And now will you follow me to another scene—an apartment more spacious, and even more elegant, than the one we have just left, save that it savors more of the "sterner sex." For instance, we may see a brace of pistols, superbly mounted, crossed over the mantel-piece—a flute upon the table—a rifle leaning against the wall, and, I declare, fishing-tackle thrown carelessly down, all among those delicate knackeries so beautifully arranged on yonder marble slab—just like the men!
Reclining upon a sofa of crimson satin, wrought with gold thread, wrapped in an elegant dressing-robe, with his feet thrust into embroidered slippers, is a young man of very pleasing exterior, whom we should judge to be about five-and-twenty. The long, slender fingers of one hand are half buried in the rich mass of dark-brown hair which waves over his temples, the other, hanging over the back of the sofa, seems to partake of the disturbance of its master, for it beats and thrums the silken covering most unmercifully. See how he knits his fine brow, and now waves his arm menacingly in the air—what can be the matter!
Ah! you will laugh again when I tell you here is another discontented heir of wealth.
There! now he suddenly starts up as if distracted. "Yelp,yelp!" Ah! poor Fido! although your master seems evidently out of humor, he would not have kicked your beautiful spotted coat had he seen you! There, he caresses you—so fold back your long ears, and wag your tail complacently, while we hear what this impatient youth has to say, as he strides so rapidly hither and thither.
"Well, no doubt wealth is a very fine thing, if the world would let one enjoy it peaceably; but to be thus forever dined, and teaed, and courted, and flattered, and smiled at, and bowed at, and winked at, when, if it were not for my fortune, I very much doubt whether one of these, my exceeding good friends, would give me a dinner to save me from starvation. Why I had rather be the veriest boor that holds a plough, or a cobbler at his last, than to be, as Shakspeare says, "the thing I am." I am heartilysick of it, and could almost turn my back upon the world, and lead a hermit's life. To be always a mark for managing mothers, with great grown-up daughters; aimed at, like a target, by scores of black, grey, and blue eyes; to be forever forced to waltz with this one, and sing with another—and, ere I know it, find myself entrapped into a closetête-à-têtewith a third. I wish Iwasmarried; then one-half at least of my troubles would be over—for I should shake off this swarm of female fortune-hunters!Married! ah! I wish I was! But where can I find one who will love me for myself alone, and not for the standing my wealth would give her?Married! ah! how delightful to come home and find a dear little wife waiting with open arms to welcome me, and the rosiest and sweetest of lips coaxingly pressed to mine; all my cares forgotten, all my vexations subdued by her soothing caresses and tender words. And then how enchanting as she warbles like a linnet for my ear alone; how enchanting to lean her bewitching little head on my shoulder, and inhale the balmy fragrance of her breath. O! I wish I was married!"
And now, so enraptured does this reasonable youth seem with the picture he has sketched, that not having any thing else, you see, to hug, he throws his arms most lovingly around himself. There, now he frowns again, and—hark what more he has to say.
"In fact, I am not sure I have a real friend in the world, for, gild a fool or a monkey, and mark what a troop of flatterers fawn around and follow admiringly at his heels! And as for choosing a wife, why, were I toothless, one-eyed, or deaf as a post, the magic of gold would transform me into an Adonis!"
Now stopping before a full-length mirror, he appears to console himself for such suppositions, by very complacently regarding his truly elegant figure and classic countenance.
A tap at the door, and an arch face, already shaded by the night-coif, peeps in.
"What, not yet gone to bed, brother—why what are you studying, to be up so late?"
"Studying human nature, Helen—a book with great pretensions to excellence, but—"
"Hush, hush, Frank! not a word more," exclaimed Helen, placing her little hand over his mouth, "not a word more—you read with defective vision! I proclaim the book of human nature to be charming, every page teeming with interest, every line traced by the hand divine, a lesson for a lifetime. Ah! Frank, remove the film of distrust from your eyes, and read this book as it ought to be read, therein you will find truth, goodness, and beauty!"
"Would I could think as you do, Helen. I tell you candidly, I am sick of the world as I find it, and would gladly give all my wealth and expectations to be sure there was one heart that truly loved me—loved me for myself alone."
"A very pretty theory, indeed! Well, you must get married, Frank; I see no other way to cure you—then you will have a dear little book of your own to study—a choice edition of human nature, traced by the feather of Cupid."
"Ah! the very thing I was thinking of; but tell me, Helen, where can I find that same beautiful work?"
"Where you please, brother—there is no danger that you can sue in vain; there is sweet Anna De Kay, roguish little Laura C——, the pensive Sarah—"
"O! don't mention them—pray don't name any more of these city belles!"
"Well, Frank, human nature is most lovely in the simplicity of country life—you must seek some village maid to grace the name of Leland."
"Helen," says Frank, taking her hand, and looking into the large blue eyes sparkling so mirthfully, "Helen, I tell you if I could find an amiable girl, brought up in all the beautiful simplicity of the country, no matter how unskillful in the world's ways—one who, ignorant of my wealth and standing, would unite her fate to mine for better or for worse—then, Helen, I could fall at her feet, and worship her as the star of my life and love."
"Pray, remember, my sentimental brother, ere you squeeze my hand so devoutly, that I am not your artless country maid," exclaimed Helen, laughing; then, after a moment's pause, she cries, gayly, "ah! I have it, Frank; you must masquerade a little, that's all—win your bride under false colors, as a sailor would say."
"Helen, you witch, you darling sister," says Frank, kissing her, "I will do it—yes, to-morrow I will set forth, like Cœlebs, in search of a wife! Now you must help me farther with your lively imagination; you must choose me a profession to masquerade under. I must, of course, for the attainment of my object, sport the character of a poor gentleman, struggling with honest poverty to gain a livelihood. Come, what shall I be—school-master—singing-master—drawing-master—or—"
"O, the last, by all means!" interrupted Helen. "You will have such a fine opportunity of developing the tastes of your fair scholars—ha! ha! ha! Frank, methinks I already see thee helping some blushing milk-maid, with her pail, or, perhaps, leaning against a rail-fence, sketching her, as with bare feet and scanty skirt, she trips through the morning dew to feed her feathery brood."
"Well, you may laugh as much as you please," replies Frank, nothing daunted, "I am firm in my determination."
"And when, most romantic Cœlebs, do you set forth?"
"To-morrow, or next day at furthest. We will talk this over again in the morning, it is too late now—so good night, dear Helen, and pleasant dreams!"
"Good night. Frank!" and gayly kissing her hand, Helen trips out of the room.
Frank Leland laid his head upon his pillow within the walls of a large brick mansion, where the hum of city life penetrated, even through the thick plate-glass and rich window-hangings. But a miracle; no sooner did soft sleep seal his eye-lids, than he found himself in Arcadian scenes—shepherdesses tripped gracefully before him with their flocks; beautiful maidens led him through flowery fields and shadygroves; and the little birdsupin the trees, and the little romantic fishesdownin the brooks, all sang of love and happiness.
Sit down with me under this spreading tree, and let us view the charming scene which surrounds us. O, never mind the cows, this is their pasture-ground; and see, mid-leg the brook yonder, just released from plough, stands the patient ox. Ah! the ducks and geese seem to dispute his right. Observe how they shake their wings, as if in defiance, and dip their beautiful crests within the sparkling ripples; now, how proudly they plume their feathers, and float with head erect so gracefully down the silver stream. Do you see yonder old farm-house, so old that it seems bending under the weight of years? Look at its low, brown eaves, its little narrow windows, half-hidden by ivy and honey-suckle; see the old-fashioned double door, and the porch, with its well-worn seats. Do you see the swallows skimming around the chimney; and don't you hear the hum of the bees—there, under that old elm you may see their hives, filled, too, with luscious honey. There is the well, with its old sweep, and the "moss-covered bucket," too; and look at the corn-crib, and the old barn—and what a noisy set of fowls around it, cackling, clucking and crowing, as if they owned the soil; and how the pigs are scampering through the clover-field; ah! the little wretches, they have stolen a march, or rather a caper; at them, old Jowler, at them, my fine fellow, you will soon turn them back to their pen, obstinate as they are.
Do you not admire those venerable trees which seem to shelter the old house from the rude assaults of the tempest, and to keep out the glare of the sun-beams from its chambers. Through what a thicket of currant-bushes, and rose-bushes, and lilacs, and snow-balls, the path winds from the porch to the little gate—is it not a most charming spot? Now look over the brow of the hill—there, you can see the spire of the village church; and if you will walk a few paces further to yonder green knoll, you will see a cluster of pretty dwellings, and comfortable farm-houses, scattered through the valley.
"Hark! don't you hear a merry laugh? so merry and joyous that it can only proceed, I am sure, from a happy heart. Keep still—for here comes two laughing country-girls—no, as I live, one of them is—no, it can't be—yes, it is, the rich young heiress, Ursula Lovel! quick, draw behind the tree, and let us hear what she says.
"And so, Hetty, your mother thinks I am the most awkward child she ever saw, and wonders where I was brought up, not to know how to knead bread, and churn, and milk;" and again that merry laugh goes ringing through the air.
"Yes, Miss Ursula; and she wishes—I declare I can hardly keep from laughing—she wishes you would stick to your cap-making, and not attempt to bake again, for you burned up three loaves."
"Yes, and burned my fingers, too. Well, it is too bad; let me see, yesterday I let a pan of milk fall on the old cat, and fed the hens with beans, and old Jowler with meal and water; then, this morning I beat the eggs and put them into the bread, and the yeast into the pumpkin-pies. Too bad! too bad! Why at this rate, Hetty, I shall cost your good old parents a fortune!"
"Never mind, Miss Ursula, for mother says, and so does father, that you are the dearest, prettiest, and best girl they ever knew; and they already love you almost as well as they do me—only they feel sorry for you; and mother says if you could not make caps, she don't know whatwouldbecome of you, you are so dreadful shiftless."
Ursula clapped her hands and fairly danced with mirth.
"After all, Hetty, your good mother is right. Let my fortune take wings, and with all my accomplishments to aid me, I feel I should be illy prepared for the reverse. Now if your mother would only have patience to instruct me a little—suffer me to spoil several batches of bread—(the pigs would like it, you know,)—burn up a few pounds of cake, and waste a quart or two of her rich cream, I declare, I think I should learn to be a nice little farmer's maid. What pleases you, Hetty—what are you smiling at?"
"Nothing, only farmer Smith's oldest son is coming to see you—a courting, Miss Ursula; and Esquire Tompkins told father he hoped to see you before long the mistress of his beautiful new house; for he did not think he should disgrace himself by marrying such a girl as you, even if you was only a milliner."
"Why the dear old soul! Come, my false impressions begin to wear away. I find I can be loved without the glitter of gold about me. Now let us go back to the house, for I have that cap to finish for Mrs. Jones; and mind, Hetty, you don't call meMissUrsula again, in the presence of your mother; and don't look so distressed when she chides me—it is all for my good, you know."
Now, there they go into the old farm-house, and at the window you may see the demure face of Ursula, listening to the good dame, who, with snowy cap, and spectacles, seems to be giving her a lecture, while the hands of the little milliner are busily trimming a cap placed on the block before her.
Over the brow of the hill, and down into the gentle sloping meadow, a youth comes walking leisurely. He has a portfolio under his arm, and a slight walking-stick in his hand, while the cool linen blouse and large straw hat shading him from the sun, bespeak an air of comfort really quite refreshing this warm summer day.
What! don't you know him! Ah, yes—I see you recollect Frank Leland, our modern Cœlebs.
He seems struck by the appearance of the old farm-house; its repose is, no doubt, delightful to him; and now, choosing a favorable position within the shade of a fine old tree, opens his portfolio, and commences to sketch the charmingly rural scene. And, indeed, so intent is he upon his task that the sun has already sunk behind the trees, and gentle twilight steals on with her starry train ere he rests from his employment. Then the old farmer comes out on theporch to take his evening pipe; and the good dame sits by his side with her knitting, and the sweet voice of Ursula warbles a simple ballad to please the ears of the aged pair. The young man bares his brow to the delicious breath of evening, and carefully placing his sketch within the portfolio, saunters on toward the little gate. And now Ursula hushes her song, and the old man advances with friendly greeting,
"Walk in, stranger—walk in. I should think you might be the young man I heard tell of to-day in the village—a teacher of something—I forget the name."
"A teacher of drawing," said Leland, smiling, as he took a seat on the bench by the side of the old man.
"Drawing,eh! And what may that be, young sir—some new-fangled notion, I'll be bound."
"This may, perhaps, explain better than I can tell you," replied Leland, placing the sketch he had just taken in the hand of the old man.
"Why, wife—why, bless my soul! why, if I should not think this was our old house! Why, stranger, if ever I see any thing so like in my born days!"
"Goody gracious preserve me, if it an't, sure enough!" said the dame, putting on her spectacles, and eagerly looking over the old man's shoulder. "My stars and garters, Hetty, look here—for all the world just like it—did you ever!"
The more practiced eye of Ursula detected at once a master-hand in the sketch before her; and looking admiringly upon it, she could not refrain from exclaiming, "How beautiful!" while Hetty gazed with silent wonder upon the stranger who by the magic of his pencil thus portrayed the home of her childhood.
The contents of the portfolio were now spread out upon the grass, and our masqueradingmillionairewas greatly amused at thenaivetéthe old people displayed, and not a little flattered by the pleasure with whichoneat least of the young girls appeared to look over his collection.
"Am I mistaken," said he, at length, "in thinking I heard singing, as I came over the meadow?"
"Well, I reckon not," said the old lady, "come, 'Sula, child, go on with your song—maybe the young man would like to hear you; it was Old Robin Gray she was singing."
Ursula was at length prevailed on to repeat the ballad, which she did in a style so simple and unaffected, that, ere she had finished, the young artist had made up his mind, that listening to a sweet voice by moonlight, beneath a wide-spreading elm, with the stars peeping down between the dancing leaves, and the soft evening breeze fanning his temples, was far more delightful, than to recline in his soft-cushioned box at the Opera, listening even to the delicious notes of a Pico, with bright jewels, and still brighter eyes flashing around him, and his cheek kissed by the inconstant air wafted from the coquettish fan in the hands of smiling beauty. And, moreover, that the book of human nature, to be studied in the country, certainly opened very beautifully.
The evening passed off pleasantly. Leland confided to the old man his poverty, and desire to obtain scholars in his art sufficient to enable him to pay his board while in the village; that he had been employed by several gentlemen to sketch scenes from nature, and that having heard much of the beautiful views in the neighborhood, he had been induced to visit the village.
But the old man thought he had much better turn farmer, and offered to hire him for eight dollars a month, as he needed a hand in haying time. This offer, however, the young man could not accept, being, as he said, already engaged to complete the drawings. Then the old man told how his fathers had lived there before him, and how by hard labor he had been able to keep the old homestead his own; and that his daughter, Hetty, had been living with a great heiress, who was very fond of her, and who had given her leave to spend the summer at home; and how she had come, and brought a poor girl with her, who made caps, and such gim-cracks, and that (in a whisper) his old woman thought she had never had any bringing-up, poor thing!"
When Leland returned to his lodgings, in the village, he thought over his evening adventure with great pleasure. The simplicity of the old people charmed him; Hetty he thought a modest, pretty girl; but it was the little cap-maker who somehow or other dwelt most forcibly in his mind.
"She is certainly quite handsome, notwithstanding she is a little, a very little, cross-eyed—it is a pity!" And Leland leaned out the window, and whistled "Auld Robin Gray." "How pathetically she warbled the line,
But she looked in my face 'til my heart was like to break;"
But she looked in my face 'til my heart was like to break;"
and Leland threw off one slipper, and stopped to hum it over again. "Her voice only wants a little cultivation"—off goes the other slipper, and out goes the head into the moonlight, and in it comes again. "Well, I must teach her to draw—her own patterns, at any rate. Pleasant old couple; the idea of hiringmefor eight dollars a month—capital!" and in a fit of laughter he threw himself upon the bed. "What a roguish pair of eyes, after all, the little cap-maker has!"
Again the dreams of our hero were all Arcadian, and every shepherdess was a little cross-eyed, and warbled "Auld Robin Gray."
In the bright moonlight, which, glancing through the flickering leaves, streams across the chamber-floor, filling it with her softened radiance, sits Ursula. But why so pensive; is it the influence of the hour, I wonder—has the gentle moon thus power to sadden her, or—
"Hetty, he has a very fine countenance."
There, you see her pensiveness has found a voice.
"Who, Miss Ursula?"
"Why, this young stranger. He has a fine figure, too; and his manners are certainly quite refined."
"Yes, and what pretty pictures he makes."
"True, Hetty, very pretty; he certainly has a genius for the art." A long silence. "What a pity he is poor."
"What's a pity, Miss Ursula?" cries Hetty, half asleep.
"O, nothing, nothing—go to sleep, Hetty."
But Ursula still sits in the moonlight, and thinks of the handsome young artist. Her generous little heart has already smoothed his path to eminence. Yes, she resolves if, upon acquaintance, he proves as worthy as he appears—and does she doubt it—not she—that neither money nor patronage shall be wanting to his success. Generous little cap-maker! And when at length she sought her couch, young Love, under the harmless guise of honest Benevolence, perched himself at her pillow.
And now, every morning sees Leland taking his way to the farm-house; and the villagers, good people, have made up their minds that there must be some very pretty scenes in that neighborhood.
And so there are, very fine scenes; for, reclining under the shady trees, the young artist may be seen, with crayons in hand, the little cap-maker in his eye, as, seated on a little bench, she busily plies her needle, and sings for his entertainment, meanwhile, some rustic ballad. Sometimes, forgetting herself, she executes a brilliantroulade; and when Leland starts, astonished, and expresses his delight, she blushes deeply, and says sheoncewent to the theatre.
And the old dame wonders what on earth they can find to talk about day after day, "a sittin' under trees," and tells Hetty to mind her work, and not take up any such silly ways. And the old man thinks a hale, hearty fellow like that, had better lend a hand to the plough, and not sit there spoiling so much white paper; and Hetty roguishly watches her young mistress, and smiles slily, and thinks there will be a wedding before long.
Ah! happy, satisfied Leland!
For he has won the heart of the charming little cap-maker. He, the poor, unpretending artist, he has won her away from the rich Esquire, who came rolling down in his carriage to woo her; and from the pale young doctor, who knelt tremblingly before her; and from the honest farmer, who swore he loved her better than his cattle. He, without fortune, without friends, has won her. She loves him, and through poverty and hardship will share his fate. And then, when bearing her off a happy bride, he thought how she would blush and tremble with surprise and sweet timidity when he should reveal his rank, and place her in that sphere she was born to grace—what rapturous visions danced through his brain!
And no less rapturous were the thoughts of Ursula. She was now beloved, truly loved for herself alone—she, a poor, friendless girl. No money had shed its enticements around her—there was nothing to gain but an innocent heart, and a portionless hand; and yet the gifted, but poor artist, who might, by the rank of genius, have aspired to the favor of any high-born lady; he has chosen her to share his fate and fortunes. How her heart throbs, when she thinks of the wealth her hand will confer upon him—of the pride with which she shall see him adorning that station for which he is so eminently qualified.
Ah! after all, what happiness to be an heiress!
Three months flew by, and brings us to the night before the wedding. The lovers are alone, and, for lovers, extremely taciturn—for their thoughts are doubtless far into the bright future, o'er which no cloud is floating. The countenance of Ursula beams with happiness, yet her manner is somewhat abstracted—she is evidently agitated. At length Leland speaks,
"Dearest Ursula, it seems to me that no wealth could contribute to our happiness; we have youth, health, strength, and loving hearts to bear us on our life-journey, as hand-in-hand we meet its pains and pleasures. Ah! I can already fancy our pleasant fire-side. No one's caps will find so ready a sale as yours, dear Ursula; and my pencil, too, will be inspired to greater effort by your praise." And Leland turned aside to conceal the smile which played round his mouth at the deception he was practicing. "But what is the matter, Ursula—what agitates you thus; you surely do not repent your promise, beloved one!"
"O, no, no, dear Frank! but I have something to tell you, which, perhaps, may forfeit me your love."
"Good heavens, Ursula! what mean you! tears, too—speak, speak, what is it! is not your heart mine, or have you loved another more truly!"
"No! O, no! and yet, Frank, I am not what I seem—I have deceived you. You think me but a poor, friendless girl, dependent upon my needle for my maintenance, when, in fact, O, Frank, how shall I say it, I am—
"Speak, dearest!"
"I am an heiress."
Frank sprang to his feet in amazement.
"You—you—dear, artless girl that you are—you an heiress! It can't be—it is impossible! and—what a pity!" he adds, aside, as one half his airy castle fell to the ground.
"Now, sit down, Frank, and when you have heard my story, and my motives for doing as I have done, you will, I trust, pardon the duplicity I have been guilty of toward you."
And before she had finished her recital Frank's plans were formed; so, falling at her feet, he poured out his acknowledgments for her condescension in honoring with her hand one so far beneath her, and had the satisfaction—cunning dog—of having a pair of white arms thrown around his neck, and a sweet kiss, from sweeter lips, pressed upon his brow, as the generous girl assured him that were her fortune ten thousand times doubled, she should consider all as dross compared with his love.
"Well, I am fairly caught," quoth Frank, in the privacy of his apartment, "for I swore I never would marry an heiress. That was a rash oath—let it pass. But what a pity dear Ursula has money. I wish to my soul her father had not left her a cent—why could not he have endowed a hospital. She is a dear, noble girl, willing to bestow it all upon onewhom she believes struggling with poverty; never mind, I shall get the laugh on her yet."
At an early hour the following morning the venerable village pastor pronounced the nuptial benediction; and with the hearty good wishes of the old farmer and the dame, and followed by the loving eyes of Hetty, the new married pair bade farewell to the spot consecrated to so many happy hours.
A ride of a few miles brought them to the steamboat; and just as the rays of the setting sun gilded the spires and roofs of the city, the boat touched the wharf.
And now Frank's heart beat almost audibly, as he thought how rapidly the moment was approaching when, throwing off all disguise, he should lead his lovely bride to his own princely dwelling.
And Ursula, too, had never looked so beautiful—had never felt so proud and happy; proud to present her husband to her good uncle and aunt, who were waiting to welcome them; happy that her beloved Frank would no longer have to plod on life's dull round in poverty and loneliness.
It certainly was happiness to be an heiress.
"Ursula," said Frank, as the carriage rolled rapidly over the pavements, "will you do me a favor?"
"Most certainly, dear Frank—what is it?"
"My sister, poor girl," replied Leland, in some embarrassment, "resides on the route toyourresidence; will you alight there just for one moment, that I may have the happiness of bringing together the two dearest objects of my heart?"
"Order the carriage to stop when you please, Frank—I, too, am impatient to embrace your sister," replied the blushing Ursula.
The carriage soon turned into a fashionable street, even at that early hour brilliant with gas lights. Elegant equipages rolled past; already lights streamed, and music sounded from many splendid dwellings. Soon the carriage drew up before one even more splendid—the steps were let down—the door thrown wide by a servant in livery, and, with mingled pride and tenderness irradiating his fine countenance, and meeting with a smile her perplexed and wondering glance, Frank led his fair bride into a spacious and beautiful apartment, taste and elegance pervading all its arrangements. A young girl sprang from the sofa, and came tripping to meet them.
"My sister Helen, dearest Ursula. Helen, embrace your sister, and welcome her to the home she is henceforth to grace."
Then leading the agitated girl to a seat, he threw himself on his knees before her, saying,
"Pardon, pardon, my dearest wife! I, too, had my secret. No poor artist sought your love—I, too, am the heir of wealth; I, too, sought to be loved for myself alone. Say that you forgive me, dear one."
Ursula could not speak, but wept her joy and happiness on his bosom.
Helen laughs merrily, yet slily wipes a tear from her eye, then kissing them both, she says,
"What think you now of the great book of human nature you went forth to study, you discontented ones? You favorites of fortune! ingrates that you have been—you foolish pair of lovers! Listen dear brother. As the rich Frank Leland you possessed the same attributes of goodness as did Frank Leland the poor artist; and you, dear sister, were no less lovely and amiable as the heiress of wealth, than as Ursula the little cap-maker. See you not, then, that true merit, whether it gilds the brow of the rich man or radiates around the poor man's path, will find its way to every pure and virtuous mind. Henceforth, you dear ones, look at human nature with more friendly eyes, and forget in the excellencies of themany, the errors of thefew."
For Nature gives a common lot,To live, to love, to be forgot.Cone.
No, not forgotten; there are memories clingingRound every breast that beats to hope and fearIn this drear world, until the death's knell, ringing,Chimes with heart-moanings o'er the solemn bier;Then come love's pilgrims to the sad shrine, bringingThe choicest offering of the heart—a tear.No, not forgotten; else bowed down with anguishWere the brave hearts that mingle in the strife.Patriot and Christian in their toil would languish—Truth lie down-trodden—Error, then, stalk rifeOver the body she at last could vanquish—So fond remembrance ceased along with life.No, not forgotten; else the faithful beatingOf heart to genial heart, that beat again,Were turned to throbbings; and each pulse repeatingBut the sad echoings of pain to pain.And the blest rapture of the longed for meeting,Then be unsought, or would be sought in vain.No, not forgotten; for though fame may fail thee,And love's fond beamings change to glance of scorn—Though those once trusted now may harsh assail thee—Thy friend of yesterday, thy foe this morn—There is, who holds thee dear—do not bewail theeIf His blest Book of Life thy name adorn.
No, not forgotten; there are memories clingingRound every breast that beats to hope and fearIn this drear world, until the death's knell, ringing,Chimes with heart-moanings o'er the solemn bier;Then come love's pilgrims to the sad shrine, bringingThe choicest offering of the heart—a tear.
No, not forgotten; else bowed down with anguishWere the brave hearts that mingle in the strife.Patriot and Christian in their toil would languish—Truth lie down-trodden—Error, then, stalk rifeOver the body she at last could vanquish—So fond remembrance ceased along with life.
No, not forgotten; else the faithful beatingOf heart to genial heart, that beat again,Were turned to throbbings; and each pulse repeatingBut the sad echoings of pain to pain.And the blest rapture of the longed for meeting,Then be unsought, or would be sought in vain.
No, not forgotten; for though fame may fail thee,And love's fond beamings change to glance of scorn—Though those once trusted now may harsh assail thee—Thy friend of yesterday, thy foe this morn—There is, who holds thee dear—do not bewail theeIf His blest Book of Life thy name adorn.
The Only Daughter
"Give her what she wants," said Mr. Grey impatiently. "How can you let the child cry so?"
"But, my dear," expostulated his wife, "I am afraid it will hurt her."
"Nonsense!" replied Mr. Grey, "it hurts her more to scream so. Here, my princess royal," he continued, "take that, and keep quiet, do"—but Pauline's spirit was not to be so easily appeased as the impatient father imagined, for imperiously spurning with her tiny foot the proffered gift, she screamed more indignantly than when it had first been refused.
"Hey day, Pauline," said Mr. Grey angrily.
"My darling," interrupted Mrs. Grey, hastily addressing the child, "let mamma peel it and put some sugar on it. Come Pauline," she said, as she stooped to pick up the orange.
Pauline's cries subsided for a moment, as apparently taking the matter in consideration, or else, perhaps only holding her breath for a fresh burst, while the tears hung in heavy drops on her long black lashes, and her large eyes still sparkled with excitement.
"Let mamma peel it nicely," continued Mrs. Grey. "Come, and we'll go and get some sugar."
"Yes, yes, do," said Mr. Grey impatiently. "Now go, Pauline, with your mother;" to which the little lady consented, and, tears still upon her blooming cheeks, she withdrew with her mother, leaving Mr. Grey to the quiet possession of the parlor and tranquil enjoyment of his book.
And thus it was generally with Pauline. What she was refused at first, she was coaxed to take at last, and between the indulgence of her mother and the impatience of her father, she seldom or never failed to have what she wanted.
A passionate determination to have her own way marked her character perhaps rather more strongly than that of most spoiled children, for nature had endowed her with a strong will, which education had fostered, as it almost seemed, with sedulous care. For the fact was Mrs. Grey dreaded a contest with Pauline; she screamed so, and Mr. Grey got so angry, sometimes with her, and sometimes with the child, and altogether it was such a time, that she soon begun to think it was better not to thwart Pauline, which certainly was true; for every contest ended in a fresh victory on the part of Pauline, and the utter discomfiture of Mrs. Grey, and the vexation of Mr. Grey, who, more vexed at the contest than the defeat, usually said, "Pshaw! you don't know how to manage that child." Thus Pauline, an only child, beautiful, gifted and willful, idolized by both parents, soon ruled the household.
"I'll not go to that school any more," said Pauline indignantly, as she tossed her books down, the second day of her first school experience.
"Why not, my love?" asked her mother anxiously.
"I don't like that Miss Cutter," said Pauline, her large black eyes dilating as she spoke, and flashing with excitement.
"You don't like Miss Cutter," repeated Mrs. Grey. "Why don't you like Miss Cutter, Pauline?"
"She put me on a high bench and said 'chut' to me," replied Pauline. "Nobody shall say 'chut' to me, and I wont go there again."
"You'll go there if your mother says so, Pauline," said her father. But Pauline knew better than that, and so did Mr. Grey for that matter; but Mrs. Grey said, "well, we'll see about it, Pauline. Now go and be dressed for dinner."
"I wont go again," said Pauline with determination, as she left the room.
"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Grey anxiously, as the child left the room, "that Pauline has taken a dislike to Miss Cutter. It was injudicious in her to commence her school discipline so rigorously at once."
"Just like those people," said Mr. Grey, testily; "they have no judgment—dressed in a little brief authority they make the most of it."
"Pauline is such a peculiar child," continued Mrs. Grey, (for all people think their children "peculiar," unless they have half a dozen of them, and then they know better). "Pauline is such a peculiar child that I dislike driving her against her feelings. I am very sorry for this," she added, looking much perplexed and embarrassed. "I don't know what to do."
Fortunately Pauline had a little cold the next day, or Mrs. Grey imagined she had, and so the question of school was dodged for a day or two, during which, however, Pauline continued firm in her determination of not returning.
By the time she had recovered past all possibility of thinking she was not quite as well as usual, Mrs. Grey had reasoned herself into thinking, and talked Mr. Grey into believing, that there was so much that was injurious in the present mode of school education, that upon the whole she would prefer keeping Pauline at home. A governess, under her own eye, would do her greater justice and bring her on faster; and, above all, she would escape the contamination of indiscriminate contact with children of whose tempers and characters Mrs. Grey knew nothing.
She need not have said half as much to convince Mr. Grey, for he was tired out with the subject, and ready to yield before she was one third through; but she was talking as much to satisfy herself that what she did was the result of mature reflection, and not to gratify, or rather pacify Pauline, as to convince Mr. Grey. Whether she was able to attain this point is somewhat doubtful, although the capacity people have for self deception is amazing. And to what perfection Mrs. Grey may have reached in the happy art, we are not able exactly to say.
But the governess was engaged, (a day governess, for neither Mr. Grey nor Pauline could have borne the constant presence of even so necessary an evil,) and under her tuition Pauline made rapid progress in her studies. Miss Burton soon finding that the moral education of her little pupil was quite beyond her reach, Mrs. Grey generally evading any disputed point between them, and gently waiving what authority should have settled, very wisely confined herself to the task Mrs. Grey set before her, which was to give Pauline as much instruction and as little contradiction as could be combined.
But spite of some drawbacks Pauline made wonderful progress. She was, in fact, a child of uncommon abilities, and every thing she applied herself to, she mastered almost at once. Her understanding rapidly developed, and springing into girlhood while others are yet looked upon almost as children, she was a daughter any parents might justly be proud of. She was singularly beautiful, too, and no eye could rest upon her girlish form and speaking face, her brilliant eye and glowing cheek, other than with delight. That Mr. and Mrs. Grey watched her with looks of something hardly short of adoration, is scarce to be wondered at. She was so animated, so joyous, so radiant with youth, health and beauty. There seemed such affluence of all life's best gifts, which she scattered so lavishly around her, that the very air seemed to grow brighter from her presence, and no one who came within the sphere of her influence, could escape the spell of her joyous power.
To say that as her mind and person developed, she quite outgrew the faults of her childhood, would be rather hazardous. 'T is true, she no longer stamped her little foot and burst into passionate tears, as when we first made her acquaintance, but she bent her pretty dark brows, and said, "I must," in a tone that Mrs. Grey knew meant, "I will."
But then who thought of disputing her wishes? Were they not the main-spring of the whole concern? What else did father or mother live for? Were not her wishes their wishes, her pleasures their pleasures? Was not she their idol—their all?
If she would only wrap up warmer, and put thicker shoes on those little feet, Mrs. Grey would have asked nothing more. But she was slight, and coughed sometimes, and then Mr. Grey said she should not haveallowedPauline to go out in those thin shoes, and charged her not to permit it another time—but never interfered himself—thus throwing all the responsibility, or rather impossibility, of making Pauline mind, upon his wife, who indeed always got all Pauline's scoldings; for though Mr. Grey might find fault when Pauline was absent, one bright smile and brilliant glance from Pauline present, was sure to dispel his displeasure.
So Pauline had now reached her seventeenth year, beautiful, gifted, high-spirited and generous-hearted. And if willful—why, even that seemed to give aprononcéshade to her character, that rather heightened the brilliancy of its tone.
"You are going to Cecelia Howard's wedding I suppose, Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Graham.
"Of course. She is a niece of my husband's, you know."
"Yes. And Pauline is to be bridemaid, I understand," continued the lady.
"Well—I don't know about that," replied Mrs. Grey, hesitatingly.
"ButIdo," said Pauline in her pretty willful way. "I told Cecelia that she might depend on me."
Mrs. Grey looked at her daughter without speaking, though she could not but smile at her animated face, while Mrs. Graham said, "Oh yes, why not, Mrs. Grey?"
"Pauline is rather young," continued Mrs. Grey, "for such things."
"True," replied the other, "if it were not in the connection. But family gayety is quite different."
"Of course," said Mrs. Grey, "if it were not for that, I should not think of it."
"Well, but I am going, mamma," said Pauline, "So you may make up your mind to that." And Mrs. Grey felt that she might as well at once. So after a little more talk about it, and Mr. Grey's saying, "Why, certainly, I see no objection to it—and as your cousin wishes it, Pauline—if your mother is willing, I am," it was settled.
How beautiful Pauline looked when she came down stairs and presented herself before her delighted father, dressed for the wedding. It was the first time he had ever seen her in full dress; her white neck and round arms uncovered, her rich dark hair looking darker and more satinny for the wreath of pale, soft, delicate roses that bound it—even the little foot seeming more fairy-like in the small white satin slipper that inclosed it. If her father was accustomed to think her peerless in the plain, high-necked merino dress in which he usually saw her, what did he think of her now, when full dressed, or rather undressed, as she stood before him, brilliant in the glow of excitement, and fairer and fresher than even the flowers she wore?
He looked at her speechless, and when she said,
"Father, how do you like me?" could only kiss her fair forehead in silence.
There was a reception after the wedding, and the beauty of the young bridemaid excited no small degree of sensation; for Pauline, having been brought up at home, was little known by the young people of her own age, and so took society rather by surprise.
"Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Livingston, "the bride has named Thursday evening for me. You will dome the favor, therefore, I hope, of considering yourself and your daughter engaged for that evening."
"Not Pauline, my dear madam," said Mrs. Grey. "She does not go out this winter. She is so young that I hesitated much even letting her act as bridemaid this evening."
"Oh, my dear Mrs. Grey," said Mrs. Livingston, much disappointed, "pray reverse your decision—surely for the bridal parties at least. I shall be so disappointed, for," with a smile, "I quite counted on the presence of your beautiful daughter for the brilliancy of my party;" and Pauline approaching just then, she said, "Pray, Miss Pauline, join your petitions to mine—I do so want you to come to my party for the bride."
"Why, mamma, of course," said Pauline. "The bridemaids must attend the bride to the parties given for her—Cecelia says so."
"But, my love," said her mother, "you know I told Cecelia when I consented to your being bridemaid, that you were not going out."
"Not generally—no; but just to the bridal parties, mamma. Oh, I must"—and there was the little ominous bend of the brows at the words "I must," when Mr. Grey coming up, her mother, glad in her turn to throw the responsibility on him, said,
"Well, ask your father; see what he says."
"What is it, Pauline?" said Mr. Grey, smiling assent before she had spoken.
"May I not, papa, attend the bridal parties with the rest of the bridemaids," she said, half pouting. "Cecelia says it will spoil the bridal cotillion if I am absent; and then—oh, papa, I must," she continued, in a tone of such earnest entreaty, entreaty that seemed to admit of no refusal, that he smiled as he said,
"Well, if youmust, I suppose you must."
"Then I may, papa!" she exclaimed, her dark eyes dilating in their peculiar way when any thing particularly delighted or excited her. "Now, mamma!" turning triumphantly to her mother, "papa says I may. Yes, Mrs. Livingston, mammawillcome, and I too—hey, mamma!" and Mrs. Grey smiled her assent—and she and Pauline were in for the rest of the wedding gayeties.
Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute.Party followed party, and Mrs. Grey forgot to ask, or Pauline to care, whether they were bridal parties or not, for Pauline was fairly launched. And what a sensation she excited—so young—so brilliant—so beautiful. Mr. Grey, too, a man of handsome fortune, and Pauline an only daughter. There's a sort of charm in that, too, to young men's imaginations. It seems to make a girl more like a rare exotic, something of which there are few of the kind. And Pauline was a belle of the most decided stamp; and Mr. and Mrs. Grey's heads were more turned than was hers by the admiration she excited.