'Becausemy portion was assign'd,Wholesome and bitter,Thouart kind,And I am blessed to my mind.'"
'Becausemy portion was assign'd,Wholesome and bitter,Thouart kind,And I am blessed to my mind.'"
'Becausemy portion was assign'd,Wholesome and bitter,Thouart kind,And I am blessed to my mind.'"
"A state of feeling to be preferred certainly to the gratification of any earthly affection; but I scarcely see how it can accord with Meeta's continued love of Ernest."
"That is because you do not separate love from the selfish desires with which it is too generally accompanied. Meeta loves Ernest so truly, so entirely, that she cannot be said to yield her happiness to his, but rather to find it in his; his joy, his honor, are hers."
"And can woman feel thus?" asked Mr. Schwartz, as he looked with admiration upon his wife, her cheeks glowingand her eyes lighted with the enthusiasm of a spirit akin to Meeta's.
"There are many mysteries in woman which you have yet to fathom," said Mrs. Schwartz, with a smile.
To the good pastor and his wife, the next day, even Sophie was a less interesting object of contemplation than Meeta, who stood at her side. She was pale, very pale, and dressed with even more than usual simplicity; yet there was in her face so much of the soul's light, that she seemed to them beautiful. Her congratulations were offered in speechless emotion. The brotherly kiss which Ernest pressed upon her cheek called up no color there, nor disturbed the graceful stillness of her manner; and when Sophie, who had really become sincerely attached to her, threw herself into her arms, she returned her embrace with tenderness, whispering as she did so, "Make Ernest happy, Sophie, and I will love you always!"
And now what have we more to tell of Meeta? It cannot be denied that there were hours of darkness, in which the joyous hopes and memories of her youth rose up vividly before her, making her present life seem sad and lonely in contrast. But these visitors from the realm of shadows were neither evoked nor welcomed by Meeta. Resolutely she turned from the dead past, to the active, living present, determined that no shadow from her should darken the declining days of her father and mother. She is the light of their home, and often they bless the Providence which has left her with them. What would they have done without her cheerful voice to inspire them in bearing the burdens of advancing life?
But not only in her home was Meeta a consolation and a blessing. The poor, the sick, the sorrowing, knew ever where to find true sympathy and ready aid. She was the "Lady Bountiful" of her neighborhood. But there was one house where more especially her presence was welcomed; where noimportant step was taken without her advice; where sorrow was best soothed by her, and joy but half complete till she had shared it. This house was Ernest Rainer's. To him and Sophie she was a cherished sister, to whose upright and self-forgetting nature they looked up with a species of reverence; and to their children she was "Dear Aunt Meeta! the kindest and best friend, except mamma, in the world!"
How many more useful, more noble, or happier persons than our old maid can married life present? Is she not more worthy of imitation than the "Celias" and "Daphnes" whose delicate distresses have formed the staple of circulating libraries, or than those feeble spirits in real life, who, mistaking selfishness for sensibility, turn thanklessly from the blessings and coldly from the duties of life, because they have been denied the gratification of some cherished desire?
It is Christmas, merry Christmas, as we have been duly informed this morning by every inhabitant of Donaldson Manor, from Col. Donaldson to the pet and baby Sophy Dudley, who was taught the words but yesterday, for the occasion. Last evening our readings were interrupted, for all were busy in preparing for this important day. Miss Donaldson was superintending jellies and blanc-manges, custards and Charlottes des Russes; Col. and Mrs. Donaldson were preparing gifts for their servants, not one of whom was forgotten, and Annie and I, and, by his own special request, Mr. Arlington, were arranging in proper order the gifts of that most considerate, mirthful and generous of spirits, Santa Claus. This morning the sun rose as clear and bright as though it, too, rejoiced in the joy of humanity; but long before the sun had showed himself, little feet were pattering from room to room, and childish voices shouting in the unchecked exuberance of delight. I sometimes doubt whether the children are so happy as I am, on such occasions. One incident that occurred this morning would have been enough, in my opinion, to repay all the time, the trouble, and the gold, which Santa Claus, or his agents, had expended on their preparations. Aroused by the voices of the children, I threw on a dressing-gown and hastened to the room appropriated to their patron saint, which I entered at one door just as little Eva Dudley appeared at another. Without being inthe least a beauty, Eva has the most charming face I know; merry and bright as Puck's, or as her own life, which from its earliest dawn has been joyous as a bird's carol. She gazed now with eager delight on the toys exhibited by her brothers and sisters, without, apparently, one thought of herself, till Robert said, "But see here, Eva, look at your own."
As her eyes rested on the large baby-house, with its folding-doors open to display the furniture of the parlors, and the two dolls, mother and daughter, seated at a table on which stood a neat china breakfasting set, she clasped her dimpled hands in silent ecstasy for half a minute, then rising to her utmost height on her rosy little toes, she exclaimed, "Oh, isn't I a happy little woman!"
Dear Eva! a littlegirl'sheart would not have seemed to her large enough to contain such a rapture.
Our party has been augmented since breakfast by the arrival of several families of Donaldsons—some of whom live at too great a distance for visits at any other time than Christmas, when all who stand in any conceivable, or I was about to say inconceivable, degree of relationship to the Donaldsons of Donaldson Manor, are expected to be here. Among this host of uncles and aunts and cousins, I was really grateful for my own prefix of aunt, and I heard Mr. Arlington whisper a request to Robert to call him uncle—a title to which I have no doubt he would willingly make good his claim.
In the midst of this general hilarity, the religious character of the day was not forgotten, and all the family and some of the visitors attended the morning services in the church. We know that there are those who, doubting the testimony on which the Christian world has agreed to observe the 25th of December as the birthday into our mortal life of the world's Saviour, and the era from which man may date his hopes of a happy immortality, consider the religious observances of this daya sheer superstition. On such a controversy I could say but little, and I should be very unwilling so say that little here; but I would ask if it can be wrong in the opinion of any—nay, if it be not right, very right, in the opinion of all—to celebrate once in the year an event so solemn and so joyous to our race; and whether any day can be better for such a purpose, than that which has been for centuries associated with it wherever the Angel's song of "Peace on earth and good will to man" has been heard? Another class of objectors there are who complain that a day so sacred should be desecrated, as they express it, by revelry and mirth. To their objection I should not have a word of reply, if it were limited to a condemnation of that wild uproar and senseless jollity by which men sometimes make fools or brutes of themselves; but when they condemn the cheerfulness that has its home and its birthplace in a grateful heart, when they frown upon the happy family gathering once more within the old walls that had echoed to their childish gambols, calling up by the spells of association, from the dim recesses of the past, the very tones and looks of the mother that watched their cradled sleep, and the father that guided their first tottering steps in the pursuit of truth; tones and looks by which, if by any thing, the cold, selfish spirit of the world to whose dominion they have yielded, may be exorcised, and the loving and generous spirit of their earlier life may again enter within them; when they declare these things inconsistent with the Christian's joyful commemoration of that event to which he owes his earthly blessings as well as his heavenly hopes. I can only pity them for their want of harmony with the Great Spirit of the Universe, the spirit of Love and Joy.
Our Christmas was continued and concluded in the same spirit in which it was commenced—the spirit of kindly affection to Man and devout gratitude to Heaven. Those guests whose homes were distant remained for the night, and in the evening,before any of our party had left us, Col. Donaldson called on Robert Dudley to repeat a poem winch he had learned at his request for the occasion. Robert was a little abashed at first at being brought forward so conspicuously; but he is a manly, intelligent boy, and his voice soon gathered strength and firmness, and his eyes lost their downward tendency, and kindled with earnest feeling, as he recited those beautiful lines of Charles Sprague, entitled—
We are all here!Father, mother,Sister, brother,All who hold each other dear.Each chair is fill'd, we're all at home,To-night let no cold stranger come;It is not often thus aroundOur own familiar hearth we're found.Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;For once be every care forgot;Let gentle Peace assert her power,And kind affection rule the hour;We're all—all here.We'renotall here!Some are away—the dead ones dear,Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth,And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,Look'd in and thinn'd our little band:Some like a night-flash pass'd away,And some sank, lingering, day by day;The quiet grave-yard—some lie there—And cruel Ocean has his share—We'renotall here.Weareall here!Even they—the dead—though dead so dear.Fond Memory, to her duty true,Brings back their faded forms to view.How life-like, through the mist of years,Each well-remember'd face appears!We see them as in times long past,From each to each kind looks are cast,We hear their words, their smiles behold,They're round us as they were of old—Weareall here.We are all here!Father, mother,Sister, brother,You that I love with love so dear.This may not long of us be said,Soon must we join the gather'd dead,And by the hearth we now sit roundSome other circle will be found.Oh, then, that wisdom may we know,Which yields a life of peace below!So, in the world to follow this,May each repeat, in words of bliss.We're all—allhere!
We are all here!Father, mother,Sister, brother,All who hold each other dear.Each chair is fill'd, we're all at home,To-night let no cold stranger come;It is not often thus aroundOur own familiar hearth we're found.Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;For once be every care forgot;Let gentle Peace assert her power,And kind affection rule the hour;We're all—all here.We'renotall here!Some are away—the dead ones dear,Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth,And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,Look'd in and thinn'd our little band:Some like a night-flash pass'd away,And some sank, lingering, day by day;The quiet grave-yard—some lie there—And cruel Ocean has his share—We'renotall here.Weareall here!Even they—the dead—though dead so dear.Fond Memory, to her duty true,Brings back their faded forms to view.How life-like, through the mist of years,Each well-remember'd face appears!We see them as in times long past,From each to each kind looks are cast,We hear their words, their smiles behold,They're round us as they were of old—Weareall here.We are all here!Father, mother,Sister, brother,You that I love with love so dear.This may not long of us be said,Soon must we join the gather'd dead,And by the hearth we now sit roundSome other circle will be found.Oh, then, that wisdom may we know,Which yields a life of peace below!So, in the world to follow this,May each repeat, in words of bliss.We're all—allhere!
We are all here!Father, mother,Sister, brother,All who hold each other dear.Each chair is fill'd, we're all at home,To-night let no cold stranger come;It is not often thus aroundOur own familiar hearth we're found.Bless, then, the meeting and the spot;For once be every care forgot;Let gentle Peace assert her power,And kind affection rule the hour;We're all—all here.
We'renotall here!Some are away—the dead ones dear,Who throng'd with us this ancient hearth,And gave the hour to guiltless mirth.Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,Look'd in and thinn'd our little band:Some like a night-flash pass'd away,And some sank, lingering, day by day;The quiet grave-yard—some lie there—And cruel Ocean has his share—We'renotall here.
Weareall here!Even they—the dead—though dead so dear.Fond Memory, to her duty true,Brings back their faded forms to view.How life-like, through the mist of years,Each well-remember'd face appears!We see them as in times long past,From each to each kind looks are cast,We hear their words, their smiles behold,They're round us as they were of old—Weareall here.
We are all here!Father, mother,Sister, brother,You that I love with love so dear.This may not long of us be said,Soon must we join the gather'd dead,And by the hearth we now sit roundSome other circle will be found.Oh, then, that wisdom may we know,Which yields a life of peace below!So, in the world to follow this,May each repeat, in words of bliss.We're all—allhere!
Yesterday we were more than usually still after the enjoyment of Christmas, and a little quiet chit-chat seemed all of which we were capable, but to-day every thing about us and within us began to settle into its usual form, and this evening there was a general call for our accustomed entertainment. I was inexorable to all entreaties, and Mr. Arlington was compelled to open his portfolio for our gratification.
"Select your subject," he said with a smile, as he drew forth sketch after sketch and spread them on the table before us. "I have no story to tell of any of them."
"I select this," said Annie, as she held up a drawing, entitled, "The Exiled Hebrews."
"Ah!" said Mr. Arlington, as he glanced at it, "you have chosen well; the subject is interesting."
"But can you really tell us nothing of these figures, so noble yet so touching in their aspect?"
"No; nothing ofthem. I could tell you indeed of adyingHebrew, whose portrait you may imagine you have before you in that turbaned old gentleman."
"Well, let us hear it."
AHebrewknelt in the dying light,His eye was dim and cold,The hair on his brow was silver white,And his blood was thin and old.He lifted his eye to his latest sun,For he felt that his pilgrimage was done,And as he saw God's shadow[3]there,His spirit pour'd itself in prayer."I come unto Death's second birthBeneath a stranger air,A pilgrim on a chill, cold earth,As all my fathers were;Andmenhave stamp'd me with acurse,I feel it is notThine.Thy mercy, like yon sun, was madeOn me, as all to shine;And therefore dare I lift mine eyeThrough that to Thee, before I die.In this great temple, built by Thee,Whose altars are divine,Beneath yon lamp that ceaselesslyLights up Thine own true shrine,Take this my latest sacrifice,Look down and make this sodHoly as that where long agoThe Hebrew met his God.I have not caused the widow's tears,Nor dimm'd the orphan's eye,I have not stain'd the virgin's years,Nor mock'd the mourner's cry.The songs of Zion in my earHave ever been most sweet,And always when I felt Thee near,My shoes were 'off my feet.'I have known Thee in the whirlwind,I have known Thee on the hill,I have known Thee in the voice of birds,In the music of the rill.I dreamt Thee in the shadow,I saw Thee in the light,I heard Thee in the thunder-peal,And worshipp'd in the night.All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,Still made my heart rejoice,And my spirit bow'd within itselfTo hear 'Thy still, small voice.'I have not felt myself a thingFar from Thy presence driven,By flaming sword or waving wingCut off from Thee and heaven.Must I the whirlwind reap, because,My fathers sow'd the storm?Or shrink because another sinn'd,Beneath Thy red, right arm?Oh! much of this we dimly scan,And much is all unknown,I will not take mycursefromman,I turn toTheealone.Oh! bid my fainting spirit live,And what is dark, reveal,And what is evil—oh, forgive!And what is broken—heal.And cleanse my spirit from above,In the deep Jordan of Thy love!I know not if the Christian's heavenShall be the same as mine,I only ask to be forgiven,And taken home toThine.I weary on a far, dim strand,Whose mansions are as tombs,And long to find the Father-land,Where there are many homes.Oh! grant of all yon shining throngsSome dim and distant star,Where Judah's lost and scatter'd sonsMay worship from afar!When all earth's myriad harps shall meetIn choral praise and prayer,Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,Alone be wanting there?Yet place me in the lowest seat,Though I, as now, lie there,The Christian's jest—the Christian's scorn,Still let me see and hear,From some bright mansion in the sky,Thy loved ones and their melody."The sun goes down with sudden gleam,And beautiful as a lovely dream,And silently as air,The vision of a dark-eyed girlWith long and raven hair,Glides in as guardian spirits glide,And lo! is standing by his side,As if her sudden presence thereWas sent in answer to his prayer.Oh! say they not that angels treadAround the good man's dying bed?His child—his sweet and sinless child,And as he gazed on her,He knew his God was reconciled,And this the messenger.As sure as God had hung on highHis promise-bow before his eye,Earth's purest hopes were o'er him flung,To point his heaven-ward faith,And life's most holy feelings strungTo sing him into death.And on his daughter's stainless breast,The dying Hebrew sought his rest.[4]
AHebrewknelt in the dying light,His eye was dim and cold,The hair on his brow was silver white,And his blood was thin and old.He lifted his eye to his latest sun,For he felt that his pilgrimage was done,And as he saw God's shadow[3]there,His spirit pour'd itself in prayer."I come unto Death's second birthBeneath a stranger air,A pilgrim on a chill, cold earth,As all my fathers were;Andmenhave stamp'd me with acurse,I feel it is notThine.Thy mercy, like yon sun, was madeOn me, as all to shine;And therefore dare I lift mine eyeThrough that to Thee, before I die.In this great temple, built by Thee,Whose altars are divine,Beneath yon lamp that ceaselesslyLights up Thine own true shrine,Take this my latest sacrifice,Look down and make this sodHoly as that where long agoThe Hebrew met his God.I have not caused the widow's tears,Nor dimm'd the orphan's eye,I have not stain'd the virgin's years,Nor mock'd the mourner's cry.The songs of Zion in my earHave ever been most sweet,And always when I felt Thee near,My shoes were 'off my feet.'I have known Thee in the whirlwind,I have known Thee on the hill,I have known Thee in the voice of birds,In the music of the rill.I dreamt Thee in the shadow,I saw Thee in the light,I heard Thee in the thunder-peal,And worshipp'd in the night.All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,Still made my heart rejoice,And my spirit bow'd within itselfTo hear 'Thy still, small voice.'I have not felt myself a thingFar from Thy presence driven,By flaming sword or waving wingCut off from Thee and heaven.Must I the whirlwind reap, because,My fathers sow'd the storm?Or shrink because another sinn'd,Beneath Thy red, right arm?Oh! much of this we dimly scan,And much is all unknown,I will not take mycursefromman,I turn toTheealone.Oh! bid my fainting spirit live,And what is dark, reveal,And what is evil—oh, forgive!And what is broken—heal.And cleanse my spirit from above,In the deep Jordan of Thy love!I know not if the Christian's heavenShall be the same as mine,I only ask to be forgiven,And taken home toThine.I weary on a far, dim strand,Whose mansions are as tombs,And long to find the Father-land,Where there are many homes.Oh! grant of all yon shining throngsSome dim and distant star,Where Judah's lost and scatter'd sonsMay worship from afar!When all earth's myriad harps shall meetIn choral praise and prayer,Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,Alone be wanting there?Yet place me in the lowest seat,Though I, as now, lie there,The Christian's jest—the Christian's scorn,Still let me see and hear,From some bright mansion in the sky,Thy loved ones and their melody."The sun goes down with sudden gleam,And beautiful as a lovely dream,And silently as air,The vision of a dark-eyed girlWith long and raven hair,Glides in as guardian spirits glide,And lo! is standing by his side,As if her sudden presence thereWas sent in answer to his prayer.Oh! say they not that angels treadAround the good man's dying bed?His child—his sweet and sinless child,And as he gazed on her,He knew his God was reconciled,And this the messenger.As sure as God had hung on highHis promise-bow before his eye,Earth's purest hopes were o'er him flung,To point his heaven-ward faith,And life's most holy feelings strungTo sing him into death.And on his daughter's stainless breast,The dying Hebrew sought his rest.[4]
AHebrewknelt in the dying light,His eye was dim and cold,The hair on his brow was silver white,And his blood was thin and old.He lifted his eye to his latest sun,For he felt that his pilgrimage was done,And as he saw God's shadow[3]there,His spirit pour'd itself in prayer."I come unto Death's second birthBeneath a stranger air,A pilgrim on a chill, cold earth,As all my fathers were;Andmenhave stamp'd me with acurse,I feel it is notThine.Thy mercy, like yon sun, was madeOn me, as all to shine;And therefore dare I lift mine eyeThrough that to Thee, before I die.In this great temple, built by Thee,Whose altars are divine,Beneath yon lamp that ceaselesslyLights up Thine own true shrine,Take this my latest sacrifice,Look down and make this sodHoly as that where long agoThe Hebrew met his God.I have not caused the widow's tears,Nor dimm'd the orphan's eye,I have not stain'd the virgin's years,Nor mock'd the mourner's cry.The songs of Zion in my earHave ever been most sweet,And always when I felt Thee near,My shoes were 'off my feet.'
I have known Thee in the whirlwind,I have known Thee on the hill,I have known Thee in the voice of birds,In the music of the rill.I dreamt Thee in the shadow,I saw Thee in the light,I heard Thee in the thunder-peal,And worshipp'd in the night.All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,Still made my heart rejoice,And my spirit bow'd within itselfTo hear 'Thy still, small voice.'I have not felt myself a thingFar from Thy presence driven,By flaming sword or waving wingCut off from Thee and heaven.Must I the whirlwind reap, because,My fathers sow'd the storm?Or shrink because another sinn'd,Beneath Thy red, right arm?Oh! much of this we dimly scan,And much is all unknown,I will not take mycursefromman,I turn toTheealone.Oh! bid my fainting spirit live,And what is dark, reveal,And what is evil—oh, forgive!And what is broken—heal.And cleanse my spirit from above,In the deep Jordan of Thy love!I know not if the Christian's heavenShall be the same as mine,I only ask to be forgiven,And taken home toThine.I weary on a far, dim strand,Whose mansions are as tombs,And long to find the Father-land,Where there are many homes.Oh! grant of all yon shining throngsSome dim and distant star,Where Judah's lost and scatter'd sonsMay worship from afar!When all earth's myriad harps shall meetIn choral praise and prayer,Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,Alone be wanting there?Yet place me in the lowest seat,Though I, as now, lie there,The Christian's jest—the Christian's scorn,Still let me see and hear,From some bright mansion in the sky,Thy loved ones and their melody."
The sun goes down with sudden gleam,And beautiful as a lovely dream,And silently as air,The vision of a dark-eyed girlWith long and raven hair,Glides in as guardian spirits glide,And lo! is standing by his side,As if her sudden presence thereWas sent in answer to his prayer.Oh! say they not that angels treadAround the good man's dying bed?His child—his sweet and sinless child,And as he gazed on her,He knew his God was reconciled,And this the messenger.As sure as God had hung on highHis promise-bow before his eye,Earth's purest hopes were o'er him flung,To point his heaven-ward faith,And life's most holy feelings strungTo sing him into death.And on his daughter's stainless breast,The dying Hebrew sought his rest.[4]
"Have I fulfilled my task?" asked Mr. Arlington, as he touched the picture on which Annie's eyes were still fixed.
"By no means," she answered; "the poem is beautiful; but is the drawing from your own pencil?"
"Oh, no! It is a copy of a copy. The original is by Biederrmanns, and may be seen, I believe, in the Dresden Gallery. This sketch was made from a copy in the possession of my friend, Mr. Michael Grahame. He had it done while he was in Russia. By-the-by—if I had Aunt Nancy's powers as araconteur, I think I could interest you in the history of Mr. and Mrs. Grahame."
"Let us have it," exclaimed Col. Donaldson; "we will be lenient in our criticisms; and should we ever call on you to give it to severer critics, Aunt Nancy will dress it up for you."
Mr. Arlington in vain sought to excuse himself.
"It is of no use," cried Col. Donaldson; "I am a thoroughbred story hunter, and now you have shown me the game, I must have it."
To Mr. Arlington, therefore, the reader is indebted for the following incidents, though I have fulfilled the promise made for me by the Colonel, and dressed it up a little for its present appearance. I have called the narrative thus prepared,
With beauty, wealth, an accomplished education, and a home around which clustered all the warm affections and graceful amenities of life, Lilian Devoe was considered by her acquaintances as one of fortune's most favored children. Yet in Lilian's bright sky there was a cloud, though it was perceptible to none but herself. She was the daughter of an Englishman, who, on his arrival in America with a sickly wife and infant child, had esteemed himself fortunate in obtaining the situation of farm-steward, or bailiff, at Mr. Trevanion's country-seat, near New-York.
"This is a pleasant home, Gerald," said Mrs. Devoe, on the day she took possession of her small but neat cottage, as she stood with him beneath a porch embowered with honey-suckle, and looked out upon a scene to which hill and dale and river combined to give enchantment.
"If you can be well and happy in it, love, I will try and forget that I had a right to a better," said Gerald Devoe, with a grave yet tender smile, as he drew his invalid wife close to his side.
Grave, Gerald Devoe always was; and none wondered at it who knew his early history. His family belonged to the gentry of England, and he had been born to an inheritance sufficient to support him respectably in that class. His mother, from whom he derived a sound judgment, and a firm and vigorous mind, died while he was yet a child, leaving his weak and self-indulgent father to the management of a roguish attorney, by whose aid he made the future maintain the present, till, at his death, little was left to Gerald beyond the bare walls of his paternal home and the small park by which it was surrounded. He had been, for two years before this time, married to one who had brought him little wealth, and whose delicate health seemed to demand the luxuries which he could no longer afford. For her sake, far more than for his own—even more than for that of his cherished child—he shrank from the new condition under which life was presenting itself to him. When at length his resources utterly failed, and he could no longer veil the truth from his wife, her gentle tender smile, her confiding caress, and above all, her ready inquiry into his plans for the future, and her earnest effort to aid him in bringing the chaos of his mind into order, taught him that there lies in woman's affections a source of strength equal to all the requirements of those who have won their way to that hidden fountain. It was by her advice that, instead of wasting his energies in the vain struggle to maintain his present position, he determined to carve out for himself a new life in another land. The first step towards the fulfilment of this resolution was also the most painful. It was the sacrifice of his home, the home of his childhood, his youth, his manhood, with which all that was dear in the present or tender in the past was associated. And yet higher claims it had. It had been the home of his fathers. For three hundred years those walls had owned a Devoe for their master, and now they must pass into a stranger's hands, and he and his must go forth with no right even to a grave in that soil which had seemed ever an inalienable part of himself. It was a stern lesson, but life teaches well, and it was learned. He could not turn to the liberal professions for support, because he had no means of maintaining himself and his family during the preparatory studies. Of farming he knew already something, and spent some months in acquiring yet further information respecting it, before he sailed from England. The determination and energy with which Gerald Devoe had entered on his new career, had won for him friends among practical men, and when he left England it was with recommendations that insured his success.
It was a fortunate circumstance for Mr. and Mrs. Devoe that Mr. Trevanion required a farm-steward on their arrival, for in him and his wife they found liberal employers, and persons of true Christian benevolence, who, having discovered the superiority of their minds and manners to their present station, hesitated not to receive them into their circle of friends, when a knowledge of their past history had acquainted them with their claims on their sympathy. Howsoever valuable the friendship of persons at once so accomplished and so excellent was to Mr. and Mrs. Devoe, for their own sakes, they prized it yet more for their Lilian's. She was their only child, and their poverty lost its last sting when they saw her linked arm in arm with young Anna Trevanion, the companion of her lessons and hersports. They could not have borne to see her, so lovely in outward form, and with a mind so full of intelligence, condemned either to the dreariness of a life without companionship, or to the degradation of association with the rude and uncultivated. That this feeling was wholly unconnected with any false views of their own position, or vain estimation of the claims derived from their birth and former condition, was evident from their readiness to receive into their friendly regards those in their present sphere in whose moral qualities they could confide, and who did not repel their courtesies by a rude and coarse manner. There was one of this latter class who held a place in their esteem not less exalted than that occupied by Mr. Trevanion himself. This was a Scotchman, living within two miles of Mr. Trevanion's seat, who found at once an agreeable occupation and a respectable support in a garden, from which he supplied the markets of New-York with some of their choicest vegetables, and its drawing-rooms with some of their choicest bouquets. Mr. Grahame was one who, in those early ages when physical endowments constituted the chief distinction between men, might have been chosen king of the tribe with which he had chanced to be associated. Even now, in this self-styled enlightened age, his tall and stalwart frame, his erect carriage, his firm and vigorous step, his broad, commanding brow, his bright, keen eye, and the firm, frank expression of his whole face, won from every beholder an involuntary feeling of respect, which further acquaintance only served to deepen. With little of the education of schools, he was a man of reading, and, what schools can never make, he was a man of thought, and of that sober, practical good sense, and those firm, religious principles which are the surest, the only true and safe guides in life. Mrs. Grahame was a gentle and lovely woman, with an eye to see and a heart to feel her husband's excellences. And a worthy son of such a father was MichaelGrahame, the only child of this excellent pair. He was six years older than Lilian Devoe, and having no sister of his own, had been her playfellow and protector from her cradle. Even Anna Trevanion could not rival Michael in Lilian's heart, nor all the luxuries of Trevanion Hall compete with the delight of wandering with him through the gardens of Mossgiel, listening to his history of the various plants—for Michael had learned from his father where most of them had first been found, and how and by whom they had been introduced to their present abodes—and learning from him the chief points of distinction between the different tribes of the vegetable world, and many other things of which older people are often ignorant. But acquainted as Michael was with the inhabitants of the garden, they did not afford him his most vivid enjoyment. Mechanical pursuits were his passion.
Before Lilian was four years old, she had ridden in a carriage of his construction, which he boasted the most unskilful hand on the most unequal road could not, except frommalice prepense, upset. To see Michael a clergyman, or, if that might not be, a lawyer, was Mrs. Grahame's dream of life; but when she whispered it to her husband, he shook his head, with a grave smile, and pointed to the boy, who stood near, putting the finishing touch to what he called his "magical glass." This was the case of an old spy-glass, in which he had so disposed several mirrors, made of a toilet-glass long since broken, as to enable the person using the instrument to see objects in a very different direction from that to which it appeared to be directed. The fond parents watched his movements in silence for a few minutes: suddenly he called in a glad voice, "Here, father, come and look through my magical glass."
Mr. Grahame obeyed the summons, saying to his wife, "He'll make a good mechanic—better not spoil that, for a poor clergyman or lawyer."
Michael had the advantage of the best schools to which his father could gain access; and his teachers joined in declaring that his father might make what he would of him, but his own inclination for mechanics continued as fixed as ever, and Mr. Grahame was equally fixed in his determination to let his inclination decide his career.
"Let him be what he will, he must be something above the ordinary, or your high people will remember against him that his father was a gardener," said Mr. Grahame to his wife; "and you may be sure he'll rise highest in what he loves."
At sixteen Michael Grahame commenced his apprenticeship to the trade of a mathematical instrument maker, to the perfect satisfaction of himself and his father, the secret annoyance of his mother, and the openly expressed chagrin of Lilian Devoe, who had shared all Mrs. Grahame's ambitious hopes for her friend. From this period Lilian became the inseparable companion of the young Trevanions, their only rival in her heart being removed from her circle. She still considered Michael as greatly superior to them, and indeed to all others, in personal attributes, but she could seldom enjoy his society, since he resided in the city; and as she approached to womanhood, and he exchanged the vivacity of the boy for the man's thoughtful brow and more controlled expression of feeling, their manner in their occasional interviews assumed a formality which made it a poor interpreter of her heart's true emotions.
At seventeen Lilian Devoe was an orphan, left to the guardianship of Mr. Trevanion and Mr. Grahame, with a fortune which secured to her a prospect of all the comforts, and many of the elegancies of life. This fortune was the result of a successful speculation made by Mr. Devoe about a year before his death, with the little sum, which, by judicious management, he had saved from his salary during many years. It was a sum too small to secure to his daughter a maintenance in caseof his death, and with a trembling and almost despairing heart he had thrown it on the troubled sea of speculation. From that hour he knew no peace. His life was probably shortened by his anxieties, and when he received the assurance of the successful issue of his experiment, he had but a few days to live. Before his death, Mr. Trevanion had spoken very kindly to him, and both he and Mrs. Trevanion had expressed the most friendly interest in Lilian, and had offered to receive her as a member of their own family, when her "home should be left unto her desolate." Mr. Grahame and his kind-hearted wife had already made the same offer, and Mr. Devoe, with the warmest expression of gratitude, commended his daughter to the guardianship of both his friends. It was winter when Mr. Devoe died—the Trevanions were in the city, and, by her own wish, Lilian passed the first few months of her orphanage at the cottage of Mr. Grahame. Never was an orphan more tenderly received, more dearly cherished.
Michael Grahame had now acquired his trade, and had entered into an already established and profitable business with his former master, who predicted that with his application, and his unusual talent and his delight both in the theory of mechanics and the actual development of that theory in practice, he must one day acquire a high reputation. Perhaps this opinion might have been in some degree shaken by the long and frequent holidays of his young partner during this winter. Michael had never been so much at home since he left it, a boy of sixteen, and before the winter had passed, all formality between him and Lilian had vanished. Again they wandered together, as in childhood, through the garden walks; again Lilian learned to regard him, not only as a loved friend, but as a guide and protector.
Mrs. Grahame saw the growth of these feelings with delight. She loved Lilian, and gave the highest proof of heresteem for her, in believing her worthy of her son. Mr. Grahame was less satisfied. He, too, loved Lilian, and would have welcomed her to his heart as a daughter, but her lately acquired fortune, and her connection with the Trevanion family, gave her a right to higher expectations in marriage, than to become the wife of a mechanic of very moderate fortunes, howsoever great was his ability, or howsoever distinguished his personal qualities. No—Mr. Grahame was not satisfied, and nothing but his confidence in Michael kept him silent. The confidence was not misplaced.
The news of Lilian's fortune, and of Mr. and Mrs. Trevanion's offer to receive her into their family, had sent a sharp pang through the heart of Michael Grahame, which had taught him the true character of his attachment to her.
"She is removed from my world—she can be nothing to me now," was the first stern whisper of his heart, which was modified after two or three interviews into—"She can only be a dear friend and sister. I must never think of her in any other light." And, devoted as he had been to her through the winter, no word, no look had told of love less calm or more exacting than this. But there came a time when the quick blush on Lilian's cheek at his approach, the tremor of her little hand as he clasped it, told that she shared his feeling, without his power of self-control. Then came the hour of trial to Michael Grahame's nature. Self-immolation were easy in comparison with the infliction of one pang on her. And wherefore should either suffer? Was it not a false sentiment that denied to her the right to decide for herself, between those shows and fashions which the world most prizes, and the indulgence of the purest and sweetest affections of our nature? Was he not in truth sacrificing her happiness to his own pride? It was a question which he dared not answer for himself, and he applied to his father, in whose high principles and clear judgment he placed implicit confidence. Mr. Grahame was too shrewd, and in this case too interested an observer to be unprepared for his son's avowal of his past feelings and present perplexities.
"You are right, my son," he replied to his appeal; "It is Lilian's right to decide for herself on that which will constitute her own happiness."
"Then I may speak to her—I may tell her—"
"All you desire that she should know," said Mr. Grahame, gently, "when Lilian has had an opportunity of knowing what she must sacrifice in accepting you."
"True—true—I will ask no promise from her—nay—I will accept none—I will only assure her that should the world fail to fill her heart, the truest and most devoted love awaits her here."
"And in listening to that assurance, without rebuking it, a delicate woman would feel that she had pledged herself."
Michael Grahame's brow contracted, and his voice faltered slightly as, after a moment's thoughtful pause, he asked, "What then would you have me do?"
"Nothing at present—Lilian will soon leave us, and at Mr. Trevanion's she will see quite another kind of life—a life which, with her fortune and their friendship, may be hers, but which she must give up should she become the wife of a mechanic and the daughter-in-law of a gardener. Let her see this life, my boy, and then let her choose between you and it."
"And how can I hope that she will continue to regard me with kindness if I suffer her to depart without any expression of interest in her?"
"Any expression of interest! I do not wish you to be colder to her than you have hitherto been, and I am much mistaken if Lilian would exchange yourbrotherlyaffection for all the gewgaws in life."
"I will endeavor to take your advice, but I hope I shall not be tried too long," were the concluding words of Michael Grahame, as he turned from his father to seek composure in a solitary walk. When he had returned, he found that his father had gone to the city—an unusual circumstance at that season, and one which he could not afterwards avoid connecting with a letter which Lilian received the next day from Anna Trevanion, before she had risen from the breakfast table.
"Papa," wrote Miss Trevanion, "has made me perfectly happy, dear Lilian, by declaring that he cannot consent to leave you longer in the country. I hope you will not find it very difficult to obey his commands in the present instance, which are, that you shall be ready at noon to-morrow to accompany him to the city, where you will find Mamma and your Anna, waiting to receive you with open arms."
"What is the matter, Lilian? Does your letter bring you bad news?" asked Mrs. Grahame, as she saw the dejected countenance with which Lilian sat gazing on these few lines.
Michael said nothing, but, as Lilian looked up to answer Mrs. Grahame, she saw that his eyes were fixed upon her, and the blood rushed to her temples, while she said, "It is only a note from Anna Trevanion, to say that her father is coming for me to-day at noon,—and—and—" Lilian could go no farther—her voice faltered, and she burst into tears. Michael Grahame started from his chair, but a movement of his father's arm prevented his approaching Lilian, and unable to endure the scene, he rushed from the room, while his mother, folding the weeping girl in her arms, exclaimed, "Don't cry, Lilian, Mr. Trevanion will not certainly make you go with him, if you do not wish it."
"Hush, hush, good wife," said the kind but firm voice of Mr. Grahame; "Lilian must not be so ungracious to such friends as Mr. and Mrs. Trevanion, as to refuse to go to themwhen they wish her. Go, my dear child," he continued, laying his hand on her bent head; "and remember that no day will be so happy for us as that in which you come back—if indeed," he added, more gayly, "you can come back to such an humble home, after living among great folks."
There was another voice for which Lilian listened, but she listened in vain. Her first feeling on perceiving that Michael Grahame had left the room while she lay weeping in his mother's arms was very bitter, but Mrs. Grahame soothed her by saying, "Michael couldn't bear to see you crying, dear, so when his father wouldn't let him speak to you, he jumped up and ran off. Poor Michael! sadly enough he'll miss you."
In about an hour, Michael again sought Lilian, bringing with him three bouquets of hot-house flowers. Two of these had been arranged by his father for Mrs. and Miss Trevanion, and the other was of flowers which he had himself selected for Lilian. She stood beside him while he first wrapped the stems of the flowers in a wet sponge, and then put them into a box, to defend them from the cold. This was done, and the box handed to Lilian without a word. As she took it, she asked in a low tone, and turning away to hide her embarrassment as she spoke, "When shall I see you in New-York?"
"I shall be in New-York very soon," he replied; "perhaps to-morrow—but we move there in such different spheres, Lilian, that I do not know when we shall meet."
"Perhaps never," said Lilian, endeavoring, not very successfully, to steady her voice and speak withnonchalance, "unless you are willing to leave what you call your sphere and seek me in mine."
"I only need your permission to do so with delight,"—and so charming had her evident emotion made her in his eyes, that Michael could not refrain from pressing her hand to his lips. There was no anger in the flush which this action brought to Lilian's cheek.
Mr. Trevanion was punctual to the hour of his appointment, and descended from his carriage only to hand Lilian into it.
"You will call sometimes to see how your ward does," he said good-humoredly to the elder Mr. Grahame, but to Michael not a word. He had determined to discourage, and, if possible, completely to overthrow any intimacy which Mr. Grahame had acknowledged to him was not unattended with danger. Mr. Trevanion was a man of liberal mind, yet he was not wholly free from the prejudices of his class, which made the highest happiness the result of the highest social position. There is in the mind of man so unconquerable a desire for the unattainable, that it is not wonderful perhaps that this opinion should be entertained by those who do not occupy that position; but to those who do, we should suppose its fallacy would stand out too glaringly to be doubted or denied. We are far from denying the advantages of rank and wealth: but we view them not as an end, but as a means for the attainment of an end, and that end, not happiness, except as happiness is indissolubly connected with the perfection of our own powers, and with the extension of our usefulness to others. He who, like Michael Grahame, can command the means of intellectual cultivation and refinement, and a fair arena for the exercise of his powers, when thus cultivated, need not envy the possessor of larger fortune and higher station with his weightier responsibilities and greater temptations.
Michael Grahame understood Mr. Trevanion's coolness, but he was not one to retreat from an unfought field. Three days had scarcely given to Lilian the feeling of ease in her new home, when he called on her. He had chosen morning, as the hour when others would be the least likely to dispute her attention with him. She was at home—Mrs. and Miss Trevanion were out—and a longtête-à-têtealmost reconciled him to her new abode. He had not forgotten his father's advice, nor taken the seal fromhis lips. He might not speak to her of love, but the nicest honor did not forbid him to show her the true sympathy and affection of a friend. In a few days he called again, and at the same hour; Miss Devoe was not at home, she had gone out with Mrs. and Miss Trevanion. Again the next day he came at the same hour, and the answer was the same. He called in the afternoon at five o'clock, and she was at dinner; at seven o'clock, she was preparing for an evening party, and begged he would excuse her. "I will seek no more," said Michael Grahame at length, with proud determination, "to enter the charmed circle which shuts her from me in the city. They cannot keep her to themselves always, and if Lilian's heart be what I deem it, it will take more than a few months of absence to efface from it the memories of years."
A few days only after this determination, Lilian was called down at nine o'clock in the morning, to see Mr. Grahame. Early as it was, the furtive glance towards her mirror and the hasty adjustment of her ringlets, might have suggested to an observer, that she hoped to receive in her visitor one who had an eye for beauty; and the sudden change that passed over her countenance as she entered the parlor in which her two guardians sat in earnest talk, would have awakened strong suspicions that she did not seethe Mr. Grahamewhom she had expected. Mr. Trevanion rose as she entered, and shaking hands with Mr. Grahame, said kindly, "I leave you with Lilian, Mr. Grahame, but I hope to see you again at dinner—we dine at five."
"Thank you, sir, but I hope to be taking tea with my good woman at home at that hour."
"Well, I shall hope to see you again soon—you must call often and see your friend Lilian."
"Why, I've been thinking, sir, that that would hardly be best for any of us—and to tell the truth, I came to-day to talk withLilian about that very thing, and if you please, I have no objection that you should hear what I have to say."
Mr. Trevanion seated himself again, and Lilian placing herself on the sofa beside him, Mr. Grahame resumed:—"It seems to me, sir, that Lilian has to choose between two kinds of life, which, should she try to put them together will only spoil one another, and I want her to have a fair chance to judge between them. Now, you know, sir, I speak the truth when I say that there are many among the fine gay people whom Lilian will meet at your house, who would look down upon her for having such friends as I and my wife, or even my son, though President B—— says he will be a distinguished man yet."
"I do not care for such people, or for what they think," exclaimed Lilian indignantly.
"I dare say not, my dear child, and yet they are people who are thought a great deal of, and whom, if you are to live amongst them, it would be worth your while to please—but that isn't my main point, Lilian. What I want to say, though I seem to be long coming at it, is, that I want you to see this gay life that fine folks in the city lead, at its best—without any such drawbacks as it would have for you, if you were suspected of having ungenteel acquaintances, and so we shall none of us come to see you—barring you should be sick, or something else happen to make you want us—until you make a fair trial, for six months at least, of this life—then should the beautiful, rich Miss Devoe like the old gardener and his family well enough to come and see them, she will learn how fondly and truly they love their Lilian."
"I had hoped you loved her too well to give her up so needlessly for six months, or even for one month," said Lilian, tears rushing to her eyes.
"Ask Mr. Trevanion if I am not right in what I have said, my dear child," said Mr. Grahame tenderly.
"I will not dispute the correctness of your principles in the main, Mr. Grahame, but I hope you do not think that all Lilian'sfineacquaintances as you call them, would be so unjust in their judgment as to think the less of her for her love of you, or to undervalue you on account of your position in life."
"No sir—no sir—I don't think so of all—but I want Lilian to see this life without even one little cloud upon it—such a cloud as the being looked down upon, though it were by people she didn't greatly admire, would make. We have our pride too, sir, and we want Lilian to try for herself whether our friendship, with all its good and its bad, be worth keeping. She is too good and affectionate, we know, to shake off old friends that love her, even if they become troublesome—but we will draw ourselves off, and then she will be free to come back to us or not, as she pleases. Now, sir, tell me frankly, if you think me wrong."
"Not wrong in principle, as I said before, Mr. Grahame, but—excuse me—you required me to be frank—would it not have been better to have made this withdrawal gradually and quietly, in such a manner that Lilian would not have noticed it, instead of giving her the pain of this abrupt severance of the ties between you?"
"A great deal better, sir," said Mr. Grahame, coloring with wonderful feeling, and fixing his clear, keen eye full on Mr. Trevanion,—"a great deal better if I wished to sever those ties—a great deal better if I would have Lilian believe that we had grown cold and indifferent to her. But, my dear child," and he turned to her, and taking both her hands, spoke very earnestly—"believe me, when I tell you, that you will find few among those who see you every day, that love you so warmly as the friends who have loved you from your birth, and who now stand away from you only because they will not be in the way of what the world considers higher fortunes for you if youdesire them. To leave you free to choose for yourself, is the strongest proof of love we could give you, and I repeat, when you have tried all that this new life has to give you—tried it for six months—if your heart still turns with its old love to those early friends, you will give them joy indeed."
Mr. Grahame paused, but neither Mr. Trevanion nor Lilian attempted to reply to him for some minutes—at length she raised her eyes, and said,
"You did not think of this when I left you—what has changed your mind—I will not say yourheart—towards me?"
"You are right not to say our hearts, Lilian; but, indeed, even my mind has not been changed—I thought then as I think now—but I could not persuade others of our family to think with me. Now, however, they all feel that they cannot keep up their old friendly intercourse with you without mortification to themselves, and pain to you. And, as I said before, we were none of us willing to withdraw from that intercourse without giving you our reasons for it, lest you should think we had grown indifferent to you."
Mr. Grahame soon departed, leaving Lilian saddened and Mr. Trevanion perplexed by his visit. "Singular old man!" this gentleman exclaimed to himself more than once, in reflecting on all that Mr. Grahame had said; so difficult is it for those whose minds have been forced into the strait forms of conventionalism to comprehend the dictates of untrammelled common sense, on points which that conventionalism undertakes to control. One thing at least Mr. Trevanion did comprehend—that on the succeeding six months depended Lilian's choice of her position and associates for life.
"So far Mr. Grahame is right Lilian," he said to her, "you cannot have a place at once in two such different spheres as his and ours. I always knew that to be impossible."
"You called my father friend," said Lilian, with unusual boldness.
"Your father was a gentleman by birth and breeding."
"And he has told me," persisted Lilian, "that he has never known more true refinement and even nobility of mind than in Mr. Grahame."
"I agree with him—ofmind, mark—but there is a want of conventional refinement which would make itself felt in society."
"There is no want even of this in his son," said Lilian with a trembling voice, and turning away to hide the blush that burned upon her cheek.
"Probably not, for Michael Grahame has been for years at the best schools, with the sons of our first families—but we cannot separate him from his father, and from the associates which his trade has given him."
Neither Mr. Trevanion nor Lilian ever spoke on this subject again; but the former resolved that no effort should be lost on his part to restore one so beautiful and so accomplished as his young ward to what he considered her true place in society, and the latter was as firmly determined that nothing should make her forgetful of the friends of her childhood. In furtherance of this resolve, Mr. Trevanion, instead of retiring to his country-seat with his family on the approach of summer, sent his younger children thither under the care of their faithful and intelligent nurse; and with Mrs. and Miss Trevanion, and Lilian, set out for Saratoga, at that season the great focus of fashion. Mrs. Trevanion, entering fully into his designs, had attended to Lilian's equipments for this important campaign, with no less care than to Anna's, and the result equalled their fondest expectations. Lilian wasthe beauty,the heiress, the belle of the season. Report exaggerated her fortune, appended all sorts of romantic incidents to her history and her connection with the Trevanions, and thus increased the interest which her own beauty and modest elegance was calculated to awaken.Admirers crowded around her, and to render her triumph complete, one who had hitherto found no charms in America worthy his homage, bowed at her shrine. This was Mr. Derwent, an Englishman of high birth and large fortune, whose elegant exterior, and the perfectsavoir fairewhich marked his manners, made him at Saratoga,