CHAPTER V.

“Methinks I feel this youth’s perfection.Steal with an invisible and subtile stealth,To creep in at mine eyes.”

“Methinks I feel this youth’s perfection.

Steal with an invisible and subtile stealth,

To creep in at mine eyes.”

Miss Bryarly was idolized by both her father and uncle, and her education and accomplishments had been their joint care. The indulgence of the latter toward her knew no bounds; the expensive presents he lavished upon her, silently attested how well he loved her.

Mr. Pluribusi had never married. He was a man of a firm mind, of a generous spirit, and would face danger, and stand up against oppression as readily on behalf of others as himself; and at the bottom of all he had a tenderness and delicacy of feeling which must not be passed by without at least our humble commendation.

One day Mary and her uncle were sitting alone; he held a book in his hand, and was apparently reading, while she had given herself up to one of those thoughtful dreams, half joy, half sadness, in which she had frequently indulged since the departure of Mr. Thatcher. She was aroused by her uncle, who laughingly said,

“Well, Mary, can you tell me now what this passion of love is, that you and I read and hear so much about?”

“Oh, uncle, how should I know?” replied she, blushing crimson.

“I am pretty sure,” said he, still laughing, “you will never again ask, ‘Uncle, what is love?’ You want no explanation now—no, no, not you; you can now teach me what it is.”

“Nay, dear uncle, you know I am perfectly unacquainted with the passion.”

“Perfectly, my dear; and you are perfectly unacquainted with a certain tall, good-looking young man, who was here a few weeks since, watching your every motion with so enamored a spirit, and so beseechingly imploring a repetition of that sweet, enchanting air, called Puritani, which you are never tired—no, not you—of singing, since he so rapturously praised it. You did not see who was laughing behind you all the time.”

“How can you be so ridiculous?” said Mary, half pouting, half laughing.

“And how can you treat such a discreet and trust-worthy personage as your own uncle in this way, and make your heart, like the prison-house of the ghost of Hamlet, the abode of untold secrets?”

“I don’t understand you, further than you think yourself very clever—the very Newton of philosophers in the discovery of nothing.”

“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Mr. Pluribusi, with pretended surprise; “how can you be so unamiable—you know that you have been attacked with that particular malady called love, which you have so often wished me to explain that—”

Here Mary ran to her piano and played an extempore prelude of crashing chords, which completely drowned his voice, though it did not silence him. She then sang, with a sweet voice, the saucy air of “cease your funning.” Mr. Bryarly, who had entered during this colloquy without being observed, now approached, and taking Mary’s hand, said, seriously,

“Let us have done with this ‘funning.’ Mary, I wish you to marry; and Harry Thatcher I have deemed to be the hero of your destiny, graced as he is with every quality to win and wear a maiden’s heart.”

The soft blush that had hitherto colored the cheek of our heroine was pale to the crimson that now dyed its surface.

“Father,” said she, “you are rather precipitate. Pray allow Mr. Thatcher to choose for himself.”

“I am certain he loves you, Mary,” said her father.

“He never told me so.” She spoke the truth literally in her reply; he had never told her so in words; but there is a language which speaks—the language of feeling, of intuition, and the force of such communication had made its impression upon her—and she carried with her a conviction of the conquest she had made of his heart.

“But he has told me so,” said Mr. Pluribusi; “and when industry and economy win fortune, you will be the object of his choice, as you now are of his love.”

“Why, uncle, do you, too, advocate marriage?” exclaimed she, feigning surprise. “I thought you wished me to resemble you in every thing.”

“In every thing but remaining unmarried, Mary,” returned he.

“But you have been very happy—quite an enviable person.”

“I have never been exactly happy since they called me old bachelor,” replied he, a little impatiently.

“Indeed!” exclaimed his niece with real surprise. “But did not you tell me some three or four weeks ago that this passion which is ycleped love, sometimes produces unhappiness as well as happiness?”

“That I also told you depended on the dispositions of the persons under its influence. If they have sufficient common sense to avoid the many dangers that intersect the way to happiness, they will find the passion truly delightful; but should they overstep the limits marked out by prudence, they will ultimately find they have pursued a shadow which has ended in disappointment or blighted hopes.”

“Dear me! but, father, what do you say on the subject?”

“That theparterre, among which the most beautiful flowers blossom, often conducts to a bed of thorns, if we deviate from the correct path.”

“It is surprising, then, dear father, that you should wish me to travel a road so perilous.”

“Avoid the perils, daughter.”

“But what are they, father?”

“They consist of some of those errors of disposition that often produce the misery of mankind—false-pride, want of confidence, anger, jealousy—”

“But what is jealousy?” asked she, interrupting her father.

“Decidedly the greatest evil of the whole—’tis the bane to all happiness. It is a want of that confidence which, did we not deny its sway, would give to love a permanence that we seldom find on earth.”

“Dear me! I am sure I shall never be jealous,” said Mary.

“Never suspect the truth and constancy of the individual in whose hands you are willing to place your happiness. Let nothing induce you to think that another shares his affection.”

“I never will. I may love, as it seems, such a universal thing if it be only to please you and uncle Pluribusi, but I can never be jealous.”

——

“Bright blown hopes dispersed in air.”

What is there more beautiful than the first love of a young heart? every thought is fresh and pure, the poetry of life has not yet been crushed out of the soul—then it is we love with an intensity such as we never feel again. It was thus that our heroine loved. Every thing Harry had done, and every thing he had said, had been treasured, and had become, as it were, unquestioned oracles with her. The flowers he had loved, now possessed a fragrance hitherto undiscovered; and the landscape he had praised, appeared more elegant than it had ever done before. The poetry he had read to her, she now read so often, that she could repeat every line. Sometimes she questioned her heart, why it turned so instinctively toward one who was comparatively a stranger, for the gratification of all its cherished feelings. She was perfectly sure that love had no share in what she felt, notwithstanding uncle Pluribusi’s hints to the contrary, or her father’s wishes that it might be so—love was entirely out of the question, for he had never spoken of love to her, and she could never love unbidden; though, to be sure, his eyes had often spoken a language far more expressive than his lips could have done.

The summer months passed away; the green leaves fell from the trees, and the bleak sea-breeze swept through the deserted garden, yet Mary had never received tidings of Harry. Then came winter, spreading over nature its wings laden with frosts and storms.

The winter of life resembles the winter of the year—both have their withering storms, and both take the place of sweet summer, of roses and hopes, and the dreams of youth.

Mary now awakened from her dream. She found that she had built up a fairy palace, and that the scene of thrilling enchantment was dissolving away. But where the scene had been, there appeared every prospect of a ruin. She who had hitherto bloomed in freshness and beauty, now withered in the blast; for she felt that she was utterly forgotten, at the same time the startling consciousness of what was really the truth, that she had given her love unsought, had burst upon her. Her smile lost its brightness, her step its elasticity. At times she would rouse herself, and assume a gayety she was far from feeling, especially if the eye of her father or uncle rested upon her; but this artificial manner passed away like the dew before the morning sun. About this time Mary received a letter from a friend in Albany, inviting her to spend some weeks with her. Her father, thinking scenes of festivity and pleasure would have a charm for her, hurried her away, and Mr. Pluribusi accompanied her.

——

“I love, and shall be beloved! O, life!At last I feel thee!”

“I love, and shall be beloved! O, life!

At last I feel thee!”

No locomotive that was ever invented could prevent old time from traveling in his own way, and at his own pace; and thus it was that some six months passed away on leaden wings—at least so thought our young aspirant for fortune’s favor. He was becoming very impatient for the return of summer, and the dull business months, that he might take another trip to New England. Just at this juncture, he, to his great delight, received a letter from Mr. Pluribusi, dated from Albany. It commenced with —

“Where, in the name of wonder, have you been hiding? Mr. Bryarly has long been expecting you to visit this part of the world again. How unsought and how unmerited do the favors of fortune fall into the caps of some men who do not even give themselves the trouble to hold it out to receive them. Here has Mary been asking again and again, what had become of you. Now, tell me—how was I to answer these questions, when I knew nothing about you, absolutely nothing, except that you had changed your residence from Virginia to New Orleans? My niece and I are spending a few weeks in Albany; and a gay time we have here, too. Mary’s health has been somewhat delicate, but I am happy to say it is much improved. But here she comes—and having found out that I was writing to you, she insists upon reading my letter; but as I intend she shall not always have her own way, I refused. She is much amused at what she calls my obstinacy, and stands laughing at me—the witch! She has made me forget all I was going to say. I will write again to you, when I hope to be free from such interruption.Your friend,P. Pluribusi.”

Your friend,

P. Pluribusi.”

After reading this letter, as may be supposed, Harry was not long in determining what course to pursue. After a few hurried preparations, he started for Albany.

The weather was intensely cold; the snow lay on the ground, and the sun beamed on the icicles which hung from the houses, retaining, probably, their fantastic pendules by the keen easterly wind which seemed to penetrate through every crevice. It was St. Valentine’s day. Mr. Pluribusi, his niece, and Miss Medford, the daughter of the lady with whom they were staying, were wending their way to a fair, which was gotten up by the ladies of Albany for the benefit of a missionary cause—and many of the most beautiful and fashionable took a deep interest in the matter. Some furnished articles for sale, and others acted as sales-women on the occasion. Among the latter our heroine shone conspicuous for grace and beauty; her table was soon surrounded by a crowd of admirers, who pressed forward in every direction to catch a word or a look from one so celebrated. Mary, however, did not appear to take much interest in the group around her, but ever and anon she cast, by stealth, her dark eyes over the room, apparently endeavoring to discover if she recognized among any of the faces, that of an old acquaintance, (for her uncle had told her that Mr. Thatcher was in the city, and would visit the fair that day,) but she could see nothing to repay the effort.

“I declare, this is an Arabian desert,” said she, sighing, as she split one of her white kid gloves in pulling it on.

“Why, Mary, they look like the best French kid,” answered Miss Medford, who misunderstood her.

“My dear,” said her uncle, “do not you see an old admirer of yours sauntering about the room in the most lounging, lazy style?”

“Which of your admirers, Mary?” asked Miss Medford.

“Pray, Miss Bryarly, have you got your list in your pocket?” inquired one of the danglers at her side.

“Not at all—she left it at home,” said Miss Medford, finding Mary did not answer.

“How unfortunate!” observed the young man.

Mary was becoming actively engaged in tossing over all sorts of merchandise. In a few moments Harry approached through the crowd, and stood before her. She crimsoned as her ear drank in the tones of his voice, and his heart thrilled, and his cheek burnt, when he met her glance of recognition.

“What a beautiful color your friend has, Mary,” whispered Miss Medford; “and, I declare, you are blushing, too.”

Poor Mary’s color deepened; she stood with a trembling heart, and downcast eye, fancying every one was looking at her—every one guessing her treasured secret, with scarcely the power to answer the remarks of her companions.

Their mutual emotion supplied the gossips of Albany with material for a week’s talk.

It was a relief to both when Mr. Pluribusi proposed a walk around the room. Harry remained with our party until late at night, and repeatedly testified his happiness in the enjoyment of Mary’s society by all those little ingratiating attentions which appeal so silently but effectually to the human heart.

I will not linger over the happy hours the lovers spent together. They flew away rapidly, each winged with bliss—for happiness lends wings to time. Harry accompanied Mr. Pluribusi and Mary home. Every evening he intended to depart, and every morning he changed his intention.

The limits we have allotted to this narrative will not admit of a minute detail of circumstances; let it suffice to know that the attachment which existed between the lovers had grown and strengthened, and now twined, like the tendrils of a vine, around the tree which supports it, closer and closer around them, until they felt that parting would be like severing the very chords of existence.

One evening they sat at a window; the silvery beams of the pale moon, which fell on objects around, lent their softening influence to the feelings of the lovers. They both became silent from some overpowering emotion—for at such a moment mirth seemed sacrilege. The hour was growing late, and its quiet was unbroken, save by the distant rumbling of carriage-wheels. We do not know how it happened, except her conscious heart lent a deep flush to her cheek, and a softer light to her dark eye, but Mary never looked so lovely. Harry gazed upon her until he could no longer contain the emotions of his soul; the time, the place, favored his wishes—and words which, when heart responds to heart are never breathed in vain, were now uttered—that hour witnessed their betrothal.

——

What plea so tainted and corrupt,But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,Obscures the show of evil.Merchant of Venice.

What plea so tainted and corrupt,

But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,

Obscures the show of evil.

Merchant of Venice.

The lovers had promised to write to each other, and as Harry was to commence the correspondence, he did not long delay to fulfill the delightful task; and letters were received from him, filled with the overflowings of a boundless and fervent love, and her answers were full of affection, tender thoughts, and gentle fancies.

As time progressed, Harry became more assiduously engaged than ever in the pursuits of commerce, and was deemed by merchants one of the most promising of his young countrymen, steadfastly pursuing a course of upright integrity and untiring industry, that was adding to his reputation, and fast gaining independence. With the fair sex he was becoming an idol. Parties were made, and nosegays offered him; but he behaved exceedingly ill to them, being blind, and deaf, and hard-hearted to an intolerable degree, neither seeing sweet glances, nor hearing balmy sighs. Miss Martin was rich, and would gladly have made him so. Miss Brown was highly accomplished, and would have done the honors of his house so gracefully. Miss White was very domestic, and would have made him such an economical wife. Then there were many amiable and warm-hearted creatures who particularly grieved to see the lonely condition of such a rising young man. There was, literally, “much ado about nothing;” for he rarely accepted their innumerable and pressing invitations. Sometimes, indeed, after business hours, he might have been seen promenading, or spending the evening with some pretty girl, whom he regarded with friendly feelings; but these friends were not selected from among those who so freely lavished their adulation.

During his last visit to Boston, he had been introduced to a Mrs. Webster, who resided in the vicinity of that city. Mrs. Webster had an only son, who was heir to a property which had accumulated, during his long minority, to a fortune unusually large; and she had long resolved in her mind that the young heir should be the husband of Mary Bryarly; and so adroitly had she manœuvered, that the parties had been thrown constantly together previous to the appearance of Mr. Thatcher. Even her son almost considered it a matter of course that he was to marry her. Mary, not conscious of these machinations, regarded young Webster as a youth of high promise, and treated him as an especial favorite. Mrs. Webster soon discovered that the presence of Harry threatened destruction to all her plans—so she determined to destroy his power, even at the expense of shameful falsehood. She was now in New Orleans, and had been two or three times thrown into the society of our hero. On such occasions, she had watched him closely, and smiled with delight if any thing approximating toward intimacy was observable in his intercourse with any of the fair sex. To apprise Mary of his delinquency was a duty; and she was at no great loss to imagine how so desirable an object could be accomplished without involving herself in any difficulty.

——

To follow still the changes of the moonWith fresh suspicions.Othello.

To follow still the changes of the moon

With fresh suspicions.

Othello.

A quiet happiness was now Mary’s—a happiness “which passeth show.” Heaven had blessed her, she believed, beyond her dearest hopes. But, alas! the joys of the heart are more fleeting than the days of spring. Where is the mortal that can secure to himself the cup of happiness without alloy? It dwells not under a regal canopy—for a diadem often makes the head ache. Nor with the conqueror, however great his glory in the battle-field—the mangled bodies—the reeking blood—the groans of the dying would prevent it. The poet, then—all his happiness consists in being very miserable. The learned—nay, all they acquire makes them but the more dissatisfied with themselves—and self-dissatisfaction, every one knows, tends not to the promotion of happiness. Then the lover, with the draught in his hand, cannot say it will reach his lips. A something may come between him and his bliss, and the cup may pass away. The cup that Mary had longed to drain to the bottom, was about to be dashed away. The glory that brightened the sky of her being was beginning to darken—and the storm threatened to crush the flower of her affections, even in its happiest moment of existence.

One day she received a letter, written in an unknown hand; she opened it carelessly, but soon became absorbed as she read the following:

Miss Bryarly,—Believing you to be the affianced wife of Mr. Thatcher, I take the liberty of writing to you to admonish you of his conduct. If his engagement with you is not broken off, he must either be a villain, or he is acting like one. I have had a watchful eye on him for some time, during which he has been paying the most constant and devotedattention to Miss Morton; so far, indeed, has he gone, as to induce her family to believe that he is about to make proposals for her hand. One of her brothers so expressed himself to me a few days since. I hope you will inform your father of these facts, that he may use every precaution against the duplicity of one who would have deeply injured you.A Friend.

A Friend.

“This letter I pronounce a base falsehood,” said she, handing it to her father, “and its author a calumniator, who, like an assassin, seeks darkness to cover his evil deeds, for he has not dared to sign his name.”

Mr. Bryarly also regarded the letter as a vile calumny, not worthy of notice. Confiding in the truth of her lover, Mary had ceased to think of its contents, when an insinuation to his discredit was again breathed in her ear; then came a report that he was a confirmed flirt—a gay deceiver; and as bold slander loses nothing in its busy progress, the rumor was magnified until the seeds of discontent were sown in Mary’s heart—and she was now absolutely jealous. That which she had once imagined so repulsive as to scoff at the mere possibility of her own actions ever being ordered by such a feeling, triumphed—and she was unable to conquer the “green-eyed monster.” One evening she was evidently very melancholy. In vain had she tried to elicit harmony from the keys of her piano, and becoming weary of the fruitless effort, she threw herself languidly on a sofa, and sighed deeply.

“Mercy on us! that was a terribly long and sentimental heigh-o! I wonder which way it went! Ah! I see it now; it floats like a gossamer on that glorious sunbeam, and goes in the direction of New Orleans,” laughed Mr. Pluribusi.

“You are growing poetical, uncle; it is really charming to listen to you—pray go on.”

“Mary,” said her father, who had been also observing her, “any one would suppose all your perceptions were obscured by a thick, ugly, green cloud.”

“Oh, father!” was all she could say.

“You know,” he continued, “there is nothing on earth so disagreeable to me as a jealous woman—”

“Except, indeed, a prudish one,” chimed in Mr. Pluribusi.

“I have great cause, father, to be unhappy; for all the reports I have heard, have been confirmed by Mrs. Webster since her return home.”

“My opinion is, that you are wasting an immense amount of sorrow, all for nothing,” answered her father; “for with the characters of the truest and most upright slander will sometimes be busy. Entertain not so mean an opinion of your betrothed husband, as to believe he is capable of change. The brightest part of love is its confidence. It is that perfect, that unhesitating reliance, that interchange of every idea and every feeling; and that perfect community binds two beings together as closely as the holiest of human ties. It is only that confidence, that community of all the heart’s secrets, and the mind’s thoughts, that can give us permanent happiness.”

“Oh, father! could you but convince me that my doubts are unfounded.”

“I think I can settle the matter to your entire satisfaction, Mary,” quietly observed her uncle.

“How, uncle?” asked she, eagerly.

“You must consent to use a little stratagem,” replied he.

“If you think it right, and father sanctions it, I am willing to do any thing you propose,” she said, looking at her parent.

“Do as you think proper,” answered Mr. Bryarly.

“Have you answered Harry’s last letter?” inquired Mr. Pluribusi.

“How could I?—I am three deep in his debt.”

“So much the better for my plan, which is to arouse the demon of jealousy in his bosom. Write to him immediately, and give him but the shadow of a cause for distrust, and if he is not at your feet as soon as the power of steam can bring him, why, then I will no longer believe in the constancy of man.”

“And then I should no longer doubt his affection. But, uncle, what shall I say to him?”

“Write a glowing description of me; dwell on the pleasant time we spend together; then, if he does not yield a most loyal and ready obedience to the ‘green-eyed monster,’ I will say he cares for another.”

——

“Why writes she so to me?”

The next mail bore Harry the following letter from his own Mary:

My Dearest Harry,—I have no excuse to offer for my protracted silence, other than I have been so very much engaged. But I know your kind heart will readily forgive my remissness when you hear all I have to say to you; therefore I must hasten to tell you, first premising that you must not be jealous. Both father and Uncle Pluribusi say that is a most detestable passion—and you know I so dislike any thing that is ugly and disagreeable.But to my confession. There is a friend of mine at present sojourning here—a kind of relative; and a splendid fellow he is, dear Harry. In both form and face he is eminently handsome; then he is so merry—and polite to the highest degree of refinement. His discourse is a perpetual series of neat repartee, elegant compliment, bright thoughts, and happy expression. He has a beaming smile, and a pleasant word for every one; but he anticipates my thoughts, knows the meaning of every glance, and ministers to my every wish before it is formed. Is he not a very paragon? I know you will like him so much, when you become as well acquainted with him as I am. I often tell him he is second in my heart’s best affections. This seems to please himgreatly; and he expresses his delight by snatching a kiss. Now, Harry, don’t be shocked! remember, he is a very old and dear friend. Although his very soul seems to be the seat of joyousness, I verily believe he possesses a tolerably large portion of sentiment; and you must not be surprised if you hear I have made a conquest of his heart. I assure you my manner toward him has been free from any thing like coquetry, but I do enjoy his society. The perpetual summer of his mind imparts a corresponding glow and animation to his manner, a lively and genial warmth to all his actions; and his very look seems to say, “Come, let us laugh at a world that only laughs at us.” Would you believe it, Harry? with him for my partner, I often find myself whirling round at some gay party, in the delicious delirium of the waltz. I know you will be charmed to hear this; for you have so often expressed a wish that I should become perfect in that delightful accomplishment. My friend is somewhat in my confidence, and knows that I am engaged to somebody; but this knowledge has not in the least changed his attention to me. He says matrimony is at best but a “divine comedy.” I suppose I have thought of it too seriously. I have promised to ride with him this afternoon, and—hark! I hear the horses at the door now; dear me! he is always so early, he will never give me time to write a letter even to you.What delight there is in a wild gallop. I am an expert equestrian now, and often execute some daring exploits. In your absence these delightful excursions form the chief pleasure of my life; and to me there is more melody in our horses’ hoofs, as they “tramp, tramp along the land,” than I could thump out of my piano this morning. Forgive the brevity of this; I am sure you will, for this is the second time I have been interrupted by “the horses are waiting, Mary.”You see how my time is occupied; I have scarcely an hour that I can call my own.Having every faith in your constancy and truth, I bid you farewell.Your ever faithful,Mary.

But to my confession. There is a friend of mine at present sojourning here—a kind of relative; and a splendid fellow he is, dear Harry. In both form and face he is eminently handsome; then he is so merry—and polite to the highest degree of refinement. His discourse is a perpetual series of neat repartee, elegant compliment, bright thoughts, and happy expression. He has a beaming smile, and a pleasant word for every one; but he anticipates my thoughts, knows the meaning of every glance, and ministers to my every wish before it is formed. Is he not a very paragon? I know you will like him so much, when you become as well acquainted with him as I am. I often tell him he is second in my heart’s best affections. This seems to please himgreatly; and he expresses his delight by snatching a kiss. Now, Harry, don’t be shocked! remember, he is a very old and dear friend. Although his very soul seems to be the seat of joyousness, I verily believe he possesses a tolerably large portion of sentiment; and you must not be surprised if you hear I have made a conquest of his heart. I assure you my manner toward him has been free from any thing like coquetry, but I do enjoy his society. The perpetual summer of his mind imparts a corresponding glow and animation to his manner, a lively and genial warmth to all his actions; and his very look seems to say, “Come, let us laugh at a world that only laughs at us.” Would you believe it, Harry? with him for my partner, I often find myself whirling round at some gay party, in the delicious delirium of the waltz. I know you will be charmed to hear this; for you have so often expressed a wish that I should become perfect in that delightful accomplishment. My friend is somewhat in my confidence, and knows that I am engaged to somebody; but this knowledge has not in the least changed his attention to me. He says matrimony is at best but a “divine comedy.” I suppose I have thought of it too seriously. I have promised to ride with him this afternoon, and—hark! I hear the horses at the door now; dear me! he is always so early, he will never give me time to write a letter even to you.

What delight there is in a wild gallop. I am an expert equestrian now, and often execute some daring exploits. In your absence these delightful excursions form the chief pleasure of my life; and to me there is more melody in our horses’ hoofs, as they “tramp, tramp along the land,” than I could thump out of my piano this morning. Forgive the brevity of this; I am sure you will, for this is the second time I have been interrupted by “the horses are waiting, Mary.”

You see how my time is occupied; I have scarcely an hour that I can call my own.

Having every faith in your constancy and truth, I bid you farewell.

Your ever faithful,

Mary.

An indescribable emotion racked the whirling brain of our hero, as, word by word, this epistle seemed tearing the very fibres of his heart. How like an endless night came down the shadows of despair, as throwing it down he murmured, “Lost—lost to me forever, I fear!”

——

But ties around this heart were spun,That would not, could not, be undone.Campbell.

But ties around this heart were spun,

That would not, could not, be undone.

Campbell.

One day Mary said to her father, “My head does really ache so badly.”

“Go into the garden—a walk and the fresh air will revive you,” replied he.

She followed his advice, and rambled about for a long time, but neither her flowers nor the beauties of nature could fix her attention—her thoughts ran on an absent one; she had suffered herself to be persuaded that Harry would surely come, immediately after receiving her letter—and she had been looking for him for some hours. If the wind moved the branches—she started, or a bird flew rustling through the leaves, as if their accustomed sounds were the harbingers of coming footsteps. She was unwilling to acknowledge, even to herself, the disappointment that weighed upon her spirits; but not finding in her walk the exhilarating influence she anticipated, she was turning her steps homeward, when a sudden crashing among the boughs interrupted her progress, and the object of her thoughts bounded into the path, his face glowing with the rapidity of his motions; her eyes flashed with their wonted joy, and forgetting every thing but the delight she felt in meeting him, with a sudden impulse she rushed forward and threw herself into his out-stretched arms.

“I feared that I might be forgotten,” exclaimed he, tenderly; “but I see I have wronged you.”

“I could never forget you, Harry,” was the whispered reply.

“But why did you write that terrible letter, Mary? Anguish pierced my heart when I read its contents. Oh! if you had ever felt the torture of jealousy, you would have spared me that.”

A thrill of delight penetrated Mary’s heart; now she was convinced that she was beloved as well as ever.

“Have I no cause to reproach you?” asked she, looking up into his face as if she would read his very soul.

“If I deserve upbraiding from you, I am totally unconscious; but tell me, dear Mary, how have I offended?”

“Rumor has been busy spreading reports that you have been addressing another; and it says that you did not address her in vain. But now, Harry, I do not believe one word of what I have been told.”

“But you have doubted me, Mary,” said he, mournfully. “There is but one sun in heaven—there is but one Mary to my eyes on earth!”

“Forgive me, Harry? Mrs. Webster confirmed all these reports when she returned.”

“Mrs. Webster is not my friend, Mary; and I suspect all those reports have come from her. I have long known her disregard of truth, as well as her design on you.”

“I now begin to penetrate a plot, and believe her to be the inventor of all the base charges against you. Alas! the inborn wickedness of the human heart.”

“Now, tell me of the letter, Mary, that aroused me, for a time, from the sweetest and brightest dream that ever gladdened the heart of man?”

“Oh!” said she, laughing, “my very dear friend was no other than Uncle Pluribusi.”

“Then you have been romancing a little, to be revenged on me?” inquired he, archly.

“I believe I must plead guilty.”

“I am impatient to meet my fascinating rival, that we may enjoy together a hearty laugh over our ‘Comedy of Errors.’ ”

Gentle reader, this is but a plain, unvarnished tale. It is true, I might have drawn upon my imagination for adorning it. I might have presented you with hair-breadth escapes, and crushing reverses; but I could not do so without detracting from its perfect truthfulness—for the incidents on which the foregoing pages are founded, are literally true.

I regret exceedingly that I am unable to wind-up with a marriage; but for the gratification of my youthful readers, I must not forget to add, that this event will take place immediately on the return of Mr. Thatcher from Europe, whither he has been unexpectedly called to transact some important business for the firm of Thatcher & Co.

ODE TO TIME.

———

BY WM. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “YEMASSE,” “GUY RIVERS,” ETC.

———

I.Graymonarch of the waste of years,Mine eyes have told thy steps in tears,Yet yield I not to feeble fears,In watching now thy flight;The neck, long used to weighty yoke,The tree, long shivered by the stroke,The heart, by frequent torture broke,Need fear no second blight.

Graymonarch of the waste of years,Mine eyes have told thy steps in tears,Yet yield I not to feeble fears,In watching now thy flight;The neck, long used to weighty yoke,The tree, long shivered by the stroke,The heart, by frequent torture broke,Need fear no second blight.

Graymonarch of the waste of years,

Mine eyes have told thy steps in tears,

Yet yield I not to feeble fears,

In watching now thy flight;

The neck, long used to weighty yoke,

The tree, long shivered by the stroke,

The heart, by frequent torture broke,

Need fear no second blight.

II.Oh! mine has been a mournful song—My neck has felt the burden long—My tree was shivered—weak and strong,Beneath the bolt went down:My heart—enough—thou canst not preyOn many in this later day;The old, the young, were torn away,Ere manhood’s wing had flown;I saw the noble sire, who stood,Majestic, as in crowded woodThe pine—and after him the brood—All perish in thy frown!

II.

Oh! mine has been a mournful song—My neck has felt the burden long—My tree was shivered—weak and strong,Beneath the bolt went down:My heart—enough—thou canst not preyOn many in this later day;The old, the young, were torn away,Ere manhood’s wing had flown;I saw the noble sire, who stood,Majestic, as in crowded woodThe pine—and after him the brood—All perish in thy frown!

Oh! mine has been a mournful song—

My neck has felt the burden long—

My tree was shivered—weak and strong,

Beneath the bolt went down:

My heart—enough—thou canst not prey

On many in this later day;

The old, the young, were torn away,

Ere manhood’s wing had flown;

I saw the noble sire, who stood,

Majestic, as in crowded wood

The pine—and after him the brood—

All perish in thy frown!

III.So, count my hopes, and know my fears,And ask what now this life endears,To him who gave, with many tears,Each blossom of his love;Whose store in heaven, so precious grown,He counts each earthly moment flown,As loss of something from his own,In treasures stored above!Denied to seek—to see—his store,Yet daily adding more and more,Some precious plant, that, left before,The spoiler rends at last.Not hard the task to number now,The few that live to feel the blow;The perished—count them on my brow—With white hairs overcast!

III.

So, count my hopes, and know my fears,And ask what now this life endears,To him who gave, with many tears,Each blossom of his love;Whose store in heaven, so precious grown,He counts each earthly moment flown,As loss of something from his own,In treasures stored above!Denied to seek—to see—his store,Yet daily adding more and more,Some precious plant, that, left before,The spoiler rends at last.Not hard the task to number now,The few that live to feel the blow;The perished—count them on my brow—With white hairs overcast!

So, count my hopes, and know my fears,

And ask what now this life endears,

To him who gave, with many tears,

Each blossom of his love;

Whose store in heaven, so precious grown,

He counts each earthly moment flown,

As loss of something from his own,

In treasures stored above!

Denied to seek—to see—his store,

Yet daily adding more and more,

Some precious plant, that, left before,

The spoiler rends at last.

Not hard the task to number now,

The few that live to feel the blow;

The perished—count them on my brow—

With white hairs overcast!

IV.White hairs—while yet each limb is strong,To hold the right and crush the wrong;Ere youth, in manhood’s struggling throng,Had half pursued his way:Thought premature, that still deniedThe boy’s exulting sports—the pride,That, with the blood’s unconscious tide,Knew but to shout and play!Youth, that in love’s first gush was taughtTo see his fresh affection broughtTo tears, and wo, and death—While yet the fire was in his eye,That told of passion’s victory—And, in his ear, the first sweet sigh,From beauty’s laboring breath.

IV.

White hairs—while yet each limb is strong,To hold the right and crush the wrong;Ere youth, in manhood’s struggling throng,Had half pursued his way:Thought premature, that still deniedThe boy’s exulting sports—the pride,That, with the blood’s unconscious tide,Knew but to shout and play!Youth, that in love’s first gush was taughtTo see his fresh affection broughtTo tears, and wo, and death—While yet the fire was in his eye,That told of passion’s victory—And, in his ear, the first sweet sigh,From beauty’s laboring breath.

White hairs—while yet each limb is strong,

To hold the right and crush the wrong;

Ere youth, in manhood’s struggling throng,

Had half pursued his way:

Thought premature, that still denied

The boy’s exulting sports—the pride,

That, with the blood’s unconscious tide,

Knew but to shout and play!

Youth, that in love’s first gush was taught

To see his fresh affection brought

To tears, and wo, and death—

While yet the fire was in his eye,

That told of passion’s victory—

And, in his ear, the first sweet sigh,

From beauty’s laboring breath.

V.And manhood now—and loneliness—With, oh! how few to love and bless,Save those, who, in their dear duresse,Look down from heaven’s high towers:The stately sire, the gentle dame,The maid who first awoke the flame,That gave to both a mutual claim,As fresh and frail as flowers!—And all those dearest buds of bloom,That simply sought on earth a tomb,From birth to death, with rapid doom,A bird-flight winged for fate:How thick the shafts, how sure the aim!What other passion wouldst thou tame,O! Time, within this heart of flame,Elastic, not elate?

And manhood now—and loneliness—With, oh! how few to love and bless,Save those, who, in their dear duresse,Look down from heaven’s high towers:The stately sire, the gentle dame,The maid who first awoke the flame,That gave to both a mutual claim,As fresh and frail as flowers!—And all those dearest buds of bloom,That simply sought on earth a tomb,From birth to death, with rapid doom,A bird-flight winged for fate:How thick the shafts, how sure the aim!What other passion wouldst thou tame,O! Time, within this heart of flame,Elastic, not elate?

And manhood now—and loneliness—

With, oh! how few to love and bless,

Save those, who, in their dear duresse,

Look down from heaven’s high towers:

The stately sire, the gentle dame,

The maid who first awoke the flame,

That gave to both a mutual claim,

As fresh and frail as flowers!—

And all those dearest buds of bloom,

That simply sought on earth a tomb,

From birth to death, with rapid doom,

A bird-flight winged for fate:

How thick the shafts, how sure the aim!

What other passion wouldst thou tame,

O! Time, within this heart of flame,

Elastic, not elate?

VI.Is’t pride?—methinks ’tis joy to bend;My foe—he can no more offend;My friend is false—I love my friend;I love my foeman, too.’Tis man I love—nor him alone—The brute, the bird—its joy or moanNot heedless to my heart hath gone—I feel with all I view.Wouldst have me worthy?—make me so;But spare on other hearts the blow;Spare, from the cruel pang, the wo,The innocent, the bright!On me thy vengeance!—’Tis my crimeThat needs the scourge, and, in my prime,’Twere fruitful of improving time,Thy hand should not be light.

VI.

Is’t pride?—methinks ’tis joy to bend;My foe—he can no more offend;My friend is false—I love my friend;I love my foeman, too.’Tis man I love—nor him alone—The brute, the bird—its joy or moanNot heedless to my heart hath gone—I feel with all I view.Wouldst have me worthy?—make me so;But spare on other hearts the blow;Spare, from the cruel pang, the wo,The innocent, the bright!On me thy vengeance!—’Tis my crimeThat needs the scourge, and, in my prime,’Twere fruitful of improving time,Thy hand should not be light.

Is’t pride?—methinks ’tis joy to bend;

My foe—he can no more offend;

My friend is false—I love my friend;

I love my foeman, too.

’Tis man I love—nor him alone—

The brute, the bird—its joy or moan

Not heedless to my heart hath gone—

I feel with all I view.

Wouldst have me worthy?—make me so;

But spare on other hearts the blow;

Spare, from the cruel pang, the wo,

The innocent, the bright!

On me thy vengeance!—’Tis my crime

That needs the scourge, and, in my prime,

’Twere fruitful of improving time,

Thy hand should not be light.

VII.I bend me willing to thy thrall,Whate’er thy doom, will bear it all—Drink of the bitter cup of gall,Nor once complain of thee!Will poverty avail to chide,Or sickness bend the soul of pride,Or social scorn, still evil-eyed—Have, then, thy will of me!But spare the woman and the child;Let me not see their features mild,Distorted—hear their accents wild,In agonizing pain:Too much of this! I thought me sure.In frequent pang and loss before;I still have something to endure—And tremble, and—refrain!

VII.

I bend me willing to thy thrall,Whate’er thy doom, will bear it all—Drink of the bitter cup of gall,Nor once complain of thee!Will poverty avail to chide,Or sickness bend the soul of pride,Or social scorn, still evil-eyed—Have, then, thy will of me!But spare the woman and the child;Let me not see their features mild,Distorted—hear their accents wild,In agonizing pain:Too much of this! I thought me sure.In frequent pang and loss before;I still have something to endure—And tremble, and—refrain!

I bend me willing to thy thrall,

Whate’er thy doom, will bear it all—

Drink of the bitter cup of gall,

Nor once complain of thee!

Will poverty avail to chide,

Or sickness bend the soul of pride,

Or social scorn, still evil-eyed—

Have, then, thy will of me!

But spare the woman and the child;

Let me not see their features mild,

Distorted—hear their accents wild,

In agonizing pain:

Too much of this! I thought me sure.

In frequent pang and loss before;

I still have something to endure—

And tremble, and—refrain!

VIII.On every shore they watch thy wing—To some the winter, some the spring,Thou bring’st, or yet art doomed to bring.In rapid—rolling years:How many seek thee, smiling now,Who soon shall look with clouded brow,Heart filled with bitter doubt and wo,And eyes with gathering tears!But late, they fancied—life’s paradeStill moving on—that not a shadeThou flung’st on bower and sunny glade,In which they took delight:Sharp satirist! methinks I seeThy glance in sternest mockery—They little think, not seeing thee,How fatal is thy flight;What feathers grow beneath thy wing—What darts—how poisoned—from what springOf torture—and how swift the sting—How swift and sure the blight!

VIII.

On every shore they watch thy wing—To some the winter, some the spring,Thou bring’st, or yet art doomed to bring.In rapid—rolling years:How many seek thee, smiling now,Who soon shall look with clouded brow,Heart filled with bitter doubt and wo,And eyes with gathering tears!But late, they fancied—life’s paradeStill moving on—that not a shadeThou flung’st on bower and sunny glade,In which they took delight:Sharp satirist! methinks I seeThy glance in sternest mockery—They little think, not seeing thee,How fatal is thy flight;What feathers grow beneath thy wing—What darts—how poisoned—from what springOf torture—and how swift the sting—How swift and sure the blight!

On every shore they watch thy wing—

To some the winter, some the spring,

Thou bring’st, or yet art doomed to bring.

In rapid—rolling years:

How many seek thee, smiling now,

Who soon shall look with clouded brow,

Heart filled with bitter doubt and wo,

And eyes with gathering tears!

But late, they fancied—life’s parade

Still moving on—that not a shade

Thou flung’st on bower and sunny glade,

In which they took delight:

Sharp satirist! methinks I see

Thy glance in sternest mockery—

They little think, not seeing thee,

How fatal is thy flight;

What feathers grow beneath thy wing—

What darts—how poisoned—from what spring

Of torture—and how swift the sting—

How swift and sure the blight!

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