“Dear Adeline,—Far from having my indignation awakened by your account of Amy’s attachment to young Greenleaf, I was heartily glad to hear that she had fixed it on so worthy an object. I have the most satisfactory assurances as to his worth, his unexceptionable habits, and his ability to make my daughter happy. What more shall we look for? You say he is a milk-man’s son, and ask if I am willing to see my child wedded to a clodhopper. Let me tell you, it is no small distinction in these days, when whole states have set the example of repudiating their debts (or, in plain, downright English, ofswindling their creditors,) to be descended from an honest man, let his vocation have been what it might. At any rate, I am delighted at Amy’s choice, and I most earnestly forbid your throwing any obstacle in the way of its fulfillment. I remain your affectionate brother, etc., etc.”
“Dear Adeline,—Far from having my indignation awakened by your account of Amy’s attachment to young Greenleaf, I was heartily glad to hear that she had fixed it on so worthy an object. I have the most satisfactory assurances as to his worth, his unexceptionable habits, and his ability to make my daughter happy. What more shall we look for? You say he is a milk-man’s son, and ask if I am willing to see my child wedded to a clodhopper. Let me tell you, it is no small distinction in these days, when whole states have set the example of repudiating their debts (or, in plain, downright English, ofswindling their creditors,) to be descended from an honest man, let his vocation have been what it might. At any rate, I am delighted at Amy’s choice, and I most earnestly forbid your throwing any obstacle in the way of its fulfillment. I remain your affectionate brother, etc., etc.”
As Aunt Adeline lifted her eyes from the letter, she beheld Amy seated in the colonel’s lap, and playfully feeding him with a spoon, while at intervals she smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. The girl was evidently wildly enamored of a character who had shown himself a most eligible candidate for Sing Sing; and Aunt Adeline had the soothing reflection, that she herself had originated and encouraged the attachment. Requesting Amy to follow her to the library, she at once made known to her the fact of the colonel’s unworthiness, and related the occurrence of the night before. Amy professed her utter disbelief of the charges against her “own Arthur,” as she called him, and on her aunt’s offering to prove them, by calling in a magistrate, and having the colonel’s trunk searched, the infatuated girl exclaimed:
“Well, what if he is guilty? His father is an earl, and his aunt is the daughter-in-law of a duke, and happen what may I won’t give up my own Arthur.”
Aunt Adeline groaned in spirit as she replied—“Have you so soon forgotten that nice, respectable, amiable young man, Greenleaf, to whom you gave so much encouragement? I never believed you could be so fickle, Amy!”
“Greenleaf! Foh! Turnip-tops and cabbage-heads! Radishes and carrots! How can you condescend to mention his vulgar, vegetable name after what yourself have said about him to me, my dear aunt? Besides, how do you know that the milk-man’s son has not changed his mind by this time, seeing your hostility to his pretensions?”
Aunt Adeline had penetration enough to put a favorable construction upon this last interrogation, and, leaving her niece, she started off to pay a visit to Greenleaf. After an abundance of circumlocution, she ventured to sound him upon the subject of her niece. To her disappointment, she found him cold and impenetrable, and when she put him the question point-blank, whether he wished to marry Amy, the upstart replied that he had some young ladies in his eye, who, if they did not possess the personal charms of her niece, could boast of more illustrious ancestors, which, of course, rendered them far more eligible. Aunt Adeline could only groan. The weapons with which she was foiled were of her own forging.
Poor Aunt Adeline! After being tormented a couple of days longer, the joke was explained to her, the money and jewels were restored, and Colonel Mornington and Harry Ammidon were shown to be one and the same personage. In the first blush of her mortification and rage, she packed up her trunks, and removed to the city, where she bivouacked upon a niece, who was blessed with a houseful of small children. Soon after her departure, Greenleaf and Amy were married, and established in the new and tasteful structure built by the father and embellished by the son. Since that event, there has been but one ripple in the smooth stream of their felicity, and that was occasioned by the reception of a letter from Aunt Adeline, in which was the following passage:
“You know, Amy dear, that you were always my favorite niece, and I am sure you will be pleased to hear that I intend paying you a long visit next month. I am quite willing to forego the gayeties of New York, for the pleasure of passing a year or two with you and your charming husband. I hear you see a good deal of company, and are visited by many highly genteel people from the city. I always said that my darling Amy would make a creditable match. You may expect me early in October.”
Immediately on the arrival of this letter, there were a number of anxious consultations in regard to its contents. A proposition was brought forward by Harry Ammidon for blowing up the old woman with gunpowder, after a plan that had been communicated to him in Paris by one of the conspirators against Louis Philippe. This project being objected to, he suggested whether she couldn’t be put into a haunted room, and a ghost hired, for a small compensation, to torment her nightly. But the house being one of modern construction, and no well authenticated murder having been yet committed in it, this contrivance did not appear altogether feasible.
When I took leave of the family, which was on a pleasant afternoon last September, they were still plotting the means of averting the menaced visitation. Should any thing interesting transpire in this connection, perhaps I will give an account of it in a supplement to my present narrative.
THE LIFE VOYAGE—A BALLAD.
———
BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
———
Once in the olden time there dwelt,Beside the sounding sea,A little maid—her garb was coarse,Her spirit pure and free.Her parents were an humble twain,And poor, as poor could be;Yet gaily sang the guileless child,Beside the sounding sea.The hut was bare, and scant the fare,And hard her little bed;But she was rich! A single gemIts beauty round her shed.She walked in light!—’twas all her wealth—That pearl whose lustrous glowMade her white forehead dazzling fair,And pure as sunlit snow.Her parents died! With tears, she cried,“God will my father be!”Then launched alone her shallop light,And bravely put to sea.The sail she set was virgin-whiteAs inmost lily leaf,And angels whispered her from Heaven,To loose it or to reef.And ever on the dancing prowOne glorious brilliant burned,By whose clear ray she read her way,And every danger learned:For she had hung her treasure there,Her heaven-illumined pearl!And so she steered her lonely bark,That fair and guileless girl!The wind was fresh, the sails were free,High dashed the diamond spray,And merrily leaping o’er the seaThe light skiff left the bay!But soon false, evil spirits came,And strove, with costly lure,To bribe her maiden heart to shame,And win her jewel pure:They swarmed around the fragile boat,They brought her diamonds rare,To glisten on her graceful throat,And bind her flowing hair!They brought her gold from Afric-land;And from the sea-king’s throne,They pilfered gems to grace her handAnd clasp her virgin zone.But still she shook the silken curlBack from her beaming eyes,And cried—“I bear my spotless pearlHome, home to yonder skies!“Now shame ye not your ocean gemsAnd Eastern gold to show?Behold! how mine but burns them all!God’s smile is in its glow!”Fair blows the wind, the sail swells free,High shoots the diamond spray,And merrily o’er the murmuring seaThe light boat leaps away!They swarmed around the fragile bark,They strove, with costlier lure,To bribe her maiden heart to shame,And win her jewel pure.“We bring thee rank—we bring thee power—We bring thee pleasures free—No empress, in her silk-hung bower,May queen her realm like thee!“Now yield us up the one, white pearl!’Tis but a star, whose rayWill fail thee, rash, devoted girl,When tempests cloud thy way.”But still she smiled a loftier smile,And raised her frank, bright eyes,And cried—“I bear my vestal star,Home, home to yonder skies!”The wind is fresh—the sail swells free—High shoots the diamond spray!And merrily o’er the moaning seaThe light boat leaps away!Suddenly, stillness broods around,A stillness as of death,Above, below—no motion, sound!Hardly a struggling breath!Then wild and fierce the tempest came,The dark wind-demons clashed,Their weapons swift—the air was flame!The waves in madness dashed!They swarmed around the tossing boat—“Wilt yield thy jewelnow?Look! look! already drenched in spray,It trembles at the prow.“Beoursthe gem! and safely launchedUpon a summer sea,Where never cloud may frown in heaven,Thy pinnance light shall be!”But still she smiled a fearless smile,And raised her trusting eyes,And cried—“I bear my talisman,Home, home to yonder skies!”And safe through all that blinding stormThe true bark floated on,And soft its pearl-illumined prowThrough all the tumult shone!An angel, guided through the clouds,By that most precious light,Flew down the fairy helm to seizeAnd steer the boat aright.Then died the storm upon the sea!High dashed the diamond spray,And merrily leaping, light and free,The shallop sailed away!And meekly, when, at eve, her barkIts destined port had found,She moored it by the mellow sparkHer jewel shed around!Would’st know the name the maiden wore?’Twas Innocence—like thine!Would’st know the pearl she nobly bore?’Twas Truth—a gem divine!Thouhast the jewel—keep it bright,Undimmed by mortal fear,And bathe each stain upon its lightWith Grief’s repentant tear!Still shrink from Falsehood’s fairest guise,By Flattery unbeguiled!Still let thy heart speak from thine eyes,My pure and simple child!
Once in the olden time there dwelt,Beside the sounding sea,A little maid—her garb was coarse,Her spirit pure and free.Her parents were an humble twain,And poor, as poor could be;Yet gaily sang the guileless child,Beside the sounding sea.The hut was bare, and scant the fare,And hard her little bed;But she was rich! A single gemIts beauty round her shed.She walked in light!—’twas all her wealth—That pearl whose lustrous glowMade her white forehead dazzling fair,And pure as sunlit snow.Her parents died! With tears, she cried,“God will my father be!”Then launched alone her shallop light,And bravely put to sea.The sail she set was virgin-whiteAs inmost lily leaf,And angels whispered her from Heaven,To loose it or to reef.And ever on the dancing prowOne glorious brilliant burned,By whose clear ray she read her way,And every danger learned:For she had hung her treasure there,Her heaven-illumined pearl!And so she steered her lonely bark,That fair and guileless girl!The wind was fresh, the sails were free,High dashed the diamond spray,And merrily leaping o’er the seaThe light skiff left the bay!But soon false, evil spirits came,And strove, with costly lure,To bribe her maiden heart to shame,And win her jewel pure:They swarmed around the fragile boat,They brought her diamonds rare,To glisten on her graceful throat,And bind her flowing hair!They brought her gold from Afric-land;And from the sea-king’s throne,They pilfered gems to grace her handAnd clasp her virgin zone.But still she shook the silken curlBack from her beaming eyes,And cried—“I bear my spotless pearlHome, home to yonder skies!“Now shame ye not your ocean gemsAnd Eastern gold to show?Behold! how mine but burns them all!God’s smile is in its glow!”Fair blows the wind, the sail swells free,High shoots the diamond spray,And merrily o’er the murmuring seaThe light boat leaps away!They swarmed around the fragile bark,They strove, with costlier lure,To bribe her maiden heart to shame,And win her jewel pure.“We bring thee rank—we bring thee power—We bring thee pleasures free—No empress, in her silk-hung bower,May queen her realm like thee!“Now yield us up the one, white pearl!’Tis but a star, whose rayWill fail thee, rash, devoted girl,When tempests cloud thy way.”But still she smiled a loftier smile,And raised her frank, bright eyes,And cried—“I bear my vestal star,Home, home to yonder skies!”The wind is fresh—the sail swells free—High shoots the diamond spray!And merrily o’er the moaning seaThe light boat leaps away!Suddenly, stillness broods around,A stillness as of death,Above, below—no motion, sound!Hardly a struggling breath!Then wild and fierce the tempest came,The dark wind-demons clashed,Their weapons swift—the air was flame!The waves in madness dashed!They swarmed around the tossing boat—“Wilt yield thy jewelnow?Look! look! already drenched in spray,It trembles at the prow.“Beoursthe gem! and safely launchedUpon a summer sea,Where never cloud may frown in heaven,Thy pinnance light shall be!”But still she smiled a fearless smile,And raised her trusting eyes,And cried—“I bear my talisman,Home, home to yonder skies!”And safe through all that blinding stormThe true bark floated on,And soft its pearl-illumined prowThrough all the tumult shone!An angel, guided through the clouds,By that most precious light,Flew down the fairy helm to seizeAnd steer the boat aright.Then died the storm upon the sea!High dashed the diamond spray,And merrily leaping, light and free,The shallop sailed away!And meekly, when, at eve, her barkIts destined port had found,She moored it by the mellow sparkHer jewel shed around!Would’st know the name the maiden wore?’Twas Innocence—like thine!Would’st know the pearl she nobly bore?’Twas Truth—a gem divine!Thouhast the jewel—keep it bright,Undimmed by mortal fear,And bathe each stain upon its lightWith Grief’s repentant tear!Still shrink from Falsehood’s fairest guise,By Flattery unbeguiled!Still let thy heart speak from thine eyes,My pure and simple child!
Once in the olden time there dwelt,Beside the sounding sea,A little maid—her garb was coarse,Her spirit pure and free.
Once in the olden time there dwelt,
Beside the sounding sea,
A little maid—her garb was coarse,
Her spirit pure and free.
Her parents were an humble twain,And poor, as poor could be;Yet gaily sang the guileless child,Beside the sounding sea.
Her parents were an humble twain,
And poor, as poor could be;
Yet gaily sang the guileless child,
Beside the sounding sea.
The hut was bare, and scant the fare,And hard her little bed;But she was rich! A single gemIts beauty round her shed.
The hut was bare, and scant the fare,
And hard her little bed;
But she was rich! A single gem
Its beauty round her shed.
She walked in light!—’twas all her wealth—That pearl whose lustrous glowMade her white forehead dazzling fair,And pure as sunlit snow.
She walked in light!—’twas all her wealth—
That pearl whose lustrous glow
Made her white forehead dazzling fair,
And pure as sunlit snow.
Her parents died! With tears, she cried,“God will my father be!”Then launched alone her shallop light,And bravely put to sea.
Her parents died! With tears, she cried,
“God will my father be!”
Then launched alone her shallop light,
And bravely put to sea.
The sail she set was virgin-whiteAs inmost lily leaf,And angels whispered her from Heaven,To loose it or to reef.
The sail she set was virgin-white
As inmost lily leaf,
And angels whispered her from Heaven,
To loose it or to reef.
And ever on the dancing prowOne glorious brilliant burned,By whose clear ray she read her way,And every danger learned:
And ever on the dancing prow
One glorious brilliant burned,
By whose clear ray she read her way,
And every danger learned:
For she had hung her treasure there,Her heaven-illumined pearl!And so she steered her lonely bark,That fair and guileless girl!
For she had hung her treasure there,
Her heaven-illumined pearl!
And so she steered her lonely bark,
That fair and guileless girl!
The wind was fresh, the sails were free,High dashed the diamond spray,And merrily leaping o’er the seaThe light skiff left the bay!
The wind was fresh, the sails were free,
High dashed the diamond spray,
And merrily leaping o’er the sea
The light skiff left the bay!
But soon false, evil spirits came,And strove, with costly lure,To bribe her maiden heart to shame,And win her jewel pure:
But soon false, evil spirits came,
And strove, with costly lure,
To bribe her maiden heart to shame,
And win her jewel pure:
They swarmed around the fragile boat,They brought her diamonds rare,To glisten on her graceful throat,And bind her flowing hair!
They swarmed around the fragile boat,
They brought her diamonds rare,
To glisten on her graceful throat,
And bind her flowing hair!
They brought her gold from Afric-land;And from the sea-king’s throne,They pilfered gems to grace her handAnd clasp her virgin zone.
They brought her gold from Afric-land;
And from the sea-king’s throne,
They pilfered gems to grace her hand
And clasp her virgin zone.
But still she shook the silken curlBack from her beaming eyes,And cried—“I bear my spotless pearlHome, home to yonder skies!
But still she shook the silken curl
Back from her beaming eyes,
And cried—“I bear my spotless pearl
Home, home to yonder skies!
“Now shame ye not your ocean gemsAnd Eastern gold to show?Behold! how mine but burns them all!God’s smile is in its glow!”
“Now shame ye not your ocean gems
And Eastern gold to show?
Behold! how mine but burns them all!
God’s smile is in its glow!”
Fair blows the wind, the sail swells free,High shoots the diamond spray,And merrily o’er the murmuring seaThe light boat leaps away!
Fair blows the wind, the sail swells free,
High shoots the diamond spray,
And merrily o’er the murmuring sea
The light boat leaps away!
They swarmed around the fragile bark,They strove, with costlier lure,To bribe her maiden heart to shame,And win her jewel pure.
They swarmed around the fragile bark,
They strove, with costlier lure,
To bribe her maiden heart to shame,
And win her jewel pure.
“We bring thee rank—we bring thee power—We bring thee pleasures free—No empress, in her silk-hung bower,May queen her realm like thee!
“We bring thee rank—we bring thee power—
We bring thee pleasures free—
No empress, in her silk-hung bower,
May queen her realm like thee!
“Now yield us up the one, white pearl!’Tis but a star, whose rayWill fail thee, rash, devoted girl,When tempests cloud thy way.”
“Now yield us up the one, white pearl!
’Tis but a star, whose ray
Will fail thee, rash, devoted girl,
When tempests cloud thy way.”
But still she smiled a loftier smile,And raised her frank, bright eyes,And cried—“I bear my vestal star,Home, home to yonder skies!”
But still she smiled a loftier smile,
And raised her frank, bright eyes,
And cried—“I bear my vestal star,
Home, home to yonder skies!”
The wind is fresh—the sail swells free—High shoots the diamond spray!And merrily o’er the moaning seaThe light boat leaps away!
The wind is fresh—the sail swells free—
High shoots the diamond spray!
And merrily o’er the moaning sea
The light boat leaps away!
Suddenly, stillness broods around,A stillness as of death,Above, below—no motion, sound!Hardly a struggling breath!
Suddenly, stillness broods around,
A stillness as of death,
Above, below—no motion, sound!
Hardly a struggling breath!
Then wild and fierce the tempest came,The dark wind-demons clashed,Their weapons swift—the air was flame!The waves in madness dashed!
Then wild and fierce the tempest came,
The dark wind-demons clashed,
Their weapons swift—the air was flame!
The waves in madness dashed!
They swarmed around the tossing boat—“Wilt yield thy jewelnow?Look! look! already drenched in spray,It trembles at the prow.
They swarmed around the tossing boat—
“Wilt yield thy jewelnow?
Look! look! already drenched in spray,
It trembles at the prow.
“Beoursthe gem! and safely launchedUpon a summer sea,Where never cloud may frown in heaven,Thy pinnance light shall be!”
“Beoursthe gem! and safely launched
Upon a summer sea,
Where never cloud may frown in heaven,
Thy pinnance light shall be!”
But still she smiled a fearless smile,And raised her trusting eyes,And cried—“I bear my talisman,Home, home to yonder skies!”
But still she smiled a fearless smile,
And raised her trusting eyes,
And cried—“I bear my talisman,
Home, home to yonder skies!”
And safe through all that blinding stormThe true bark floated on,And soft its pearl-illumined prowThrough all the tumult shone!
And safe through all that blinding storm
The true bark floated on,
And soft its pearl-illumined prow
Through all the tumult shone!
An angel, guided through the clouds,By that most precious light,Flew down the fairy helm to seizeAnd steer the boat aright.
An angel, guided through the clouds,
By that most precious light,
Flew down the fairy helm to seize
And steer the boat aright.
Then died the storm upon the sea!High dashed the diamond spray,And merrily leaping, light and free,The shallop sailed away!
Then died the storm upon the sea!
High dashed the diamond spray,
And merrily leaping, light and free,
The shallop sailed away!
And meekly, when, at eve, her barkIts destined port had found,She moored it by the mellow sparkHer jewel shed around!
And meekly, when, at eve, her bark
Its destined port had found,
She moored it by the mellow spark
Her jewel shed around!
Would’st know the name the maiden wore?’Twas Innocence—like thine!Would’st know the pearl she nobly bore?’Twas Truth—a gem divine!
Would’st know the name the maiden wore?
’Twas Innocence—like thine!
Would’st know the pearl she nobly bore?
’Twas Truth—a gem divine!
Thouhast the jewel—keep it bright,Undimmed by mortal fear,And bathe each stain upon its lightWith Grief’s repentant tear!
Thouhast the jewel—keep it bright,
Undimmed by mortal fear,
And bathe each stain upon its light
With Grief’s repentant tear!
Still shrink from Falsehood’s fairest guise,By Flattery unbeguiled!Still let thy heart speak from thine eyes,My pure and simple child!
Still shrink from Falsehood’s fairest guise,
By Flattery unbeguiled!
Still let thy heart speak from thine eyes,
My pure and simple child!
HESTER ORMESBY.
———
BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.
———
Aye, it is ever thus: in every heartSome thirst unslaked has been a life-long pang,Some deep desire in every soul has part,Some want has pierced us all with serpent fang;Oh, who from such a brimming cup has quaffedThat notonedrop was wanting to life’s draught?
Aye, it is ever thus: in every heartSome thirst unslaked has been a life-long pang,Some deep desire in every soul has part,Some want has pierced us all with serpent fang;Oh, who from such a brimming cup has quaffedThat notonedrop was wanting to life’s draught?
Aye, it is ever thus: in every heart
Some thirst unslaked has been a life-long pang,
Some deep desire in every soul has part,
Some want has pierced us all with serpent fang;
Oh, who from such a brimming cup has quaffed
That notonedrop was wanting to life’s draught?
“So Miss Ormesby is dead. Well, no one will miss her; these queer people are never of any use in the world.” Such was the cold and sneering comment made by a certain commonplace, precise,patternwoman, upon the sudden death of one whose exaggerated sensibility had been her only fault, and who had expiated her folly by a life of sorrow and seclusion. Such is the judgment of the world: a crime may be forgiven, while a weakness receives no pardon.
Hester Ormesby had been one of those supernumeraries usually found in all large families. She was neither the eldest child, the pride of the household—nor the youngest, usually the pet: she was distinguished neither for great beauty nor precocious talent, and as she had been not only preceded in the world by four promising sisters, but also succeeded by several sturdy brothers, she certainly occupied a very insignificant position. The mother, who had early determined that the beauty of her girls should purchase for them a more elevated station in society, already saw in imagination her blooming roses transplanted to the hotbed of fashionable life, but for this new claimant on her maternal care, this humble little “cinque-foil,” a lowlier destiny must be anticipated. She could devise no better plan, in aid of the child’s future fortunes, than to bestow upon her the name of an eccentric old relative, whose moderate estate was entirely at her own disposal. This was accordingly done, and, notwithstanding the indisputable authority of Shakspeare on the subject of names, it was Hester Ormesby’snamewhich decided the fate of her future life, since it was the means of placing her under such influences as could not fail to direct the flexile mind of childhood.
Miss Hester Templeton was a maiden lady who had long passed her grand climacteric, and who lived in that close retirement which is so peculiarly favorable to the growth of whims and oddities. At the age of twenty she had been betrothed, but her lover died on the very day fixed for their marriage; and the widowed bride, yielding to the violence of her overwhelming sorrow, determined to abjure the world forever. For years she never quitted the limits of her own apartment, and was generally looked upon as the victim of melancholy madness; until the death of her parents made it necessary for her to take some interest in the affairs of every-day life, when it was discovered that whatever might be her eccentricity, her intellect was perfectly unclouded. Acute and sensible in all worldly matters, quite competent to manage her pecuniary affairs, and gifted with a degree of shrewdness which enabled her to see through the fine-spun webs of cunning and deceit, there was yet one weak point in her character which showed how immedicable had been the early wound of her heart. Her memory of the dead was still religiously cherished, her vow of seclusion still bound her, and thirty years had passed since her foot had crossed the threshold of her own door. Living in a remote country village, which offered no temptation to either the speculator or the manufacturer, time had wrought few changes around her. The old homestead, in which she was born, was the spot in which she meant to die, and she would have thought it sacrilege to change the position of the cumbrous furniture, or even to displace a superannuated article by a more modern invention. Her own apartment was filled with memorials of her lost lover. His picture looked down upon her from the wall, his books lay on her table, and in an antique cabinet were preserved letters, love gifts, withered nosegays and all the melancholy remnants of by-gone affection, which, to the bereaved heart, are but as the dust and ashes of the dead.
To this lonely and isolated being, in whose character romance and morbid sensibility were so singularly combined with worldly prudence and sagacity, the acquisition of a new object of interest, in the person of her little namesake, formed an epoch in life. She was flattered by the compliment, and pleased with the importance which it gave her in her own opinion. She determined to adopt the child, and, as she found no difficulty in obtaining the consent of the parents, she scarcely waited for the lapse of actual infancy ere she look the little girl to her heart and home.
Few children would have been happy in such seclusion as that in which Miss Templeton lived; but Hester Ormesby possessed that quiet, gentle, loving nature which finds sources of content and fountains of affection everywhere. With the quick perception of a sensitive nature, the little girl had early discovered that she was not a favorite at home. She could not complain of unkindness, for Mrs. Ormesby considered herself a most exemplary mother, and prided herself upon the strict performance of every duty. She would not, for the world, have given a cake to one child without furnishing all the others with a similar dainty, but she was quite unaware of the fact that in voice, and look, and manner may be displayed as much of the injustice of favoritism as in the unequal distribution of bounties. There are no beings on earth to whom sympathy is so essential as to children. Those “little people,” as Dr. Johnson calls them, well know the difference between simple indulgence and actual interest in their concerns. The most expensive gifts, the most unlimited indulgence, is of less value to them than an earnest and affectionate attention to their petty interests, and the mother whose influence will linger longest in the minds of her world tried sons is she who has most frequently flung aside her work or her book, to share their infantine sports, or listen to their boyish schemes of happiness. This sympathy was denied to Hester. Her mother was proud of the four beautiful girls, who attracted the notice even of strangers, but the little sickly looking child, whose nervous timidity rendered her almost repulsive, was merely one to be well fed, and clad, and kept from bodily harm. The transition between this indifference and the affection with which Miss Templeton treated her, was delightful to the shy and sensitive child. In her father’s house she was perfectly insignificant, in her new home she was an object of the greatest importance; and though Miss Templeton’s quiet, old-fashioned mode of life offered few attractions to a healthy and spirited child, it was exactly the kind of existence best suited to the taste of a delicate one, like Hester, who possessed a precocity of feeling more dangerous, in all cases, than precocity of mind.
Miss Templeton had some excellent notions respecting education. Implicit obedience, deference, perfect truthfulness and active industry were, in her opinion, essential points; and as these requisites have become so obsolete as to have quite gone into disuse in modern systems of instruction, it may be judged how entirely the old lady had fallen behind the march of intellect. Her affection awakened some of the dormant energy of her character, and she applied herself diligently to the task of training and disciplining the mind of her young charge. In this, as in most other cases, usefulness brought its own blessing along with it, and, as the child increased in knowledge, the heart of the recluse seemed to expand to a wider circle of sympathies. It was, indeed, a pleasant thing to see the frost of so many winters melting away before the sunshine of childish happiness, and it may be questioned whether Miss Templeton or Hester derived the most benefit from this close connection between them.
But character in its earliest development is very chameleon-like, and takes its hue from the objects with which it is brought directly in contact. Miss Templeton educated Hester thoroughly and usefully; she imparted to her a stock of knowledge far beyond that acquired at the most of schools, she imbued her with noble principles and an accurate sense of duty, but she also endowed her, unconsciously and involuntarily it may be, with her own high-toned and romantic sentiments. Indeed, it was impossible for a sensitive child to live within the atmosphere of romance and not imbibe its spirit. The circumstances of Miss Templeton’s life, her unselfish devotion to the memory of the dead, her reverential love for him who had lain so many years within the tomb, her scrupulous adherence to a vow made in the first anguish of a wounded spirit, her quiet sufferance of a blighted heart during a long life, all were calculated to make a deep impression on the mind of a girl whose sensibilities were already morbidly acute. The unlimited range of her reading, too, tended to confirm such impressions. With that respect for every thing which bears the semblance of a printed volume, so characteristic of a bookworm, Miss Templeton had carefully preserved an extensive but very miscellaneous library. The poets and essayists of England’s golden age were ranged side by side with the controversial theologists—sermons were elbowed by cookery books—Sir Charles Grandison was a close neighbor to the grave Sherlock—while Clarissa Harlowe and Pamela were in curious juxtaposition with the excellent Jeremy Taylor and Richard Baxter. Novels and romances formed no small part of this heterogeneous collection, and Hester, who was a most inveterate reader, devoured every work of fiction which came in her way. To the present generation, who have become fastidious from literary indulgence, and who, since the days of Edgeworth and Scott, ask forvraisemblancein the fiction over which they hang enraptured, the romances of a preceding age seem dull, prosy and unnatural. But at the time of which I speak, the great object of the novelist was to portray heroines, such as never could exist, and events such as never could have happened, while feelings refined to absolute mawkishness, and sentiments sublimated beyond the limits of human understanding, were expressed in parlance to which the language of common life was tame and trite. With such models placed before her in her favorite volumes, and the example of Miss Templeton to impress their truthfulness upon her ductile mind, it is not surprising that Hester Ormesby should have been thoroughly imbued with romance at an age when most girls are only thinking of their dolls.
Hester was in the habit of paying an annual visit to her parents, but seldom derived much pleasure from her short sojourn with the family. Her mother derided her rustic manners, while her sisters ridiculed what they termed her “highflown notions,” and it was rather in obedience to the dictates of duty than in the hope of pleasure that she ever turned her face toward the home of her infancy. On one occasion, however, her visit produced a more lasting impression. Among the gentlemen who surrounded her elder and lovelier sisters was one whose personal appearance was little calculated to prepossess a stranger. Small in stature, and with a slight deformity which destroyed all grace, his countenance full of intelligence, but “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,” Edward Legard was not one on whom the eye of woman rests with pleasure. Reserved and almost cold in manners, he mingled rarely in the gayeties of society, and, excepting amid a select circle, seldom displayed the treasures of his gifted mind. Yet those who had once seen him in moments of enthusiasm, when the fire of genius lit up his dark eye, and the honey-dew of eloquence hung on his pale lip, could never forget the effect of his words and looks. But he was excessively sensitive, the merest trifle discomposed him, and there were times when, for days together, his manner was moody, sad, and almost severe. Legard was an artist of no mean skill, but he was young and poor, and the poetic images which filled his imagination, and were depicted on the speaking canvass, or portrayed in the graphic language of eloquence, were unable to secure him the gifts of fortune. The hope of his heart was a visit to the birthplace of Art—the glorious land of shadows—the kingdom of noble memories—even Italy; and for this he toiled day after day as if life had no other object worth attainment.
When she first met Legard, Hester Ormesby had just numbered her fourteenth summer, and the genial influence of renovated health had given beauty to her countenance and symmetry to her form. Struck with the bounding freedom of her step, the grace of her unfettered movements, and the rich bloom of her dark but clear complexion, the young artist had already made several sketches of the unconscious girl before she became sensible of his notice. He regarded her as a lovely child, who stood upon the very threshold of womanhood, while the sentiments which were hereafter to become passions, were slowly budding within her heart, their existence only known by their sweet and delicate perfume of maiden modesty. He was charmed with her freshness of feeling, her enthusiasm, her girlish romance, and found in her artless character a new and delightful study. An intimacy, characterized by all the purest and best impulses of human nature, sprung up between them; yet it was only the familiar intercourse which might safely exist between a gifted man and an admiring child. Legard would have denied the possibility of inspiring a passion in so young a heart, but a very little knowledge of woman’s nature might have led him to doubt the prudence of forcing into premature existence those passions whose slow expansion formed so sweet a subject of contemplation.
Hester returned from this visit almost reluctantly, and, for the first time in her life, her home seemed dull and sad. She carried with her a beautifully finished sketch of herself, painted by Legard, for Miss Templeton, while a few stanzas addressed to her, on parting, by the same gifted individual, and a faded rosebud which he laid once twined in her long curls, were her own solitary treasures.
Not long after this, Miss Templeton was seized with a severe nervous affection, which partially deprived her of the use of her limbs, and compelled her to require the constant aid of others. Hester loved her too devotedly to shrink from such attendance, and month after month passed away, while she was confined to the invalid’s apartment, with only her own thoughts to relieve the monotony of her existence. Had she never met Legard, such thoughts would have been but
“The thousand thingsThat keep young hearts forever glowing—Vague wishes, fond imaginings,Love dreams, as yet no object knowing.”
“The thousand thingsThat keep young hearts forever glowing—Vague wishes, fond imaginings,Love dreams, as yet no object knowing.”
“The thousand thingsThat keep young hearts forever glowing—Vague wishes, fond imaginings,Love dreams, as yet no object knowing.”
“The thousand things
That keep young hearts forever glowing—
Vague wishes, fond imaginings,
Love dreams, as yet no object knowing.”
Like all the fancies of a young and pure-hearted girl, they would have been indefinite and dream-like, fading away ere their outlines were accurately determined, like the frost-work landscapes on a window-pane. But now there was form and coloring to all such visions. The image of that pale intellectual being, full of genius and morbid feeling, aspiring after immortality, yet pining over mere physical defects, was ever present with her. She thought over all their past interviews, and words which seemed meaningless when first uttered, now were of deep import when repeated by the magical voice of memory. She recalled his looks, and the glance which then only spoke a love for the beautiful in nature, now, when reflected from the mirror of fancy, was fraught with earnest tenderness. The consequence of such pernicious day dreaming may be easily imagined. She persuaded herself into the belief that she was beloved, and, at fifteen, Hester Ormesby was already the passionate, the tender, the loving woman. Reader, do you doubt the possibility of such rapid development of the affections? Ask any imaginative, warm-hearted, truth-loving woman, if, amid the arcana of her past emotions, some remnants of such a girlish passion do not yet exist.
During several years Hester was confined to Miss Templeton’s sick room, and, though occasionally receiving visits and letters from her family, she heard nothing of Legard, excepting that he had departed for Italy. Perhaps the knowledge of his absence tended to reconcile her to the close seclusion in which she now lived, and, with a degree of imprudence perfectly natural to such a character, she treasured up every thing which could feed her romantic passion. A book which his pencil had marked—a plant which he had admired—a melody which he had praised—even the color of a ribbon which he had once approved, were objects of remembered interest to her. She delighted to think of him as roaming through the galleries of ancient art, drinking deep draughts of beauty from the antique fountains of classic taste, and winning, leaf by leaf, the laurel bough which had been the object of his vain longing. Of the future—of his return and its probable results to herself, she never thought. Nothing is so purely unselfish as true love; it asks every thing for its object, but nothing for itself; and she who finds matrimonial calculations mingling with the early emotions of her heart, may make a notable managing and useful creature, but cannot lay claim to the character of a true, devoted, self-forgetting woman.
Hester Ormesby was just eighteen when the death of Miss Templeton deprived her of her best friend, and made it necessary for her to return to her childhood’s home. Her mother’s scheme had fully succeeded, and, as a compensation for her homely appellation, she was now the mistress of the old homestead, together with some five or six thousand dollars in personal property. It was but a small fortune, to be sure; but Mrs. Ormesby had managed to marry two of her daughters advantageously by means of their extreme beauty, and concluding that Hester was quite pretty enough for an heiress, she had been careful to quadruple the amount of her bequest when making mention of it to those who were likely to repeat the tale. But the poor woman found that the daughters, for whom she was now to manœuvre, were far more difficult to manage than those whom she had already placed so comfortably in their carriages.
Celestina Ormesby was exceedingly beautiful. Her blond hair, dazzling complexion, clear blue eyes, and rosy mouth, together with the expression of cherub sweetness which characterized her countenance, made her just such a creature as a painter might select as his model of seraphic loveliness; while her manners were perfectly bewitching from their innocent frankness. There was a tenderness in her voice—an almost plaintive tone—as if her heart were longing for sympathy; which, combined with her pleading glance and sweet simplicity of demeanor, was quite irresistible. Yet all this, except the natural gift of beauty, was the effect of consummate art. Celestina had been a coquette from her very childhood—deception seemed an innate idea, and from the time when she first practiced her little arts upon the boys at dancing school, she never looked, or said, or did any thing without calculating its full effect. She cared less for marrying well than for securing a host of lovers. To have refused many was her proudest boast, and she looked forward to matrimony as the termination of a long vista of triumphs. In vain Mrs. Ormesby argued, and scolded and entreated; Celestina trusted in the power of her charms, and suffered several most advantageous matches to escape, while she was enjoying the unprofitable pleasures of admiration.
Hester was as different from her sister in character as in person, and, if she attracted less general attention, she obtained more lasting regard. Men of talent and character—persons of quiet domestic habits, who had been brought up among virtuous sisters, and, therefore, knew how to appreciate the real value of woman—such were the admirers of the less obtrusive sister. But Hester was insensible to all their homage, and, far from imitating Celestina’s example, sought rather to withdraw from all their adulation. Her acquaintance with society had taught her to distrust her long cherished dream of love, and, though the image of Edward Legard still possessed its influence over her imagination, she was not insensible to the fact that, in shutting out all other affections from her heart, she should be guilty of an act of folly. When, therefore, she was addressed by a man whose talents commanded her respect, while his virtues won her esteem, she yielded to her mother’s wishes, and, without actually accepting his proffered hand, contented herself with not rejecting his suit. Many a girl is placed in precisely similar circumstances. Many a woman accepts one who rankssecondin her estimation, because he who standsfirstis unattainable; and, however wrong such conduct may seem in principle, it will still be pursued so long as women are taught that the term “old maid” is one of reproach, and that the chief end and aim of their existence is marriage.
Mr. Vernon was a widower, rather past the prime of life, remarkably handsome in person, a great lover of literature, gifted with fine talents, and possessed of an ample fortune. Even Hester, uncalculating as she was, could not be insensible to the advantages of such an alliance, and, had she never seen Legard, she would doubtless have been quite satisfied with the calm, quiet liking which she felt for her new lover. But in the stillness of her own bosom arose the spectre of that first vague love—the very shadow of a shade—throwing its dark image athwart the stream of memory. Mr. Vernon was one of those persevering men, however, who will not be repulsed. His proposals were rather hesitatingly declined, but he proffered them a second time. Hester explained to him her scruples respecting the feelings with which he had inspired her, and he answered her by disclaiming all pretensions to that passionate and devoted love which his principles taught him to denounce as idolatrous. A calm and tender friendship was all he asked, and that Hester had already given. It was no wonder, therefore, that, pressed as she was, on all sides, by advice and entreaty, while the lapse of every day made her more and more ashamed of the real cause of her reluctance, she at last yielded her consent to become a wife.
Overjoyed at his success, Mr. Vernon urged a speedy fulfillment of her promise. Preparations were immediately commenced, and, as the bridegroom was already installed in a stately mansion, nothing now was necessary but to arrange the bridal paraphernalia. But no sooner was the affair definitively settled, than Hester seemed to become sensible she had done wrong. Early associations returned in their full force—her ideas of first love, enduring through a life of estrangement, and living even beyond the dreary changes of the grave, came back with reproachful power to her mind. She hated herself for the facility with which she had yielded to new impressions. The dream of her youth was so much sweeter to her heart than the realities of the present, that she felt as if it would be sacrilege to wed another. She became half wild with excitement, and, at length, poured out her whole heart in a letter which she determined to place in Mr. Vernon’s hands; hoping that he might be induced to withdraw his suit. But Mrs. Ormesby now exerted her skill and tact. Unwilling to lose such a son-in-law, she assailed Hester with every weapon her ingenuity could devise. Though ignorant of the real cause of Hester’s repugnance, she yet half suspected some secret attachment, and, knowing the sensitive delicacy and maiden pride of the poor girl, she was enabled to influence her in the most effective manner. Hester was persuaded to suppress the letter—she was assured that many women married with no more ardent attachment than actuated her, and instances were adduced of the happy results which were sure to proceed from a union founded on mutual esteem. Weak as a child in all matters of mere feeling, utterly incapable of reasoning on such subjects; and, accustomed to give up her judgment entirely to the control of her imagination, Hester saw the approach of her bridal day with mingled terror and remorse.
The appointed time arrived, and Hester, in a tumult of feeling which, but for her mother’s watchfulness, would have led her even then to confess the truth to Mr. Vernon, was attired for the ceremony. Pale and trembling she met her lover, and as she placed a hand, cold as death, in the warm grasp of his, she was in doubt whether her reluctance arose from the memory of past affection, or from a simple consciousness that her heart held treasures which did not accompany the gift of her hand—whether she shrunk because she loved another, or only because she did not love him. So vague, so indistinct had been her early dream, that, even now, she could not define the limits between it and reality. The ceremony was to be performed in church, and, placed before the altar, with her beautiful sister at her side, as bridemaid, Hester heard the commencement of the service. The awful requisition which demandstruth, even as it will be exhibited “at the last day, when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed,” was solemnly uttered, and the officiating clergyman paused one moment, as if to give time for the confession of any impediment which might exist. At that instant Hester raised her eyes and beheld, leaning against a pillar near the altar, with a countenance in which the wildest emotions of grief were depicted, the long absent Edward Legard. The shock was too great—with a faint cry, she sunk to the floor, while her head struck, with some violence, against the rails of the altar. All was now confusion and dismay. The unwedded bride was borne to her home, and her medical attendants enjoined the most perfect quiet, both of mind and body. Her nervous system had received a severe shock; and, while her physicians attributed it to the over excitement of the moment, her family fancied they could trace it to the deep reluctance with which she had contemplated the marriage. For several weeks she was in imminent danger, and, even after her convalescence, she suffered from a deep dejection which seemed to portend the most serious injury to the mind as well as the body. One of her first acts, when permitted to exercise her slowly returning strength, was to write a letter to Mr. Vernon, frankly stating her repugnance to the marriage, and entreating his forgiveness for the wound she had inflicted upon his feelings. But Mr. Vernon was too matter-of-fact a man to understand Hester’s character. His self-love was wounded, and he deigned no reply to her eloquent and passionate appeal. In little more than three months afterwards she received her letter, enclosed in a blank cover, together with a piece of bride-cake, and the “at home” cards ofMr.andMrs.Vernon.
When Hester was so far recovered as to admit the family to her apartment, she learned that Legard, who had only arrived from Europe the day preceding her ill-omened nuptials, had been a constant visiter during her illness. The first evening that she descended to the drawing-room she met him, and she could but rejoice that the absence of Celestina secured to them an uninterrupted interview. Ever ready to deceive herself, she fancied that the warmth of his congratulations, on her recovery, proceeded from a peculiar interest in her welfare, and, as she gazed on the emaciated form and pallid cheek of the poor artist, she felt all her romantic passion revive. A recurrence to their first meeting led to one of those half-sentimental, half-tender conversations which are always so dangerous to a susceptible heart; and when he spoke of long-hidden sorrow, and hinted at a hopeless attachment, Hester could not doubt that she fully understood his meaning. Maiden modesty restrained the confession which rose to her lips, but she felt that the time was fast approaching when both would be made happy; and, while Legard saw in her only the sympathizing friend, she fancied he beheld the mistress of his heart.
Two days later, when Hester returned from a short ride, she was informed that Legard had called to bid farewell. No one but Celestina had been at home to receive him, and, after a long interview with her, he had left his adieus for the family, previous to his embarking for Charleston. Hester was too much accustomed to Celestina’s vanity to pay much attention to the significant smile with which her sister mentioned Legard. She knew that it was no uncommon thing for the beautiful coquette to claim,by insinuation, lovers who had never thought of offering their homage; and, therefore, while she deeply regretted the fatality which seemed to interpose obstacles between Legard and herself, she felt no doubt as to her own possession of his heart. She believed that his poverty and ill success had restrained the expression of his cherished love, and she determined on his return to afford him such opportunities of avowal as he could not mistake. But alas! for all her anticipations. Legard reached Charleston just as the yellow fever had commenced its frightful ravages; he was one of its first victims, and the ship which had borne him from his native shore brought back the tidings of his untimely death.
To the Ormesby family the poor artist was an object of such utter insignificance that they never dreamed of attributing Hester’s sudden relapse to the news of his melancholy fate. A long fit of illness left her listless and inert, and giving herself up entirely to the guidance of her romantic nature, she withdrew entirely from society. The more she reflected upon the past, the more she was confirmed in the belief of Legard’s attachment to her. His words, his manners, and, above all, the wretched countenance which he wore on the day of her bridal, all convinced her of his love; while an acute sense of his poverty and his personal defects, together with his probable belief in Hester’s attachment to the man to whom she had been betrothed, seemed to her sufficient reasons for his silence and reserve. She became cold, abstracted and indifferent to every thing. Life seemed to her one long dream, and her days were passed in that vague reverie which is as pernicious to the mind as the habitual opium draught to the body.
Fifteen years were passed in this aimless, useless kind of existence. She walked amid shadows, a quiet, harmless being, mechanically performing the common duties of life, even as a hired laborer, who toils rather to finish the day than to complete his work. The dream of her youth became a sort of monomania; the one subject on which her mind was unsound and unsettled; while the epithet of “eccentric,” which is so often used to cover a multitude of errors, was here applied to a single weakness. That dream was destined to be rudely broken; but the strings of her gentle heart—that delicate instrument on which fancy had so long played a mournful melody—were destined to be broken with it.
Celestina Ormesby had married, and, with the usual fortune of a coquette, had made the worst possible choice. Deserted by a worthless husband, after years of ill treatment, she had returned home only to die; and it was during the examination of her letters and papers, after her decease, that Hester was awakened at length to know the truth. With a natural but unpardonable vanity, Celestina had carefully preserved all the epistles of her various lovers, and Hester, wondering at the indiscriminate vanity which had led her sister to encourage the addresses of some who were far beneath her in the scale of society, had thrown by many packages, unread, when her attention was attracted by a parcel lettered “From Edward Legard.” It was not in the nature of woman to resist such a temptation. The letters were opened and read with the most intense eagerness, and Hester at length learned the extent of her own weakness. The secret of Legard’s unhappiness was revealed to her. He was indeed the victim of a hopeless passion, but he pined not for her who had cherished the life-long vision of his love. He had fallen a victim to the arts of Celestina, who, in the gratification of her own inordinate selfishness, had not scrupled to add the envenomed draught of disappointed affection to the bitter chalice from which gifted poverty must ever drink. He had loved her passionately and devotedly, and the look of hopeless sorrow which, even at the foot of the altar, had transformed the half-wedded bride into the lonely and heart-stricken spinster, had been directed not to her, but to the fickle and beautiful bridemaid at her side.
Hester had long suffered from an organic disease of the heart, and her physicians had warned her that any sudden excitement, or severe shock, whether of grief or terror, might prove fatal. The event justified their predictions. She was found sitting at a table, strewed with letters, her head was resting upon her arms, as if, like a wearied child, she had been overcome with slumber, but it was the weight of a colder hand which pressed her brow. She had received the severest of all shocks—the illusion that had brightened her early life, and shed a pure, sweet radiance over the loneliness of her latter days, was suddenly dispelled, and the victim of imaginary sorrows now “slept the sleep that knows no waking.”