovely bride.
She was my idol, and at her feet I worshiped.
But a day of reverses came. The riches which I had foolishly deemed
inexhaustible I found were melting like the morning dew. Too late I saw
the ruinous tendency of the life I had led. To retrieve if possible my
sinking fortunes, I plunged deeply into speculations—seizing eagerly
the wild, visionary schemes of artful or misguided men—and so lost all!
I had studiously concealed the truth from poor Fanny, hoping even yet to
seize some golden opportunity to re-create a mine of wealth. But now the
fatal fact must be told—poor, poor Fanny!
Like an angel she listened to me. She soothed my grief, and hushed my
self-reproach by her embraces. Never had I loved her so well—never had
she appeared to me in a light so beautiful.
Thus the sharpest wound was healed—and the loss of wealth for a time
scarce heeded.
The necessity of doing something for our support pressed upon me, and my
angel wife encouraged my efforts. I sought employment from those against
whom wealth had barred my doors, and whom in my exaltation I scarce
deigned to acknowledge—but now my pride was gone, and for Fanny’s sake
I sought from them to earn my daily bread. I obtained a lucrative
business, and for a time was happy, for I was still enabled to place my
dearest Fanny above want—even to surround her with some few of the
luxuries with which her young life had been crowned.
But soon a new fear begat itself. I found my health rapidly declining.
The life of pleasure I had led, and the shock lately sustained by my
reverse of fortune, had materially injured a constitution naturally
nervous and weak. What was to become of my poor Fanny in the event of my
death! Upon this one thought I brooded despondingly. My exertions even
for our present support were paralyzed—my health suffered more and
more—my form wasted, and my countenance became so changed that even my
best friends scarce recognized me.
Shall I go on! Shall I call up the monster-fiend that awoke me from my
misery, only to plunge me by degrees into horrors deeper than the pit of
hell!
Ay, gibe and grin at me, fiend! I defy you now—you have accomplished
your worst—there is not a deed more damnable left for me to do! ha! ha!
you would drive me mad—you say I _am_—but, fiend, I am not mad!
One morning a friend came into my office. With my elbows resting on my
desk, and my hands supporting my aching temples, I sat brooding over the
one dark thought, which, like an incubus, pressed upon my brain.
Townsend was an old acquaintance—one whom I loved and trusted—but I am
now convinced he was no other than the Devil, who had come to tempt me
here—_here_ amid the rattling of chains and shrieks of wo!
“Cheer up, Denton—cheer up, my man—what ails you?” he cried, gaily
slapping me on the back.
“Townsend, I am miserable,” I replied. “My wife—my poor wife—my angel
Fanny, what is to become of her? Were she less kind—less sympathizingly
affectionate, I might perhaps be less sensitive for the future. Poor
girl! I feel I shall not live long, and then—ah, Townsend, must her
delicate frame bear fatigue—her tender hands be forced to labor!”
“Tut—tut, man—all nonsense, I tell you,” answered my _friend_. “If you
have a mind to die, so be it—but I have come in on purpose to suggest
to you a means by which you can secure to Mrs. Denton not only a
competence but comparative wealth.”
“How! how!” I exclaimed, eagerly interrupting him and starting to my
feet—“only tell me, and I will forever bless you!”
“Why, my dear fellow, the simplest thing in the world—you have only to
get your life insured!” cried the tempter.
“How—my life insured!” I echoed.
“To be sure—come go with me to some responsible office, and insure your
life for three, five, or ten thousand dollars, as you please. You will
only have to pay a small premium—a mere trifle in comparison, and then,
my dear fellow, you may welcome death as you would a _douche_ in August,
sure that her you love will be benefited by your demise.”
“My dear friend,” said I, warmly embracing him, “how can I sufficiently
thank you for your suggestion—come—why my heart already feels
lightened of half its load—don’t let us lose a moment’s time—let me
secure to my dear Fanny an independence, and then I may die in peace!”
“I am ready,” replied Townsend with a gay laugh.
_Such a laugh!_ It yet rings in my ear—it pierces my brain—it echoes
from corner to corner of this dismal cell—it rattles like a serpent
through the straw on which my worn body rests—but—it cannot drive me
mad!
In less than an hour the business was accomplished, and the policy in my
hands, by which, in the event of my death before the expiration of the
year, I secured to my dear wife the sum of ten thousand dollars—and
feeling happier than I had done for months, I sought my home.
My charming Fanny met me with a sweet kiss, and her watchful eyes soon
read in mine that joy I was eager to speak.
“Ah, my dearest Henry,” she said, caressing me, “I see you have good
news for me—what is it has brought back the long banished smiles to
your dear face?”
“Wait until we are alone, my dearest,” I answered, for our _one_ servant
was then placing dinner on the table, “and I will tell you why it is
that I am so happy.”
No sooner therefore was our meal ended and the servant retired than
drawing Fanny on my knee, and tenderly embracing her, I related the
events of the morning.
But instead of sharing my happiness, as I imagined she would, she grew
paler and paler as I proceeded, and finally throwing her arms around my
neck she burst into a passionate flood of tears.
“Harry, how cruel to talk to me of riches which can only be mine through
your death! Henry—Henry, do you think so meanly of me—would not every
dollar speak to my soul as from the grave of all I hold dear. I will die
with you, my husband—but I beseech of you—I pray you by all our love
to give up that hateful policy—no good will result from it!”
Was her angel voice prophetic!
Would to God I had obeyed her—then these chains would not confine
me—but I am not mad—no—not mad!
I could not but admit her reasoning to be perfectly natural—just such
as one might expect from a young, loving heart—for it is a bitter
thought that by the death of our souls’ idols worldly comforts are to be
granted us! And does not this tend to harden the feelings of the
survivor—to crush the sensibilities, and render them insensible to
those holy influences which come to the sincere mourner—turning sorrow
into joy—mourning into gladness! nay, does it not produce selfishness
and unrighteous wishes, even _before_ death!
_Life Insurance!_ Ay, write it, fiend, in letters of flame, and seal it
with the blood of sacrifice! ha—ha! you would scorch my brain—but you
cannot—it is _seared—seared!_
[The reader must recollect this is the speech of a madman—for certainly
no sane person can deny or doubt the immense benefits daily arising from
the noble institution of Life Insurance. In the case of this poor
wretch, it would seem that the sudden loss of wealth acting upon a mind
unhealthy from youthful excesses, and shattered by illness, had produced
a morbidness upon which any chimera long dwelt upon, no matter in what
shape it appeared, might at length impel to insanity—indeed, the very
fancy brooded over, that Fanny in the event of his death would become a
beggar, had already driven him, as we have seen, to the verge of madness
when his friend advised the life insurance, and it is easy to conceive
how the re-action from despondency to joy might, in the sickly state of
his mind, have produced the lamentable result. Whatever, therefore, the
unhappy Denton utters in his delirium against that institution for whose
blessings the widow and the fatherless daily offer up prayers of
thankfulness, must be considered only as the ravings of insanity.]
I labored in every way to do away the prejudices of my darling Fanny. I
pictured to her in the strongest language what would be her wretched
situation, left friendless and penniless by my death, and little by
little she yielded to my arguments, and conversed calmly, though with an
air of touching sadness, upon the subject.
My heart thus relieved of the burthen so long oppressing it, I became
cheerful. My sighs and melancholy no longer grieved the tender
sympathies of Fanny, and as in my happiness her own was found, what
wonder her gayety soon outmeasured mine. Indeed one would have thought
we were possessed of all the treasures of the earth, we were so happy.
And what are the treasures earth can boast to equal love and
contentment! I know it—ah, I know it—for these treasures were once
mine—but they are gone—_gone_ I say—ha! do you mock me, fiend—do you
laugh at my agony!
This state of bliss soon ended.
The demon came—whispering words which turned my heart to ice, and set
my brain on fire!
I began to look jealously upon poor Fanny’s uniform cheerfulness—well
may she laugh—well may she sing, urged the demon—what care has she for
the future—_she_ is provided for—true, you are near death—what of
that—wont it shower down gold upon _her_—ha—ha—ha! She will turn
from your grave with a smile, and revel in the proceeds of—A Life
Insurance!
From that hour I grew suspicious of every thing my poor wife said or
did—her every action was scanned, every word translated to meet my own
bitter jealousy. I became moody, rude, fretful—nay, harsh to my angel
Fanny, and if, when I saw her tears, and her cheek turn pale at my
cruelty, my heart moved with pity, the demon with a hideous laugh would
cry “_cockatrice_—she only weeps and wishes you were dead.”
One day I came home with a violent headache and threw myself upon the
sofa. Fanny stole to my side with a step so noiseless and gentle I heard
her not, and kneeling down she parted the hair from my fevered brow, and
kissed my closed eye-lids.
“Dear Henry, can I do any thing for you?” she softly murmured. “You are
sick—your hands are hot, and your cheek feverish—tell me what I can do
for you, dearest?”
I made her no answer—but I glared upon her with _such_ a look that she
trembled and turned pale—then once more stooping over me until her
golden ringlets touched my cheek, she said again—
“Henry, let me send for a physician—indeed you must.”
“Ha, wretch! traitress!” I cried, suddenly starting up and pushing her
from me with violence—“you would have the work finished soon—eh! You
would soon put me under ground if you could, woman!”
“Henry! Henry!” cried Fanny, with a look which is fastened on my
brain—and with a convulsive groan she sank fainting upon the floor.
In a moment all my affection returned. I hung over her insensible
form—I kissed her pale lips—I besought her to forgive me. I bathed her
temples—I called her by every endearing name. At last she opened her
eyes, and catching her to my breast I wept my contrition. I added
falsehood to my infamy—attributing the words I had uttered to the
effects of opium taken to relieve a raging tooth-ache.
The dear girl believed me, and with a sweet angelic smile forgave, and
blamed herself for being so easily disturbed.
We passed the evening happily, and for several days my jealousy
slumbered.
But again the demon got possession of me, and again my infernal
suspicions goaded me almost to madness. Why did I not go mad! See how
the fiends mock me, and with their fleshless fingers point at me,
crying—“You are mad _now_”—but no—no—I am not mad!
It was a lovely day in October. I had walked out far from city haunts.
The pure breath of heaven cooled my fevered brain—my pulse beat less
wildly, until by degrees a sweet serenity crept over me. I thought of
Fanny—of her love—of the patience and forbearance with which she had
met my cruel treatment of her. My heart bled for her, and tears of pity
bedewed my cheek.
Once more I sought my home. It was long since I had offered my injured
Fanny any of those kind attentions it should be a husband’s pride and
pleasure, as well as his duty, to bestow—but in this softened, subdued
moment I resolved to take her to ride—the day was so lovely, the air so
bland, it would do her good.
I entered the house—_and the demon stole in by my side_—though I felt
him not. I ran up stairs—Fanny was not in her room, so again I went
below, and was about to enter the parlor, when the words “life
insurance” met my ear. It was the voice of Fanny. “Ha!” cried the demon,
grasping my heart in his sharp talons, and wringing it until my life’s
blood seemed bursting out—“ha! do you hear!”
Unperceived we stole into the room—the demon and I. Fanny was in
earnest conversation with a female friend, whose husband I knew to be
wasting away in a consumption. Tears stood in the beautiful eyes of
Fanny—while her friend held her handkerchief to her face as if in deep
grief. Their conversation was low—the only words I could catch were
those I have named. My wife grew more earnest as she proceeded—her
companion removed her handkerchief and appeared to listen intently—she
even smiled—and so did Fanny—and again the words “life insurance”
hissed through my brain!
This was proof enough. My artful wife was no doubt setting forth to her
friend the pleasures she would reap from my death, and that when I was
placed in the tomb—then, and only then, should she begin to enjoy life!
And not only was she thus wickedly anticipating my death, but she was
also encouraging this _worthy_ friend of hers to take advantage of this
same institution, instigated and supported by the Evil One, to secure to
herself a good round sum of money, and a round sum of enjoyment.
Perhaps they were even then devising means to murder us! So said the
demon.
I could bear no more. I rushed upon them _like_ a maniac.
“Vile, unfeeling wretches!” I exclaimed, “is it thus you plot and plan
for the death of your husbands! Is it thus you form schemes for reveling
in the ill-deserved wealth which may then be yours! With suppressed
laughter you would close the coffin-lid, and dance over our scarce cold
remains, shouting, Ho-ho-ho! for the merry Life Insurance!”
Before I had done speaking, poor Fanny was stretched senseless upon the
floor, while frightened and amazed her companion fled the room.
And so did I. Leaving my wife in a state of insensibility, I flew to my
chamber. I raved and tore like a madman—but remember, I was not mad!
No, it was not madness—for madness utters it knows not what, and memory
takes no heed; but _I_—I knew all—no, I was not mad—I _am_ not mad!
From that day I saw poor Fanny’s heart was broken. She breathed no
complaint—she uttered no reproach, not even from those languid eyes
which ever beamed on me with so much tenderness—wretch, infamous wretch
that I was; but I saw the fatal blow was given. And I also saw, with a
fiendish joy, that she was afraid of me—yes, _afraid_—ha! ha! She
thought me mad—_me_! How I reveled in this idea; what gambols I held
with my demon, in my joy that I could affright her timid soul—how I
gloried in it! Her monomany was such a farce, to believe _me_ mad! I
knew she would die sooner than complain of my treatment—and the demon
shouted, “Take your revenge now for the happiness she expects from your
death; give ten thousand deathly stabs to her heart by your unkindness,
for the _ten thousand dollars_ she will finger! Leave her no
peace—waste her to a skeleton, and then—_let her enjoy the Life
Insurance—ha! ha!_”
Sometimes I resolved I would live until the day the policy expired, and
then die—_cheat her at last_.
There were seasons, however, when I threw off the mask of the
madman—for, remember, I was not mad—when I would take my Fanny to my
arms with love and kindness, when I would entreat her to forgive me,
while with her true woman’s heart she would bless me and pardon my guilt
toward her.
On the first of February the policy on my life would expire. For some
weeks I had been uniformly kind to my poor wife. The demon had departed
for a season, but you may be sure he was not far off. As the first of
the month drew near she became more cheerful—her step was lighter, and
a smile, as of old, played around her sweet mouth.
It was the afternoon of the 31st of January that I drew Fanny to my
bosom as I reclined upon the sofa, and carelessly playing with her
beautiful ringlets as I spoke, said,
“Do you know, dearest Fanny, the policy on my life expires to-morrow,
and yet you see here I am hale and hearty—what a pity!”
“Thank God, my dear Henry, that you are so!” she replied, tenderly
embracing me, “thank God!” and tears glistened on her long curling
lashes.
“Shall I renew it, Fanny?” I asked smiling in her face.
“Oh no, Henry, not for worlds—if you love me, don’t renew it!” she
cried, slipping from my arms upon her knees, and pressing my head to her
bosom. “Oh, my dear Henry, you know not the agony I have suffered from
that simple act of yours, done in all love and kindness to me—no,
Henry, don’t renew it!” she added, while a shudder passed over her.
“Ah,” whispered the demon, tugging at my heart-strings till they
snapped, “is not she a good actress—how well she feigns; she weeps,
don’t she—but it is because you are not in the church-yard!”
For the first time I paid no heed to the demon, but kissing my darling
Fanny, and promising I would comply with her wishes, I withdrew to my
office.
That evening—little did I think it was to be my last with my
beloved—my angel wife—my _last—last—last_!
Ay, howl, ye mocking fiends! gibe and chatter, and clap your hands with
hellish joy! shriek to my burning brain, “_It was the last!_” What care
I—you cannot drive me mad!
That evening we were so happy—we talked of the future, we reared
temples of happiness wherein our days were to be spent—but the demon
set his foot upon them, and lo, they were dashed to pieces, and in an
instant I was transformed from the tender, loving husband to the
maniac—but I was not mad.
I turned upon my wife with the demon’s eyes. She grew suddenly pale. She
went to the side-board and poured out a glass of wine; she brought it to
me and said timidly, “Will you drink this, Henry?”
I dashed it from her hand—I struck her a blow! Heavens! why was not my
arm paralyzed! and cried in a voice of fury,
“Wretch! murderess!—would you poison me!”
Fanny stood for a moment transfixed with wo unutterable—it was too deep
for tears; then taking the lamp, she slowly, slowly left the room,
casting back upon me a look so full of grief—of pity.
In a few moments I softly followed her up stairs—I gently pushed open
the door of our sleeping chamber. She did not hear my approach. She was
kneeling by the bedside, her white hands uplifted in prayer. Yes, she
was praying—praying God for _me_—praying Him to restore my _reason_,
to remove the darkness from my mind! _My reason!_—ha—ha—how I
chuckled as I listened.
I threw myself on the bed without speaking, and was soon asleep, or
feigning to be so—narrowly watching, meanwhile, every motion of Fanny,
for the demon whispered, _she meant to kill me to save the Life
Insurance!_
She did not undress, but sat for a while in a large easy chair.
Sometimes she wept, sometimes she seemed engaged in prayer.
“_Kill—kill—kill!_” I muttered, as if in sleep.
She started—her eye-balls dilated with terror. She rose quickly from
her seat, as if to fly; but the next moment she softly approached the
bed, her countenance changing from terror to pity.
“My poor, poor Henry—God help thee!” she murmured.
She then cautiously stepped across the room and carefully examined the
windows, to see if they were fastened. She then took down my pistols. I
knew they were not loaded; she, too, appeared to recollect it, and
gently replaced them. With a timid step she next approached the bureau
and opened my dressing-case, glancing uneasily at the bed as she did so.
Good heavens! what was she about to do!
Ah, I knew—though I cunningly closed my eyes and lay still—still—she
could not make me believe she was only anxious to put all dangerous
weapons from the power of a _madman_—no—no, I knew better!
_She drew forth a razor_—and then softly, softly, softly, she turned
from the bureau and—
But I waited for no more. With a horrible cry I sprung from the bed, and
with one bound stood before her. I snatched the razor from her hand—I
waved its shining blade in triumph.
“Wretch—murderess!” I cried.
I attempted to seize her—she eluded my grasp, and ran shrieking from
the room. I rushed wildly after her, shouting madly down the
stairs—through the hall. I saw her white garments as she sprang through
the street-door. “On—on—after her—after her!” cried the demon.
But strong men seized me; they bound me with cords—they called me
_mad_—they brought me here—they shut me up with maniacs; but I am not
mad—no, no, no—not mad!
The demon, with a fiendish joy, whispers, “Fanny was an angel—Fanny was
innocent—that I have killed her!”
Fanny! Fanny! Fanny—where are you? Come to me, my love! No, she will
not come! the fiends are keeping her from me! Ah, I see them as they
wind themselves around her delicate form—break from them, my angel—my
wife, come to me! _See!_ she too laughs and mocks my groans! Now—now I
am, indeed, growing mad—mad!
* * * * *
MISS DIX, THE PHILANTHROPIST.
BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.
FROM the deep heart of Wo went up a groan
That, piercing the cerulean vault of heaven,
Found access to the great Eternal’s throne,
Amid the prayers of such as are forgiven:—
When, from that throne—where none but seraphs gaze,
And only they as reverent worshipers—
Like lightning through th’empyrean did blaze
A mandate writ in shining characters!
And then a spirit meek, yet pure as snow,
The mission craved, and swiftly winged to earth,
Where, in the modest form of woman, lo!
That angel took a new, terrestrial birth!
The form was woman’s—but the voice that spoke
To love’s key-note attuned—the dauntless heart—
The smile, that on Wo’s night like morning broke,
Were still the angel’s—still of Heaven a part.
And when the man of crime that eye beheld,
And felt the power of that transforming smile,
Beneath sin’s iron breastwork beat and swelled
The heart that seemed in contrast doubly vile.
Next to that glance of calm divinity,
Through which the Saviour’s eye could guilt disarm,
Was her mild look, from human passion free,
Subduing evil by its silent charm.
And as Christ’s voice made frantic demons flee,
Or lulled the raging elements at will;
So her soft tone made discord harmony,
And frenzied minds obeyed its “peace, be still!”
She through the dungeon’s gloom did fearless grope—
Herself a light that on the sufferer gleamed—
As if the day-star of celestial Hope
Serenely through his grated window beamed.
The eye, whose intellectual ray obscured,
Had fixed on vacancy its soulless stare,
Grew lucid from a spirit reassured
In faith and trust, through Mercy’s brooding care.
The ear, that only jarring sounds had heard,
Now, listening to Love’s heavenly dialect,
Was moved, as when an exile’s heart is stirred
By native tones, ’mid strangeness and neglect.
And Madness soothed, coherently replied—
The arm resistant raised, submissive fell,
And sunken eyes, by burning anguish dried,
Grew moist again from feeling’s latent well.
Chaotic Intellect took Beauty’s shape
At the omnipotence of gentle speech,
And hands unbound, exulting in escape,
Wrought works that taste to saner minds might teach.[2]
Oh, wondrous power of holy, heaven-born Love!
Whose spirit, in that woman’s humble form,
Doth noiseless yet ’mid human suffering move,
Unchecked by frenzy’s strife, or passion’s storm.
And when her mission to this earth shall end—
When love’s pure essence seeks its native heaven,
Her glory there the angels’ shall transcend,
And loftier place than theirs to her be given.
-----
[2] Some of the most ungovernable subjects of insanity have been so
changed in a _few days_, by the soothing kindness of Miss Dix, as to
execute various articles of fancy-work, under her teaching, with
remarkable neatness and taste.
* * * * *
GODS AND MORTALS.
BY A. K. GARDNER, M. D., AUTHOR OF “OLD WINE IN NEW BOTTLES.”
MONDAY 19th of March, 1849, was one of those beautiful days which make
Spring so delightful. The smiles of nature never appear more charming
than when they expel the frowns of winter. At the time above-mentioned,
the world had just thrown off its fleecy mantle, preparatory to making a
new toilet for the coming season. One would have imagined that the
wardrobe of mother earth was very scantily provided, for the day
previous her soiled coat of snow was sent to the washerwoman, who had
employed the whole twenty-four hours in soaking the poor garment,
scouring it with sand, and drenching it with continual showers of
rain-water, so that when finally in a state to hang up to dry, scarcely
a patch could be found, and those not apparently much benefited by its
severe laundress. Mother Earth was surely in a most unfortunate state!
Her old clothes not come home from the wash, and the new ones not ready
to put on. She determined at first to lie a-bed till one or the other
were ready for use. But Dame Luna was then mistress, and absolutely
refused to harbor such an impoverished individual. “Credit, indeed!” she
echoed. “To trust you I shall truly be a Luna-tic.” You should have seen
this individual, as she stood with arms akimbo, in the fullness of her
pride. Her face pale with anger, and her eyes losing their usual
mildness, glared forth upon our unfortunate mother. None could account
for this unwonted spirit. Some of the fixed stars, however, very
different from our M. P.’s, who sometimes sleep on their posts, had
noticed Mistress Luna walking in the Milky Way; and it was charitably
supposed that she had been taking a little too much of the celebrated
punch of that locality. These celestial M. P.’s had winked at the
matter, and hence all the trouble.
Hinc illæ lachrymæ.
The irate Luna was inflexible. In spite of all that could be said, she
persisted in turning our mother out of the house.
Think of the mortification of our common parent, standing on the
threshold of night, without a rag to cover her nakedness. Just then came
Aurora on her morning’s work to put out the gas. Her beautiful face and
neck were covered with crimson blushes, as she discovered the situation
of our poor mother Earth.
“Hide yourself quickly,” she cried, “for Phœbus is coming, riding in the
chariot of day.”
Now our mother had for some time carried on a little flirtation with
him. She called him Apollo in those happy days; but for some time there
had been a coldness between them. He was of a warm and impetuous
disposition, and fond of having every thing bright about him. He
objected to her white dress, which he considered to reflect upon his
taste. It is true that this colorless robe, with only a few green pine
sprigs upon it, did give mother rather a frigid and puritanical air. If
he should be so offended at this dress, she thought, though a gay youth,
I fear me much he will be greatly scandalized at seeing me with none.
Aurora’s lantern, by good fortune, showed to my mother a little strip of
Crocuses, with which she hastily covered her bosom. It was truly a
scanty scarf—merely a pattern of the spring fashions, which the
manufacturer had sent on in advance of the season for a
specimen—nevertheless it was some protection. Her benumbed form she
wrapped in a rosy mist, which was found overhanging the horizon, and by
the time that Mr. Apollo, Hyperion Phœbus, came up, she was in a most
delightful _demi-jour_ ready to receive him. Mr. Phœbus was entranced;
and, to tell the truth, our mother was warmed up at his presence.
From that time an ardent attachment commenced. Throwing aside the mists
of formality, and the fogs of prejudice, they appeared imbued with a
mutual spirit, created for one another, and shortly after parson Summer
united them together in the happiest of states.
I have described to you the proceedings of celestials; but we mortals
have a commonplace way of doing up these little matters, far more
interesting to us to my fancy. A ferry crossed—a short trip in the
cars, and we are landed in the centre of a charming neighboring city. A
bright sky and balmy air give vivacity, and life, and joy to all. Still
a step further, where the tall spire casts its lengthened shadow across
the way.
We enter the church, and many colored lights from diamond panes shed a
mellowed hue around. Its oaken benches are filled with the smiling faces
of friends and neighbors. There are few greetings for us, and the
solemnity of the place, and the occasion, have an opportunity to exert
that influence which the most thoughtless cannot entirely escape in a
similar situation.
A moment longer and the organ’s roll announces the entrance of the
surpliced priest. The pure lawn bespeaks respect for the unspotted
character of the man of God. And now a general rustle of dresses and
smothered whispers say that the bridal party approach. The gentle bride
whose color rivals the hue of the camellias that adorn her jetty hair,
leans on the arm of one who henceforth is to be her all in all—for whom
she leaves parents, family, friends, home and country. Is it strange
that the cheek is blanched and the eye moist? His is a firm step and a
manly form, and a gentle eye. Affection looks out at every glance, while
pride and good-fortune rejoice together. “Happy is the bride that the
sun shines upon,” runs the adage. But the sun is not more ominous for
good, than the mutual affection which gilds all around with its beams.
Next comes the sister, whose sympathies, from nearness of age and common
interests are strongest, her warm heart evincing itself by a hurried
breath and a nervous step. Behind follow the dear friends of her youth,
whose path so long the same, now separates, and the only brother, on
whom falls the hope of the family, its perpetuated name, future
reputation, and influence.
Now as they kneel about the altar, while parents, sisters, friends,
stand silent around, one wish animates all that “God may have them in
his holy keeping.” The service goes on. Those pledges of mutual love and
fidelity—oaths, not lightly to be taken, never to be broken—vows,
registered in heaven by the Great Jehovah, the almighty witness—are
said. The warm-hearted father gives away the bride. The ring—the
benediction—and again the fresh air salutes us. The most important of
all earthly rites is finished. It is a solemn occasion. Those who have
passed through this scene, are forced to recall it to themselves, to
examine if they have kept the faith—to make good resolutions for the
future. To the young a lesson is given. Thoughtfulness is compelled to
the importance of proper care in the selection of a partner, so that
inclination and duty may go hand in hand together. The rolling peals of
the organ grow fainter and fainter behind us.
Still another scene. A lordly mansion, whose wide-oped doors invite our
entrance. From the sanctity of the church, the sanctuary of home
receives us. The voices of friends and the merry laugh greet our ears.
All is gay and joyous. Out of the _pale_ of the church the lovely bride,
with blushing cheeks, receives the envious congratulations of her
friends.
The table that groaned with the feast now yields its rich supplies. The
wassail bowl spreads gayety around. But hush! the clang of glasses, and
the busy tongues are stilled. A manly voice, with mellowed cadence,
reads a heartfelt epithalamium—an ode becoming a laureat—to the health
and prosperity of the young couple.
The occasion was indeed worthy of the brilliant pen of the gifted
authoress. Its reading produced various effects upon its auditors. Some
wondered at its beauty, some were impressed with the honor done. Those
of sensibility wiped their overflowing eyes, wondering whether it was
the intrinsic beauty of the poem or its peculiar appropriateness that so
moved them. All felt its influence, for the children of the heart, like
the carrier-pigeons, fly always to their native home.
A toast! a toast! To the bride and the poetess—and on went the feast.
The hour for separation approaches. The rolling ocean is to divide the
daughter from her tender mother, beloved father, and friends. Their
pangs of parting cast the only gloom upon the occasion. But now all is
over. The business of every day life, with its noise, and bustle, and
heartlessness, is again resumed. The scenes just described have left
their subjects of contemplation too lightly treated in this day of
frivolity and Fourierism, viz., the sacredness and responsibilities of
marriage, and the affectionate devotedness of loving, trusting woman.
* * * * *
INVOCATION TO SLEEP.
BY ENNA DUVAL.
THROUGH the night’s weary vigils
My pulse doth keep time
With the clock’s never ceasing
And passionless chime.
Sweet Hope with my spirit
In daylight doth dwell,
But Sadness at nightfall
Weaves o’er me her spell.
In the twilight of dream-land
Dear forms hover near,
And their sweet, tender love tones
Sooth each rising fear.
Come, come to my pillow,
Thou dreamy-eyed Sleep!
For thou bringest with thee
Charms potent and deep.
Through my casement the moon beams,
I look on the sky,
And my fancy there pictures
Sleep’s form soaring high.
I see in the white clouds
Her head drooping low,
Her thin, trailing garments.
Her poppy-bound brow.
She is queen of the dream-land,
That pure, blest retreat:
And the loved that are parted
In spirit there meet.
Come, come to my pillow,
Thou poppy-crowned queen!
Bear off my sad spirit,
Of Hope let it dream.
Cruel Love by my pillow
Keeps hovering near:
Of the absent he murmurs—
Quick starts the sad tear.
I know that the fluttering
Of his tiny wing
Drives away the dear forms
Sleep only can bring.
For with sleep come the loved ones,
In dream-land we meet,
And our spirits there mingling,
Hold commune most sweet.
Come, come to my pillow,
Thou poppy-crowned queen!
And bring to my spirit
Sweet Hope’s soothing dream.
* * * * *
MINNA.
BY W. S. SOUTHGATE.
IN the midst of a beautiful valley on the Rhine, known as the “Vale of
Peace,” stood the cottage of an honest peasant. The lofty mountains,
with their woody sides, seemed to shut out every thing but peace and
contentment. A bubbling brook ran close by the cottage-door, and
sweet-scented flowers grew along its sides. Merry birds sung sweetly the
live-long day, and unaffrighted, built their nests around the peasant’s
door. It was as if Paradise had been restored. Well might Peace love
such a dwelling-place. Here the peasant had lived for years in the
enjoyment of that quiet contentment which only peasants know. Every year
he had reaped his unblighted grain, and gathered his purple grapes. No
cruel wolf entered his sheep-fold, no disease carried off his cattle.
For the fairies of the valley delighted to protect him, and would only
do him good. Often would they come by moonlight, and play their merry
pranks near the cottage, and he would wake and lie listening to their
joyous shouts, blessing them in his heart.
Often would they work while he was sleeping, and in the morning peep
from their hiding-places, and laugh at his surprise at what they had
done for him. And it seemed as if one half their merry lives was spent
in making the peasant and his good wife happy. Thus the years had
passed, and they had lived in quiet, wanting nothing but the merry
shouts of childhood to make their happiness complete. Soon this joy came
also, and a prattling daughter was added to their household. Loud were
the fairies’ rejoicings, and long their dances on Minna’s birth-night.
The rising moon had just begun to cast the long shadows of the mountains
over the quiet valley, and its white light was just struggling through
the silent tree-tops, when the fairy-queen summoned her elfin band to
their bower. And well might fairies choose such a retreat. Myriad
wild-rose vines, that had crept up the trunks of the trees, met
overhead, and formed the fairy hall. The vine-leaves and the branches
were so thickly entwined, that even the sunbeams could find no place to
enter. Each side sloped gently down to the murmuring fountain which
gushed forth from the midst, gladdening every thing with its coolness.
The air was filled with the fragrance of the roses as the wind stirred
lightly amongst their leaves. The humming-birds built their nests in the
bower, and fed upon its sweets, for the fairies love them of all birds.
Here would the fairy band repose all day. And many a time, when working
away from his cottage, had the peasant heard their merry songs rising
above the murmur of the forest. And when the sun went down, he would
hasten home, loving them more than ever.
Here they assembled, while their queen addressed them. “Listen, fairies.
This night brings on its wings the sweet hope of the peasant, and a
welcome care to us. Ye have long guarded this our valley against the
coming of hurtful spirits; ye have many a fairy-circle in it, where ye
sport in the moonlight dance; but to-night brings your greatest joy. Ye
truly love the forest, the valley, and the peasant; but now Minna is
your chief delight. Ye three spirits, Love, Virtue, and Peace be ever
with her, nor once forsake her. And ye, Grace and Beauty, preside at her
birth. Now hence to the valley, for the moonlight waits.” And to the
valley they did go—scampering, flying, tumbling, and rolling, like so
many dried leaves before a whirlwind. And all that night were they
rejoicing, nor ceased till the dawning light heralded the approaching
sun. And now the once lonely cottage echoes all day with the childish
laughter of Minna. And the peasant toils daily in the valley with a
lighter heart than ever. The good wife’s soul overflows with a mother’s
joy. For the three spirits, Love, Virtue, and Peace abide with them.
Years passed, and with them fled the childhood of Minna. The little
sporting fawn had become a stately deer. Her joyous girlhood had slipped
away, and womanhood found her still playing by the silvery brook, as
pure in heart as its own clear water. The twin fairies, Grace and
Beauty, were ever with her. And all the fairies so loved her, that they
had once even taken her to their sacred bower.
And now many noble knights had heard of the beauty of the peasant’s
daughter, and many desired to see her. But one, the good knight Edchen,
determined to seek her hand, for a spirit seemed to whisper to him, that
she was destined to be his. One day as she sat singing by the brook,
twining wild-roses and lilies in her hair, she looked up, and lo! a
manly knight gazing upon her. She started to her feet, and like a
surprised deer, stood wondering at the sight. And the renowned knight
Edchen, for he it was that stood before her, was astonished at her
beauty. For she seemed to him more like an angel or the being of a
dream, than the daughter of an humble peasant. And ere either had
spoken, their hearts met in love. And now he knew that some good spirit
had directed him, that he might find his heart’s mate. For truly every
heart has somewhere in the world a loving companion. And thus he spoke,
“Fair lady, if I am bold, forgive; but when first I saw thee, a spirit
whispered to my heart—‘she is thy mate.’ I am Edchen, and can boast
only good. I have sought thee long, and have loved as no other since
first I heard of thy loveliness. And now behold me ready to follow thy
command as a faithful knight, if I may but carry with me thy love.”
Then the happy Minna answered the knight, “Noble Edchen, I heard of thy
goodness even here in this lonely valley, and wished thee near me, that
I might love thee as I love this little brook, and all these hills. Dear
as is my home, my heart longs for a companion, and truly thy face
betrays thee good. Welcome my heart’s mate, I’m glad a kind spirit sent
thee.”
And thus quickly did their hearts become one! for loveliness and
goodness are ever congenial. Soon Edchen returned to his home, carrying
with him the plighted love of Minna, promising quickly to return and
take her with him as his own dear bride.
Now the brook and the flowers were forgotten, for the heart of Minna was
filled with love for Edchen. And like a merry bird she would sing all
day long, and all her song be love. The peasant and his good wife were
rejoiced to see her so happy, yet they looked forward with sorrow to the
time when the knight should come to claim his bride, and take her away
from the valley. And when the peasant looked sad at the thought of this,
his wife would say, “Henri, we are old, and have naught to live for but
the happiness of Minna—and will she not be happy with the noble
Edchen?” Then the peasant would cheer up and be as light-hearted as
ever, for the words of the good wife drove away sorrow.
Two months had worn away slowly—how slow is time to waiting love! When
one day as Minna tripped along the valley, she heard the fairies singing
in their bower; she listened, and this was their song:
“Two roses together
In love shall twine,
O cruel the spirit
That breaks the vine.”
Minna trembled; before she had heard the fairies sing only joyous songs,
but now they seemed to be mourning as if some evil were coming. She
hastened home; nor did she sleep that night for thinking of the fairies’
song. All night a fairy voice seemed to whisper, “Thy love is blighted.”
’Twas now a year since they parted, and yet no word had come from
Edchen. And now the gentle Minna began to droop and fade; as you have
seen a fair lily droop its head, and its pure white leaves become dry
and yellow, when some rude blast has broken its stem. And ever and anon
the fairy voice whispered, “Edchen is dead.” One night she dreamed, and
a band of freed spirits seemed flying from earth to heaven. Amongst them
she saw the pure white spirit of Edchen; and it seemed to beckon and
say, “Come, Minna.” The shock was too strong; the stem too tender. The
feeble flower drooped and died. And now it seemed as if peace had fled
from the valley, and left only grief. But it soon returned and dwelt
again in the peasant’s heart, for as he worked in the valley, he heard
the fairies sing,
“The vines that grew on earth
Have gone to bloom in heaven.”
* * * * *
GERMAN POETS.
BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.
I.—GOETHE.
Light! more light still! GOETHE.
Thou unto whom was given the golden key
To unlock the portals of the human mind,—
Oh! Spirit grand—adventurous—and free—
In that last awful moment didst thou find
“_More_ light” than shone upon thy earthly vision?
Was the Great Idea to thy sense made clear?
The solemn secrets of the veiled Elysian—
Say—were they whispered in thy closing ear?
“Light! more light still!” it was thy last, _last_ prayer!
And oh! how strove thy straining, dying eyes,
To pierce the far, impenetrable skies,
And read the mighty mystery, written _there_!
Alas! to _us_, poor dwellers in the clay,
Are given but glimpses of the Land of Day!
II.—SCHILLER.
“Keep true to the dream of thy youth.”
Thy dream of youth! ah, no! it ne’er forsook thee,
The worshiped Ideal of thy boyhood’s time;
Still pure and beautiful as when it took thee
To cross the Holy Land of Truth sublime!
So earnest thy Belief—to later age
The visions of thy childhood stayed to bless thee—
Though sorrow dimmed the lustre of life’s page,
And shadows deepened round—and pain opprest thee—
The Beauty of thy Being still caressed thee.
Still didst thou reverence thine early dream,
And woo fair Nature as thy loveliest bride;—
Still from thy Soul did Faith’s pure radiance stream,
So was the Angel of thy Youth, thy guide,
In snow-white raiment clad, forever at thy side.
III—RICHTER.
My Jean Paul, I shall never forget. HERDER.
Never forgotten! still do they enshrine thee
The pride and glory of thy Fatherland:
Before the altar of the true Shekinah,
O priestly poet! it was thine to stand
Clothed in the purity of thy high nature—
And wearing on thy spiritual features
(Illumined with the tenderest charities)
A world of kindness for thy fellow creatures.
Ah, yes! the Universal heart of man
The Holiest of Holies was to thee:—
Thy everlasting covenant and plan
To love and trust—believe: wait patiently!
Never forgotten thou! true Poet of Mankind,
Still in their hearts thy words a general echo find.
IV—KORNER.
“Lord of the Sword and Lyre!”
Oh, Warrior Poet! thou before whose eyes
Rose the enchanted realm of the Ideal—
The star-lit land of Fancy, whose fair skies
Bent in unclouded loveliness around thee—
The angel of the world of visions found thee—
Bore thee from the cold Winter of the Real,
And with unfading wreaths of Poesy crowned thee.
Lord of the Lyre and Sword! O, blest wert thou
To live and die, amid thine early dreams!
Nor bay, nor blossom faded from thy brow—
No star of Promise, shed its dying gleams
Upon thy path—and left thee, _thus_ to bow
A lone survivor! Oh! _no_ lot so blest
As that which calleth _early_ unto rest!
* * * * *
LIFE OF GENERAL BARON DE KALB.
BY THOMAS WYATT, A. M., AUTHOR OF “HISTORY OF THE KINGS OF FRANCE,” ETC.
ETC. ETC.
VERY little is known of this illustrious officer till about the year
1755, when we find him filling an inferior station in the
quartermaster-general’s department, in the imperial army of France; his
intimate acquaintance with the details of that department led his
friends in America to believe that he had held it for some considerable
time.
Toward the close of the French war with England, Baron De Kalb was
dispatched by his sovereign to North America, to visit the British
Colonies there, expressly to ascertain the points in which they were
most vulnerable, and to discover how far it was practicable, by
well-timed insinuation and winning intrigue, to generate
dissatisfaction, and excite a suspicious jealousy against the mother
country, so as to shake their confidence in the purity of her views, and
beget and cherish a desire of asserting their independence.
He traversed the British provinces in a concealed character; and when
speaking of the existing war, often expressed his astonishment how any
government could have so blundered as to efface the ardent and deep
affection which, to his own knowledge, existed on the part of the
colonies of Great Britain previous to the late rupture. Just before the
peace our incognitus becoming suspected, was arrested, and for a few
days imprisoned. On examination of his baggage and papers, nothing was
found to warrant his detention, and he was discharged. Such discovery
was not practicable, as, during this tour, the baron himself declared
that he relied entirely upon his memory, which was singularly strong,
never venturing to commit to paper the information of others, or his own
observations.
On the restoration of peace, the baron returned to France, and there
remained in the service of his country till 1777. When the news of the
war of the American Revolution reached France, the youthful and
chivalrous Lafayette, accompanied by the Baron De Kalb, left their
native shores to offer their assistance in the struggle for
independence. They came in the same ship, and arrived in America early
in July, 1777, and presented their credentials to Congress, who gave
them commissions as major-generals—their commissions bearing date on
the same day, July 31st, 1777.
General De Kalb served in the main army, under the immediate command of
General Washington, until March, 1780, when the entire Maryland and
Delaware lines, with the 1st regiment of artillery, were detached from
the main army and placed under his command, and ordered to South
Carolina, to reinforce and take command of the southern army, which had
almost been destroyed by the unfortunate surrender of General Lincoln.
In this command he remained until the 25th July, 1780, when General
Gates, having been appointed by Congress commander-in-chief in the
South, arrived in camp, and assumed the command; General De Kalb
remaining second in command. General Gates, having broken up the camp
and made suitable preparations, subsequently marched his army to within
a few miles of Camden, South Carolina, unfortunately, was persuaded that
he had nothing further to do but to advance upon his enemy, never
supposing that so far from retiring, the British general would seize the
proffered opportunity of battle.
Unhappily for America, unhappily for himself, he acted under this
influence, nor did he awake from his reverie until the proximity of the
enemy was announced by his fire in the night preceding the fatal
morning. Lord Cornwallis having been regularly informed of the passing
occurrences, hastened to Camden, which he reached on the 13th of August.
Spending the subsequent day in review and examination, he found his army
very much enfeebled, eight hundred being sick, his effective strength
was reduced to somewhat less than two thousand three hundred men,
including militia, and Bryan’s corps, which, together, amounted to seven
hundred and fifty men. Judging from the Congressional publications, he
rated his enemy at six thousand, in which estimation his lordship was
much mistaken, as from official returns on the evening preceding the
battle, it appears that our force did not exceed four thousand,
including the corps detached under Lieutenant-Colonel Wolford; yet there
was a great disparity of numbers in our favor; but we fell short in
quality, our continental horse, foot, and artillery being under one
thousand, whereas the British regulars amounted to nearly one thousand
six hundred.
In case of a disaster, the American commander had an eye to the three
powerful and faithful counties, Cabarrus, Rowan, and Mecklenburgh. The
inhabitants of these three counties, amongst the most populous in the
state, were true and zealous in their maintenance of the Revolution; and
they were always ready to encounter any and every peril to support the
cause of their hearts. Contiguous to the western border, over the
mountains, lived that hardy race of mountaineers, equally attached to
the cause of our common country, and who rolled occasionally like a
torrent on the hostile territory. The ground was strong, and the soil
rich and cultivated. In every respect, therefore, it was adapted to the
American general until he had rendered himself completely ready for
offence. Notwithstanding his diminished force, notwithstanding the vast
expected superiority of his enemy, the discriminating mind of the
British general paused not an instant in deciding upon his course. No
idea of a retrograde movement was entertained by him. Victory only could
extricate him from the surrounding dangers, and the quicker the
decision, the better his chance of success. He therefore gave orders to
prepare for battle, and in the evening of the 15th put his army in
motion to attack his enemy next morning in his position at Rudgely’s
Mill. Having placed Camden in the care of Major McArthur, with the
convalescents, some of the militia, and a detachment of regulars
expected in the course of the day, he moved at the hour of ten at night,
in two divisions. The front division, composed of four companies of
light infantry, with the twenty-second and twenty-third regiments, was
commanded by Lieutenant-colonel Webster.
The rear division, consisting of the legion infantry, Hamilton’s
regiment of North Carolinians, the volunteers of Ireland, and Bryan’s
corps of loyalists, was under the orders of Lord Rawdon.
Two battalions of the seventy-first, with the legion cavalry, formed the
reserve.
After Gates had prepared his army to move, it was resolved in a council
of war to march on the night of the 15th, and to sit down behind
Saunder’s Creek, within seven miles of Camden.
Thus it happened that both the generals were in motion at the same hour,
and for the same purpose, with this material distinction, that the
American general grounded his conduct in his mistaken confidence of his
adversary’s disposition to retreat; whereas, the British commander
sought for battle with anxiety, regarding the evasion of it by his
antagonist as the highest misfortune.
After sending the baggage, stores and sick, off to the friendly
settlement of the Waxhaws, the army marched at ten o’clock at night.
Armand’s legion, in horse and foot, not exceeding one hundred, moved as
a vanguard, flanked by Lieutenant-colonel Porterfield’s corps on the
right, and by Major Armstrong’s light infantry of the North Carolina
militia, on the left. The Maryland and Delaware lines, composed the
front division, under Baron De Kalb; the militia of North Carolina,
under General Caswell, the centre; and the Virginia militia, under
Brigadier Stevens, the rear. Colonel Lee, in his Notes, says, “Armand
was one of the many French gentlemen who joined our army, and was one of
the few who were honored with important commands. His officers were
generally foreign, and his soldiers chiefly deserters. It was the last
corps in the army which ought to have been entrusted with the van post,
because, however unexceptionable the officers may have been, the
materials of which the corps was composed, did not warrant such
distinction.” About one o’clock in the morning the two armies met, and
from the darkness of the night they came almost in close contact before
either was aware of their position.
As soon as the corps of Armand discovered the near approach of the
enemy, they shamefully took to flight, carrying dismay and confusion
through the whole ranks. The leading regiment of Maryland was disordered
by this ignominious flight; but the gallant Porterfield, taking his part
with decision on the right, seconded by Armstrong on the left, soon
brought the enemy’s van to pause. The two armies halted, each throbbing
with the emotions which the van encounter had excited. The British army
displayed in one line, which completely occupied the ground, each flank
resting on impervious swamps. The infantry of the reserve took post in a
second line, one half opposite the centre of each wing, and the cavalry
held the road where the left of the right wing united with the
volunteers of Ireland, which corps formed the right of the left wing.
With the front line were two six and two three-pounders, under
Lieutenant McLeod of the artillery; with the reserve were two
six-pounders. Thus arrayed, confiding in discipline and experience, the
British general waited anxiously for light.
The Maryland regiment soon recovered from the confusion produced by the
panic of Armand’s cavalry. General Gates saw the moment fast
approaching, and arrayed his army with promptitude. The second brigade
of Maryland, with the regiment of Delaware, under General Gist, took the
right; the brigade of North Carolina militia, led by Brigadier Caswell,
the centre; and that of Virginia, under Brigadier Stevens, the left. The
first brigade of Maryland was formed in reserve, under the command of
General Smallwood, who had on York Island, in the beginning of the war,
when colonel of the first regiment of Maryland, deeply planted in the
hearts of his countrymen, the remembrance of his zeal and valor,
conspicuously displayed in that the first of his fields. To each brigade
a due proportion of artillery was allotted; but we had no cavalry, as
those who led in the night were still flying. Major-general Baron De
Kalb, charged with the line of battle, took post on the right, while the
general-in-chief, superintending the whole, placed himself on the road
between the line and the reserve. Light now began to dawn, and every
moment was an hour of anxious suspense; the signal for battle was given,
and instantly our centre opened its artillery, and the left line, under
Stevens, was ordered to advance.
The British general, closely watching our motions, discovered this
movement, immediately gave orders to Webster to lead into battle with
the right. The command was executed with the characteristic courage and
influence of that officer. Our left was instantly overpowered by the
assault, and the brave Stevens had to endure the mortifying spectacle
exhibited by the flying brigade. Without exchanging more than one fire
with the enemy, they threw away their arms, and sought that safety in
flight which generally can be obtained only by courageous resistance.
The North Carolina brigade, imitating that on the right, followed the
disgraceful example. Stevens, Caswell, and even Gates himself, struggled
to stop the fugitives, and rally them for battle; but every noble
feeling of the heart was sunk in anxious solicitude to preserve life;
and having no cavalry to assist their exertions, the attempted
reclamation failed entirely. The continental troops, with Dixon’s
regiment of North Carolinians, were left to oppose the enemy, every
corps of whose army was acting with the most determined resolution. De
Kalb and Gist yet held the battle on our right in suspense.
Lieutenant-colonel Howard, at the head of Williams’ regiment, drove the
corps in front out of line. Rawdon could not bring the brigade of Gist
to recede—bold was the pressure of the foe; firm as a rock was the
resistance of Gist. The Marylanders appeared to gain ground; but the
deplorable desertion of the militia having left Webster unemployed, that
discerning soldier detached some light troops with Tarlton’s cavalry in
pursuit, and opposed himself to the reserve brought up by Smallwood to
replace the fugitives. Here the battle was renewed with fierceness and
obstinacy. The Marylanders, although greatly outnumbered, firmly
maintained the desperate conflict; and De Kalb, now finding his once
exposed flank completely shielded, resorted to the bayonet. Dreadful was
the charge! This appeared to be his last hope, and making a desperate
charge, drove the enemy before him with considerable advantage.
But at this time, Cornwallis perceiving the American cavalry had left
the field, ordered Tarlton to make a decisive charge; this was done, and
our brave troops were broken; and his lordship following up the blow,
compelled the intrepid Marylanders to abandon the unequal contest.
To the woods and swamps, after performing their duty valiantly, these
gallant soldiers were compelled to fly. The pursuit was continued with
keenness, and none were saved but those who penetrated swamps which
before had been deemed impassable.
De Kalb, sustaining by his splendid example the courageous efforts of
our inferior force, in his last resolute attempt to seize victory,
received eleven bayonet wounds. His lingering life was rescued from
immediate death by the brave interposition of one of his aids-de-camp.
Lieutenant-colonel De Buysson saw his prostrate general in the act of
falling, rushed through the clashing bayonets, and stretching his arms
over the fallen hero, exclaimed, “Save the Baron De Kalb! Save the Baron
De Kalb!” The British officers interposed and prevented his immediate
destruction; but he survived his wounds but three days.
To a British officer, who kindly administered every consolation in his
power, he replied, “I thank you for your generous sympathy, but I die
the death I always prayed for—the death of a soldier fighting for the
rights of man.” The heroic veteran employed his last moments in
dictating a letter to General Smallwood, who succeeded to the command of
his division, breathing in every word his sincere and ardent affection
for his officers and soldiers, expressing his admiration of their late
noble, though unsuccessful stand; reciting the eulogy which their
bravery had extorted from the enemy; together with the lively delight
such testimony of their valor had excited in his own mind. Trembling on
the shadowy confines of life, he stretched out his quivering hand to his
friend and aid-de-camp, Chevalier De Buysson, proud of his generous
wounds, he breathed his last benediction on his faithful, brave
division.
In this disastrous conflict, besides the gallant De Kalb, this country
lost many excellent officers, and among them Lieutenant-colonel
Porterfield, whose promise of future greatness had endeared him to the
whole army. On the 14th of October, 1780, Congress resolved that a
monument should be erected to his memory, in the town of Annapolis, in
the State of Maryland; but this resolution, it is believed, has never
been carried into effect, and the gratitude and plighted faith of the
nation both remain unredeemed.
He was in the forty-eighth year of his age, most of his life, with the
exception of the last three years spent in the American Revolution, he
had passed in the armies of France, having entered at the early age of
sixteen years. In the resolution of Congress we find the following
inscription, which was intended to have graced the monument of this
gallant officer:
Sacred to the memory of the
BARON DE KALB,
Knight of the royal order of Military Merit,
Brigadier of the armies of France,
and
Major General
In the service of the United States of America;
Having served with honor and reputation
For three years,
He gave a last and glorious proof of his
Attachment to the liberties of mankind
And the cause of America,
In the action near Camden, in the state of S. Carolina,
On the 16th of August, 1780;
Where, leading on the troops of the
Maryland and Delaware lines,
Against superior numbers,
And animating them by his example
To deeds of valor,
He was pierced with many wounds,
And on the nineteenth following, expired,
In the 48th year of his age.
THE CONGRESS
Of the United States of America,
In gratitude to his zeal, services and merit,
Have erected this monument.
No man surpassed this gentleman in simplicity and condescension, which
gave to his deportment a cast of amiability extremely ingratiating, at
the same time exciting confidence and esteem.
General Washington, many years after, on a visit to Camden, inquired for
the grave of De Kalb. After looking on it a while with a countenance
expressive of deep feeling, he breathed a deep sigh, and exclaimed, “so
there lies the brave De Kalb, the generous stranger, who came from a
distant land to fight our battles, and to water with his blood the tree
of our liberty. Would to God he had lived to share its fruits!”
When General De Kalb came to the United States with Lafayette to enter
into the service of America, he left his wife and children in
France—two sons and a daughter. Soon after his arrival here the
troubles in France arose, which terminated in revolution. In this
revolution, the eldest son, who had joined one of the parties, perished
under the guillotine; the second son received a commission in the army;
and the Baroness De Kalb, with her daughter, fled into Switzerland. The
second son remained in the service of France until the downfall of the
Emperor Napoleon, when he retired from public service to the family
_chateau_ at Milon, in the vicinity of Paris, the residence of the late
Baron De Kalb, before he left his native country.
* * * * *
THE HOUSEKEEPING HUSBAND.
BY ANGELE DE V. HULL.
Nor does he govern only, or direct,
But much performs himself.
COWPER.
NOW, dear reader, do not think for a moment that Mr. Bettyman is any
relation of yours. He is nobody’s uncle, cousin, or brother, though,
indeed, accident may have thrown into your way a kinsman of his peculiar
temperament. But if, out of the fifty thousand readers of Graham’s
Magazine, forty of whom I, in my insignificance, may know but slightly,
six in every town or village were to take offence at my penchant for the
ridiculous, and call upon me to deny any particular caricature of any
particular individual, what sort of a postage-bill do you think mine
would be, allowing a letter for each very sensitive reader? Understand,
then, loveliest of your sex, whichever you be, that I don’t mean any
body in particular, nor any thing in general—I only mean to inform you,
best reader, that Mr. Edwin Bettyman was a newly married man at the time
I knew him, and had just carried his pretty little wife to his elegant
but simple home near the suburbs of _his_ native place, which, of
course, is not yours. As for myself, I am not fond of these half-way
sort of places; I like to be in the country, amid the green fields and
wild-flowers, or in town, amid its concomitants, smoke, dust, and fuss.
But, as my opinion cannot possibly be of any consequence to any body, I
will merely mention that Mr. and Mrs. Bettyman both disagreed with me,
and were delighted with their location. The house was unexceptionable—a
large, airy cottage, with front and back piazzas, a fine yard, and the
greenest of grass-plots on either side of the gate, around which was a
hedge of juniper in beautiful luxuriance.
Mrs. Bettyman was enchanted. The furniture was light and graceful; Edwin
had guessed her own taste, and she ran about surveying her new home as
blithe of heart as any bride on earth. As to household affairs, she knew
enough to call herself an accomplished _ménagère_, and shaking back her
sunny curls, she gayly challenged her cousin Isabel and myself to dine
with her that day week. So “all went merry as a marriage bell;” and as
we returned home Isabel expressed her satisfaction at the choice Edwin
had made, and the sweet relative he had given her, for, as I ought to
have mentioned before, she was _his_ cousin.
“They seem well matched,” said I, musingly, and half sadly, too. “I
wonder, now, how much there is for each to learn of the other. How many
failings to come out, like dark spots upon the deep, clear blue of
love’s happy horizon.”
“Why really, you grow fanciful,” laughed my companion. “Surely they must
know one another by this time!”
I opened my eyes in wonder. The idea of any man or woman being aught but
a faultless monster, after three weeks’ marriage, was preposterous in
the extreme. How few weddings there would be, were lovers sent to the
Palace of Truth for a month or two.
“Does not Josephine think her husband free from faults, Isabel?” asked
I, after a pause.
“I fear that she does,” said she, smiling, “but,” added earnestly, “I
hope not. Even I, who have been Edwin’s favorite cousin, cannot presume
to say what kind of a husband he will be. A very pleasant acquaintance
may become a disagreeable person to live with; a gentle manner may
conceal an evil heart. Not that I suspect Edwin of either, but you have
conjured me into seriousness somehow, and I begin to doubt the existence
of that perfect happiness supposed to follow the union of two loving
hearts.”
“A poet’s dream,” exclaimed I. “The Eden of early faith changes too soon
to dread and despair. There is no perfect bliss on earth, and of quiet,
sober happiness, how few instances!”
Isabel turned toward me with an air of astonishment that amused while it
abashed me. I might be accused of experimental knowledge and I looked
away.
“Have you foresworn marriage, my dear, or have you had an escape after a
sentence of banishment to the Palace of Truth?”
Just as I said—an accusation in set terms. So I laughed very affectedly
at my homilies, and confessed that I was in a reflective mood. We
changed the subject, and went home through a pleasant wood, stopping a
while to choose some bright wild-flower, or watch the “lazy pacing
clouds” pile themselves into enormous masses of blue and silver, to melt
away into mysterious shapes as we gazed.
Some time after this I was called away and remained absent for several
months. On my return, I found Isabel Stewart an inmate of her Cousin
Edwin’s house, having lost her only near relative, an old uncle, during
my absence. As we had been dear friends from early childhood, I gladly
accepted an invitation to spend a portion of my time with her, and drove
out “armes et baggage” to the pretty residence of my hero and his lovely
wife, too willing to escape from the thraldom of a hotel life.
Isabel was paler and thinner, and threw herself without speaking into my
arms. Josephine was as pretty as ever, as cordial and hospitable as
hostess could be. But she had lost that catching gayety that so
enchanted me at the time of her marriage, and seemed to grow timid as
her husband’s step was heard upon the gravel-walk.
“How do you do, my dear Miss Ellen?” said he, taking my hand and shaking
it heartily. “I am glad to see you once more. Have you had lunch yet?
No. Josephine, my love, how could you neglect your guest?”
“I this moment arrived,” said I, smiling and seating myself. “Do let us
take breath before you send Josy off to the pantry. Knowing her boast of
housekeeping accomplishments, I am sure of a grand lunch by and bye.”
She smiled and answered cheerfully, “Oh, you must not remember what a
braggart I was, Ellen. Edwin is not at all pleased with my housekeeping,
and pretends that I know nothing about it. But it _is_ time to get
something to refresh you after your drive, so excuse me, I leave you
with Isabel—and you want no better companion.”
“No better, indeed,” said I, drawing her closer to me as Josephine left
the apartment. “Now do tell me, dear Isabel, all about yourself, for you
have not written me very explicitly since your change of residence. Are
you happy here?”
And receiving an answer in the affirmative, we talked, like two
egotists, of nothing but ourselves until summoned to the dining-room.
Mr. Bettyman seemed to me a _fussy_ man—(dear reader, you _must_
understand the term.) He got up and unlocked the sideboard, looked very
mysterious as he examined the decanters, took one out, relocked the
door, and returned to his seat. The wine-glasses were as usual at each
place. Taking mine, he was about to fill it when something attracted his
attention, and he tittered an exclamation of tragical amazement.
“Is it possible! Cracked already! Not eight months since we came here
and another glass ruined. Two wine-glasses cracked—I cannot say how may
tumblers broken—”
“Only one, Edwin,” said his wife, blushing slightly as she glanced at
me. “And that, you know, cracked from the ice with which it was filled.”
“Ay, always some excuse. It is perfectly useless, my dear Miss Ellen,”
interrupted he, and I expected from the expression of wo he assumed, to
see him burst into tears, “it is perfectly useless for me to purchase
any articles of value for my house. Every thing goes to ruin;” and he
shrugged his shoulders, mournfully looking around for sympathy.
“And in the meantime, Ellen is waiting for a glass of wine,” said
Isabel, “and I for a piece of that tongue before you.”
“Oh! I beg pardon—I am neglecting my duty as host; but you must really
excuse me, I am so shocked—so often surprised at the destruction of
property—”
“Josy, do give Ellen some of that pine-apple jam,” interrupted Isabel,
looking as though she had not heard Mr. Bettyman speak, “I want her to
see what excellent preservers we are. Indeed, I never tasted better
sweetmeats than those we made this season.”
“Nearly an entire barrel of the finest crush sugar consumed! I hope that
Josephine will acquire more knowledge of economy as she grows older,”
said Mr. Bettyman, encouragingly. “A half pound to three-quarters of
fruit, I remember, was my mother’s rule—and I mentioned this to
Josephine.”
“My dear cousin, what a pity you were not born an old lady!” said
Isabel, gravely, “you are too good for a man.”
My politeness was very nearly upset by this sally, and I looked at
Edwin. He seemed rather _flattered_, yet doubtfully examined his
cousin’s eyes, deceived by the gravity of her tone into an assurance of
her sincerity. Still the appellation of old woman was not very
respectful, and while he pondered in silence, we talked without further
interruption. His wife was evidently mortified, as must be the case on
the introduction of any stranger into her domestic circle; but her sweet
and amiable manner throughout all, was truly commendable. I must own my
perfect astonishment at Mr. Bettyman’s meddling disposition. I had never
seen such an exhibition before, but concealed my feelings, and ate lunch
enough to frighten him, had he been actuated by avarice. But he was not
a “stingy man;” he had no meanness about him. Providing handsomely for
his house, lavishing every comfort upon his wife, loving her with true
devotion, he embittered her life by this love of control, this singular
passion for leaving his sphere of husband to interfere with her
household cares in a way as unmanly as it was annoying. His place was as
intrusive there as Josephine’s would have been in his counting-room. As
well might she seat herself at his desk and examine his books—and what
would he have thought and said, had she ever attempted it? Surely Mr.
Bettyman, like Lady Macbeth, unsexed himself.
Isabel and I were too busy chatting to notice his display of old
ladyism, by any remark to one another; and as I then concluded it to be
merely an accidental humor of Mr. Bettyman’s, I descended to the
breakfast-room the next morning, more and more delighted with my change
of apartments, from the refreshing sleep I had enjoyed.
“Come, Ellen,” said Josephine, as she bade me good morning, “do justice
to my cook’s rolls. You never eat better bread in your life; and as for
fresh butter, look at it and then taste it.”
“Josy grows vain,” said Isabel, putting an egg into my cup. “She will
tell you how much smarter her hens are than city hens.”
“Indeed they are,” cried Josephine, laughing. “You shall visit my
poultry-yard this morning, Ellen, and see what a collection I have.
Dorking, Bucks County, Polish, Chinese, Java, etc., to say nothing of
native hens to the manor born. And such broods of chickens—pretty
little creatures!”
And breakfast passed very pleasantly, Mr. Bettyman making himself
agreeable without being useful, until Josephine was ready to give her
orders for the morning and show me her pretty place. To the poultry-yard
we were going, sun-bonnets in hand, when Edwin mounted the steps,
wearing a most unhappy look, and holding in the tips of his fingers, a
something that seemed a conglomeration of mud, mire, and cloth.
“My dear Josy, do look at this! One of those excellent cup-towels in the
ground—buried actually in the ground! This is really too bad! You
should see to your servants—you seem to take no interest in any thing
about your domestic affairs. Just see this towel!” and Mr. Bettyman
contemplated it with a look of sorrow, as though it had been a deceased
friend instead of the skeleton of a bit of crash. Isabel descended the
steps and taking it from him, examined it in the four corners. At length
she looked up, and the wonder is to me how she could preserve her
gravity.
“Was your mother’s maiden name Brown?” asked she with _such_ an innocent
look!
“Why surely not, Isabel,” replied he, surprised. “Why you must
know—what did you ask for?”
“Because this towel is marked Brown, printed in large letters, and as
your name is Bettyman and Josy’s was Singleton, I cannot imagine to whom
it belongs.”
“Oh! it must have fallen over the wall, Miss Isabel, and belongs next
door. Mrs. Brown lives in there, and I expect it blew over with the wind
and rain lately. I’ll wash it out and carry it home,” said the servant,
as she took it from Isabel, who turned smilingly to Josephine, while Mr.
Bettyman walked away a little disconcerted.
As for myself, I opened my eyes to twice their usual size, and pulled my
long bonnet over them, to hide my wonder. While we were admiring Josy’s
beautiful poultry, her husband came running toward us, and I dreaded
some other muddy discovery; but it was to bid us good morning, and kiss
his wife before he drove off to the city. As I remarked his sincere look
of affection when he pressed his lips to her blooming cheek, I could not
help sighing as I remembered how grieved she was at his reproach, “you
take no interest in your domestic affairs.” He might speak kindly now,
but he had spoiled her pleasure for the hour, and seemed to feel no
extra gratitude for her perfect freedom from every thing like
resentment. Her smile was so sweet and winning, that I felt like
reminding him how little he deserved it, after his _bêtises_. She left
us to get a basket for the eggs that were scattered in great profusion
about the nice nests ranged along the side of the coop; and where the
cackling and clucking of a hundred hens was a safe preventive against
overhearing, I exclaimed to my companion,
“Isabel! what sort of a _lusus naturæ_ is your Cousin Edwin? If it would
not be considered offensive, I should offer him a petticoat, and make
one long enough to cover his pantaloons and boots.”
“And he would do honor to it, Ellen,” was the reply. “This Miss
Molly-mania of Edwin’s is the one spot that has risen on Josephine’s
otherwise happy union. She is the loveliest woman I ever knew, so sweet
and patient; and I feel so provoked at her husband that I often am
afraid to do mischief by interfering. But I cannot help it! As
ridiculous as it is—as it helps to make him—we cannot laugh at it,
because it is an evil—a source of serious unhappiness in any household.
And Josy bears it so nobly! And never smiles when at times I cannot
contain my amusement even before him. I am afraid he is incurable, for
if he is not content with her neatness and order, an angel’s efforts
could not please him. I wish you would think of some cure for his
disease.”
“I’d put a cap on him, and make him mend his own stockings,” said I,
with more indignation than dignity; but Josephine was at the gate, and
after filling the basket with what New Orleans calls creole eggs, a
fortune to the one who could have taken them to St. Mary’s Market, we
returned to the house and spent a pleasant morning together.
Fortunately no further opportunities presented themselves to Mr.
Bettyman, and I found him a very pleasant, well-informed person, capable
of being as entertaining as he had been in the beginning disagreeable.
Two more delightful days I never passed, when on the third morning I
heard Mr. Bettyman give orders to take back his rockaway to the stable,
as he intended remaining at home for the day. Isabel lifted her hands in
dismay, as he leant out of the window, and I guessed that we were to be
favored with some more of his attempts at housekeeping. Ah! and so we
were! I saw him enter Josy’s pantry, putting on a light blouse, and soon
after he came in to us, his head pretty well powdered. He had been at
the flour-barrel!
“My dear! the flour goes very fast. Two weeks since that barrel was
opened, and there is, I can assure you, a very large portion gone. How
much do you give out for the day? I’m sure that five pints ought to be
sufficient for our use.”
“I do not think it can be wasted, Edwin,” said his wife, rising hastily,
as though prepared for some announcements. “I’ll go and see myself.”
“No, _I_ will speak to Maria about it,” replied he, obligingly. Poor
Josy! how much she dreaded his being laughed at by his servants—but
Isabel was there ever ready to protect her.
“Stop, Edwin!” said she, meeting my eye, and looking so arch that I had
to smile and turn away. “_Ellen_ eats a great deal of bread, and perhaps
Maria found it necessary to use more flour in consequence. I think she
is excusable if she takes _more_ than five pints.”
Poor Mr. Bettyman! He piqued himself upon his exceeding politeness, and
had Isabel given him a galvanic shock he could not have felt it worse.
After expressing his surprise at her injustice, he turned to me with so
many explanations and apologies that but for the good lesson taught him,
I could have been half angry at my friend’s zeal for his improvement. At
all events, he was stopped in his visit to Maria, and returning to the
pantry, armed with a dusting brush, very industriously applied himself
to cleaning every shelf, and peeping carefully behind each row of china,
glassware, and jars, assured that no one ever peeped so effectually
before. At dinner he appeared much fatigued as well he might; and after
entertaining us and improving himself with a discourse upon the manner
in which a house should be governed, he turned to his wife.
“I did not see the cheese in the jar, my dear, when I was examining the
pantry. Certainly, you cannot have used all that I sent home but a short
time since.”
Josephine colored deeply, and paused a while before answering. At length
she took courage,
“It grew mouldy, Edwin, and I sent it into the kitchen. I did not
think—”
He clasped his hands in apparent agony of mind. “In the kitchen! That
delightful old cheese that would have kept for months! Do you know, my
dear, what such cheese as that costs?”
This was the signal for a series of “pokings,” as Isabel called them,
and from the table Mr. Bettyman went into the kitchen at last. Through
the window I watched him giving directions to the cook, who stood, broom
in hand, patiently awaiting them. Pots, kettles, stew-pans, ovens, and
what not, were lifted out in obedience to his warning finger. Not
Hercules, with the distaff, so labored for his Dejanira, and I could not
help wishing that some spiteful elf would suddenly transform him into an
old woman at once.
We had retired to our separate chambers as soon as the coffee had
disappeared, for each wished to conceal from the other the feeling of
indignation, amusement, and anger, that my host had called forth.
Josephine’s eyes were red when she joined us in the evening, for she had
been deeply mortified at the ridicule to which he inevitably exposed
himself, and a burning spot on her cheek told that for once she began to
feel some resentment at this tacit condemnation of her own part in her
household affairs. She seemed nervously expecting her husband’s
appearance, and seated herself at length by Isabel.
“Josy,” said she, smiling, and putting her arm around her, “why do you
not give up the keys at once? I’m sure, since Cousin Edwin is so fond of
playing housekeeper, that he might as well accept your abdication in his
favor. Besides, and curiously, my dearest Josy, you will soon be obliged
to resign the office, and as it then falls to my lot, depend upon it I
shall not be the patient, enduring creature that you are.”
“I have been thinking of the very same thing, Isabel,” replied Josy,
laughing now in spite of herself, and at the same moment her husband
came, “puffing and blowing” into the hall where we were assembled to
enjoy the summer air and take our tea. (I never could imagine how it is,
that people _will_ swallow boiling liquid on the hottest of days, but
somehow or other we cannot do without it, even when fanning ourselves,
and exclaiming at the heat. This much for the consistency of human
nature.)
Mr. Bettyman seated himself in a fan-chair, and began rocking to his
apparent content.