Quid faciant leges, ubi sola pecunia regnat,Aut ubi paupertus vincere nulla potent?Ipri, qui cynica traducunt tempora cœna,Nonnum quum nummis vendere verba solent.Ergo judicium nihil est, nisi publica muces,Atque equis, in caussa qui redet, emtor probat.
Quid faciant leges, ubi sola pecunia regnat,Aut ubi paupertus vincere nulla potent?Ipri, qui cynica traducunt tempora cœna,Nonnum quum nummis vendere verba solent.Ergo judicium nihil est, nisi publica muces,Atque equis, in caussa qui redet, emtor probat.
Quid faciant leges, ubi sola pecunia regnat,Aut ubi paupertus vincere nulla potent?Ipri, qui cynica traducunt tempora cœna,Nonnum quum nummis vendere verba solent.Ergo judicium nihil est, nisi publica muces,Atque equis, in caussa qui redet, emtor probat.
Quid faciant leges, ubi sola pecunia regnat,
Aut ubi paupertus vincere nulla potent?
Ipri, qui cynica traducunt tempora cœna,
Nonnum quum nummis vendere verba solent.
Ergo judicium nihil est, nisi publica muces,
Atque equis, in caussa qui redet, emtor probat.
So sang Petronius, and so sing I.
——
The fair widow moved into her father’s house, and carried joy with her, and smiles, and a new life. The dusty halls and silent chambers were soon made glad, and gave no echo back to the busy feet which beat their floors in measured tread to the sound of lutes. Men wondered at the miser’s transformation, and the jolly sun, driving up the clear, blue, vaulted roof of the earth, looked in upon curtains, and mirrors, and rich carpets, and all the bought luxury of great wealth, and danced upon the draped walls, and laughed, and wondered too. But the change was of the surface. The miser loved his daughter with his whole soul; he loved gold with more than his whole soul—gold, his first love—and the daughter held a divided and an inferior empire in his affections. The miser loved his daughter as he best might, with his heart of shining metal, and he would have loved her had she been less than what she was; less beautiful, less worthy, less full of the love which flowed from her like a sea, and covered him, and he drank of it, a joy he had never known. He loved her, as the heir to his vast estates, as himself renewed, to bear his labor onward, to accumulate through still another span of life; and he showed her to the world, and took pride in this new glory, as a new title to his possessions, which was to carry them with himself, even beyond the grave.
I was often with them; I became almost an inmate of the house, subsequent to the events which I have just related—the father’s legal adviser, the daughter’s best friend. Mr. Cornelius did not weary of the empty bustle and noise of fashion with which his daughter’s youth and brilliant position at once surrounded her; he seemed pleased with it, and often spoke of it as the proud homage which intellect, and nice honor, and high titles, and all the virtues, and all the prejudices of men, pay to wealth—and so, indeed, it was. With the daughter, these enjoyments soon palled. She had learned of sorrow from her birth, and had happily received from her mother a head too strong for turning; when, therefore, novelty wore away, and satiety began to usurp its place, she gradually withdrew from the press of company, and gave to her father those hours which others had before possessed. Although change had come over every thing else, Mr. Cornelius forbid its entrance into the one room reserved for himself; the room in which he had received his daughter, with the little table and the two chairs standing in the centre, and its naked walls and bare door, which were to him as old acquaintances, and where, alone, he now felt fully at home. There they would often sit together in the deep hours of the night, and while she played with his white locks, and watched the beatings of his heart, to find it tuned to a music widely different from her own, and listened to his never-ending promises, and never-ending hopes of a wealth which was to make his only one, his jewel, a match which princes might envy, she became painfully conscious of her father’s worldliness and debasing servitude to the hard earth. She saw that he lay prone, chained, bound down with clamps of iron, of silver, and of gold, and never raised his eyes to the upper light, or questioned of the day when he should be called to give an account of his stewardship. Then she would weep, and kiss her father, and talk of her mother who had passed away, and of another life, and hope that they might all meet in that better world; and the miser would stroke down her glossy hair with his trembling hands, and press her forehead to his lips, and call her a foolish girl, who troubled herself about matters with which she had nothing to do; and bade her go and dream of the glory to which he had raised her, and count her suitors, and be brave.
“More, more,” was the miser’s unceasing cry; “all, all—I want all,” was the prayer which he put up, not to the Giver of all Good, but to his own will, which habit had enslaved, until use made servitude a happiness. And he worked on, ever gaining, ever adding, abstemious, pinching, self-denying, liberal only to his daughter, whom he could never see too richly clad, too sumptuously served—a costly toy to be stared at and admired. “She is my diamond,” he would say, “which I have chosen to plant in a rich setting.”
——
But the daughter grew, day by day, more thoughtful, denied herself more frequently to her followers, and was more and more often to be found sitting with her father, alone, at the little table, winning him from his labor. Mr. Cornelius was too much engrossed with the world, with money-getting, to observe the beginning and progress of the change in his daughter’s manner, amusements, and way of life; and he soon learned to work on, with his child at his side, half unconscious of her presence, and yet alive to the pleasurable feeling that there was something near him which he much loved. I was not so blind. As month after month rolled away, I saw the shadow of a great melancholy creep slowly over her face, and deepen, and deepen, until it had imparted that exquisite softness to her beauty which is the surest symptom of decay. We see it in the flower; time gives it to all the works of man; and genius shows it, as the flame trembles, flickers, leaps upward, and goes out. The heart was sick; the spirit grew toward heaven. I had occasion, one evening, to be with Mr. Cornelius until a late hour, conversing about some matters in the courts which he had entrusted to my care; we had talked much, and the last watch was drawing to a close, when the door quietly opened, and his daughter entered, holding in one hand a light stool, and in the other a book. “The gentleman will excuse us for a moment,” she said, addressing her father; then turning to me, she received me with her usual cordiality. “I have adopted a practice, of late, of reading a chapter to my father before retiring,” she continued; “and you can remain, if you please, and join us in our devotions—surely, such worship can harm no one.” And sitting down at her father’s knees, she laid the holy volume in his lap, opened it, and read; while he bent over her until his silver locks mingled with the jetty tresses of her hair, and listened to her teaching—it was time, old, worn-out time, called to eternity by a sweet messenger from God. “There, that will do, my child; put up the book,” said Mr. Cornelius, as his daughter’s voice, losing its firmness, grew uncertain, and tears fell pattering upon the story she repeated: “certainly, certainly, it is not for me, in my old age, to learn of one so young.” It was a simple tale, a touching parable, told by Christ; so appropriate as to require from me no further designation. “Why, what spirit has come over you of late—always weeping!” said the old man, kissing the moisture from her eyelids. “What do you want? All that I have is yours. Now go—and see that you show a merry face in the morning.” The daughter rose, and bid us good-night.
“Do you not think Anne has lost a little of her color—grown slightly pale, Mr. Didimus?”
I made known the fears which I had long entertained, and to which each day added a confirmation.
“My daughter’s sick! sick at heart! Nonsense! What has she to be sick about? Are not my coffers open to her hand? What power of this earth is greater than her gold? Sick!—And yet, now I do remember, that for the past month, or more, no music has come into me, as it was wont, from her crowded rooms; no sounds of merriment, of joy, of the frivolity of fools, grating upon the ear of night; no cringing, no bowing low with doffed hat, and giving of God’s health, as I pass in and out at my own door. Look to it: you are my daughter’s best friend; question her; inquire out the secret sorrow which preys upon her mind—surely, money is a medicine for all the ills of life. She requires a change of place; these stuffed marts about us breed foul air; let her travel. Or, perhaps, she has again listened to the idle whispers of love, and conceals from me her weakness. Tell her, that although I would have her live with me during the short remainder of my life, yet she shall marry where she may choose; to give me a long line of heirs, rich, rich, through two centuries. Sick! why I was never sick!” And the miser bent over the little table, and returned to his calculations.
——
The miser’s history went on as before—still gaining, still adding; while the daughter’s bloom passed slowly away. Her limbs lost their roundness, her face grew sharp and hollow, and grief sat ever upon it, until her friends had almost forgotten its former mirth and beauty, and were half persuaded that it had been always so. No questioning of mine would entice her to an explanation. “It is a matter with which you can have nothing to do. There is no remedy in your hands. Let me alone; I wrestle daily with my God.” What could I say? I was silent; for it was indeed a matter with which I had nothing to do. Preach to the drunkard over his cups; to the gambler, when he wins; to the man whose garments are like unto his who came from Edom, red with the blood of men, and gain a soul for Heaven; but the miser, with one foot on Mammon, the other on the grave, never yet turned from his first love, or forgot the gods which his own hands have fashioned. John Cornelius became used to his daughter’s declining health, and soon ceased to speak of it. Indeed, engrossed in his labors of accumulation, he began to think she was well enough, as well as she ever had been, and that the change, if change there was, was in his own eyes, which had, perhaps, grown somewhat dim with age. Poor Anne! she nightly sat at her father’s knees, and nightly read to him, and he nightly praised her beauty, and called her a foolish girl, and kissed away her tears, and babbled of gold, till her heart withered within her, and she withdrew to dream of her mother, and a great joy, and to gather a new courage to begin again her ceaseless task, ever hoping, ever disappointed. Thus ran a year away.
——
One bright morning in November, here the sweetest month of all the twelve, Mr. Cornelius called at my office, and informed me that his daughter had been sick, confined to her bed for the past two days, and had expressed a wish to see me. He said her indisposition was but slight, attributed it to some frivolous cause, and expressed a hope that it would soon pass off. I looked up into his face; he was honest; still blind to his daughter’s decay; death stood palpably before him, robed in the freshness of youth. Death! How should he see death? Gold was ever in his thoughts; gold filled his vision; his taste, his scent were gold; and gold ran clinking into his ears: death had walked his house a year unrecognized.
I laid aside my papers, and accompanied Mr. Cornelius home. He passed into his own room, with the little table and the two chairs; I ascended to his daughter’s chamber. What a mockery was there of all that this world loves so much, strives after, and wins, with loss of body and of soul! Upon a bed, canopied with rich stuffs of woven silk and gold, with curtains of satin, rose-colored, and tugged with tassels of silver, spread with the finest linen, and covered with flowers, worked upon a ground of velvet, lay Anne, the miser’s daughter, pale and emaciated, and with her eyes, to whatever point they might turn, resting upon some new evidence of her father’s wealth and worldliness, upon some new evidence of the cause of all her sorrow. Her physician stood at her bed-side; as I entered he raised his finger to his lips, and came to me. “She is passing away,” he whispered. I approached the bed slowly, and on tiptoe. Anne felt my presence in the air, and turning her face toward me, held out her hand. I took it in mine. “I have called you,” said she, in a voice scarcely audible, “to take leave of you. You have been my good friend since the day that we first met in your office; I a poor woman, striving for that which I have long since found to be of little worth; when I am gone, transfer your friendship to my father. Tell him where I may be found, and bid him there seek for me. Oh, God! how long have I wrestled with thee, in bitter prayer, for this favor; thou wilt not, in the end, deny it to me. Farewell! We shall meet again! I go to my mother. Now bring my father to me, and let us be alone together.”
The physician pressed her hand in silence, turned to the wall, and went out. I followed, and we both hastened to call Mr. Cornelius. We found him counting over a bag of silver, which he had just received from a tenant.
“How is my daughter? Better—well?” he asked, still continuing to count, and to test the genuineness of the metal by ringing it upon the table.
“Sir—your daughter is dying.”
“Dying!” and the coin rolled merrily upon the floor. “Dying—doctor? Tut, tut. You jest.”
“Mr. Cornelius, your daughter wishes to speak with you, to give you her last words in life.”
“Charlatan—quack—driveler—you lie!” cried the miser with livid lips, starting to his feet, and shaking his clenched hands in the physician’s face. “Die!—my daughter shall not die—she cannot die—the children of the rich never die—what would you have? Gold!—here is a bill for fifty thousand—save my daughter—ay, I will make it a hundred thousand—but save my daughter—poor, poor, poor Anne!” and his head fell, and rested upon his breast. The old man stood before us motionless, transfixed with grief.
“Mr. Cornelius.”
“Oh, I am sick with much sorrow! Lend me your arm? Did you not say something of twenty per cent?”
I led him away to his daughter’s chamber. As we entered, her face was turned toward us.
“Who said that my daughter was dead?” asked Mr. Cornelius.
Anne feebly smiled.
“We shall all spring upward from the ground, winged; and with a power which will bear us swiftly to the throne, which endureth forever and forever.”
I hastened to bear her father to her bed-side. The last breath had parted from her lips, and as he questioned her, and she returned no answer; as he called to her, and she called not back again, he fell upon her, and his moan filled the room.
“Gone! oh my daughter; my jewel of great price—the heir to all my riches—my second life! Is the breath of man unbought! Can no one bribe death? Is there joy in the cold grave? O, come to me, my child, and sleep in my bosom, and fare sumptuously every day.” And he drew much gold from his pockets, and heaped it upon the bed beside her, and wondered that she should die.
And the world wondered, also, that she should die. And idle curiosity poured in to look upon her dust; and was shocked, and shrugged its shoulders, and exclaimed—“what a pity! In the morning of life—and so rich!” And again the world forgot her year of mourning, and her gradual decay, and carried its thoughts back to the hours when that small, pinched face was radiant with health, and a new-found happiness; and laughter rang from those thin lips, and merriment sparkled in the closed eye, and whispered and coined suggestions, and said that “after all she was not the miser’s daughter, and had died suddenly with the coming of that certainty.”
Fools and Idiots! Is not the grave open to all? And did she not well to love her father’s soul better than his wealth? And did she not well to labor for it, unceasingly; and then, the crowning of that labor, to lie down and die?
——
The daughter of the rich man was carried to her grave upon the shoulders of the rich, followed by a crowd of worshipers; and as the body was borne into the Chapel of the Departed, and the procession flowed in, and filled the aisles, the choristers chanted theRequiemfor the dead.
Dies iræ, dies illaSolvet secium in favilla,Teste David cum Sybilla.
Dies iræ, dies illaSolvet secium in favilla,Teste David cum Sybilla.
Dies iræ, dies illaSolvet secium in favilla,Teste David cum Sybilla.
Dies iræ, dies illaSolvet secium in favilla,Teste David cum Sybilla.
Dies iræ, dies illa
Solvet secium in favilla,
Teste David cum Sybilla.
“My daughter, oh! my daughter; why wouldst thou die?”
Quantus tremor est futurus,Quando Judex est venturus,Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Quantus tremor est futurus,Quando Judex est venturus,Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Quantus tremor est futurus,Quando Judex est venturus,Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Quantus tremor est futurus,Quando Judex est venturus,Cuncta stricte discussurus.
Quantus tremor est futurus,
Quando Judex est venturus,
Cuncta stricte discussurus.
“Return, oh! return, return again to me.”
Tuba mirum spargens sonumPer sepulchra regionum,Coget omnes ante thronum!
Tuba mirum spargens sonumPer sepulchra regionum,Coget omnes ante thronum!
Tuba mirum spargens sonumPer sepulchra regionum,Coget omnes ante thronum!
Tuba mirum spargens sonumPer sepulchra regionum,Coget omnes ante thronum!
Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulchra regionum,
Coget omnes ante thronum!
“and thou shalt make me what thou willest.”
Mors stupebit, et natura,Cum resurget creatura,Judicanti responsura.
Mors stupebit, et natura,Cum resurget creatura,Judicanti responsura.
Mors stupebit, et natura,Cum resurget creatura,Judicanti responsura.
Mors stupebit, et natura,Cum resurget creatura,Judicanti responsura.
Mors stupebit, et natura,
Cum resurget creatura,
Judicanti responsura.
“The shining gold is thine, and houses, and lands, and all the glory of life.”
Liber scriptus proferetur,In quo totum continetur,Unde mundus judicetur.
Liber scriptus proferetur,In quo totum continetur,Unde mundus judicetur.
Liber scriptus proferetur,In quo totum continetur,Unde mundus judicetur.
Liber scriptus proferetur,In quo totum continetur,Unde mundus judicetur.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
In quo totum continetur,
Unde mundus judicetur.
“My daughter, oh! my daughter, return again to me.”
Judex ergo cum sedebitQuidquid latet apparebit,Nil inultum remanebit.
Judex ergo cum sedebitQuidquid latet apparebit,Nil inultum remanebit.
Judex ergo cum sedebitQuidquid latet apparebit,Nil inultum remanebit.
Judex ergo cum sedebitQuidquid latet apparebit,Nil inultum remanebit.
Judex ergo cum sedebit
Quidquid latet apparebit,
Nil inultum remanebit.
“Thy suitors call thee; the music, the dance, the revelry of joy.”
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?Quem patronum rogaturus,Cum vix justus sit securus?
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?Quem patronum rogaturus,Cum vix justus sit securus?
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?Quem patronum rogaturus,Cum vix justus sit securus?
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?Quem patronum rogaturus,Cum vix justus sit securus?
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus,
Cum vix justus sit securus?
“No voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.”
Rex tremendæ majestatis,Qui salvandos salvas gratis,Salva me, fons pietatis.
Rex tremendæ majestatis,Qui salvandos salvas gratis,Salva me, fons pietatis.
Rex tremendæ majestatis,Qui salvandos salvas gratis,Salva me, fons pietatis.
Rex tremendæ majestatis,Qui salvandos salvas gratis,Salva me, fons pietatis.
Rex tremendæ majestatis,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
Salva me, fons pietatis.
“Cold, cold, cold in death!”
Recordare, Jesu pie,Quod sum causa tuæ viæ,Ne me perdas illa die.
Recordare, Jesu pie,Quod sum causa tuæ viæ,Ne me perdas illa die.
Recordare, Jesu pie,Quod sum causa tuæ viæ,Ne me perdas illa die.
Recordare, Jesu pie,Quod sum causa tuæ viæ,Ne me perdas illa die.
Recordare, Jesu pie,
Quod sum causa tuæ viæ,
Ne me perdas illa die.
“Strike up—louder—louder yet.”
Quærens me sedisti lassus,Redemisti crucem passus,Tantus labor non sit cassus.
Quærens me sedisti lassus,Redemisti crucem passus,Tantus labor non sit cassus.
Quærens me sedisti lassus,Redemisti crucem passus,Tantus labor non sit cassus.
Quærens me sedisti lassus,Redemisti crucem passus,Tantus labor non sit cassus.
Quærens me sedisti lassus,
Redemisti crucem passus,
Tantus labor non sit cassus.
“She loved the noise of trumpets, of sounds harmonious, the bustle of the earth.”
Juste Judex ultionis,Donum fac remissionis,Ante diem rationis.
Juste Judex ultionis,Donum fac remissionis,Ante diem rationis.
Juste Judex ultionis,Donum fac remissionis,Ante diem rationis.
Juste Judex ultionis,Donum fac remissionis,Ante diem rationis.
Juste Judex ultionis,
Donum fac remissionis,
Ante diem rationis.
“Louder, louder—no voice, no word, no whisper for my ear.”
Ingemisco tamquam reus,Culpa rubet vultus meus:Supplicanti parce, Deus.
Ingemisco tamquam reus,Culpa rubet vultus meus:Supplicanti parce, Deus.
Ingemisco tamquam reus,Culpa rubet vultus meus:Supplicanti parce, Deus.
Ingemisco tamquam reus,Culpa rubet vultus meus:Supplicanti parce, Deus.
Ingemisco tamquam reus,
Culpa rubet vultus meus:
Supplicanti parce, Deus.
“Gone, gone—thus runs the world away!”
Qui Mariam absolvisti,Et latronem exaudisti,Mihi quoque spem dedisti.
Qui Mariam absolvisti,Et latronem exaudisti,Mihi quoque spem dedisti.
Qui Mariam absolvisti,Et latronem exaudisti,Mihi quoque spem dedisti.
Qui Mariam absolvisti,Et latronem exaudisti,Mihi quoque spem dedisti.
Qui Mariam absolvisti,
Et latronem exaudisti,
Mihi quoque spem dedisti.
“Poor, poor, poor Anne!”
Precos meæ non sunt dignæ,Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne,Ne perenni cremer igne.
Precos meæ non sunt dignæ,Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne,Ne perenni cremer igne.
Precos meæ non sunt dignæ,Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne,Ne perenni cremer igne.
Precos meæ non sunt dignæ,Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne,Ne perenni cremer igne.
Precos meæ non sunt dignæ,
Sed tu, bonu, fac benigne,
Ne perenni cremer igne.
“In the grave is sleep and rest.”
Inter oves locum præsta,Et ab hœdis me sequestra,Statuens in parte dextra.
Inter oves locum præsta,Et ab hœdis me sequestra,Statuens in parte dextra.
Inter oves locum præsta,Et ab hœdis me sequestra,Statuens in parte dextra.
Inter oves locum præsta,Et ab hœdis me sequestra,Statuens in parte dextra.
Inter oves locum præsta,
Et ab hœdis me sequestra,
Statuens in parte dextra.
“Cold sleep, cold rest.”
Confutatis maledictis,Flammis acribus addictis,Voca me cum benedictis.
Confutatis maledictis,Flammis acribus addictis,Voca me cum benedictis.
Confutatis maledictis,Flammis acribus addictis,Voca me cum benedictis.
Confutatis maledictis,Flammis acribus addictis,Voca me cum benedictis.
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis,
Voca me cum benedictis.
“Pass on, sweet spirit, to thy waking; if waking there may be.”
Oro supplex, et acclinis;Cor contritum quasi cinis,Gere curam mei finis.
Oro supplex, et acclinis;Cor contritum quasi cinis,Gere curam mei finis.
Oro supplex, et acclinis;Cor contritum quasi cinis,Gere curam mei finis.
Oro supplex, et acclinis;Cor contritum quasi cinis,Gere curam mei finis.
Oro supplex, et acclinis;
Cor contritum quasi cinis,
Gere curam mei finis.
“Our father, which art in heaven.”
Lacrymosa dies illaQua resurget ex favilla.
Lacrymosa dies illaQua resurget ex favilla.
Lacrymosa dies illaQua resurget ex favilla.
Lacrymosa dies illaQua resurget ex favilla.
Lacrymosa dies illa
Qua resurget ex favilla.
“Hallowed be thy name.”
Judicandus homo reus.Huic ergo parce Deus.“Amen.”
Judicandus homo reus.Huic ergo parce Deus.“Amen.”
Judicandus homo reus.Huic ergo parce Deus.“Amen.”
Judicandus homo reus.Huic ergo parce Deus.
Judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce Deus.
“Amen.”
“Amen.”
We buried Anne, and upon the tablet which marks the place where she is laid I caused to be cut her last words—“We shall spring upward from the ground, winged, and with a power which will bear us swiftly to the throne which endureth forever and forever.”
THE DESERTED.
———
BY MISS MATTIE GRIFFITH.
———
Why didst thou leave me thus? Had memory
No chain to bind thee to me, lone and wrecked
In spirit as I am? Was there no spell
Of power in my deep, yearning love to stir
The sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keep
My image trembling there? Is there no charm
In strong and high devotion such as mine
To win thee to my side once more? Must I
Be cast forever off for brighter forms
And gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still.
Love will not, cannot perish in my heart—
’Twill linger there forever. Even now
In our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hour
Of passion’s unforgotten tryst, I hush
The raging tumult of my soul, and still
The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride
Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue
Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o’er
The western sky recalls some by-gone joy,
That we have shared together, and my soul
Is love’s and memory’s.
As here I sit
In loneliness, the thought comes o’er my heart
How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft
The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood
Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount
O’erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt
The spirit of a holy love bedew
Our hearts’ own budding blossoms. There I drank
The wild, o’ermastering tide of eloquence
That flowed from thy o’erwrought and burning soul.
There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers
To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now
Beside me lies a bud, the little bud
Thou gav’st me in the glad, bright summer-time,
Telling me ’twas the emblem of a hope
That soon would burst to glorious life within
Our spirit’s garden. The poor fragile bud
Is now all pale and withered, and the hope
Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast
Forever forth from thine.
They tell me, too,
My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas!
There is no more a spirit-fire within
To light it with the olden glow. Life’s dreams
And visions all have died within my soul,
And I am sad and lone and desolate;
And yet at times, when I behold thee near,
A something like the dear old feeling stirs
Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb
Of withered memories one pale, pale rose,
To bloom a moment there, and cast around
Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon
It vanishes away, as if it were
A mockery, the spectre of a flower;
I quell my struggling sighs and wear a smile;
But, ah! that smile, more eloquent than sighs
Tells of a broken heart.
’Tis said that thou
Dost ever shine the gayest ’mid the gay,
That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls,
That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles,
Thou whisperest love’s delicious flatteries;
And if my name is spoken, a light sneer
Is all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I know
Beneath thy hollow mask of recklessness
Thy conscious heart still beats as true to me
As in the happy eves long past. Ah! once,
In night’s still hour, when I went forth to weep
Beneath our favorite tree, whose giant arms
Seemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl,
I marked a figure stealing thence away,
And my poor heart beat quick; for oh! I saw,
Despite the closely-muffled cloak, ’twas thou
Then, then I knew that thou in secrecy
Had’st sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep
O’er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,
In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,
When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs
Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall
Like burning rain. Oh! ’twas thy hand that dealt
The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear
My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel
That thou, in all thy manhood’s glorious strength
Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,
Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight
Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,
And even with a smile upon thy lip,
But a keen arrow quivering deep within
Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may’st wed
Another; but beside the altar dark
My mournful form will stand, and when thou see’st
The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,
Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled
Wildly around thine own.
I’m dying now;
Life’s sands are failing fast, the silver cord
Is loosed and broken, and the golden bowl
Is shattered at the fount. My sun has set,
And dismal clouds hang o’er me; but afar
I see the glorious realm of Paradise,
And by its cooling fountains, and beneath
Its holy shades of palm, my soul will wash
Away its earthly stains, and learn to dream
Of heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy cold
Desertion, I will leave my angel home,
Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst,
To hold my vigils o’er thy pilgrimage,
And with my spirit’s-pinion I will fan
Thy aching brow, and by a holy spell,
That I may learn in Heaven, will charm away
All evil thoughts and passions from thy breast,
And calm the raging tumult of thy soul.
THE LOST DEED.
A LEGEND OF OLD SALEM.
———
BY E. D. ELIOT.
———
(Concluded from page 195.)
Mr. Fayerweatherand Madam were seated at breakfast before a blazing fire, one very cold morning in January. John had already finished, and had gone to Mr. Wendell’s office, in which he was studying his profession. Vi’let following Scipio, who had entered with some warm toast, came up to the table and said—
“It’s a terrible cold morning, Misser Fayerweather—I ’spect Primus han’t got no wood—he’d only jist three sticks yesterday; he’s sick with the rheumatis, too—mayn’t Scip carry him over some?”
This meant not wholly for the benefit of Primus, but also as a wholesome discipline of Scip himself, whose health Vi’let thought in danger for want of exercise. Scip glouted at her but did not dare speak.
“Yes, carry him over a good load Scipio, the moment you have swallowed your breakfast. Such a morning as this without wood.”
Madam added—“And you shall carry him some stores to make him comfortable. That makes me think of poor Cluff—I am afraid he is out of every thing by this time—he must have suffered last night. I ought to have seen to him before—poor creature! how could I have neglected him so? I might have known it was coming on cold, from its being so warm yesterday.”
Mr. Fayerweather endeavored to persuade her that Cluff could scarcely have consumed the provisions she sent him on Christmas, but she continued to reproach herself until he told her that he was obliged to go out in the sleigh as soon as breakfast was over, and that he would go down himself and see that the old man was comfortable and was well taken care of.
The worthy gentleman finished his meal and the sleigh was ordered out, but the hard cough of the old horse as the cutting air struck him on being led out of his warm stable, reached his kind master’s ear and found its way to his heart.
“Poor old Moses!” he said, “it would be hard to take you out such a day as this, it might be your death—I’ll walk. I shall be all the better for it.” So saying, he lost no time in hurrying on his roquelaure, and set out on a brisk pace, to avoid the expostulations of his wife, who had gone to look out some flannels to send Primus. As he passed by Mr. Wendell’s, his niece having seen him from the window, was at the door to accost him.
“Why, uncle! where are you going this bitter morning? Do come in.”
“Don’t stop me now, child, I’m in haste; perhaps I’ll drop in as I come back,” he said; then as he shook his finger at little Will, who was hanging on his mother’s apron, he gave them both a look so brimful of kindness and affection and something beyond both, as went to her very heart. That look Amy never forgot.
The cold was intense, but Mr. Fayerweather proceeded on his way. The air felt like solid ice to his face, where it was not entirely muffled with the roquelaure, the cape of which was soon thickly frosted with his breath. Some shivering, blue-nosed school-boys made their manners as they passed. “Run quick, my boys,” he said, “or old Jack Frost will have fast hold of you. See that you keep a warm school-room to-day.” A pipkin of water was thrown after them from a shop door—it was that of Nanny Boynton’s new residence—it froze as it fell, and rattled like pebbles on the snowy crust. When he reached the market-place (it was not a market-day,) one solitary load of wood was on the stand. As Mr. Fayerweather came up, the patient beasts which drew it, turned up their broad faces and looked wistfully at him beneath the wreaths of snow formed by their breath as it issued from their nostrils. The owner was thrashing himself very energetically with his arms, to induce a sensation of warmth. Mr. Fayerweather bought the wood and told the man to carry it up to his house and tell madam he sent him, this being tantamount with telling him to go and make himself comfortable by a good fire, with a good luncheon for himself and his cattle. Mr. Fayerweather then proceeded on his way. Dr. Holly’s thermometer stood at 18 below 0.
The table was laid for dinner when he returned home. His wife met him with as severe reproaches as she knew how to frame, for walking out on such a day.
“Don’t scold, my dear,” he replied, good-humoredly, “you are growing a perfect shrew, I declare. If you take to scolding, I shall certainly take to drinking. I am going to take some brandy now.” Then he went to the buffet, and taking from a liquor chest which stood in the lower part of it, a case-bottle of brandy, that had reposed there undisturbed, time out of mind, and unstopping it, he continued:
“I found Cluff very comfortable, in no want of any thing. I went to two or three other places, but hadn’t time to call and see Judith as I intended—but let us have dinner, for my walk has made me so hungry I could eat a trooper, horse and all.”
Madam went into the kitchen herself to hasten in dinner. She remained a moment, to see Vi’let dish up the turkey, and was, with her own hands, adding more spice to the gravy, when the sound of some heavy body falling, hurried her back to the parlor, followed by all four servants. She found her husband extended on the floor. She flew to assist him, supposing he had been tripped up accidentally by the carpet, but he was without sense or motion. “Quick, run for the doctor, Scip, he’s faint;” and madam took the sal volatile from her pocket to apply to his nostrils. Vi’let looked at him and felt his pulse, then clasping her hands, exclaimed—
“God Almighty, mistress!” She suddenly checked herself, and told Flora and Peter to run for Mrs. Wendell and Madam Brinley.
Dr. Holly on his arrival found madam in strong convulsions, requiring both her sister and niece to hold her, while Mr. Wendell and John, assisted by Vi’let, were endeavoring to revive Mr. Fayerweather, who was still on the floor. On examining him attentively, the Doctor shook his head hopelessly, but made an immediate attempt to take blood from the arm. It was in vain—Mr. Fayerweather was dead. His death, Dr. Holly gave it as his opinion, was accelerated by exposure to the cold and the long walk, the disease being a hardening of vessels about the heart; adding that if he could have taken the brandy (which stood on the table in a tumbler, apparently untasted,) it might have saved him. The grief of the family and friends of the excellent man may be imagined, but cannot be dwelt upon here.
The funeral was the longest that ever had been known in Salem, for never was any inhabitant of it more beloved and respected. As soon as madam was sufficiently composed, after the funeral, the ebony cabinet was searched and a will was found, dated the day before George’s departure. It gave the widow the homestead, which had become very valuable, together with the whole of the property she had brought; after several bequests, a large one to Mr. and Mrs. Wendell jointly, the remainder of the property was divided between the two sons. Mr. Wendell was named as executor. The estate was perfectly clear and unincumbered and little time was requisite to settle it.
A few weeks subsequent to the funeral of Mr. Fayerweather, the inhabitants of Salem were called together by an alarm of fire; an occurrence so very unusual as well as alarming, that it caused a great stir and commotion in the quiet and orderly town. The fire broke out in the office of the Register of Deeds, but was soon put out, doing, as was at first supposed, but little damage. Upon examination, however, it was discovered that several books of valuable records were destroyed, and others much injured. Mr. Wendell having ascertained that the one containing the copy of the Boynton quit-claim of the Fayerweather property was among the burnt, as well as that of a date many years prior, thought best to lose no time in having these important documents newly registered. Accordingly he looked into the cabinet, which had been put into his possession, for the originals.
Upon a thorough search with John Fayerweather, no trace of these papers was to be found in the cabinet; nor, to the astonishment and consternation of both, in any desk, trunk, drawer or closet in the premises of the deceased. The only conjecture madam or John could form in regard to the disappearance of these papers was, that either through accident or mistake, they had been left in their original place of deposit, and were now in the elder son’s possession in the little trunk. In the first vessel which sailed for London, therefore, intelligence was dispatched to Mr. Haliburton of the melancholy death of his old friend, and of the missing papers, that he might find means to convey notice to George, sooner than could be done from Salem.
The destruction of the records came to the knowledge of Jemmy Boynton as soon as to that of Mr. Wendell, and the delay of the latter to have the deeds recorded anew, did not escape her notice. Jemmy was ever on the alert to seize upon every circumstance which might possibly involve the risk or loss of property to others, in the well-grounded hope, which he rarely failed to realize, of in some way or other turning it to his own benefit. Accordingly the old fox was not slow to suspect some substantial reason for such delay or apparent neglect on the part of so careful a man of business as Mr. Wendell was well-known to be, and he did not stop till he had found out the true cause. To arrive at certainty, he thought it would be best to make a visit of condolence to the widow, judging from her well-known simplicity, she would give him all the information he desired. And he was not mistaken.
He took care to make his visit at a time when he felt pretty sure Madam Fayerweather would be alone. It was on a fine morning in June that Jemmy sallied forth. He had dressed himself in the best his wardrobe afforded; a suit of fine claret-colored broadcloth, which had been left in pawn to him years before by a needy French prisoner on his parole, and which had never been redeemed; a white satin waistcoat, grown somewhat yellow with age, and white silk hose with gold clocks, fitting tight to his spindle legs; all belonging to the same pledge. Possibly the finery of the jaunty Frenchman might have inspired him with some undefined notions of gallantry; for Jemmy was going to make a call upon a rich widow just six months in weeds. But if any airy visions fluttered about his heart and occasioned the smirk upon his withered physiognomy as he bent his way to her house, they were speedily put to flight on entering the parlor of madam, who manifested such unqualified discomfiture on seeing him, that the compliment which he had been framing during his walk, perished before its birth, and he felt called upon to account for his visit by the phrase of condolence he had previously conned over with much care.
“Madam, I come to condole with you on your bereavement—’twas a sorrowful bereavement.”
The tears came into the eyes of the widowed lady, but she felt so much relieved at finding Jemmy was not come to demand possession of the estate, as she at first had supposed, but was only making a friendly call in kindness, that it was not in her nature to take it otherwise than kindly. Her countenance resumed its usual benevolent expression, though much saddened of late, as she thanked him and inquired after “Miss Nancy’s health.”
“Thank ye kindly, madam, Nanny’s but poorly with the rheumatis; she sends her humble sarvice to you, and hope I see you well.” Then Jemmy proceeded in his most insinuating manner, to ask if there was nothing that he or Nanny could do to “sarve” her, and really appeared so friendly, that madam was taken by surprise, and out the secret came; for she thought it would be a fine opportunity to ask him for a new quit-claim of the whole property, which, from the great good-will he manifested, she could not doubt he would readily give.
His object so fully attained, Jemmy, in his elation became airy, and at length quite softened to the tender. Placing his brown forepaws upon his knees, he looked down upon his golden clocks, which he thought had helped him to win the day, and evading madam’s request, he turned the subject to her husband’s death.
“Your worthy spouse, madam, died of an arterplax, (apoplexy?) I take it—a-a-hm—well.” The compliment was now revived. “A fat sorrow is better than a lean one—he’s left you well to do in the world, and sich a parsonable woman as you will find enough ready to supply his place.”
The smirk which had been frightened away on his entrance, again returned to adorn his lanthern jaws, giving Madam Fayerweather, in indignant amazement, some reason to imagine he contemplated offering himself as a candidate for the place he alluded to, with small doubts of being a favored one. She rose, and all the Borland blood mounted to her face. The bell-rope was jerked with a violence wholly unnecessary, for Scipio made his appearance before the bell could sound in the kitchen; he and Vi’let having, on Jemmy’s first entrance, stationed themselves in the passage between the parlor and kitchen, and had heard through the keyhole all which had passed. The guest, however, thought good to make a precipitate retreat without waiting for the ceremony of being shown the door. As he passed by the side-gate, Vi’let stood ready to salute him with a ladleful of some liquid, taken from a kettle on the kitchen hearth, which all the plates and dishes, as they had come from the table, had passed through to restore them to their native purity, leaving behind them their impurities floating on the top; and as the rich compound splashed over the skirts of his coat and his silken hose, with gold clocks, she cried after him:
“You want to take Misser Fayerweather’s place, do ye! ye old skinflint—well, see how you like a sup of Vi’let’s broth.”
Stung with his unceremonious dismission; his legs smarting with the scalding liquor, Vi’let’s insult was more than he could bear. Turning round in a rage, he called out, doubling up his fist and shaking it at her—
“Tell your proud jade of a mistress she wont hold her head so high long, on other people’s ground! And as for you! ye nigger”—he made use of an epithet which would not appear polite here—“I’ll have you up to the whipping-post!”
Vi’let answered him with a scornful laugh, as she slammed the gate after him. Poor madam was overwhelmed with mortification and chagrin at her own folly, of which she was fully sensible as soon as she had committed herself.
As Jemmy proceeded home, his keen sense of indignity wore off in the exulting thought of vengeance in full prospect. He and his precious sister, however, had one great drawback to their satisfaction; the necessity of opening their purse-strings sufficiently wide to draw therefrom a fee large enough to induce any man of the law to undertake the case against Mr. Wendell, who was regarded throughout the province as the head of the profession. But a lawyer was at length found at the distance of twenty miles, who was willing to engage in the cause for a moderate share of the profits, if successful, and to lose his fee if not; and the trial was prepared to come on at the annual November court.
It occasioned a great sensation at the bar, from the amount of property involved, and the respective characters of the plaintiffs and defendant; the latter being Mr. Wendell, as executor to the deceased. He determined to plead the cause himself, assisted by a friend as junior counsel. At the first trial, little difficulty was found in having it postponed a year, to give time to hear from Captain Fayerweather; much to the disappointment of the plaintiffs.
The most intense anxiety was now felt by the Fayerweather family, and all connected with it, to hear from George; but as it was known he was to embark from Europe on a voyage of discovery in the South sea, small hopes were entertained of receiving letters from him for many months.
To return to a more pleasing subject—Judith was the darling of all. As her character became more matured with her person, both increased in loveliness, and both received a new charm from the cultivation of her intellect, which proved of no common order. George’s presents to her were chiefly of books; for though his active life prevented him from being a great reader himself, the whole atmosphere in which he had been born and educated, the circle of which he was the pride when at home, being intelligent, he was anxious that deficiency in this point should not be found in Judith. No deficiency of any kind, however, was discovered in her by his family. John regarded her with an affection scarcely less than George’s; and though the idea of supplanting his brother, or of Judith’s ever being more to him than a sister, never crossed his mind, he formed no other attachment.
Captain Stimpson, now grown somewhat stiff in his limbs, gave up his lookout in the cupola to Judith, and was at some expense to have it fitted up for her with cushions and curtains, and a spy-glass for her particular use. Her sleeping apartment opened directly at the foot of the stairs which led to it; and here with her books and her Eolian harp, she passed all the time which she felt to be exclusively her own. Her prospect was that of the harbor, opening into the ocean, under every aspect a noble one—with Baker’s island, and its light-house in the distance, on one side, and several hamlets at different distances on the other; the town, with its then few streets and scattered dwellings, and the level country beyond. The view offered little of the beautiful, the romantic or the picturesque; but all that was wanting its fair beholder’s imagination could supply; and it may be questioned whether a view of the bay of Naples even, with all its magnificence of scenery, could give rise to conceptions of more beauty in some minds, than were formed in Judith’s by the ordinary one of Salem harbor.
Time went on, and it was now near the end of the summer preceding the November, when the cause was to come on at the Ipswich court. Letters had twice been received from Captain Fayerweather, but of a date prior to his leaving Europe, and arrivals were looked for every day, which were expected to bring answers to the information that had been dispatched to him of all which had occurred to his family since his departure. One fine evening, Judith, having finished all her domestic tasks for the day, below stairs, ascended to her observatory, thinking she should not be missed; her father having set out on his daily visit to the rope-walk—en amateur, for the captain had retired from business—her grandfather was quietly reposing in his chair, and her mother holding sweet communion with her dearly beloved Nanny Dennis—Mrs. Brayton.
On reaching her airy retreat, the fair maiden took the spy-glass, and adjusting its tube, strained her vision over the ocean, hoping to espy the mast of some vessel coming into port. In vain—the curve of the wide horizon was unbroken even by a speck. A gentle sigh escaped her as she spoke; “Not yet; well, it must come before long.” She then took her book, and was soon luxuriating in the fairy-land of poetry. From time to time her eyes wandered from the page, to cast themselves over the expanse of waters before her, glowing beneath the sky of twilight, and scarcely dimpled by a breath of wind, as the tide still advanced to fill the broad basin, and broke in low ripples on its now brimming edge.
Darkness at length came on, and being no longer able to distinguish its characters, she laid aside her book, and turned her eyes and thoughts to the scene without. Insensibly almost to herself, her ideas arranged themselves in measure, and she repeated in a low whisper: