To bed—to bed. There’sknocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand, what’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.Exit Lady Macbeth.
To bed—to bed. There’sknocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come. Give me your hand, what’s done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
Exit Lady Macbeth.
And thus, as from the new commission of a frightful crime, she returns to her bed, there to tremble—and writhe and dream—and act over again and again the bloody drama.
Doctor.Will she now go to bed?Gent.Directly.
Doctor.Will she now go to bed?
Gent.Directly.
Then the doctor, apparently excited out of his usual reserve, utters the thoughts which are passing in his mind.
Doct.Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deedsDo breed unnatural troubles: infected mindsTo their deaf pillows, will discharge their secrets.More needs she the divine, than the physician.—
Doct.Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deedsDo breed unnatural troubles: infected mindsTo their deaf pillows, will discharge their secrets.More needs she the divine, than the physician.—
Doct.Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deedsDo breed unnatural troubles: infected mindsTo their deaf pillows, will discharge their secrets.More needs she the divine, than the physician.—
Doct.Foul whisperings are abroad: unnatural deeds
Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds
To their deaf pillows, will discharge their secrets.
More needs she the divine, than the physician.—
And then, profoundly impressed and shocked with what he has witnessed and discovered, he adds:
God, God, forgive us all!
God, God, forgive us all!
God, God, forgive us all!
God, God, forgive us all!
This prayer, bursting involuntarily from the heart of a worldly man in the mere exercise of his profession, is very expressive of the effect the scene has had upon him. He immediately returns, however, to the business which keeps him in the castle, viz: the treatment of his patient, and he gives this sagacious advice to the gentlewoman: supposing very properly that a conscience so desperately diseased might attempt self-destruction.
Look after her;Remove from her themeans of all annoyance,And stillkeep eyes upon her;—so, good-night:My mind she has mated,[1]and amaz’d my sight:Ithink, butdare not speak.Gent.Good-night,—good doctor.
Look after her;Remove from her themeans of all annoyance,And stillkeep eyes upon her;—so, good-night:My mind she has mated,[1]and amaz’d my sight:Ithink, butdare not speak.Gent.Good-night,—good doctor.
Look after her;Remove from her themeans of all annoyance,And stillkeep eyes upon her;—so, good-night:My mind she has mated,[1]and amaz’d my sight:Ithink, butdare not speak.Gent.Good-night,—good doctor.
Look after her;
Remove from her themeans of all annoyance,
And stillkeep eyes upon her;—so, good-night:
My mind she has mated,[1]and amaz’d my sight:
Ithink, butdare not speak.
Gent.Good-night,—good doctor.
Notwithstanding these injunctions, however, she succeeds in committing suicide. After her exit from this scene she appears no more. She could not, indeed, again come before our eyes without injuring the impression it has left. Her death is told in a way to harmonize with this impression and to leave the excited imagination at leisure to fill up the details to the last moment. Macbeth, desperate like a baited bull, is roaring a defiance of heaven and earth, for guilt has brutalized him perceptibly, when he is interrupted by “a cry within, of women.”
Macbeth.What is that noise?Seyton.It is the cry of woman, my good lord.
Macbeth.What is that noise?
Seyton.It is the cry of woman, my good lord.
Mac.I have almost forgot the taste of fears:The time has been, my senses would have cool’dTo hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hairWould at a dismal treatise rouse, and stirAs life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors;Direness, familiar to my slaught’rous thoughts,Cannot once start me.—Wherefore was that cry?
Mac.I have almost forgot the taste of fears:The time has been, my senses would have cool’dTo hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hairWould at a dismal treatise rouse, and stirAs life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors;Direness, familiar to my slaught’rous thoughts,Cannot once start me.—Wherefore was that cry?
Mac.I have almost forgot the taste of fears:The time has been, my senses would have cool’dTo hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hairWould at a dismal treatise rouse, and stirAs life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors;Direness, familiar to my slaught’rous thoughts,Cannot once start me.—Wherefore was that cry?
Mac.I have almost forgot the taste of fears:
The time has been, my senses would have cool’d
To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair
Would at a dismal treatise rouse, and stir
As life were in’t: I have supp’d full with horrors;
Direness, familiar to my slaught’rous thoughts,
Cannot once start me.—Wherefore was that cry?
Sey.The queen, my lord, isdead.
Sey.The queen, my lord, isdead.
The signification of Lady Macbeth’s sleep-walking scene is heightened by the contrast it affords to her proud overbearing demeanor in the earlier scenes of the play. There she is as bold as if, indeed, there were no God to supervise human affairs. When Macbeth, his dripping hands at length burthened with a now irreparable murder, finds himself appalled and feels that, among the other disadvantages of the crime, he has “murdered sleep,” “Macbeth shall sleep no more,” “The innocent sleep,” etc., etc., his lady is scarcely able to find words for her cool contempt of such weakness.
Why, worthy thaneYou do unbend your noble strength, to thinkSo brain-sickly of things:—go, get some water,And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—Why did you bring these daggers from the place?They must lie there. Go. Carry them; and smearThe sleepy grooms with blood.Mac.I’ll go no more;I am afraid to think on what I have done.Look out again I dare not.Lady.Infirm of purpose!Give me the daggers:The sleeping and the dead are but as portions:’Tis the eye ofchildhood, that fears apainted devil.If he does bleed I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withallFor it must seem their guilt.
Why, worthy thaneYou do unbend your noble strength, to thinkSo brain-sickly of things:—go, get some water,And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—Why did you bring these daggers from the place?They must lie there. Go. Carry them; and smearThe sleepy grooms with blood.Mac.I’ll go no more;I am afraid to think on what I have done.Look out again I dare not.Lady.Infirm of purpose!Give me the daggers:The sleeping and the dead are but as portions:’Tis the eye ofchildhood, that fears apainted devil.If he does bleed I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withallFor it must seem their guilt.
Why, worthy thaneYou do unbend your noble strength, to thinkSo brain-sickly of things:—go, get some water,And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—Why did you bring these daggers from the place?They must lie there. Go. Carry them; and smearThe sleepy grooms with blood.Mac.I’ll go no more;I am afraid to think on what I have done.Look out again I dare not.Lady.Infirm of purpose!Give me the daggers:The sleeping and the dead are but as portions:’Tis the eye ofchildhood, that fears apainted devil.If he does bleed I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withallFor it must seem their guilt.
Why, worthy thane
You do unbend your noble strength, to think
So brain-sickly of things:—go, get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.—
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there. Go. Carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.
Mac.I’ll go no more;
I am afraid to think on what I have done.
Look out again I dare not.
Lady.Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers:
The sleeping and the dead are but as portions:
’Tis the eye ofchildhood, that fears apainted devil.
If he does bleed I’ll gild the faces of the grooms withall
For it must seem their guilt.
Thus, braving heaven, denying God, laughing to derision the idea of conscience, and impiously promising that the blood may be washed from their hands with alittle water, glorying in the butchery of the good old king, and accumulating murder upon murder, she rushes on her fate, and, like all who oppose the Creator and Judge of the Universe, is dashed to pieces.
[1]“My mind she hasmated.” This expression is supposed to be taken from chess playing. She hasconfoundedmy mind.
[1]
“My mind she hasmated.” This expression is supposed to be taken from chess playing. She hasconfoundedmy mind.
THE GLAD RETREAT.
———
BY E. G. SQUIRES.
———
Beneath an elm, a green old elm,I raised a rustic seat,The boughs low bending o’er my head,The green grass at my feet.A little streamlet dancing by,With voice so clear and sweet;The air-spirit’s low and mournful sigh—Oh, ’twas a glad retreat!And often at the dewy morn,Just when the earliest ray,That from the chariot of the sun,Betokened coming day—I’d hie me to my glad retreat,To that old elm I’d stray,And by that rude and rustic seat,I’d kneel me down and pray.And at the sultry hour of noon,I’d seek the cooling shade,And listen to the murmuring soundThat little streamlet made.And watched the bright birds glancing throughThe branches, old and young—And wondered as they gaily flew,What was the song they sung.But time has passed, those days are gone,Ay, more, long years have fled—And lying o’er that little brook,A withered trunk and dead.But memory often wanders back,On Fancy’s pinions free—I’ll ne’er forget the rustic seatBeneath the old elm tree!
Beneath an elm, a green old elm,I raised a rustic seat,The boughs low bending o’er my head,The green grass at my feet.A little streamlet dancing by,With voice so clear and sweet;The air-spirit’s low and mournful sigh—Oh, ’twas a glad retreat!And often at the dewy morn,Just when the earliest ray,That from the chariot of the sun,Betokened coming day—I’d hie me to my glad retreat,To that old elm I’d stray,And by that rude and rustic seat,I’d kneel me down and pray.And at the sultry hour of noon,I’d seek the cooling shade,And listen to the murmuring soundThat little streamlet made.And watched the bright birds glancing throughThe branches, old and young—And wondered as they gaily flew,What was the song they sung.But time has passed, those days are gone,Ay, more, long years have fled—And lying o’er that little brook,A withered trunk and dead.But memory often wanders back,On Fancy’s pinions free—I’ll ne’er forget the rustic seatBeneath the old elm tree!
Beneath an elm, a green old elm,I raised a rustic seat,The boughs low bending o’er my head,The green grass at my feet.A little streamlet dancing by,With voice so clear and sweet;The air-spirit’s low and mournful sigh—Oh, ’twas a glad retreat!
Beneath an elm, a green old elm,
I raised a rustic seat,
The boughs low bending o’er my head,
The green grass at my feet.
A little streamlet dancing by,
With voice so clear and sweet;
The air-spirit’s low and mournful sigh—
Oh, ’twas a glad retreat!
And often at the dewy morn,Just when the earliest ray,That from the chariot of the sun,Betokened coming day—I’d hie me to my glad retreat,To that old elm I’d stray,And by that rude and rustic seat,I’d kneel me down and pray.
And often at the dewy morn,
Just when the earliest ray,
That from the chariot of the sun,
Betokened coming day—
I’d hie me to my glad retreat,
To that old elm I’d stray,
And by that rude and rustic seat,
I’d kneel me down and pray.
And at the sultry hour of noon,I’d seek the cooling shade,And listen to the murmuring soundThat little streamlet made.And watched the bright birds glancing throughThe branches, old and young—And wondered as they gaily flew,What was the song they sung.
And at the sultry hour of noon,
I’d seek the cooling shade,
And listen to the murmuring sound
That little streamlet made.
And watched the bright birds glancing through
The branches, old and young—
And wondered as they gaily flew,
What was the song they sung.
But time has passed, those days are gone,Ay, more, long years have fled—And lying o’er that little brook,A withered trunk and dead.But memory often wanders back,On Fancy’s pinions free—I’ll ne’er forget the rustic seatBeneath the old elm tree!
But time has passed, those days are gone,
Ay, more, long years have fled—
And lying o’er that little brook,
A withered trunk and dead.
But memory often wanders back,
On Fancy’s pinions free—
I’ll ne’er forget the rustic seat
Beneath the old elm tree!
THE REEFER OF ’76.
———
BY THE “AUTHOR OF CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR.”
———
Thecool breath of morning was blowing through the open casement, when I awoke on the ensuing day, and as the wind dallied with the curtains of my bed and kissed my fevered brow, I felt an exhiliration of spirits which no one can fully appreciate who has not experienced the torture of a bed of sickness.
My dreams had been pleasant during my repose, for they were of Beatrice. Overcome by exhaustion, I had sank into a slumber almost immediately after my faint attempt to address her; but I knew not how long I slept; for, although it was now early morning, I had no means of telling at what hour I had awoke the day before. No one appeared to be stirring in the room. The mild light of an October sun lay in rich masses on the carpet, while occasionally the brown vine leaves outside the casement, would rustle pleasantly in the breeze. How I gazed on the patch of blue sky discernible through that open window—how I longed to be wandering free and uncontrolled over the rich plains and up the glowing hill-sides that stretched away before the vision. Oh! there is nothing so glorious to the sick man as a sunny morning. At this instant a bird whistled outside the casement. How my blood danced at the lightsome tone! A succession of dreamy, delicious feelings floated through my soul, and I lay for some moments motionless, but dissolved in gratitude.
I raised myself feebly up, and faintly pushing aside the curtain, strove to obtain a survey of my apartment. At length my thoughts reverted to my situation. When I lost my consciousness, I was on a deserted deck—now I was lying in a spacious apartment, in perfect security. Who could explain this mystery? It was a rich, even luxurious room. The furniture was of the costliest and most tasteful pattern, and the arrangement of the different articles was made with an artist’s eye to the keeping—if I may so speak—of the whole. A stand just in front of me held a bouquet of fresh flowers, which, from their rarity, must have come from some green house. On the opposite wall hung a glorious picture of the Madonna, with her golden hair and beatified countenance, gazing down, with that smile which Raphael has made immortal, on the infant on her knee. A dim recollection floated through my brain that I had seen that smile before, only the features which then accompanied it, had been like those of Beatrice, rather than of the picture. Suddenly that angel face I had seen in my dream, flashed on me. I knew it all now. It had been, while gazing on this divine portrait in my delirium, that my fancy had imagined it the face of Beatrice, smiling down upon me from the clouds.
It was evident that Beatrice had some connexion with my present situation, for I was convinced that I had seen her the preceding day. Where was she now?—How long had I been sick in this place?—And in what manner was she I loved involved in my rescue, were questions that continually forced themselves on my mind, until my still weak brain began to be dizzy with the mystery. Putting my hands to my brow I strove to drive away such thoughts; but they only returned with ten-fold force. I would have risen to solve the mystery, but my strength proved inefficient to the task, and I sank back on my pillow. A half hour must thus have passed, when I heard a light footstep on the carpet, and in an instant my heart was throbbing, and the blood dancing in my veins. In a moment I should see Beatrice again. I gazed in the direction whence the sound of the steps proceeded, and the name of her I adored was already trembling on my lips, when a hand gathered back the curtain, and I saw, not Beatrice, but an elderly French woman, whose dress bespoke her a nurse. Never did a way-worn pilgrim, fancying he beheld the minaret of the holy city in the distance, gaze on amiragewith more disappointment than I did on the countenance of my visitor. But my curiosity soon triumphed over my disappointment. Perhaps she read my thoughts, for a smile of equivocal meaning gradually stole into the corners of her month as she returned my gaze. She was the first to speak:
“Is Monsieur better?” she inquired.
“Yes,” I replied, “I am almost well—sufficiently so, at least, to feel curiosity. In a word, how and when did I come here? Who am I to thank as my preserver?”
“Monsieur has more questions to ask than even a Parisiangrisettecould answer,” she replied, evasively. “Besides, his physician says he must be kept quiet. I can only tell him for the present that he is in France. Let him be patient and he shall soon know all. He is at any rate among friends, and when he gets stronger he shall hear his story from other lips than mine.”
As this was accompanied with a meaning smile that left no doubt on my mind to whom she alluded, and as she seconded her words by drawing the curtains together as if to retire, I was fain to be content. In addition to this moreover, I felt that I had already exerted myself sufficiently in conversation, for my brain was dizzy with the few words I had spoken. So I closed my eyes, and, like one wearied out with toil, in a few minutes was asleep.
Several days elapsed, during which I saw no one but the nurse, and now and then a servant or two in a rich livery, who brought in the tray. To all my inquiries I received the same answer, until at length, unbounded as was my curiosity, I gave over the attempt, comforting myself with the conviction that, in a day or two more, I should hear my story from the loved lips of Beatrice herself.
At length I was able to sit up, and when the formal old physician appeared, he announced to me with a meaning smile, that he would now permit me to receive visitors. He added that my host and hostess were anxious to pay their compliments in person, and had only been prevented hitherto from doing so by my extreme weakness, and his express commands. All this had an air of mystery about it which, however, I had not time to unravel, for the physician had scarcely ceased speaking when the door opened and my entertainers entered, announced by a servant in a rich livery. I started and crimsoned to the brow, but a hasty glance assured me that Beatrice was not there. The wonder increased,—but the physician left me no time for thought, for, advancing on the instant, he introduced my visitors to me formally as a Baron and Baroness de St. Allaire. They were both somewhat in years, at least past their prime, but their manners, apart from their former kindness to me, would have attracted me to them at once. The Baron was a stately Frenchman, of the school ofle grand monarque, very formal, very dignified, but withal kind hearted. His lady possessed one of the most benignant countenances I ever recollect to have seen. Her smile was peculiarly sweet. Her years sat on her lightly, and with all the propriety of her age she had all the liveliness of youth. It was not long, therefore, before I was perfectly at ease. The Baron expressed his satisfaction at my rapid improvement for the better, complimented himself on his good fortune in being my host, hoped that I found the prospect from my window pleasant, and all this, too, with a formality, yet an affability that realized my idea of the old French chevalier. His lady was less precise, and consequently more winning. She conversed even gaily, and on a variety of subjects, all, however, having a bearing on my illness. Yet, with a tact which I could not but admire, she avoided every allusion to the means by which I had become her guest, reminding me of a skilful advocate in a bad cause, always hovering about but never approaching the issue. A quarter of an hour was thus spent and I had determined to relieve my eager curiosity by broaching the subject myself at the first pause in the conversation, but, as if anticipating my design, the Baroness suddenly rose, and still continuing her gay remarks, fairly complimented herself out of the room before I had a chance to speak without violating all etiquette by interrupting the good lady. I fancied, as she closed the door with an “adieu, Monsieur,” that there was malice in her provoking smile, betokening a lurking consciousness that she had outwitted me. At first I was half disposed to feel angry, it was so evident that my curiosity was trifled with. My patience nearly gave way at these continued disappointments. Yet I had nothing at which I could rationally get displeased. It was in vain for me to feel angry—my discomfiture had been too adroitly managed—and at length I fairly burst into a laugh at my own expense.
“You are pleased to be merry,” said a silvery voice behind me, and a low glad laugh that rung through the chamber like fairy music, echoed my own. I started up at once. I knew I could not be mistaken. The next moment Beatrice was in my arms.
The rapture of that re-union I shall not attempt to portray. If my readers have been young, and after having been separated for years from the one they loved, have met her as their preserver, they can appreciate my feelings. I draw a veil over the sacred emotions of that interview. Nor will I repeat the thousand questions which were asked and answered almost in the same breath.
It was some ten minutes before Beatrice narrated the circumstances which had transpired since I parted with her in Charleston. Nor did she, even when she began, give me a connected account. There were too many questions to be asked, and too many inquiries to be answered, all growing, it is true, out of her story, but all sadly at variance with the course of the narration, to permit a continuous tale. At length, however, I learned all, or nearly all, for there were a few things which the dear girl did not tell me until long after,—and even then not without a blush at her avowal.
My first inquiry was about her own fortunes, but she would not answer me until I had told her how I came on the wreck, and she had acquainted me with the manner of my rescue. I will give it in her own words.
“When you lost your consciousness you were, I fancy, nearer to aid than you imagine, for a French privateer that was hovering along the coast discovered the wreck, and making for it rescued you, almost exhausted it is true, but still retaining life. You were insensible, and well nigh frozen to death. But the exertions of your preservers finally restored you to life, though not to consciousness. You fell into a raging fever in which you raved in a constant delirium. The captain of the privateer, having occasion to put into port the following day, brought you on shore, and suspecting you to be an Englishman from your language, unfeelingly consigned you to the common jail hospital, among the poorest and most degraded of human beings. There you lay the whole of the ensuing night, scarcely tended even by the callous nurses of those establishments. No one knew your name; your dress was not a uniform; and death was rapidly approaching to consign you to an unknown grave. But Providence did not will that such should be your fate. An all-seeing eye beheld you; an omnipotent arm interposed to save you. And the means of your preservation were so fortuitous as to seem almost those of chance. The confessor of the Baroness was in the habit of visiting the prison—for we reside but a short drive from the town—and while giving consolation to one of those miserable wretches—oh! I shudder to think that you were once there—he heard a sick man in a neighboring ward raving of a name,” and here the dear girl covered her face in confusion, “which was familiar to him. Need I say it was mine? He listened, and heard enough to satisfy him that you were acquainted with me. He made inquiries, learned how you came there—and you can imagine the rest.”
“That I was brought here and saved from death,” said I, looking fondly into Beatrice’s face. “But you have not told me how you came here, or what tie exists between you and our hostess.”
“Oh! she is my cousin. I spent some years here in early childhood. But to tell my story I must go back to when we last parted in Charleston.”
“Very well. I listen.”
“You know,” sweetly began Beatrice, “how much I feared, when you were in Charleston, that my uncle would make himself obnoxious to the colonial authorities, and endanger perhaps his life. You knew also, that he seemed resolved to bring about a union betwixt his son and myself. The necessity of obtaining my uncle’s sanction to my marriage under the penalty of forfeiting my fortune, weighed but lightly with me, for I knew his hostility to you to be unjust. Yet, as the representative of my deceased parent, I wished, if possible, to win Mr. Rochester’s sanction. His persevering determination to unite me to his son prevented all hope of this; and it was not long after our parting that I saw he would never consent to my becoming the bride of any one but his heir. Besides, he grew every day more openly hostile to the colonies. Unjust as I felt he was to me, I yet loved him as my mother’s brother, and I trembled for his life. But death suddenly interposed and calmed my fears, only however to awaken my grief. In the grave I buried my wrongs. I saw in him then only my protector in a strange land—my nearest living relative—the one with whom my sainted mother had spent her childhood.
“My uncle’s decease at once changed my fortunes. The only impediment to my enjoyment of my father’s estate was now removed, and I was free to bestow my hand on whomsoever I wished. My cousin renewed his offer, at a decent interval after his father’s death, but, need I say, I courteously yet firmly refused it. My longer stay in Charleston was now a matter of delicacy, for I had no relatives there except the family of Mr. Rochester, and they naturally viewed my decision with feelings more favorable to my cousin than to myself. Under these circumstances I availed myself of an opportunity that just then presented to sail for this country, where my relative the Baroness, with whom I had spent some years in childhood, resided. She had continued in correspondence with me ever since, and had urged me in every letter to visit her, even if I could not come and make my home with her. Little did I think that I should meet you under the circumstances in which I did.”
I have little more to add. Of the letters which I had written to Beatrice some miscarried, some were lost in captured ships, and a few reached her months after they had been penned. Her answers came with even more irregularity, for since the day we had parted in Charleston I had received but a solitary epistle from her. Now, however, every disappointment was amply redressed. She sat beside me with her hand in mine, and her soft eyes looking smilingly up into my face.
“But why,” said I at length, “was so much mystery preserved respecting your presence here? And why, after I had recognized you on my first awaking from delirium, did you order the nurse—for you only could have done so—to avoid all mention of your name, to conceal from me in whose house I was?”
“That was a scheme adopted as much from the orders of the physician as from any other motive. He feared that the least agitation would bring back your fever, and he enjoined secresy on the nurse, as the surest way to keep you composed.”
I would have said how much he had failed of success had I not been too full of happiness to condemn even a formal old physician.
The period of my convalescence is one written on my inmost heart in characters never to be obliterated. Oh! those were delicious hours. With Beatrice beside me I would sit gazing out on the sunny landscape beneath the window, or wander through the rich garden which surrounded the chateau. Or perhaps she would ply her needle while I would read to her. And then she would sing some of the old songs of her native land. And by and by the Baroness would come in, and with her ever sunny mind join in the conversation. Years, long eventful years, have passed since then, and God knows too many of those I loved are now in their graves, but the memory of that fortnight of happiness never fails to restore gladness to my heart even in its utmost sorrow.
But I have too long forgotten the littleFire Fly. It will be recollected that I had left Holland with the intention of joining my old commander at Paris, and I now seized the earliest opportunity of communicating my present situation to him by letter. A reply soon arrived by which I learned that, although theFire Flyhad been condemned, a brig had been chartered, and that he intended returning to America with his officers and most of his crew in her. They had been in the greatest anxiety respecting my fate, and had finally given me up for lost. The letter informed me that the day of sailing had been fixed, and that before I could return an answer the brig would have broke ground. My old commander ended by hoping that I might soon be able to rejoin him in the United States—although he added a gay postscript to say that he understood there was great probability of my choosing another mistress than glory.
Meanwhile I slowly recovered, and as every obstacle to my union with Beatrice was now removed, I did not hesitate to press the dear girl to name an early day for the realization of our nuptials. With a thousand blushes she referred me to the Baron and his lady, promising in the softest whisper, as if she feared to trust herself to speak, to abide by their decision. Need I say how speedily I availed myself of the permission, or how warmly I petitioned for as short a delay as possible?
At length the day was named, and though I was condemned to wait a whole month, in the company of Beatrice it glided away almost insensibly.
The morning at length dawned. It was a bright sunny day in early winter, and never shall I forget the cheery sound of the village bells ringing to announce my approaching nuptials. The air was keen and frosty; not a cloud was in the sky; the brown woods fairly glowed in the sunlight; and, in a word, had I chosen the day a more fitting one could not have been selected. My lady readers may expect a description of the dress of the bride, the carriage, the feast, and a thousand other things, but as I am no Sir Charles Grandison, I shall pass them over without comment. I will only say that Beatrice—my own Beatrice at last—never looked lovelier than when she descended to the room, where we were all awaiting her, on that marriage morn. The smile, the blush, the look of unreserved affection as her eye was raised timidly to my face and then dropped, I shall never forget. The Baron gave her away, the nuptial vow was said, and with a tumult of feelings I cannot describe, I pressed her to my bosom, a wife. A tear was on her cheek, but I kissed it holily away.
We remained in France for nearly a year after our union, and even after that prolonged stay, could hardly tear ourselves from the Baron and his lady. But the prospect of peace daily growing stronger we availed ourselves of the kind offer of the French monarch, and sailed for America in one of our allies’ frigates. I never, however, served again, for the war was in fact terminated, but thereafter I spent my life in the bosom of my family.
As the magician after having summoned up and marshalled before him a phantasmagoria of shadowy figures, at length perceives them fading from his sight, and, conscious that the spell is fast departing, lays down his rod, so we, approaching to the end of our task, find that the charm is beginning to lose its power, and that the beings we have conjured up are melting rapidly from our vision. Even now they seem to us only as a dream. Yet there is one glimpse more afforded to us before the magic curtain falls on them forever. It is that of a happy fireside and a smiling circle around it. Nor are the principals in that domestic scene wholly unfamiliar to us, for in the mild eyes and Madonna-like countenance of the one, and in the well-known face and embrowned features of the other, we recognize two of those who have figured as the chief personages in our story. Years have not impaired the beauty of Beatrice, for they have fallen as light on her as blossoms. But she is not now alone in her loveliness, for at her knee is one, like and yet unlike her, younger but not more beautiful, gayer but with scarcely less sweetness. Need we say of whom the group is composed?
And now, reader, let me drop my disguise and come before you in my own character as
Harry Danforth.
HE WOO’D ME AT THE FOUNTAIN.
———
BY A. M’MAKIN.
———
Hewoo’d me at the fountain,When the moon shone bright above,And with the murmuring of the stream,He pledged his vows of love.I bade him to my father hie,The pleasing tale to tell,Then seek again the fountain sheen,Down in the sylvan dell.He woo’d me in the bower,When the songsters fill’d the grove,And with the dove’s soft tones he sigh’dHis ardent tale of love.I bade him seek my mother’s side,Her blessing first to win,Then claim me for his chosen bride,The trelliced bower within.He woo’d me at the festal,Where music reigned supreme,And ’mid the revel wild and lightHe breath’d his chosen theme;Yet all unbless’d I could not yieldTo man the heart’s rich mine,Or falsely dash the holy lightFrom filial duty’s shrine.At length ’twas at the altar,’Neath the organ’s pealing sound,He sought again my trembling hand,While friends were smiling round;No more I bade him others seek,Or waved him from my side:With blushes mantling o’er my cheek,I knelt his happy bride.
Hewoo’d me at the fountain,When the moon shone bright above,And with the murmuring of the stream,He pledged his vows of love.I bade him to my father hie,The pleasing tale to tell,Then seek again the fountain sheen,Down in the sylvan dell.He woo’d me in the bower,When the songsters fill’d the grove,And with the dove’s soft tones he sigh’dHis ardent tale of love.I bade him seek my mother’s side,Her blessing first to win,Then claim me for his chosen bride,The trelliced bower within.He woo’d me at the festal,Where music reigned supreme,And ’mid the revel wild and lightHe breath’d his chosen theme;Yet all unbless’d I could not yieldTo man the heart’s rich mine,Or falsely dash the holy lightFrom filial duty’s shrine.At length ’twas at the altar,’Neath the organ’s pealing sound,He sought again my trembling hand,While friends were smiling round;No more I bade him others seek,Or waved him from my side:With blushes mantling o’er my cheek,I knelt his happy bride.
Hewoo’d me at the fountain,When the moon shone bright above,And with the murmuring of the stream,He pledged his vows of love.I bade him to my father hie,The pleasing tale to tell,Then seek again the fountain sheen,Down in the sylvan dell.
Hewoo’d me at the fountain,
When the moon shone bright above,
And with the murmuring of the stream,
He pledged his vows of love.
I bade him to my father hie,
The pleasing tale to tell,
Then seek again the fountain sheen,
Down in the sylvan dell.
He woo’d me in the bower,When the songsters fill’d the grove,And with the dove’s soft tones he sigh’dHis ardent tale of love.I bade him seek my mother’s side,Her blessing first to win,Then claim me for his chosen bride,The trelliced bower within.
He woo’d me in the bower,
When the songsters fill’d the grove,
And with the dove’s soft tones he sigh’d
His ardent tale of love.
I bade him seek my mother’s side,
Her blessing first to win,
Then claim me for his chosen bride,
The trelliced bower within.
He woo’d me at the festal,Where music reigned supreme,And ’mid the revel wild and lightHe breath’d his chosen theme;Yet all unbless’d I could not yieldTo man the heart’s rich mine,Or falsely dash the holy lightFrom filial duty’s shrine.
He woo’d me at the festal,
Where music reigned supreme,
And ’mid the revel wild and light
He breath’d his chosen theme;
Yet all unbless’d I could not yield
To man the heart’s rich mine,
Or falsely dash the holy light
From filial duty’s shrine.
At length ’twas at the altar,’Neath the organ’s pealing sound,He sought again my trembling hand,While friends were smiling round;No more I bade him others seek,Or waved him from my side:With blushes mantling o’er my cheek,I knelt his happy bride.
At length ’twas at the altar,
’Neath the organ’s pealing sound,
He sought again my trembling hand,
While friends were smiling round;
No more I bade him others seek,
Or waved him from my side:
With blushes mantling o’er my cheek,
I knelt his happy bride.
THE STOLEN MINIATURE.
———
BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.
———
“The very head and front of my offendingHath this extent, no more.”Othello.
“The very head and front of my offendingHath this extent, no more.”Othello.
“The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more.”
Othello.
Itwas near midnight, on one of the beautiful summer evenings that brood over our Western Land, as some fair spirit hovers near to Paradise—and which can be realized only by those who have witnessed them—that one of the numerous strangers that throng the waters of “La Belle Rivière,” paused on its upward course before a small town which lay upon the banks of the aforesaid stream. When the boat had effected a landing, a few passengers, who either blind to the charms of Morpheus, or more allied to those of sundry packs of cards, that strewed the tables of the “social hall,” stepped upon shore to enjoy a moonlight view of the village. Among the number, was a group of three individuals, who, withdrawing from the rest, strolled carelessly along one of the principal streets, until they arrived at a cross, turning down whose short but secluded walk, several large buildings, evidently the residences of the most wealthy portion of the inhabitants, were situated. As they passed into this beautiful and peaceful retreat, a slight whispering, which presently broke forth into loud and angry words, disturbed the slumbering echoes of the night.
“I tell you, Layton, it is impossible! I will not—cannot do it!”
“Spoken like a fool, and a milksop, as you are; there is a way to stop your whining scruples, and curse me if I’ll not show it you.”
Quick as thought, the first speaker turned, and confronting his companion, exclaimed in a voice trembling with passion,—“Ay, thereisa way to rouse the sleeping devil, even in mycowardframe; but your threats fall regardless on my ear, while I have this good blade to protect me,”—and a long glittering Bowie-knife flashed beneath the soft rays of the harvest moon.
“By Heavens! I believe you both to be mad! Put up your knife, Bradley, and you, Layton, keep your infernal tongue within your teeth, unless you want to have this goodly town about our ears.” This soothing speech was spoken by the third, and hitherto silent companion; and while the altercation is progressing in lower tones, you, my gentle reader, shall have a Daguerreotype sketch of at least one of the party.
Bradley Spencer was the son of one of the most wealthy and aristocratic planters in Louisiana, but maternal affection he never knew, at least was not conscious of it, his mother having been snatched away in his childhood, by one of the fearful epidemics peculiar to that portion of the South. His father, a high-principled, noble-minded man, richly endowed with the warm blood and chivalrous feelings of the Southerner, having thus lost that which he considered as the better part of life, gave his undivided heart to this “sole scion of his stock,” and for his boy’s sake, no second lady darkened his halls, or cast a shadow over the golden sunlight of the young heir’s youthful existence. Thus fondly nurtured and cherished, every wish indulged to the utmost, the young Bradley grew apace; but, with all his paternal prejudice, the elder Spencer could not but note the wavering acts and vacillating mind of his darling boy, betokening, even in youth, the indecision of the man. With prophetic sorrow, he saw the consequences entailed on one, who, ever willing to follow, had no projects to offer, or will of his own, to oppose those of others. To eradicate this “crying evil,” the boy was sent, at the age of fifteen, to college. There, at least, argued the parent, he will learn independence of thought and expression. But how widely was he mistaken! An universal favorite among his class-mates, winning “golden opinions” from all, by his pliant disposition, and suavity of manners, and being allowed an unlimited sum for his passing expenditures, he bore the palm, and reigned any thing but a despot, over his more firmly-minded companions. It is not our intention to follow him through the mazes of college life, and we pass in silence over the four succeeding years, when at the age of nineteen, he was re-called, to receive the last blessing and injunctions of a dying father. Still true to his erroneous system of indulgence, Mr. Spencer left his property to the undivided control of his son, fondly imagining, that unlimited sway would overcome the imbecile principles of youth, and teach him that firmness of mind, and stability of purpose, so essential to manhood.
Youth is the season of luxury and enjoyment. Joy is evanescent; and grief, in the young bosom, is but the sudden o’ercasting of a summer sky; the cloud passes away, and the bow of promise is bent in the now smiling heavens. Thus was it with Bradley’s grief; a few short weeks in New Orleans did wonders; they initiated him in the mysteries and delights of the gaming table; they did more: they introduced him to the lowest haunts of vice and infamy, cloaked, indeed, for the decoy of this rich windfall; but so thin and flimsy was the protecting veil of decency and morality, that any other than Bradley Spencer’s eyes would have pierced the wily folds, and laid bare the monsters lurking behind them. Thus early possessed with the fatal passion of gaming, night after night saw the infatuated youth wound deeper and deeper in the toils of his betrayers. Mortgage after mortgage was given,—though not having a shadow of legality about them, they were accepted as eagerly by these human leeches, as the red gold for which they had sold their souls to perdition. The men with whom it was Spencer’s fate to become connected, were most of them from thirty to forty years of age; wily, unprincipled villains, well calculated to govern the simple youth, whom they remorselessly plundered of all at his present command, and accepted his honor as pledge for the rest, when he should become of age. Nor were the months tardy in their flight. At the end of two short years, his property was formally yielded by his passive guardian, and the day that gave him house and land, stock and slave, saw him resign it to the fiends who had possessed him with a love of all that was degrading to human nature, and taught him to scoff at all who were truly poor and virtuous.
It is the same Bradley Spencer, kind reader, whose brief career we have endeavored to trace, that we left in the little village, with his knavish companions, who, fresh from the hiding places of loathsome vice, were intent on drawing the young man into yet greater depths of wickedness. But they struck upon the wrong chord—Spencer had been culpable, most culpable, it is true, but he was to himself his worst foe; he had not willingly injured others, but had been the dupe, in every instance. Thus, when his brutal comrade expressed his determination torobone of the habitations before them, and urged his assistance, his nobler spirit that had slept so long, was aroused, and he gave vent to his feelings in the manner we have described.
Brief was their consultation, and the arguments they held with him bade fair to be of no avail, until the elder and more polite villain, declared that Bradley could not now withdraw in honor, as they should suspect he meant to betray them; that they would not require his assistance, if he had anyfoolishprejudice to the contrary; but he should accompany them, as a mere looker-on. Without pausing for an answer, he passed his arm in that of the young man’s, and followed by Layton, they stepped into a small yard, at the gable end of one of the mansions. There, a window had been left open by the unsuspecting inmates, for the benefit of the air. Springing lightly in, he was followed by the others. Groping their way by the light of a dark lantern, which Layton pulled from the bosom of his coat—thus showing himself perfectlyau faitin such proceedings—they ascended a staircase, and pausing in a long passage, bade Bradley be watchful, and give a low whistle upon the slightest alarm. The two less scrupulous ruffians then pursued their way down the passage. What Spencer’s reflections would have been, he had not leisure to ascertain, for, fancying he heard a low breathing, like one in deep slumber, he turned and discovered, by the light of the moon, which was streaming in a window near, a door, the which, on applying his hand, yielded to the impulse. Impelled by curiosity, or some more definable feeling, he stepped softly into the room. A night-lamp was burning dimly upon a table, near a small couch, where, in her bright and youthful loveliness, slept a fair girl. Scarce had the breath of sixteen summers passed over the clear brow that lay upturned in its marble whiteness, for
“Death’s twin-sister, sleep,”
“Death’s twin-sister, sleep,”
“Death’s twin-sister, sleep,”
“Death’s twin-sister, sleep,”
weighed down the veined lids, the long dark lashes of which rested on the faintly-tinged cheek beneath. As Spencer turned from this unexpected vision, his glance fell on a small book, that lay open on the table. Some light pencil-mark, that pointed to an admired passage, drew his attention. As he bent to read, his brow crimsoned, and his frame trembled with emotion. It was a volume of the ill-fated Shelley’s Poems, open at “Adonais,” and as he read
“Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee,Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,”
“Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee,Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,”
“Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee,Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,”
“Remorse and self-contempt shall cling to thee,
Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,”
a full sense of his degradation, and how he had “fallen from his high estate,” rushed upon his stricken heart, and feelings that had slumbered long, were now fully awakened by the thrilling lines of the mystical poet, and the strange scene before him. As he turned quickly to leave where his presence was a sacrilege, his attention was caught by a small miniature, one glance at which showed him the waking likeness of the sleeping beauty before him. Involuntarily catching it, he fled from the room, and giving the signal agreed upon, to his companions, the next moment saw them wending their way to the boat, which, having discharged the freight that detained her, was soon flying upon her onward course.
Threeyears had passed away, since Bradley Spencer, leagued with common thieves, accompanied them on their nefarious night expedition, in the little village already mentioned. Bradley Spencer,thenthe companion of gamblers and low debauchees, wasnowHenry Murray, the trusted head clerk of one of the most wealthy mercantile houses in New York. From the ever memorable night of the robbery, the wretched young man forsook his unworthy associates. “Remorse and self-contempt” did indeed cling to him, and despair and shame at first conquered his remaining energy. But the spirit was present with him; it only needed to be roused into action. He had parted with his last dollar, when he arrived in New York, and the change of name was decided on to soothe the pride that came to his aid after so long a time. Deprivations only rendered him stronger in his virtuous purposes, thus proving at once the false system of indulgence adopted by his parent.
Clement Archer, Esq., was a stern, unbending, business man. Strictly moral in his walk before men, he required all around him to show the same regard for the welfare of society. With a heart filled with benevolence, though veiled with an air of sternness, he received Bradley in his counting-house, as Henry Murray, knowing it to be a fictitious name, for Spencer scorned to impose on his benefactor in this respect, and though Bradley’s past history was a sealed book which his employer never attempted to pry into, he could not help fancying some misdemeanor had driven the young man from his home and friends. He contented himself, therefore, by placing a strict watch upon his conduct, but after months had passed away, indeed, years, and saw Henry the same attentive, hard-laboring clerk he was at first, his patron took pleasure in showing him favor, and in placing the most unlimited confidence in him. Thus had the three years glided by. That Henry was comparatively happy, we admit, but many an agonizing night had passed, ere he acquired even this slight tranquility, and shall we confess it, kind reader? the stolen miniature, the witness of his involuntary crime, was cherished as a precious relic, for instead of serving to remind him of his errors, and fill him with shame, it was regarded as a mute angel, that had snatched him from ignominy and vice. And who could blame him for loving to look upon that fair countenance, with its deep and eloquent eyes forever speaking of the intellectual worth within? It was not so much the beautiful form of the features, that arrested the gaze, as the whole-soul expression that shone around them. Long would the infatuated youth gaze on the memento of his crime, but there was little penitence in his looks, and not one thought of sorrow for the grief the loss of it must have given the fair original, for enclosed in the back was a braid of dark hair, slightly silvered with grey, and beneath was engraved, “from a fond mother to her daughter, on her sixteenth birthday.”
Bradley had carefully avoided every print which he thought would be likely to contain the intelligence of the robbery, and as no communication passed between himself and the perpetrators on this subject, he was consequently ignorant of the amount abstracted, or of the names of the sufferers.
It was a cold winter morning, when Mr. Archer suddenly entered his counting-house and ordered it to be immediately closed. On Henry’s (for so must we call him) looking up, he perceived his friend’s countenance was clothed with grief, and the fresh crape upon his hat told that death had been busy with his house. Bidding Henry, who was domesticated in his family, accompany him home, he informed him he had just received letters announcing the death of an only and well-beloved brother, and added, he was hourly expecting the arrival of an orphan niece, now committed to his charge. His companion asked no questions, for fear of stirring the fountain of grief afresh. On entering the drawing-room at night, he was presented to Miss Archer, but what was his surprise and consternation on lifting his eyes to her face, to see the fair sleeper before him! The face was paler than the miniature’s, and wore a more chastened and somewhat older expression, for sorrow had indeed visited her. Both parents had slept their last sleep, since she slumbered so unconsciously in his presence. Stammering forth some faint apologies, Bradley left the room and the house, and who may say what wild visions thronged his restless couch that night!
Months glided away, and Mr. Archer beheld, with some slight misgivings, the growing intimacy between his niece and Henry. Not but that he would willingly have given her to hisprotégé, could the cloudy mystery which hung over the young man have been cleared to his satisfaction. But during the three years Henry had been with him, he had never received letter or communication, of any kind, from friend or foe. For a young man to stand so utterly alone, “looked strange,” to say the least of it.
Entering the room one evening, where Miss Archer and Henry were sitting, her uncle, in a light and laughing tone, said,
“How is this, Emily? Young Dalton has been making serious complaints concerning the obduracy of heart of an ungrateful niece of mine. What has he done to provoke her displeasure? ‘and why won’t she wed?’ ”
“Nay, dear uncle, you know my heart and hand have long been pledged to the restorer of my miniature.”
“And so my Emily stands pledged to a nameless robber! Would she like it to reach his ear through the walls of a prison?”
“Most sincerely do I hope he is free, for he must be a gentle ruffian, and having stolen naught but my picture, I can’t find it in my heart to be very angry; the compliment, dear uncle, only think of the compliment!”
“Ay, but the compliment paid to your father was a little more costly, was it not?”
“With that I have nothing to do,” replied Emily, blushing; “but I would willingly forgive the robber, would he restore my mother’s gift,” and the tears sprang to her eyes, at the mention of her loss. Mr. Archer saw her emotion, and said no more. But Bradley, how did he hear the secret? How often was he tempted, as he heard the beautiful and enthusiastic girl plead for him so eloquently, and regret the loss of what was so dear to her, to throw himself on her mercy and confess all, but happily he restrained his emotion, and soon after left the apartment.
“Now, gentlemen, while you are discussing your hot rolls and coffee, I will read this delightful retailer of news and scandal,” exclaimed Miss Archer, on seating herself at the breakfast table, the morning succeeding the conversation already detailed. “Here is ‘latest foreign news,’ ‘home affairs,’ ‘politics’ and ‘poetry;’ which will you have? Ah! let me see; here is a mysterious affair: