We talked the matter over freely and fully, and Herbert concluded with me that it was best to burn the package, that under no possible combination of circumstances could it fall into her hands. It should be his happiness he said to make her forget to look for her father.
How he found out how much she could bless him—and when she discovered that though he was full of faults, she loved him, faults and all, I cannot tell; but every body’s experience will furnish similar instances for themselves or others.
APPEARANCES.
———
BY J. HUNT, JR.
———
Itis not by an outward showTo judge where sorrows first beginAn old, thatched cot, for aught we know,May have a “banquet hall” within.How true this rule will oft apply,To some who fill life’s lowly part;Their very looks may Pain descry,And Joy be seated in their heart.
Itis not by an outward showTo judge where sorrows first beginAn old, thatched cot, for aught we know,May have a “banquet hall” within.How true this rule will oft apply,To some who fill life’s lowly part;Their very looks may Pain descry,And Joy be seated in their heart.
Itis not by an outward showTo judge where sorrows first beginAn old, thatched cot, for aught we know,May have a “banquet hall” within.
Itis not by an outward show
To judge where sorrows first begin
An old, thatched cot, for aught we know,
May have a “banquet hall” within.
How true this rule will oft apply,To some who fill life’s lowly part;Their very looks may Pain descry,And Joy be seated in their heart.
How true this rule will oft apply,
To some who fill life’s lowly part;
Their very looks may Pain descry,
And Joy be seated in their heart.
HOW CHARLEY BELL BECAME SENATOR.
Thewhole matter is this.
The tea-things had just been cleared away, the baby just got fast asleep and laid in his crib, my wife just got fixed by the round-table making a blue velvet cap for him, and I had just got comfortably settled in my arm-chair on the other side of the table, when Tom returned from the post-office through the rain and mud and dark bringing one letter. My wife gave a pish! when I told her it was not from her mother, but apologized immediately for her expression when I informed her that the letter—broad, thick and with a vast deal of ink in the superscription—was from Charley. Giving the wick of the lard-lamp another turn she begged me to read it aloud.
Tearing off the envelope—drawing my chair a little nearer the fire and clearing my throat I read—
Rev.W.——“My dear W.—Elected! Apart from all nonsense and affectation I am heartily glad of it! of course I received the congratulations of every body here quietly, as if it was all a matter of course that I should be elected Senator, but with you I have no reserve. Know then, myverydear W., that I am glad I am elected. For three reasons. First, because I am elected while just barely of the requisite age: Second, because I am elected by an overwhelming majority—20 to 1: Third, because it places me out in a free and higher field of usefulness and energy. Why I feel as if I had just begun my life. I have not attained theend—only the beginning of my ambition. I don’t think that it ought to be branded asambition—this feeling of mine either. Idon’tthink it is ambition. It is a purer feeling—A wish, an eagerness, anatureto be doing, influencing, bettering as wide a sphere as I possibly can. I was elected without anyarton my part whatever. I told the people exactly what I was, and what I intended to try to do if they elected me. I intend to be just exactly what I am! If I were to try to appear other than exactlythatI would look as well as feel mean—my arm would falter in every gesture, my tongue stammer, my knees shake—I would become weak—weak physically, mentally, utterly! A pure-minded, single-intentioned, whole-souled manner in thought, word and deed has borne me thus far like a straight arrow from a true bow. It is the shortest, best way to cleave the future, I know.“There is a fourth reason why I do rejoice in my election. It is because I know thatyouwill rejoice in it. It isyoumy friend who have made me high-thoughted and far-thoughted. It isyouwho during the last twenty years have been my good genius—in your conversation when present with me—in your correspondence when absent from——”
Rev.W.——
“My dear W.—Elected! Apart from all nonsense and affectation I am heartily glad of it! of course I received the congratulations of every body here quietly, as if it was all a matter of course that I should be elected Senator, but with you I have no reserve. Know then, myverydear W., that I am glad I am elected. For three reasons. First, because I am elected while just barely of the requisite age: Second, because I am elected by an overwhelming majority—20 to 1: Third, because it places me out in a free and higher field of usefulness and energy. Why I feel as if I had just begun my life. I have not attained theend—only the beginning of my ambition. I don’t think that it ought to be branded asambition—this feeling of mine either. Idon’tthink it is ambition. It is a purer feeling—A wish, an eagerness, anatureto be doing, influencing, bettering as wide a sphere as I possibly can. I was elected without anyarton my part whatever. I told the people exactly what I was, and what I intended to try to do if they elected me. I intend to be just exactly what I am! If I were to try to appear other than exactlythatI would look as well as feel mean—my arm would falter in every gesture, my tongue stammer, my knees shake—I would become weak—weak physically, mentally, utterly! A pure-minded, single-intentioned, whole-souled manner in thought, word and deed has borne me thus far like a straight arrow from a true bow. It is the shortest, best way to cleave the future, I know.
“There is a fourth reason why I do rejoice in my election. It is because I know thatyouwill rejoice in it. It isyoumy friend who have made me high-thoughted and far-thoughted. It isyouwho during the last twenty years have been my good genius—in your conversation when present with me—in your correspondence when absent from——”
I read the rest of the letter to my wife, but it is entirely too flattering to me to be coolly written out here. Indeed I remarked all along, through the three more pages which followed, to my wife, that his encomiums were only the warm expressions of a warm soul unusually excited, and which must be taken with all allowance.
Charley’s letter flushed me through and through. That my old friend should be elected Senator to congress from his State I hoped but hardly expected. Intimate companionship with a friend, you know, has a tendency to dwindle him in our eyes. Don’t misunderstand! Intimacy with such a man as Charles Bell makes one love and prize him more and more—but doesnotmake one think more and more that such a man is suited to be a grave and reserved Senator. It is just as it is with the Swiss peasant whose cabin is on a side of Mont Blanc—the hoary old mountain does not appear a tithe so sublime to him as it does to some traveler in the distance.
I say I felt thoroughly warmed and rejoiced. I arose, put all my wife’s spools and scraps off the table into her lap, laid my portfolio and ink-stand upon it, begged my wife to absorb herself in her baby’s velvet cap, dipped my pen in the ink and now have written thus far.
All my past intercourse with Charley rushes to my lips now, as tears do sometimes to one’s eyes. I want to tell just as briefly and distinctly as possible how he has risen from nothing to what he now is. I know much better than he—and if he reads this, it will do him good. Any-how, I feel in the mood of writing, and before I go to bed, if my baby don’t wake with the colic and my wife don’t interrupt me I will tell you exactly how Charley Bell became a United States Senator.
The fact is, too, that I have a half-hope that some youth may read this and may get a word which may wakehimto a higher and nobler life than he has ever yet dreamed of. If the eye of any such a one rests on these pages, just one word my fine fellow. Forget for a little while that everlasting Julia whom you fell in love with last Tuesday a week ago, and read with all your soul of souls.
I cannot exactly say when I didnotknow Charley. He is some three years older than myself—he being about eighteen, and I about fifteen years of age when our friendship began to be a thing to be remembered. He looked when I saw him a year ago exactly as he did when we used first to chat cosily beside his fire-side, about Bulwer and Dora Anson. He is of a medium size, handsome, earnest face, forehead broad rather than high. There is a peculiar gentleman-look about him, wherever he is or whatever he is doing. He has such an enthusiastic sympathy with every man, woman and child he meets with that he is popular of course.
His peculiarity, however, always consisted in a hunger after personal excellence. From our first acquaintance we made a distinct arrangement to tell each other of our faults as plainly as words couldconvey meaning. If he did not faithfully do his part toward me in this arrangement I am very, very much mistaken. He thoughtaloudabout me—told me exactly what Iwas, and what I wasnot. I did the same in regard to him. We have acted thus for many years now. We have been of vast benefit to each other—and will continue to be till we die.
I do verily believe that this arrangement had a good deal to do in making him the man he is.
Just in this way.
When we first became intimate, and had made our arrangement as above, I opened the war by talking to him as follows:
“Charley, my fine fellow, you are ambitious to be a good speaker. Now—you remember our little arrangement about correcting the faults of each other?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the plain fact is you have got a most miserable, squeaking voice. Your chest is narrow, you stoop, you don’t have that broad, strong, manly appearance which is almost essential to a speaker.”
I saw he winced under this. Hefelteloquence deeply—hethoughteloquently—and forgot that the thought must beexpressedeloquently, or it is eloquence only to himself.
That afternoon he made a pair of dumb-bells—and I do verily believe that he has hardly missed a day from that to this in which he has not exercised his chest and his voice in every possible way. No one would ever thinknowthat he was not always the broad-chested, powerful-voiced orator he is.
It strikes me that even this little event had something to do with Charley in his becoming a Senator. You never saw a narrow-chested man who had any voice, energy or eloquence in your life. Ifyouhave got a stoop, my boy, you had better correct it if you ever intend being any thing.
I received from him one day a very, very plain exposition of one of my many faults. Never mind what it is. He pointed it out to me as you would point out a rattlesnake in a thicket to any companion you chanced to be walking with. I saw it—this vile fault of mine—and have been hunting it, and striking savagely at it, whenever I detect it stealing through my conduct with its accursed insidiousness ever since. Alas! it is “only skotched not killed” yet. But that is another matter. I only mention it to say that his very plain remarks gave an edge to my remarks, as I observed—
“You are right, Charley, perfectly so—and I war against that accursed fault forever. But it reminds me of one ofyours.”
“Eh?”
“Charley, you have a vile, offensive, disgusting habit of chewing tobacco. It is loathsome. If you would only keep the weed in your mouth, why it would only poison yourself—but you will be everlastingly spitting out its juice—and it poisonsme—poisons me through sight, smell, hearing and feeling. Don’t use it any more.”
True to his own true nature, he never took another quid. Whether this is one cause of his blooming health and firm nerve I will not say. Iwillsay that it is one cause of his astonishing popularity with the ladies—whethertheyknow that it is or not—and thus one cause of this election of his as Senator.
These faults of ours! I said they are like snakes. So they are. Sometimes a man catches sight of one of them lying full-length in its loathsomeness in his own conduct or conversation. Suppose the fault is self-conceit?—a disease of mentioning one’s self at all times, which you have contracted. Well, you see the same fault in some fool or other, or some Charley Bell tells you of it. The knowledge falls like a flash of daylight on the vice—you see it! If it would only perish—crawloutof you, it would be well. But the vile thing—crawlsinto you—like a snake into its hole. It does not show its head while you are watching for it. A day or two passes. You forget about it—and it is out—drawing its filthy trail through all your conduct again.
This isnota digression. Because I wanted to say that Charley was a man of too strong a desire after personal excellence not to wage eternal war after such vermin. A shrewd observer would have known the existence of his besetting faults only by the unusual prominence of just the opposite virtues, just as you recognize the former drunkard in the man who has a special horror now of all that can intoxicate.
There were several minor defects in Charley’s character, which I pointed out to him, but which he has so completely conquered that I have forgotten what they were.
I really must say something about that Dora Anson affair.
Dora was the brunette daughter of an established lawyer in our inland village. I see her as distinctly before me while I write, as if shewasbefore me. She was some sixteen years of age—had the usual amount of education and mind—was unaffected—warm-hearted—black haired and eyed—rosy-lipped—woman-rounded form. Charley fell in love—astonishingly in love with her. I was amazed. He was of an intellectual, though impulsive nature; and she had no conversational power—nothing in the world but a lively, natural, voluptuous sort of beauty, to recommend her to him.
Astonishingly in love. He made love to her by flowers, and was accepted in the same way, before he went to college. He was absent a year. The very night of his return he went to a party at her father’s, which happened that night. He got a seat near her toward the close of the evening—in a low voice made a passionate appeal to her, although surrounded by company—went home—wrote her a still more passionate letter. He was too impulsive—frightened her—had his letter returned, and came to me, and as we sat on a log in the moonlight, told me the whole. He was about twenty years old then, and the affection had quickened, expanded, strengthened his heart even more than that chest-exercise had his lungs. There was a depth, and breadth, and force about his affection for Dora which stirred uphis whole being. It rolled through him like a sea, deepening and washing out the sands of his heart till that heart became deep and broad. For months that love lived and worked in him; at last it died out like the steam from the engine of a steamship.
When I see his hearty affection for his friends—his warm sympathy for all among whom he mingles, which gives him his wonderful popularity, I can trace it all back to that development of his heart under the hot summer of that love of his for Dora Anson. I do believe that the genial smile, the cordial manner, the melting persuasiveness of his tones, all owe their development, if not their origin, to that culture of his heart. The sun may have set which shone on his soul, but it left that soul all ruddy and ripe from its warm rays. If Dora had jilted him, it would have left him a soured man. If she had married him, it would have left him a satiated man. In either case it would have injured him. But she did not jilt him—did not marry him; he outgrew so sensuous a love as that, and somehow or other they drifted apart.
I believe, however—and my wife, to whom I have just mentioned it, agrees with me—that his connection with Mr. Nelson had very much to do in making him the man he is.
You see, when Charley had finished his law-studies, his father and mother were dead. He never had any brothers or sisters. One or two thousand dollars was his fortune. Being a young man—now some twenty-five—of fine appearance, and talents, and manners, he attracted the attention of Mr. Nelson, a keen and rich lawyer in the village, and in a few weeks he was settled in his office as a junior partner. For some six months Nelson seemed wonderfully attached to Charley—continually spoke of him with the loudest praise—over-rated him, in fact. At the close of this period, however, he suddenly took just as violent a set against Bell as he had before for him. Nobody ever knew the reason of this. I don’t think Nelson himself did. The truth is, the elder partner was a singular man. He always dressed neatly in black—was rather thin, with a stooping shoulder, a retreating forehead, a quick way of talking, and a rapid step. He was excessively hospitable and generous, more for the sake of being a sort of protector and superior of the guest than any thing else. Self-will wasthetrait of his character.
But I am writing about Charley, and have got no time to paint this Nelson. Enough to say that he took as vehement a dislike to Bell as he before had a liking. He ridiculed and opposed and thwarted him with an astonishing bitterness. Bell, at first, was staggered with astonishment—then cut to the very soul with such unkindness from the last man on earth from whom he expected it. But it did him great good. It corrected his blind confidence in every man completely, and gave him a quiet watchfulness of men in all his dealings with them, which was of immense benefit to him. It destroyed in an instant all his false and colored ideas of things. The faults of his character which Nelson pointed out and ridiculed, and made the ostensible cause of his alienation, were forever corrected—just as a wart is burnt off by corrosive sublimate. Nelson’s extravagant depreciation of him after such extravagant praise of him, gave him, in one word, an impulse to prove himself unworthy that depreciation and more than worthy the former praise, which did more for him than if his senior partner had given him years of the most careful instruction and countenance. Besides, it threw him suddenly on himself—made an independent man of him forever. Just what that chest-exercise did for his lungs, that Dora affair did for his heart, this Nelson matter did for his will—it deepened and broadened and strengthened it to an unusual degree—it did very much toward making him a Senator.
My wife agrees with me that the little love affair of his with Marie McCorcle had not much if any effect on our friend. Failing a little in love with her when he was some twenty-six years old, for a remark she made in a speech when May Queen, he proposed in a note—was rejected in a note. Mounting his horse, he took a ride of some eleven days on business somewhere. On his return he was over with it, except of course the feeling of pique. The first day of his ride he chanted, as he told me, the words of her rejection to “Old Hundred,” all day long, over and over and over. The next day it was to a faster tune. He trotted his horse rapidly back, making his hoofs keep time to the swiftest jig of his recollection, as he rode into town with the words of her rejection still on his lips.
The rest of my task is a pleasant one. I like to think about Annie Rennaugh—I love even to write her name. She was a cousin of Dora’s and resided in the same town. I cannot say that she was pretty—but I can say that she was beautiful. Just in this way. She was of a small, modest, quiet appearance. You would hardly look at her twice if you saw her in a promiscuous company. Only become acquainted with her, however, and an irresistible charm is upon you. There is such a delicious ease in all she says and does—such a deep mirth and artless confidence in her that conquers without observation.
She was a special friend of Charley’s. He confided to her from the very first all his affair with Dora. I saw him one evening at a party with her. She was seated in a chair by the door, with a saucer of strawberries and cream in her lap. He was seated at her feet in the doorway—enjoying the summer air—conversing in a low, earnest tone with her as they took alternate teaspoonsful of the fruit. They were talking about Dora—Charley’sidealDora—as earnestly as if they were talking love on their own account.
Well, the full moon of Dora’s influence waxed into the full orb of its influence upon her lover, and then waned, and waned. His friendship, however, for Annie increased slowly—slowly, but most surely. When he was whirled away for those four weeks by Marie McCorcle, he told her all about it, and had, as usual, all her sympathy. Then he was off for college and corresponded with her regularly. I waswith him in college. Many a time has he torn up—at my advice—the long letter he had written her, because it was entirely too warm, even though it was directed in the mostfraternalmanner possible to “My dear Sister Annie,” and signed, “Your affectionate brother, Charles.”
You can see immediately how it all ended. A friendship begun in mere indifference had ripened through six years into deep, genuine affection. He never dreamed that he loved Annie until he found that she was essential to his existence. For the first time he knew what true love was. He found that it wasnotthe sensual flush of passion, such as warmed him under the hot beauty of Dora—that it wasnotthe fever of the imagination which diseased him under the moonlight of Marie. He found that love was not a passion but a feeling; was not a fit but a condition; was not a hot flush of blood, but the quick, even, everlasting flow of the heart’s tide, giving health and life to the whole man.
I am writing nothing but actual fact, and so I cannot say how he told Annie his love and how she accepted him. He has talked to me—I do believe in all it amounts to several hundred hours—about Dora and Marie. He has quoted to me at least one dozen dozen times every word that ever passed between him and them, but he never told me any thing about his love conversation with Annie. They are married. They seem perfectly happy in the quiet possession of each other and of the blue-eyed baby boy that laughs in their arms.
This was the making of Charles Bell. A remark of mine has led to the development of his noble form, and the establishment of that full health so essential to successful labor. His love for Dora has expanded his heart and warmed and flushed him all through and through with an affection and persuasion and love, that shows itself in his every tone and smile and clasp of the hand and word. His affair with Marie has cultivated his imagination perhaps. His painful experience with Mr. Nelson has corrected all false ideas of men—has given him caution, self-possession, self-reliance and energy. He has learned to meet things as they come; to do his utmost, and then, not only not murmur at whatever happens but actually to acquiesce, to rejoice in every event. Annie is an infinite blessing to him. He is full of impulse, and she, by a silent, irresistable influence, controls and directs it. He is full of noble aspiration but inclined to be fickle—she is ever pouring oil on the fire of his soul as with an unseen angel hand—is silent and uncongenial when he wanders from his better self—and thus draws him quietly but irresistibly back.
Of course there were many circumstances in politics and situation which conspired to elevate him to his present position. I have only alluded to the quiet under-current of his private life. I wrote what I have written only because I felt like doing so. I do not think either he or Annie will be offended at my freedom should they read this—especially as I have not mentioned his State or his real name. I am heartily sick of all romance and romantic ideas and descriptions of men and women, but I do look upon the “Hon. Charles Bell and his amiable lady,” as the Washington papers will call them, as two of the finest persons in all my knowledge. Both are most sincere Christians, and singular as it may seem to some, I regard their companionship and mutual influence as one which is to last not only through this poor world, but through all eternity. I would like exceedingly to write out my ideas on this point, but I cannot do it now. Besides, the editor may be married to a second wife, and in that case, would most certainly refuse admission to this little sketch in the pages of his magazine.
FUNERAL OF ALLSTON.
———
BY ELIHU SPENCER.
———
Speaking of Allston, I was told in Boston that his funeral was by torch-light, after nine in the evening, and one of the most impressive and befitting ceremonies ever witnessed.New York Correspondent Nat. Intelligencer.
Speaking of Allston, I was told in Boston that his funeral was by torch-light, after nine in the evening, and one of the most impressive and befitting ceremonies ever witnessed.New York Correspondent Nat. Intelligencer.
Notin the glare of day—Not to the common eye:But lay that dreamless brow awayWhen night is on the sky—When darkness drops her noiseless pall,And torches light the funeral.Not in the glare of day—Not in the pomp of wo:Let nature veil the sanctityOf tears, that none may knowWhose hushed but earnest griefs belieThe clamors of hypocrisy.Not in the glare of day—Not by the reeking mart:He loved the lone and twilight way,The night-fall of the heart—When, passion, pride and sense subdued,The spirit wrought in solitude.Not in the glare of day—Not to the common eye:And though ye lay that brow awayWhen night is on the sky,Long years shall yet remember wellThe poet-painter’s burial.
Notin the glare of day—Not to the common eye:But lay that dreamless brow awayWhen night is on the sky—When darkness drops her noiseless pall,And torches light the funeral.Not in the glare of day—Not in the pomp of wo:Let nature veil the sanctityOf tears, that none may knowWhose hushed but earnest griefs belieThe clamors of hypocrisy.Not in the glare of day—Not by the reeking mart:He loved the lone and twilight way,The night-fall of the heart—When, passion, pride and sense subdued,The spirit wrought in solitude.Not in the glare of day—Not to the common eye:And though ye lay that brow awayWhen night is on the sky,Long years shall yet remember wellThe poet-painter’s burial.
Notin the glare of day—Not to the common eye:But lay that dreamless brow awayWhen night is on the sky—When darkness drops her noiseless pall,And torches light the funeral.
Notin the glare of day—
Not to the common eye:
But lay that dreamless brow away
When night is on the sky—
When darkness drops her noiseless pall,
And torches light the funeral.
Not in the glare of day—Not in the pomp of wo:Let nature veil the sanctityOf tears, that none may knowWhose hushed but earnest griefs belieThe clamors of hypocrisy.
Not in the glare of day—
Not in the pomp of wo:
Let nature veil the sanctity
Of tears, that none may know
Whose hushed but earnest griefs belie
The clamors of hypocrisy.
Not in the glare of day—Not by the reeking mart:He loved the lone and twilight way,The night-fall of the heart—When, passion, pride and sense subdued,The spirit wrought in solitude.
Not in the glare of day—
Not by the reeking mart:
He loved the lone and twilight way,
The night-fall of the heart—
When, passion, pride and sense subdued,
The spirit wrought in solitude.
Not in the glare of day—Not to the common eye:And though ye lay that brow awayWhen night is on the sky,Long years shall yet remember wellThe poet-painter’s burial.
Not in the glare of day—
Not to the common eye:
And though ye lay that brow away
When night is on the sky,
Long years shall yet remember well
The poet-painter’s burial.
A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF FLORENCE WALTON.
———
BY MISS SUSAN A. STUART.
———
“It was not strange, for in the human breastTwo master-passions cannot co-exist.”
“It was not strange, for in the human breastTwo master-passions cannot co-exist.”
“It was not strange, for in the human breast
Two master-passions cannot co-exist.”
“Whata picture of delicious comfort, dear Aunt Mary,” said Cora Norton, as throwing herself into the luxurious depths of aVoltairechair, and placing her pretty little feet on the low fender, she looked around her Aunt Mary’ssnuggery.
A cold, misty rain was falling without; but the ample crimson curtains were drawn closely, so that no evidence of the inclemency of the weather was visible within to its two inmates. The cheerful, crackling fire threw over the chamber and its occupants “fitful gleams and red,” as drawn closely on the opposite sides of the fire-place they chatted cosily together.
“Yes, Aunt Mary, you have so much comfort, so much repose, that I can entercon amoreinto your feelings, as you thus sit so tranquilly in your well-lined, little nest, and take a bird’s-eye view of the bustling, plotting, never-resting world. But, dearest aunty, your darling little pony has just tired me sufficiently, so as to leave me in a state of quiescence,in which state one of your pleasant reminiscences of by-gone days would prove very acceptable. I hope, my dear aunty, you know how to take a slight hint, for I am awfully modest about asking favors.” And she crossed her little hands demurely on her lap, settled herself still more comfortably, and with an asking smile on her roguish, pretty face nodded her head in a very patronizing manner at her aunt, saying, “Commencez-donc, s’il vous plaît, ma bonne.”
“Well! my little chatterbox, is your tongue worn out at last, and you really wish to play the part of listener! But, what shall I tell you? Let us see! Florence Walton,” continued the old lady musingly, as she rubbed her spectacles with her silk apron. “Yes, yes, she is given to ridicule herself, and mightoneday suffer from it, as my poor Florence has done. Here, Co, count the stitches for the heel in this stocking for me, with your young eyes, and I will try to think over something about her.”
“You have seen Florence Walton here,” said Mrs. Jordan, as Cora handed her knitting back to her, “but you must forget her looks, if you wish to have before your mind’s eye the proud, beautiful girl of my narrative. A petted and spoiled child was Florence, when she and I were school-mates. An only child—beautiful, talented, and winning in her affectionate ways—with parents, who were the happyslavesto her slightest caprices, how could it be otherwise?”
“I remember, as though but yesterday, when she was ushered in among us school-girls by Madame Gaspard. As natural, we all sat silent and restrained before the new-comer, who, unused to school-discipline, and in all the freedom of her, but just-quitted, home-circle, was in the habit of giving speech to the first thoughts that presented themselves to mind, without caring for their fitness, and too proud to show respect for our opinions, like another school-girl among utter strangers would have done.
“Yes! I recollect it as freshly as yesterday, and see before me now the bright, fearless creature, as with an impatient toss of her glossy ringlets she said half-pettishly—‘Pleasant as my home, indeed! I wish I was there now, at any-rate, for I feel here as a catmustfeel in a strange garret.’ And a smile parted her saucy lips, as we broke into hearty laughter at thiscomplimentfrom the new girl.
“That quaint phrase of Florence Walton’s introduced her at once, and frolick and fun finished the evening. Many, and many were the scrapes that her wit and laughter-loving propensity has brought upon her, but through all her affairs beamed forth the evidence of a noble, generous, bold, but quick temper, impossible to daunt, but, like the generality of impulsive temperaments, led child-like and trusting through the affections. I have seen Florence in after-years, for we were school-mates a long, long time, throw herself in a perfect abandonment of tears on her bed, after answering saucily and with light laughter, some friend whom she dearly prized—and yet, after remonstrances from me and advice for the future would reply—‘In vain, dear Mary, all your good advice, and so would be my promises of amendment, were I foolish enough to make them. I know, dear friend, my besetting sin—know it, and I assure you, I most deeply deplore my weakness, which would prevent me from making good any promise I might make you or myself for the future. As well ask the bird not to fly, or the fish not to swim, as to make me promise when irritated, not to use my only weapon—ay! sharper, I will admit, than a two-edged sword. Mary, it is my misfortune more than my fault. I have felt—keenly, bitterly felt—how wrong I am in acting thus. In casting from me by ridicule and foolish jests, friends whose affection I dearly prize. Oh! you cannot tell how I have struggled—how in my own heart-communings I have determined to be more guarded for the future. But the future was ever as thepast. My sin is too strong, and I too weak.’
“Many such conversations have we held together and I, Cora, was a wicked sinner myself, then, and knew not God, nor the efficacy of prayer, therefore I could not tell the erring, but warm-hearted girl, to cast her burthen at the foot of the Cross; and that from the knowledge of herweaknesswould come herstrength, for that He, the Mighty One, loved to help the weak ones, who come as suppliants to his throne.Ah! yes, we were wicked, and only thought of such things not beingrespectable, instead of their sinfulness!
“Time sped on, working his changes as he ever does, and our school-days passed like our girlhood, never to return. Florence and I made every promise of everlasting friendship when we parted; kept, too, I believe as faithfully as if made in more mature years. The first letter I received from her after we had both left for our homes, told me of the death of her father, which was very sudden. The newspapers announced shortly after this, the demise of her remaining parent, and my heart clung still more fondly to her, poor thing, for she had no brothers or sisters to sympathize with her in this sad bereavement. She was now alone to struggle with the cold world, which made no allowance for her faults of the head, but were visited upon her as crimes of a darker die.
“Years elapsed, and nothing more reached me of Florence. I married your uncle, dear Cora, and spent many, many happy years with himhere, in my little nest as you term it, when death also came to tear him from me. Then, too, with my sorrow, came the oftener thoughts of my girl-friend, Florence Walton. Wondering had she ever married—was she a mother, a widow—and still above all came the wish that I could see her once again. I had written to her frequently, but my letters were never answered, and so I began to imagine that time had blotted outmyname from ‘memory’s page,’ or that she had gone forth into the world under some other cognomen, and that my letters had failed to reach her. Somehow, I could never think her dead, there was too much life and liveliness in my ideal of her, to join them together.
“Other thoughts began to have influence over me, when one day among letters and papers, came one, bearing my name in her own hand-writing! That old, familiar penmanship brought back, like some fondly remembered strain of music, thoughts of childhood’s happy days, and my heart leaped forth in love welcome to the writer ere I broke the envelope. How much more were my feelings stirred within me, when the warm, passionate nature of Florence beamed forth in every line. She proffered a visit to me, telling me, that she too had known sorrow, deep, lasting—and when she thought of my happiness, she could not bear to lay open the still tender wound; but I had suffered, as she had very recently learned, and could therefore without additional heart-pangs give my sympathy to a friend, my own, old, wayward, school-friend.”
“How quickly did I respond, and urge her to come speedily, and she came.”
“Yes, dear aunty,” said Cora, “I recollect her now. I was a tiny one, it is true, but I remember well a lady, who dressed in mourning, and was accustomed to walk evening after evening up and down the broad portico with you, while I, too, would endeavor to keep pace with you, till tired out I have thrown myself across the door-step and slept, unconsciously, until you became aware of ‘my small existence,’ and gave me to Elsie, to put in bed.”
“Yes, dear Co, I plead guilty; for the fascination of Florence’s conversation, tinctured, too, with sadness, was sufficient to make any one forget their own identity. It was during that visit she narrated all that happened to her during our separation. But, as I am but little skilled as araconteuse, I will, after Elsie has given us our tea, lend you her journal to glance over. She said, when she gave it to me, ‘This journal, my dear Mary, will bring me and my trials sometimes before your eyes; for I cannot bear to be utterly forgotten by the one being who has loved me through evil as well as good report. Besides, I think it sinful to remind myself, by looking over these blotted pages—which, strange incongruity as it may appear, I cannot bear the idea of destroying—as they make me unhappy and discontented, by recalling times past, that were better forever to lie buried in Oblivion’s stream.’
“There, Co, is the manuscript—rather formidable in its closely written pages; but to me, so full of interest, that I should have read it were it six times as long. So, read it to yourself, dear, after you have given me my tea, and then I will attend to my little domestic concerns; for though ’tis, indeed, but a ‘wee nest,’ yet the birds of the air do not minister to me.”
“Thank you, dear aunty. Now, Elsie, my good Elsie, please hurry with the tea-waiter; for I am so famished withcuriosityto read these yellow leaves, that I will pardon any supper, if ’tis notcomme il faut, if you will only hurry!”
My readers will imagine the refreshment past—the wick of the lamp raised—the shade adjusted—and the fair Cora, with her head supported by one tiny hand, hid in a shower of curls, seated at the centre-table, in the most comfortable of all chairs, and deeply intent upon the pages of
Tuesday night, June.—Well, ’tis over. To-day I arrived in my new home; and setting aside my longing after ahome-feeling, which I have ever felt since the death of my dear, dear mother, there is no place that promises more domestic enjoyments than Alton; especially if Clare, my cousin, will love me and let me love her. She is a pretty girl, not beautiful, I admit, but sufficiently comely. My good, kind uncle, too! I can lovehim, I know; for how careful—how very, very tender was he of my feelings on our road hither. My room, also, is very nicely arranged; and as I glance around, I think I may again be happy,even, though I am dependent on my uncle’s bounty. I must to sleep now, for I am too sleepy now for aught else.
Monday.—Several days have elapsed since I last wrote; and I begin to love my old uncle in reality. There is yet another member of our small family circle, whom I did not see the first day of my arrival. It is an old lady, claiming cousinship with my Uncle Alton, and carrying herself with quite an “air” to myself. Very strict, too, she seems in her religious views; and yet sadly lacking in herself that charity for others which, in my eyes, is the light, “pure and undefiled.” Ah, me! I must stop, or I shall bewanting in that which I am so lauding. How lonely—how very lonely do I yet feel! no nearer myhomeof the heart yet, I fear me. My uncle I love; but—my Cousin Clare is so strange. Can she love, or is she like one of those incomprehensible characters of whom I have read, who keep all those feelings hidden deep within their heart of hearts, until they die away of themselves, leaving them in reality as callous as she now seems to me. I have tried to settle myself to my usual employments. I sew, I read, and tune my guitar occasionally; and often wander out, with my books, into those grand old woods around Alton, and sitting there under their deep, dark shadows, find companionship in my thoughts. My Cousin Clare I did ask once to accompany me, but was refused, on account of household duties; and Mrs. Dudley added, with an expression of countenance, to emphasize her speech, “Clare, Miss Walton, thinks of others besides herself. For my part, I never admired those tramps through the woods, of which some young ladies are so fond.” And her mouth was settled into that self-complacent expression, as if perfectly satisfied of the effect produced on me—imagining that poor I must be abashed into utter prostration before the majesty of her disapproval. Nevertheless, I still walk, and will continue doing so, with or without approval, which I neither value nor seek.
Thursday night, July.—What a difference will the arrival of an agreeable person make in a country-house. Now, yesterday and to-day are so rapid, compared with the preceding weeks. There has been an arrival at Alton. No less a personage than Col. Dudley, a nephew, by marriage, to my old plague. His health, it seems, is not very good—and he passes the summer here to re-establish it. He lives in the “sunny South,” and gives me some glowing descriptions of it. I have some one now who is in reality a companion; but, although this seems equally agreeable to me, and to himself, it does not seem to be relished as well by Mrs. Dudley.
Sunday, September.—Many weeks have elapsed since I have written in my journal. I have been so happy, that I took no note of time. Col. Dudley has been my constant companion; and Mrs. Dudley, his aunt, though always making little plans and plots to draw him into her own and Clare’s society—from which I am as much excluded by my own choice, as their habitual reserve—has not succeeded as yet. I am sure to find him at my side, whether in a walk or ride. And these same glorious woods—so old, so grand—how beautiful they are becoming now, as the “melancholy days” draw nigh. What made the poet say the autumn days were the “saddest of the year.” I am sure he must have been indulging in a poetical license, for to me they are infinitely joyous and gladsome. I know—I feel that Hugh Dudley loves me; and yet why does he not ask me to be his. Perhaps he waits for a manifestation of my feelings forhim; butthatI shall never evince, dearly as I love him. I know that he is proud—so much so, that much as I love a proud man, it becomes almost a fault in him. But I am also proud; and where I most love, there am I always the most reserved. I wish him to know “I would be wooed, and not unsought be won.”
Wednesday night.—How happy! how immeasurably happy am I! I can hardly realize these joyous feelings! I have just entered my chamber, too excited for sleep; and seeing my journal lying close to the writing-desk, have opened it to put in words, my joy. It appears unaccountable to me, how, for one moment, I could have imagined myself happy before, when I compare my present ecstatic feelings to what I can remember of ever experiencing. It seems that my heart is opening in love, to the whole world. I could even take Mrs. Dudley with the kindest affection to it, if she would allow me; but why or wherefore shedislikesme, andwillmanifest that feeling for me. Even my perceptions of the beautiful have grown so much the more lively; and the meanest thing of earth—the mossy trunk—the cloudlet—the sky—the stream—the wild-flower—areallfloating in an atmosphere of light and beauty. And why is all this? Oh! my proud heart, you are now satisfied; and you can answer, why this ecstatic feeling.I loveandI am loved! Hugh Dudley—my ownHugh—has told me this in words—so wondrously eloquent—and has, at last, sued me to become his wife. He wished our marriage to take place at once; but for all sufficient reasons, I have begged him to defer it till next summer. Then I will go forth with him among strangers—with him who is my world. I have found at last myhomeof the heart. ’Tis in his love—his ardent, disinterested love. And why did I not marry him at once, and go with him to his own sunny home? I could not, proud heart that I am, bear to owe the very dress in which I should be decked at the altar, to the bounty of my uncle—how much less to Col. Dudley. Though I have a home with them—that is, shelter and food—yet my right hand should be cut off, ere I would take pecuniary aid from any. They all look cold upon me now, even my uncle. I have ever conducted myself respectfully—nay, even affectionately toward him; but, for some reason or other, he has altered toward me, and I have drawn myself again into my reserve. I have undoubtedly thwarted some cherished plan of his, with respect to Clare and Dudley; but even mydependenceon him—gratitudewill not be forced—will not allow me to regret what has happened. Oh! so contented—so blest am I—that cold looks from the world are unregarded, so long as I am conscious of his love. I had been sick, and sad, for two days and more; my heart and head seemed bursting, for I could hear, in my chamber (where sickness kept me prisoner) the sound of mirth and enjoyment going on below. Even the unwonted laugh of Clare was echoing merrily, as if my absence kindled a fire of joy in her bosom of ice; and my jealous heart told me she was happy, because of the attentions of Col. Dudley. I could not endure the thought of his wasting upon her one smile—one word beyond those of common civility. Very, very wicked was I on that bed of sickness; for every time I could hear the voice of Mrs. Dudley calling uponmy cousin, in a gladdened tone, I would half utter aloud, “Yes! that vile old woman is satisfied now. She thinks he will love that icicle—that automaton.” Yes, wicked I was, indeed; but then, sick and suffering, I should have been treated with more sympathy by those under whose roof I then was eating the bread of dependence, it would have made it less bitter—not near so choking.Oneceremonious visit for the day from Clare—one message of inquiry from my uncle, was the sole interest that was bestowed upon me. How can it be wondered at, then, if my heart grew bitter toward them; ay, even to him, for if he inquired, it was never told me. But the bitterness I felt toward him was different from that which I felt toward my uncle and cousin. When I reflected on their conduct, there was a mingling of anger and revenge; when on him, the tears would rush to my eyes, an aching feeling to my heart, and I would say, “Could I only die now, would he shed one tear, or be saddened by the cold, pale face of her whom he must have known felt something for him beside mere friendship.” And then I would hide my eyes in the pillow, and weep in pity over the sad fate of myself which I thus pictured.
As these bitter, bitter thoughts careered through my brain—increasing its ache—how did I sigh for the rest of the grave. “For the living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. Also theirlove, and their hatred, and their envy is now perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any thing that is done under the sun.” I snatched my journal—in my longing to unburthen myself of my weight of wo—and scribbled what I here transcribe, but which from shame I have since torn out:
“Why, oh Father! didst thou see fit to throw me here in this bitter world, to suffer and to strugglealone! Alone must I suffer—alone am I in my love—alone in my despair—and when dying solitary, and I am bore to the rest of the grave, I shall be unwept, unthought of. Well! be it so; only, Father, teach me to bow in submission and to drink without murmuring of the bitter cup. I already look upon the tomb, as the storm-tossed mariner to his haven of safety, ‘where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.’ Ah! how few care what the motherless one, cut off from the world by poverty and other adverse circumstances, must endure. My wishes and my hopes are mine, and minealone. I feel, as I imagine the deaf and dumb one does, whose heart is full of love, and bright, warm, beautiful fancies, and who cannot give them words. To whom can I utter them? All, all these feelings must be forever buried in the depths of mine own sad heart, and nothing but the froth, the foam, and the weeds, be thrown on the surface for the world’s gaze. Oh! how I envy those who have fond parents—a dear brother—a loving sister. How I long for a sympathy—a resting-place for my affections, which I despair of ever finding on earth, but which I hope I may realize with Him, the Father, who has given me this capability of loving.”
This was written after hearing what my imagination—heated with fever and jealousy—construed into a light laugh from Dudley, immediately under my window. I knew it washim, for I heard the crashing sound of his boot-heel on the gravel, and the mingling tones of his aunt and Clare. They had all been walking—for I sprang from the bed to ascertain the fact. Yes, walking! For Clare was leaning on his arm; her sun-bonnet dangling by the string from her hand, and to my jealous eye she had never looked so near to beautiful. Her cheeks were flushed, and a smilealmostloving parted her lips as she looked up into his face. They had stopped to admire a flower, over which Mrs. Dudley still leaned, and he—apparently—was describing some of the same kind he possessed. How I hated Clare, at the moment, there standing with her hand upon his arm, when there was no necessity for the support; loving him, too, as I knew she must—though in what manner I could not picture to myself—for I had ever thought from her impassable nature it was the blood offisheswhich filled her veins. As I looked upon the group my dejection became intensified into agony. I felt utterlyalone, and I wished for some kind Samaritan to pour the oil of sympathy into my bleeding wounds. It was then I wrote, and in the despair of my soul I felt that all was vanity and bitterness, and that I had deceived myself entirely—yes, blindly deceived myself.Hecared not forme—whilst I was writhing in pain,hewas merrily and gleefully laughing with those whom he knew, as well as I did, loved me not.
How changed my feelings now from those penned above, wrung from me by jealousy and despair! ’Tis as if I had been groping in some dark, noisome cave alone—ay, alone and fearful—and had suddenly entered an inner chamber, before unknown, where a thousand lights are dancing and reflecting against its brilliant columns and gem-like stalactites pendent from its illuminated sides and dome—so beautiful—so sudden has been the change. To begin at the beginning and tell how came this change.
For three days had I kept my room. On the afternoon of the third I stole out unobserved, as I thought, and made my way to the old, sombre-looking forest—my favorite haunt—where, under its dark, umbrageous trees, amid its gloom and solitude, I sought for companionship for my own sad thoughts. Seated on a fallen tree, turning with my foot the dry leaves listlessly, and hearing the moaning and sighing of the breeze through the tree tops. No other sound reached me; but I started up wildly—for sickness had made me nervous—as a hand was laid upon my arm, and scarcely heard his loved voice, softened into tenderness, for the loud beating of my own poor heart.
“I hope that I have not frightened you much, dear Florence. Have you, at last, got well?”
“Not entirely; but I am better, Colonel Dudley, though still I have some remains of my headache.” And I closed my eyes, which were rapidly filling with tears, and turned from him my face, that he might not observe them.
“Your illness has been a sad, sad trial to me, Florence,” said he, softly. “I missed you more than I can tell you. My nights have been sleepless from anticipation and from disappointment at not seeing you, as I hoped each day to do, when I arose. How I sighed for your companionship. Even after I went to my chamber last night, I again left it when the whole house seemed to be quiet, and wanderedhereto your favorite spot where so oft I have listened to you. I have inquired each day concerning you till I am fearful I tired the patience of both your cousin and uncle. They said you were only slightly unwell, but that it was your custom to keep your room when annoyed by companionship not pleasing to your taste, made fastidious by a long residence in the city and by novel-reading! You see how candid I am, but I have my reasons for being thus explicit. I thought them unkind—I began to think if I were the one who had wearied you, and memory, faithful to your charming ways, said at once ‘no’—for I could see that my company was more welcome than that of my aunt and your cousin. Nay, start not from me, dear Florence, I mean nothing to injure the most sensitive delicacy, but to show you the meditations to which I have been led by your sickness, and let you decide for me whether my future is to be happiness, almost too great for reality, or entire wretchedness. I blame you not for not seeking the society of either your cousin or my aunt, for neither are, or could be congenial; and who, I am sure, from some cause or other, are not friendly to you. Tell me now, why did you not send me even one word, formal though it might have been, to my bouquet—arranged with as much skill as I possessed, and bearing its Oriental meaning for your eye to read?”
“Your bouquet!” And in my surprise I turned to him my face, forgetful of my tears. “When did you send it—and by whom?”
“Tears, dearest Florence! Did you not receive it? But say that, and a load will have been lifted from my heart. Did not Miss Clare bring you one from me yesterday morning?”
“Never; nor even the simplest inquiry has reached me from you.” And my eyes looked the reproach I did not utter.
“Strange, very strange! What could have been their motives for this conduct? Yesterday, dear Florence, I sent a bouquet, hoping that it would commence what I have so long wished but feared to tell you. I sent you a rose-bud and other flowers, of which you yourself told me the language when we sat by the window, one rainy afternoon, longing to be out for this same walk. You laughingly did as I requested you, instructed me into their meaning, and I said that when I sent a bouquet so arranged, the lady who might receive it must think it uttered what I feared to say. Ah! Florence, I was sure that you knew I was speaking in serious earnestness, for your face colored brightly, and I could see the trembling of the little fingers as you began to untie the flowers, though you carefully kept your face averted. Will you be angry with me when I say, that I beganthento hope what I so earnestly wish to ask from you? Do you not understand me, Florence?”
I answered not, but sat with face averted, and head bowed, to hide the emotions his words caused.
“Your answer is needless, for I know that you long ago have understood my heart. Yes; last night in this your favorite spot I sat me down to think upon you, and your winning, artless character. I felt that with you I should be content to exclaim,