———
FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
———
In October, 1848, I went over to the Island of Capri, some twenty miles from Naples, to enjoy a rustic festival. Our party consisted of some Englishmen and some Italians; the latter, being in the service of the government, had a fixed limit to their leave of absence. When the morning arrived that was appointed for the departure of our Italian friends, we accompanied them to the shore, where they made their arrangements for the passage back to the main-land. There was a strong west-and-by-south wind roaring round the island, and the sea looked dangerous; but, in Naples, where there is no career for a young man out of government employ, an official must not trifle with his post. The preparations, therefore, for the launching of the boat went on.
It was one of those wide-bottomed boats, commonly used in the port of Naples, upon which the stranger starts out for a moonlight row to Posilippo, or betakes himself with his portmanteau and his carpet-bag, or with his wife and her pill-box full of a few things to the steamer. Such boats are not made for riding on a stormy sea. The men preparing to put out that morning were our two friends the officials, and two boatmen. One of the passengers was hailed by the captain of a good strong bark, upon the point of starting. “Come with us, Raffaelluccio; it will be madness to sail out in that cockle-shell, through such a sea!” Raffaelluccio, a delicate youth, replied that he was no coward. He had come in the boat, and might go back in the boat, with the Madonna’sblessing. The other passenger was a stout, black-bearded man, and the two boatmen were a youth and a weather-beaten sailor from the port of Naples.
The little harbor at Capri is so sheltered from certain winds, that there is often a deceptive smoothness in its waters. It was only by looking out to sea that one detected, on that wild October morning, how the waters writhed under the torture of the wind. Far as the eye could reach the sea was covered with those smaller storm waves, called, in the phrase of the country,pecore; these, as the day advanced, swelled into great billows,cavalloni, which came rolling on upon our little island, and dashed violently against the coast of Massa and Sorrento.
The boat had been shoved off, and had returned for some article, left accidentally behind. A group of weather-wise old sailors thronged about the foolhardy crew, in vain urging them to wait for fairer weather. They put out to sea again, and made straight for the cape under the summer palace of Tiberius. This is a well-known point, which boatmen often seek when they desire to catch a direct wind for their passage to the main-land. The gale that had been blowing round the island appeared to pour out from this point its undivided force, and beat the sea with a strength almost irresistible. We saw the mast of the little boat snapped the moment it had reached the cape, and the crew put back, not to await calmer weather, but to seek another temporary mast, and start again. No threat or persuasion could detain the Italians, who feared to exceed their term of leave. A rude mast was set up, and again the boat started, leaping across wave after wave. We saw no more of it.
“I watched it for some distance,” said the captain of the barque, which had started at the same time. “Their mast bent as though it would break with every puff of wind, and the little sail fluttered like a handkerchief upon the waves. In a moment it disappeared, and we knew that our foreboding had proved true.” The rest of the tale I had from the lips of the black-bearded official, the sole survivor; and a wilder tale of human passion does not often fall within the bounds of sober truth.
The old mariner, at starting, had been placed at the helm as the most competent man of the party; but there was an alarming difference between the eddies, currents, and billows at the cape, and the smooth waters of the Bay of Naples. A monstrouscavalloneappeared in the distance; leaping, roaring, foaming, it was close upon their quarter; its crest overhung them; in an instant, said my informant, they were swallowed up. The boat was overturned; but the crew—struggling desperately for life—rose with it once more to the surface, clinging to its bottom. In their last agony they glared upon each other, face to face, among the beating waves, and the loud execrations of his companions were poured passionately on the ancient mariner, whose want of skill was cursed as the fatal cause of their despair. The hold of the poor old fellow, weak with age and faint with emotion, had not strength to bear him up amid the tossing of the waters, and as his grasp relaxed, the others watched his weakness with a fiendish satisfaction. “It is some consolation,” exclaimed one, “to see you die first, fool as you are!” He did not hear the latest maledictions, but went down in the deep sea. The next who died was Raffaelluccio, upon whose daily work the daily bread of a mother and three sisters depended. “I am stiff with cold, and can hang on no longer,” he said to his companion. “Get on my shoulders,” was the answer of the stronger man. And so he did, and so he died: the living man with the dead weight upon him grappling still for life, and drifting before the storm. The young boatman, the other survivor, trembling himself upon the brink of eternity, crept round to the dead body, and having robbed it of a watch and chain and other valuables, pushed it from the shoulders of his friend into the sea. So there remained these two men, clinging to the boat, and gazing on each other anxiously.
The thought had crossed the mind of the young man that, if they lived until they should be thrown ashore, the surviving passenger would require that he should deliver up the watch and other valuables to the family of Raffaelluccio. He may not have taken them with a design of theft. He probably saw that the dead body cumbered his companion, and committed it from a good humane motive to the sea, having removed the jewelry. But to retain possession of the property, his conscience did not bid him shrink from murder of which no eye of man would ever see the stain. An unexpected blow would silence his companion, and leave him on the boat to drift to land, a sole survivor, quietly made richer by the wreck. “I read it in his eyes,” said my informant. “The devil was in them, and I watched him well; but a heavy sea raised his side of the boat—that was his opportunity, and immediately he struck a heavy blow upon my head. If he was the younger I was the stronger, and he summoned me to struggle for my life, or for that chance of life which either of us had upon the gulf of waters. There was a horrible wrestling! I am the only survivor.
“All that day, and through a stormy, pitch-dark night, I lay tossed about, almost senseless, in the Bay of Naples. But before dawn on the second day, my boat was cast ashore at Torre dell’ Annunziata, and there locked between two rocks. I had just strength to crawl to the Coast-Guard house, in which I perceived that lights were twinkling. I was spurned. My papers were demanded.
“Faint as I was, in time I found it possible to make the good officials understand my case, and excuse the production of credentials from the fishes. They took me in, and treated me with Christian kindness. My looks had frightened them: my face was bloated, and my eyes protruded like those of a lobster.”
The mother of Raffaelluccio was living in Capri, and I was there when the news came back of her son’s fate. In the darkness of an October night, the ruined family—the bereaved mother and her daughters—mounted to their house-top, and turning toward the sea, shrieked wildly for the son and brother whom it held from them.
The voice of wo that then thrilled in my ears will never be forgotten. I never knew till then what agony could be; not expressed only, but communicated by the wail of women.
(FROM THE FRENCH OF GUIRAUD.)
———
BY WILLIAM DOWE.
———
Well, go to France, poor little child! yes, go.My love for thee is worthless: I am poor.People enjoy elsewhere; here we endure:Go child, ’tis for your good; ’tis better so.When this poor arm was strong to labor once,Refreshed, rewarded when my darling smiled,Who then had dared advise me to renounceThe dear caresses of my child?But I am widowed; Strength departs with Joy.Now sick and sad, I know not what to do.’Tis vain to beg; our friends are paupers too.Leave thy lorn mother; leave this poor Savoy;Go where God takes thee—go, my cherished boy!Still, far away, think on this homestead lone;Remember it; and this last hour, and this;A mother blesses her beloved oneWith her embrace; my blessing with my kiss!Now, do you see yon oak? I think I mayGo so far with thee; four long years are o’erSince with your father, when he went away,I walked there too; but he returned no more.Were he but here to guide thee forth, ’twould beLess sorrow to my heart to bid thee go.Thou art not ten years old; so helpless—oh!How I shall pray to God, my child, for thee!Unless He aid, how can thy small feet treadThrough a cold world, without a mother’s care?She would, at least, instruct thee how to bear;Poor little child! O, why have I no bread?But ’tis God’s will, and we must humbly bow;Don’t weep to leave me, little hapless thing!Take to their palace-gates a cheerful brow,’Twill grieve thee, oft, to think of me, I know;But to amuse the rest, thou still must sing.Sing, ere life’s bitterness for thee shall come.Now take thy wallet and that poor marmotte;Beguile the way with my old songs of home,Sung to thy cradle in this mountain cot.If I had strength, as in the time gone by,I’d hold thee by the hand and lead thee on;But I should fail, before three days were done;Yes, thou shouldst leave me soon behind, and I—Where I was born, my son, I wish to die.Hear thy poor mother’s last advice, and takeThe warning, if thou wouldst be blest of Heaven;The poor man’s only wealth is what is given.Ask of the rich; he gives for Jesu’s sake.Thy father said so too;Be thou more fortunate, my boy; adieu!The sun had fallen beneath the neighboring steep,And “we must part,” the mother said at last—On through the oaks the little wanderer passed,Turning, at times; but did not dare to weep.———[To the above I have presumed to make a pendant.]THE DYING SAVOYARD.Cold, cold is the storm, with its darkness and danger!Take pity, dear friends, on a poor little stranger:To-night is a feast in your village, I’m told,While shuddering and foodless I sob in the cold.You all are in gladness; but I am in sorrow,And must rest on the ground, to be dead on to-morrow.Oh! dreary to die with my home at a distance,And all those I love too far off for assistance;Around me the snow-flakes are falling and flying,And the sad light of evening is darkening and dying;The winds freeze my blood as they mournfully sweep,And icicles hang on my rags as I weep.Ah, pity my poverty, pity my years,And pass not a child, in his hunger and tears;And see, the companion and friend of my lot,As forlorn as myself, my poor, pining marmotte;He is shivering and hungry, and nestling in questOf the warmth that is nearly gone out of my breast.O, never again shall a wandering boySee the dear cottage homes and the skies of Savoy,Or hear the gay herd-song, the falling of rillsIn the fresh-swelling air of her beautiful hills;Oh, where are they now, those old mornings of joy?They are lost, they are lost, to the wandering boy!Oh, never again shall my fond mother kiss me;How dearly she loved me—how much will she miss me!And how must she mourn, my affectionate mother,For her lost little child, and she has not another!Long, long may she weep at the door of her cot,Ere she sees me return with my merry marmotte.So the Savoyard mourned, the poor child, in his sorrow,Undoomed to go forth at the voice of the morrow,With his friend, the marmotte, he had died ere the day;And they scooped them one grave in the snow where they lay;And a slight cross of lath rises over the spotWhere the Savoyard sleeps with his mountain marmotte.
Well, go to France, poor little child! yes, go.My love for thee is worthless: I am poor.People enjoy elsewhere; here we endure:Go child, ’tis for your good; ’tis better so.When this poor arm was strong to labor once,Refreshed, rewarded when my darling smiled,Who then had dared advise me to renounceThe dear caresses of my child?But I am widowed; Strength departs with Joy.Now sick and sad, I know not what to do.’Tis vain to beg; our friends are paupers too.Leave thy lorn mother; leave this poor Savoy;Go where God takes thee—go, my cherished boy!Still, far away, think on this homestead lone;Remember it; and this last hour, and this;A mother blesses her beloved oneWith her embrace; my blessing with my kiss!Now, do you see yon oak? I think I mayGo so far with thee; four long years are o’erSince with your father, when he went away,I walked there too; but he returned no more.Were he but here to guide thee forth, ’twould beLess sorrow to my heart to bid thee go.Thou art not ten years old; so helpless—oh!How I shall pray to God, my child, for thee!Unless He aid, how can thy small feet treadThrough a cold world, without a mother’s care?She would, at least, instruct thee how to bear;Poor little child! O, why have I no bread?But ’tis God’s will, and we must humbly bow;Don’t weep to leave me, little hapless thing!Take to their palace-gates a cheerful brow,’Twill grieve thee, oft, to think of me, I know;But to amuse the rest, thou still must sing.Sing, ere life’s bitterness for thee shall come.Now take thy wallet and that poor marmotte;Beguile the way with my old songs of home,Sung to thy cradle in this mountain cot.If I had strength, as in the time gone by,I’d hold thee by the hand and lead thee on;But I should fail, before three days were done;Yes, thou shouldst leave me soon behind, and I—Where I was born, my son, I wish to die.Hear thy poor mother’s last advice, and takeThe warning, if thou wouldst be blest of Heaven;The poor man’s only wealth is what is given.Ask of the rich; he gives for Jesu’s sake.Thy father said so too;Be thou more fortunate, my boy; adieu!The sun had fallen beneath the neighboring steep,And “we must part,” the mother said at last—On through the oaks the little wanderer passed,Turning, at times; but did not dare to weep.———[To the above I have presumed to make a pendant.]THE DYING SAVOYARD.Cold, cold is the storm, with its darkness and danger!Take pity, dear friends, on a poor little stranger:To-night is a feast in your village, I’m told,While shuddering and foodless I sob in the cold.You all are in gladness; but I am in sorrow,And must rest on the ground, to be dead on to-morrow.Oh! dreary to die with my home at a distance,And all those I love too far off for assistance;Around me the snow-flakes are falling and flying,And the sad light of evening is darkening and dying;The winds freeze my blood as they mournfully sweep,And icicles hang on my rags as I weep.Ah, pity my poverty, pity my years,And pass not a child, in his hunger and tears;And see, the companion and friend of my lot,As forlorn as myself, my poor, pining marmotte;He is shivering and hungry, and nestling in questOf the warmth that is nearly gone out of my breast.O, never again shall a wandering boySee the dear cottage homes and the skies of Savoy,Or hear the gay herd-song, the falling of rillsIn the fresh-swelling air of her beautiful hills;Oh, where are they now, those old mornings of joy?They are lost, they are lost, to the wandering boy!Oh, never again shall my fond mother kiss me;How dearly she loved me—how much will she miss me!And how must she mourn, my affectionate mother,For her lost little child, and she has not another!Long, long may she weep at the door of her cot,Ere she sees me return with my merry marmotte.So the Savoyard mourned, the poor child, in his sorrow,Undoomed to go forth at the voice of the morrow,With his friend, the marmotte, he had died ere the day;And they scooped them one grave in the snow where they lay;And a slight cross of lath rises over the spotWhere the Savoyard sleeps with his mountain marmotte.
Well, go to France, poor little child! yes, go.
My love for thee is worthless: I am poor.
People enjoy elsewhere; here we endure:
Go child, ’tis for your good; ’tis better so.
When this poor arm was strong to labor once,
Refreshed, rewarded when my darling smiled,
Who then had dared advise me to renounce
The dear caresses of my child?
But I am widowed; Strength departs with Joy.
Now sick and sad, I know not what to do.
’Tis vain to beg; our friends are paupers too.
Leave thy lorn mother; leave this poor Savoy;
Go where God takes thee—go, my cherished boy!
Still, far away, think on this homestead lone;
Remember it; and this last hour, and this;
A mother blesses her beloved one
With her embrace; my blessing with my kiss!
Now, do you see yon oak? I think I may
Go so far with thee; four long years are o’er
Since with your father, when he went away,
I walked there too; but he returned no more.
Were he but here to guide thee forth, ’twould be
Less sorrow to my heart to bid thee go.
Thou art not ten years old; so helpless—oh!
How I shall pray to God, my child, for thee!
Unless He aid, how can thy small feet tread
Through a cold world, without a mother’s care?
She would, at least, instruct thee how to bear;
Poor little child! O, why have I no bread?
But ’tis God’s will, and we must humbly bow;
Don’t weep to leave me, little hapless thing!
Take to their palace-gates a cheerful brow,
’Twill grieve thee, oft, to think of me, I know;
But to amuse the rest, thou still must sing.
Sing, ere life’s bitterness for thee shall come.
Now take thy wallet and that poor marmotte;
Beguile the way with my old songs of home,
Sung to thy cradle in this mountain cot.
If I had strength, as in the time gone by,
I’d hold thee by the hand and lead thee on;
But I should fail, before three days were done;
Yes, thou shouldst leave me soon behind, and I—
Where I was born, my son, I wish to die.
Hear thy poor mother’s last advice, and take
The warning, if thou wouldst be blest of Heaven;
The poor man’s only wealth is what is given.
Ask of the rich; he gives for Jesu’s sake.
Thy father said so too;
Be thou more fortunate, my boy; adieu!
The sun had fallen beneath the neighboring steep,
And “we must part,” the mother said at last—
On through the oaks the little wanderer passed,
Turning, at times; but did not dare to weep.
———
[To the above I have presumed to make a pendant.]
THE DYING SAVOYARD.
Cold, cold is the storm, with its darkness and danger!
Take pity, dear friends, on a poor little stranger:
To-night is a feast in your village, I’m told,
While shuddering and foodless I sob in the cold.
You all are in gladness; but I am in sorrow,
And must rest on the ground, to be dead on to-morrow.
Oh! dreary to die with my home at a distance,
And all those I love too far off for assistance;
Around me the snow-flakes are falling and flying,
And the sad light of evening is darkening and dying;
The winds freeze my blood as they mournfully sweep,
And icicles hang on my rags as I weep.
Ah, pity my poverty, pity my years,
And pass not a child, in his hunger and tears;
And see, the companion and friend of my lot,
As forlorn as myself, my poor, pining marmotte;
He is shivering and hungry, and nestling in quest
Of the warmth that is nearly gone out of my breast.
O, never again shall a wandering boy
See the dear cottage homes and the skies of Savoy,
Or hear the gay herd-song, the falling of rills
In the fresh-swelling air of her beautiful hills;
Oh, where are they now, those old mornings of joy?
They are lost, they are lost, to the wandering boy!
Oh, never again shall my fond mother kiss me;
How dearly she loved me—how much will she miss me!
And how must she mourn, my affectionate mother,
For her lost little child, and she has not another!
Long, long may she weep at the door of her cot,
Ere she sees me return with my merry marmotte.
So the Savoyard mourned, the poor child, in his sorrow,
Undoomed to go forth at the voice of the morrow,
With his friend, the marmotte, he had died ere the day;
And they scooped them one grave in the snow where they lay;
And a slight cross of lath rises over the spot
Where the Savoyard sleeps with his mountain marmotte.
MABEL DACRE:
OR THE TRIAL OF FAITH.
———
BY HELEN.
———
To him who in the love of Nature holds communion with her visible formsshe speaks a various language.Bryant’s Thanatopsis.
To him who in the love of Nature holds communion with her visible formsshe speaks a various language.Bryant’s Thanatopsis.
To him who in the love of Nature holds communion with her visible forms
she speaks a various language.
Bryant’s Thanatopsis.
Rarely does the sun shine upon a lovelier spot than the small, secluded town of Riverdale. Shut in between high hills, that served to screen it also from the bleak north winds, it seemed to embrace within its narrow limits every element of beauty; and though from its retired situation it afforded no business facilities, and therefore contained little wealth and no style, yet to those who sought the beautiful in Nature, or for whom solitude had charms, it was a little paradise.
And so thought Mabel Dacre, as she sat with her hands clasped over a book that lay half-open in her lap, and her eyes gazing earnestly and with rapt attention on the distant landscape. It was sunset, and far off in the clear horizon floated the golden clouds curtaining the day-god’s couch. A crimson light, softened by that exquisite misty veil in which Nature is so fond of adorning herself, rested like a glory upon the tops of the hills, and threw into deep shadow the quiet valley at their feet; while upon the river which wound slowly along, reluctant as it would seem to leave a place so lovely, a few bright gleams yet lingered. “How beautiful,” murmured Mabel to herself, as her delighted gaze took in at once the scene that we have vainly attempted to describe; “how can any one think the world so dark and dreary?”
“I will tell you, my Mabel,” said a low voice at her side, as blushing, yet smiling, Mabel turned and met the fond gaze of Walter Lee, who had advanced unperceived, so absorbed had she previously been. Now, however, she willingly lent an ear to her lover’s voice. “I will tell you; it is because so few are in unison with the loveliness, the repose, the purity of Nature, that they find in her no beauty; the vain toils of ambition, the grasping pursuit of wealth, the wearying chase for pleasure, unfit men for loving that which is simple, pure and universal. You, dearest, are a true child of Nature, and you feel almost a child’s love for a mother, toward the beauty around you.
“My sweet one,” he continued, as with delighted eyes he gazed upon the lovely face uplifted to him in all the unconsciousness and confiding love of childhood, “my beautiful Mabel, will you laugh at my fancies if I say that I find in Nature the original of even all your charms: from the violet you stole the deep-blue of those dear eyes, and from whence learned your hair its graceful waving, save from the tendrils of the vine; so confess now, fair pilferer, ere I bring forward other charges.” And with these words he took the book from her hands; it was a volume of Spenser’s Faery Queen. Mabel laughingly reproached him for stealing so quietly upon her.
“But where have you been, Walter, this long, long day; I was so lonely, I had no one to read to me, so I soon tired of my needle-work, and in very weariness I wandered off to see the sun set.”
“Have you, indeed, missed me, Mabel, darling; bless you for those words; to me, too, it was a weary day, in the close, dark city, but duty called me there, and I have brought letters to the rector from London.”
“Letters to my father! and from London,” exclaimed the surprised girl; “who can he have in the great city to write to him; I have often heard him say he knew no one in London. But hark! I hear the sunset-bell, and my father will be waiting for me for our evening service.” And so saying, with one last look at the distant landscape, Mabel put her arm fondly in Walter’s, and with step as light and graceful as the mountain deer’s, turned toward the little, low-roofed cottage of the Rector of Riverdale. “Will you not come in, Walter,” said Mabel, in soft, persuasive accents.
“Not to-night,” he replied; “I have been away all day, and there are numerous duties for me to fulfill ere to-morrow’s round commences. Good-night, sweet love,” he fondly murmured, as Mabel entered the house.
She advanced hurriedly to the rector’s study, where she found him seated in his accustomed arm-chair by the window, but she was struck at once with the look of anxiety and sorrow so unusual to his placid and venerable face; an open letter lay in his lap, but his eyes were closed, and his lips moved as if in prayer.
“Father, dearest father, what has happened; why do you look so sad,” exclaimed Mabel, as she knelt at his side.
“Is it you, my child,” said the old man, softly stroking her silken hair—then a sigh so deep escaped him that Mabel was still more terrified. “Be calm, my love, my little lamb,” he murmured gently, and with accents choked and broken, “listen calmly, and I will tell you all. You know, Mabel dear, that I am not your own father, but you know not, nor did I, until to-day, that your own father is living; that he is a nobleman of high rank, and having been under our new sovereign, King James, restored to his estates, he now claims his daughter, and desiresme to accompany you at once to London, or at least to York, where he will meet you.”
Mabel’s cheek grew paler and paler, as she took in the full meaning of these to her painful words; her strength forsook her, and she sunk upon the floor at his feet—
“My father, my own true, loving father, I cannot leave you, and Walter, oh! where can I hide from this cold, stern man, who has left me so long without a word, and now expects me to break, in a moment, the ties that constant intercourse for fifteen years have formed; no, I will not obey this proud dictate. Say I shall not go, dear, dear father,” said the weeping girl, throwing herself on his neck.
“Hush! hush! my daughter; remember who controls our destinies; think who it is that orders all the events of life. He has said, ‘Children, obey your parents,’ ‘Honor thy father and thy mother,’ and shall I, one of his ministers, counsel you to disobey him? No, my precious child, dear as you are to my heart; though the light of this world will have gone out for me when I no longer see my Mabel’s face, or hear her soft, sweet tones, yet I would have you go at once, my child; and go determined; so far as you can under God, to please your father—render to him the obedience that is due from a child to a parent. In one thing, however, you will be tried, your father is a Roman Catholic; in your religious faith be firm and steadfast; let no persuasions induce you to give up the simple faith of our Protestant church; be strong, be prudent, and be gentle in all your intercourse with him, and perhaps the daughter may yet lead her father back to the pure faith of his ancestors, though,” murmured he to himself, “a king’s favor is a tempting bait.”
“But Walter,” tremblingly uttered the weeping girl, who had hardly understood the rector’s words, so filled was her heart with that dear image. “Walter! must I leave him—I was so soon to be all his; can I not write and tell my father so, and then perhaps—he might—I am sure if he only knew Walter”—she blushed and hesitated, and then stopped, waiting in tearful suspense to hear what would be said by him whose word for fifteen years had been her law.
“Mabel, my darling child, it may not be; you must not even dream of such a step. Think you the noble Earl of Arlington would suffer his daughter to wed a poor curate? No, my precious child, you must give up Walter—forget him—think only of your duty to your father, or rather, your duty to your God.”
He said no more, for Mabel, upon whose loving heart these words fell like the sentence of death, sunk fainting upon the floor. No words escaped from those pale lips, and not even a sigh relieved the bursting heart.
“Poor stricken lamb!” said the kind old man, as he gently raised the lifeless form, “had I but known thy future destiny this suffering at least thou shouldst have been spared—little did I dream when, fifteen years ago, thou wert brought, a little child beautiful as the angels, to my lonely home, that thou wast one day to tread the halls of royalty.” He laid her gently on the couch, and hastily summoning what help he could command, watched fondly and anxiously the return of consciousness.
And now let us review briefly the circumstances that have so strangely formed the lot of our young heroine.
About eighteen years previous to the time at which our story commences, Robert, Earl of Arlington, had married a young and beautiful girl, whom, though of rather humble origin, he loved as passionately as a nature selfish as his could love; she was frail and delicate, and died soon after the birth of her first child, a daughter, to whom the sorrowing husband gave her name—Mabel. His disappointment at not having a son embittered his feelings for the poor, motherless babe, and two years after having, in consequence of his being concerned in a rebellion against the reigning monarch, been compelled to leave his country and to endure the confiscation of his estates; he determined to place his child in the keeping of some one whom he could trust, and who would educate her carefully; thinking that should he ever regain his rank, she could easily acquire all the necessary accomplishments. He at once recalled the Rector of Riverdale, of whose learning and virtue he had often heard his young wife speak in terms of eloquent praise, as the very person to whom with the most perfect confidence he could entrust his child. Descended from high and even noble ancestors, and educated at Oxford, the rector was eminently fitted for the development and guidance of his daughter’s mind; while for her physical education, the charming and healthy situation of Riverdale afforded every facility. Hastily making his preparations, therefore, and under cover of an assumed name, he sent his child to the old man, with a letter stating only that, being obliged to fly from England, he wished her to be brought up in ignorance of his name or station; and he made at the same time ample provision for her wants as far as money could supply them.
Years passed, and no tidings came of the unknown father; and gradually the conviction forced itself upon the rector’s mind that he must be dead; an opinion which fifteen years of utter silence had tended to confirm, and the kind old man had learned to love the gentle Mabel as his own child; all others considered her as his niece, for as such he was to represent her, and she was accordingly called Mabel Dacre. But after the death of Charles, through the influence of some friends, the long banished man was recalled, and on his return having publicly renounced his allegiance to the Established Church and embraced Romanism, his estates and titles were restored to him, and he was high in favor with the new monarch James II., whose strong partiality for papists was well known. He had obtained occasionally some information respecting his child, and had even made a secret visit to the town, since his return, to satisfy his proud heart as to his daughter’s fitness to share in his recoveredgreatness—but even his haughty spirit was charmed with the exquisitebeauty and grace of Mabel, as she, so unconscious that her father evenlived, paused before him. He immediately made arrangements to receive her, and then dispatched the letter which had thrown the little household at Riverdale into such sorrow and dismay.
——
And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne’er might be repeated, who could guessIf ever more should meet these mutual eyes?Childe Harold.
And there were sudden partings, such as pressThe life from out young hearts, and choking sighsWhich ne’er might be repeated, who could guessIf ever more should meet these mutual eyes?Childe Harold.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne’er might be repeated, who could guess
If ever more should meet these mutual eyes?
Childe Harold.
Walter Lee was the youngest son of a baronet, who, during the late struggle, had lost both life and property in defense of his sovereign. The oldest son died soon after his father, having been severely wounded at the battle of Edgehill. Walter had been intended for the church, and his education carried on with that end in view; the sad fate of his father and only brother had contributed to strengthen his youthful inclination to the ministry; and after collecting what remained of his father’s property he completed his studies, and having heard that the curacy at Riverdale, near which town his father had at one time resided, was vacant, he applied immediately to the rector for it, and had the good fortune to be successful.
The worthy man was at once prepossessed in favor of the young scholar, whose acquirements were much above the usual standard, and whose clear, open brow and brilliant eyes seemed to indicate a man of no ordinary character. And in truth his was a nature such as we seldom meet with in this every-day world; full of devotion to his cause, and zealous for his Master’s glory, his efforts to do good were untiring. His was a truly noble heart—so strong and loyal, so open and sincere; full of all generous thoughts and high aspirations, and withal, as tender and loving as a woman’s: with a soul that shrank in abhorrence from meanness, deceit, or the licentiousness so common to the times, he yet felt and ever showed the kindest pity and compassion for the sinner.
Six years had passed since he came to Riverdale, and Mr. Dacre loved him as a son, for such he had long seemed to him, while Walter felt for his venerable pastor the deepest love and reverence.
And Mabel—how shall we describe her, the fair and gentle being, who from the winning simplicity and grace of childhood, had passed almost unconsciously into that loveliest period of womanhood, when as yet the heart has lost none of its early freshness, the sweet dew of life’s morning, and its pure affections have only expanded into fuller beauty; its opening mind only exhales a richer perfume; beautiful without vanity, intelligent yet simple and childlike; loving, gentle and timid, yet at the same time high-souled, generous and full of enthusiasm—such was Mabel Dacre at seventeen. Could it be otherwise than that those two, so fitted for each other, such twin-souls as it were, should love? Silently, at first, a pure affection sprang up in their youthful hearts; it grew with their growth andstrengthened with their strength; each felt, long before any promise had passed between them, that they were no longer free, and when in low and trembling tones Walter drew from his beloved her plighted troth, they both felt that no time could alter, no circumstances change their fervent, undying love. And it was this love, the growth of years, that Mabel was now so suddenly called upon to resign; she had not at first, in her artless simplicity, even imagined this as the result of her father’s letter; it was the thought of parting for a time with him she so passionately loved, that had caused the first bitter sorrow. Into her pure and simple mind it did not enter that her father would forbid her union with Walter, that hecouldbreak ties, so solemnly contracted, or sever hearts so closely united; but as her ear took in the last fearful sentences of the rector, light and almost life forsook her, her brain reeled, and her heart became like ice. It was well that consciousness failed, and that a temporary oblivion deadened the first keen pang; but oh, that sad, dreary awakening to sorrow; that half-shrinking, trembling dread with which we strive to recall the terrible event that has changed life into a gloomy solitude and hushed up within us the very sound of joy. Long did Mabel strive to keep back the return of reason, to dream on in blissful ignorance, but it would come, “You must give up Walter—you must strive toforgethim.” These words rang for ever in the dark chambers of her now desolate heart; she knew it must be so, she felt that even Walter would bid her go, and as her opening eyes caught a view of her dear old father (for such he ever seemed to her) gazing so sadly upon her, she sprang from the bed and feebly sunk at his feet; then hiding her face in his lap, she wept such tears as she could never shed again; the bitterness of death was past, her duty was before her, and in that sad hour the old man’s prayers were answered; strength from above inspired her drooping heart, and though in those soft eyes the light of joy had faded, and no gleam of brightness played around the mouth that once dimpled with the innocent mirth of an unclouded girlhood, yet Mr. Dacre felt, as he kissed her pure, calm brow, and gazed almost reverently into the clear depths of those spiritual eyes, that a power mightier than the spell of earthly love dwelt in that frail form; and his voice was almost exultant as with trembling hand he implored the blessing of God the Father, the Son and the Spirit upon her youthful head.
That evening, long after the sun had set behind the hills, in the same lovely spot where Mabel was wont to watch his parting glories, two youthful forms sat with clasped hands, and pale, tearful faces. The moon rose in all her unclouded beauty, pouring a flood of silvery radiance over the scene; for amoment, the exquisite beauty of Nature sent its wonted light to Mabel’s face: then, with a faint cry of agony, she exclaimed—
“It is the last time, Walter—dear, dear Walter! I shall never again gaze upon this beauty with thee. O, God, who makest the world so lovely, can it be that Thou requirest of me this sacrifice!”
There was no sound for many minutes; but Walter’s head was bowed as if in prayer, and his strong frame shook like a reed.
“God knoweth best, my own beloved,” at length he murmured. “It may be that for me this trial was sent, to teach me the hard lesson—‘Little children, keep yourselves from idols.’ I knew it not, but now I feel that your image reigned in the heart I had offered to my God, and that earth had more share in my thoughts than Heaven.
“But, oh! to part from you, my Mabel—to give you up to others, my treasure, my love, my life! Oh! I cannot submit—my heart is crushed under this bitter trial! Alas! at times I have no trust, no hope, no faith!”
“Say not so, my own, my noble Walter; give up all else, but cling to your faith; forsake not our only strength; think, in this terrible parting, how tenfold would be our anguish, did we not both look forward to that world where there is no more parting, and where ‘God shall wipe all tears from all eyes.’”
“But, O, my beautiful Mabel, sometimes a strange shuddering fear comes over me, that in that gay and gorgeous world where your future steps will wander, you will be so admired, courted, and caressed, that you will cease to yearn for the simple home of your girlhood, cease to love—”
“Nay, Walter, speak not those dreadful words? Say not you doubt the faith, the love, the constancy of years: oh! do not let us add this drop to the bitter cup we are called upon to drink. Ah! if I thought you coulddoubtme, I should have lost the only happiness that yet remains for me—the thought of your full and perfect trust in my love. Do not let us doubt each other for one moment, Walter dearest; it would be to break the only tie yet left between us, our mutual trust.”
“Forgive me, sweet Mabel, my beloved, once my plighted wife—nay, let me not speak that word! Ah!Mabel, Mabel, what have I left to live for?”
“God, and thine own soul, beloved: let me support and strengthen thee in this our greatest trial; for, from thy example, how often have I gathered fortitude and patience. And remember, Walter dearest, that just as full, as perfect, as entire and devoted as yourlove, so may be yourfaithin me. I ask you, as my last request, to feel this always, though it may sometimes seemhard, though years of silence may pass, for I know you can never, never forget me!”
“I do—I will trust you always, my beloved. I ask fromyouno promise, but, before Heaven! I solemnly pronounce myself yours; and should God in his wisdom see fit to forbid our ever again meeting, my heart shall still cherish your image only, and go widowed to its grave.”
Night had already filled the firmament with its countless stars, ere the young lovers, for the last time, slowly and sadly wended their way to the happy home of Mabel’s childhood and youth.
Ah! who can tell the bitterness of that parting; the choking thoughts that could not be uttered, the throbbing hearts whose chords had been so rudely severed; earth had for them no sterner lesson, the light of life is faded—well will it be if “in the darkness stars arise, and the night is holy.”
——
“Your house within the cityIs richly furnished with plate and gold,Basins and ewers, to lave your dainty hands,Your hangings all of Tyrian tapestry.”Taming of the Shrew.
“Your house within the cityIs richly furnished with plate and gold,Basins and ewers, to lave your dainty hands,Your hangings all of Tyrian tapestry.”Taming of the Shrew.
“Your house within the city
Is richly furnished with plate and gold,
Basins and ewers, to lave your dainty hands,
Your hangings all of Tyrian tapestry.”
Taming of the Shrew.
A year had passed since the events narrated in our last chapter, and how had the time sped with Mabel. Received with a proud and delighted affection by her newly-found parent, and welcomed with almost a mother’s kindness by his titled and wealthy bride, she could not feel otherwise than grateful, and, at times, happy; but as increased intimacy revealed more and more to her of the characters of those whom, under God, she was most bound to obey and honor, Mabel’s heart sank, and her thoughts flew back to the simple piety and humble faith of her early teacher and guardian. The worldliness, the cold selfishness, the grasping ambition, and slavish cringing to superior rank that she saw in all around her, was to the high-souled and enthusiastic girl deserving of the most profound contempt and pity. She saw the father whom she so longed to honor and respect, fawning and bending before a monarch whom he hoped still further to propitiate, and at times he would talk to Mabel about her own advancement, until her whole frame trembled with a nameless fear. He had lately begun to speak more sternly with regard to her neglect of the ceremonies of the Romish Church, not dreaming that this neglect arose from a determined opposition. It did not once occur to him—so little had his own religious belief to do with conviction—that, in the mind of a young and beautiful girl, therecouldbe a settled and resolute preference for any particular church. Mabel had, indeed, never joined in any of the rites of her father’s church, but this he had attributed to thoughtlessness and indifference, little dreaming that, in her own solitary chamber, she enjoyed the purest and truest communion with her Maker, and that not the sternest mandate he could utter, would tempt her to abjure her Protestant faith.
But the trial was yet to come.
For some months after her arrival at the castle, Mabel had continued to receive, constantly, letters from Walter and Mr. Dacre; but she was not long to enjoy this gratification.
“Mabel, my daughter,” said Lord Arlington one day, as he saw with a frown the blush and smile with which she received an unusually large packet from Riverdale; “it were well if you could remember for yourself what were proper and becoming in the rank you now hold; but since your own sense has not prompted you to cease atonceall communication with those among whom nothing but your father’s misfortunes could have placed you, I am now compelled to forbid your ever again receiving any of those voluminous epistles, which, to judge from your countenance, must possess a degree of interest perfectly unaccountable. Does the old mansend his weekly sermons for your soul’s benefit?” he sneeringly said.
Mabel endeavored to reply, but her eyes fell under his cold, searching gaze; she could not speak, as the thought flashed through her mind that she should never again see that well-known hand, or read those precious words of affection from Walter, never more be cheered and supported by the advice and sympathy of him whom she reverenced more than any earthly being.
“Oh! father, do not, do not compel me to give up my dearest—”
She stopped, for the frown on her father’s face grew darker at this involuntary betrayal of her preference for her early friends—
“Do not compel me to seem so ungrateful and proud to those, whose kindness made me what I am: let me at least write a few words to tell them of your wishes?”
“Mabel—I have already been sufficiently annoyed and displeased by your evident dislike to your new life, and your childish preference for your country home; rouse me no further by opposition, strive to overcome your early prejudices, and to remember you are anEarl’s daughter, and that you may be the wife—”
At this moment, Mabel uttered a faint cry of surprise and terror; then recollecting herself, she complained of feeling unwell, and begged her father’s permission to retire to her own apartment.
“Go, my daughter; but do not let a trifling indisposition prevent your being in readiness to accompany us this evening to the palace, for the king expressly requested me to bring you, and your mother has provided your toilette for the occasion: let me see my Mabel the gayest and happiest, as she will be the loveliest, in the proud assemblage?”
With a sad and heavy heart Mabel gained her own chamber, and there—seated on the floor, with her head buried in the velvet cushions of the luxurious divan, and her precious letters clasped to her bosom—she wept bitterly. Long did she sit thus, with her soft, black hair hanging like a veil around her, and her head bowed in that utter abandonment to grief, that only an impassioned nature can feel.
——
“Oh! her smile—it seems half holy,As if drawn from thoughts more farThan our common jestings are;And if any painter drew her,He would paint her unaware,With a halo round her hair.”Elizabeth Barrett.
“Oh! her smile—it seems half holy,As if drawn from thoughts more farThan our common jestings are;And if any painter drew her,He would paint her unaware,With a halo round her hair.”Elizabeth Barrett.
“Oh! her smile—it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far
Than our common jestings are;
And if any painter drew her,
He would paint her unaware,
With a halo round her hair.”
Elizabeth Barrett.
Never was the Lady Mabel’s beauty more transcendent than on that evening; and as she entered the splendid apartments where King James held his levee, a low murmur of admiration arose on every side.
“What exquisite creature is she, who moves like a queen by right of her own loveliness!” exclaimed a young French nobleman of the highest rank, who was visiting at the court. “Tell me, Ormond?” he said, turning to an older person who stood beside him, “do your cold English eyes behold unmoved such a vision of beauty; for my own part, I confess that, never upon my sight rose so peerless a creature.” And, in truth, Mabel’s beauty was of no ordinary kind; tall, and rather slender, yet with all the roundness ofcontour, and the gracefulness of childhood, every movement had a charm. Her complexion was exquisitely fair, and so transparently delicate that it glowed with every passing emotion; her eyes, large and full, were of that dark violet hue that varies every moment—sometimes so soft and liquid that you would have thought her a creature all gentleness, then flashing with the light of thought, brilliant and sparkling, as though a tear had never dimmed their lustre. At times, the mirth—so natural to her once—would play over her lovely features, glancing in dimples round her rosy mouth, and bringing to view the pearly teeth, so small and regular.
On this evening she was robed in a thin, exquisite dress of the richest lace, over a satin of such lustre as to resemble woven silver, whilst on her raven hair rested a tiara of brilliants, such as a nobleman’s revenue could not purchase, the gift of the Queen to Lady Arlington on her marriage. Her snowy neck and arms were circled with the same sparkling gems, and one shone like a star on the girdle that confined her slender waist. Who would have recognized in the queenly bearing and rather haughty countenance of the Lady Mabel, the sweet, simple and loving maiden, who used to dance over the fields at Riverdale? And yet could she have met in all that crowd of flatterers one true friend, one pure, guileless nature, Mabel’s whole face would have changed, and her free spirit have flowed out in all its wonted fullness and confidingness. The young Duke D’Alençon, the French nobleman to whom we have before alluded, was of the blood-royal, and an especial favorite of Louis Fourteenth, the reigning monarch of France. He had been educated at a convent, and was early imbued with the strongest reverence for the Romish church: so deeply was his mind filled with its superstitions, that it was only the most-earnest solicitations of relations that prevented his becoming a monk. A residence at the Court of Louis, the most dissipated and reckless of any in Europe, had moderated, in some measure, his severe notions of conduct, but his attachment to the forms and ceremonies of his own church remained as firm and bigoted as before. It was the sympathy between himself and the English monarch, that had induced him to visit the Court of St. James.
To Lord Arlington, the king had often spoken of his dear friend D’Alençon; and, ever striving to add new links to the ties that bound the nation to France, he expressed his wish that a union between Mabel and the young duke might be formed, adding, at the same time, that the latter would wed none but a member of his own communion. To this proposal, Lord Arlington with much delight had acceded, and declared thathisdaughter could be no other than a zealous Catholic. It was with this plan at heart, he had so earnestly desired Mabel to be present on the evening before-mentioned, and all transpired to thesatisfaction of the ambitious parent. The king himself introduced D’Alençon to the lovely Mabel, and after whispering in her ear some words of flattery, that called a blush to her fair cheek, he left them to converse undisturbed. The young duke’s nature was more earnest, sincere, and enthusiastic than any our heroine had yet encountered, and she accordingly listened with unusual interest to his words, and replied with more of her accustomed spirit and vivacity than she had ever before displayed.
Little dreamed the artless girl that her father was watching every glance of her eye, and that already, in his ambitious mind, a resolution was formed as inflexible as iron, a plan for her aggrandizement, which no prayers, or tears, or entreaties of hers could alter in the minutest particulars.
Not many weeks had passed since that evening, and the young duke had sought Mabel’s side at every festive occasion, yet still to her he had never breathed his love. Something there was in her simple purity that almost awed him; her calm dignity prevented all courtly gallantries, while her apparent indifference kept back an impassioned declaration. To her father, therefore, he resolved to speak first, and it was with difficulty Lord Arlington concealed his delight, when the prospect of his daughter’s alliance with the blood-royal of France was first presented to him as acertainthing; for, to his mind, the possibility of Mabel’s opposition would have seemed absurd. The proposal was at once accepted, and the day fixed upon for the nuptials, which were to be celebrated according to the Romish form; and, previous to the ceremony, the young pair were to confess and receive mass, after the custom of that church.
The next day, the happy father called his daughter to the library, and there proceeded to lay before the astonished girl her brilliant prospects; not to ask her consent, not even to inquire whether she loved D’Alençon, but with the iron tone of one who expects no opposition, and to whom denial would be of no avail. Mabel heard at first as one in a dream, her eyes dilated, her bosom heaved, but when he went on, and named the day that had been fixed upon, she seemed to feel as one who has heard his doom, but whose lips will cry for mercy, though there is no hope.
“My father!” she passionately exclaimed, “it must not be. I cannot, cannot wed him—oh, God! teach me in this hour what I shall say. The time has come—I can no longer keep silent! Father—I have striven to be dutiful, I have tried to please you; nay, sometimes I have grieved my conscience rather than disobey you—but it cannot be so any longer. No!” she wildly said, and her eyes glowed, her whole frame trembled with the violence of her emotion, “I am your child, and, as such, I am bound as far as I can to obey you, but I have another father, evenGod, and to him, before you, before all the world, I owe allegiance. I have solemnly pledged myself to obey his will as I have been taught it; I am a member of His church—yes, my father, I am a Protestant, a Puritan, if so in derision you call those who acknowledge no supreme head butChrist, no infallible guidebut the Bible; and can you ask me, in obedience to your will, to renounce my faith, to abjure my church, to forsake that which is dearer to me than all the world beside? No, you will not, you cannot be so cruel, so unjust, so harsh!”
“Cease, cease this idle ranting, Lady Mabel. As your father, it is my duty to bring you into the true church, from which, but for my carelessness, you should never have wandered. Is not the opinion of your father, and your sovereign, of more value than your own unenlightened prejudices? Is it not your duty to obey your only parent, at the expense only of the sacrifice of a mere form of worship?
“Nay,speaknot; I will hear no complaints, no refusals: you shall marry D’Alençon on the day I have fixed, or I will deprive your old Puritan teacher of his living, and send him forth abeggar.”
With a faint shriek Mabel sprung forward, and fell at her father’s feet, clasping his knees with her cold hands, and lifting her despairing eyes to his face.
“Spare, oh! spare me this trial, my father; I will do aught else to please you, but, oh! do not ask me solemnly to confess a faith I have not, or to promise a love that I can never, never give: let me be your own Mabel—let me live with you, and cheer your declining years? I ask no high station, I covet no wealth—only let me be at peace with God, and my own soul! In pity hear me, O father; for her sake, whose name I bear, do not revenge my denial of your wishes on the head of that innocent old man—do not send his gray hairs in sorrow to the grave?”
For a moment, one moment only, the proud heart of the aspiring man was softened, as he called to mind one who had also knelt before him, and implored him to let her once more see her childhood’s friends; but the next, the vision of a coronet over that pale brow, round which the long dark curls were falling, and he coldly said—
“You have but tochoose. I ask no dreadful sacrifice at your hands: methinks it were to many rather a pleasant prospect to be Duchess D’Alençon, and you will remember your own impressions of him were decidedly agreeable. However, he will be satisfied when you are his, I doubt not; I will leave you to meditate, and remember, in a life offortyyears, your father was never known to give up any thing on which his will was fixed.”
Mabel said no more; on that sweet face had fallen the deadness of despair, no sound escaped from her lips, her eyes wandered vacantly round as if her mind had failed under the pressure of some great calamity—but she was not forsaken in that dark hour by Him to whom she had solemnly given her service. Although the terrible thought that she should send forth her beloved and venerable father to destitution and want was ever in her mind, and—added to it—the remembrance that Walter, too, would be left desolate, even were he suffered to retain the curacy, which, in itself, was very improbable; yet the words of Mr. Dacre were with her—“My child, never give up your faith, let no threats induce you; and then, above even this, the words of Christ, ‘whoso lovethfather or mother more than me, is not worthy of me.’”
Strengthened by these reflections, Mabel resolved, before God, never to abjure her faith, and never to wed one whom she could not love or revere.
The weeks passed slowly on, and nothing more was said to Mabel on the subject of her marriage, but she saw the preparations going on with languid indifference, which her father attributed to her perfect resignation to his will. One thing she had requested of Lord Arlington, and he had granted it, and this was—that the duke should visit her only, occasionally, as a common acquaintance.
The wedding-day approached: it was the night before—the magnificent dress, with the gorgeous jewels and bridal gifts, were all prepared. Mabel asked leave to retire early, and as she knelt, according to the custom, to receive her father’s good-night embrace, she gently kissed his hand and a tear fell upon it. With more than his usual tenderness, he said—“God bless and keep you, my darling daughter!”
That morning, Mabel did not appear. It was late, and becoming alarmed, her father entered her room. The curtained bed had not been touched. She had fled—and with her, a young girl, her waiting-maid, who loved her fair mistress with almost a passionate fondness. No clue could be obtained of her course; search was unavailing; and, heart-broken and disconsolate, the father—after a year or two of utter silence as to her fate—relapsed into a sad and stern misanthropy. None but himself knew how sharp were the pangs of remorse, or how his solitude was haunted by a pale, sad face, and the moans of a broken heart.
——