FLORENCE.
———
BY HENRY B. HIRST.
———
PROLOGUE.An humble cottage, overgrownWith woodbine, stood beside a hill,And nigh it, murmuring through moss,Rippled a little rill.The hill was high and wore a crownOf leafiness, whence, gazing down,An eagle might behold the towersAnd turrets of a town.And many a pleasant country cot,Snowy, and peering through the green,With, now and then, a rivulet,Meandering, might be seen.But in the landscape, like a king,A short half mile or more away,A grim old castle stood, erect,Baronial and gray.Around it lay an ample park,With, here and there, a drove of deer;A rude old Norman edifice,Dark, desolate and drear!Perhaps it was the morning sunWhich made the ancient building smile,But, nevertheless, a pleasant lookWas on the agéd pile.Perhaps it was with joy it smiledThat morn, the merriest of the year,Which welcomed home its youthful lord,Young Lionel De Vere.Perhaps the thought of earlier daysFlitted athwart its granite brain;Perchance it dreamed it might beholdThose golden hours again—Those hours when, in the tournament,Warriors, in glistering steel attired,Tilted before young demoiselles,Who blushed to be admired;Or when the forest echoes rangWith many a merry bugle-horn,And stag and hounds, a baying rout,Swept by some autumn morn.But whether it was the morning sunWhich made the ancient mansion smile,Or other things, a pleasant lookLit up the agéd pile.PART I.She stood among her garden flowers,The very loveliest lily there,Beauty, bloom, purity and truthUnfolding on the air.He paused among the trees and gazed,And like a bark with sails unfurled,His heaving heart went forth to seekAnother and a fairer world.All heaven he felt was in her eye;Its sunshine glistened in her glance;The air he breathed was elfin air;His soul was in a trance:“Ah, spirit of some virgin saint,Turn—turn those blesséd eyes on me,And let me kneel and worship thee!”Deliriously said he.She raised her eyes, her maiden cheekMounting the crimson tinge of dawn,And, looking timidly around,Stood, like a startled fawn.“Nay, do not fly,” exclaimed the youth;“Remain; allow my thirsty eyesTo quaff thy beauty: I would drainA draught of Paradise.”Wonder awaking in her face,The maiden stood, with lips apart,Drinking his voice, whose cadence stoleIn harmony to her heart.And even as she stood he came,And, kneeling, bade her fear no wrong;While all the while the murmuring airMoved musical with song.His words were not as other’s words,His voice was like no other voice,Somehow, she knew not why, it madeHer maiden heart rejoice.And from that moment all things grewLovelier with light, because of him,And, like a cup of wine, her heartWas crimson to the brim.“What shall I call thee?” asked the maid;“How name thee?” “Clarence is my name,”Returned the youth—“an honest one,Though all unknown to fame.“And how shall I call thee?” quoth he.“Florence,” replied the maid—“a meanAnd humble village girl.” “But fit,”Said he, “to be a queen!”Day after day, at eventide,The stranger sought her, breathing wordsOf passion, while her timid heartBeat like a frightened bird’s.But not with fear, for every pulseWas swayed by love, that, moon-like, ridesThe empyrean of the adoring heartAnd rules its purple tides.PART II.Merrily through the town they wentA proud, chivalric cavalcadeOf knights and nobles and esquires,In silken robes arrayed.And each sustained his high degree,But foremost there, without a peerIn manly majesty of mien,Rode Lionel De Vere.The ostrich plumes which flowed and wavedIn silver clouds above his brow,Were gray and lustreless besideThat forehead’s dazzling snow.The diamond broach which held the plumeFlashed in the sunlight, like a star,Throwing its ever radiant raysIn rainbow hues afar.The ruby burning on his breast,Blazing and blossoming as he turned,Was fervid as his heart, which, fedWith honor, nobly burned.And as he passed, his lofty headBending in answer to the criesOf loving vassals, nobler formNever met woman’s eyes.A smile for one of mean degree,A courteous bow for one of high,So modulated both that eachSaw friendship in his eye.Onward he rode, while like the soundOf surf along a shingly shore,The murmur of a people’s joyMarched, herald-like, before.Timidly, while before them pressedThe peasants, in a little nookTwo women stood—two timid things—To snatch a hasty look:One, weak and old—an agéd dame—December toward its latter day;The other young and pure and fair,The maiden month of May:Trembling with curious delightShe rose on tip-toe, gazing throughThe mass of heads which, like a hedge,Bordered the avenue.The sound of horns, which rolled and brokeLike summer thunder, and the crashOf cymbals, while the hound-like drumHowled underneath the lash;The toss of plumes, the neigh of steeds,The silken murmur of attire,As the proud cavalcade drew nigh,Filled her young heart with fire.He came, her lord, the lord of allWho gazed and gazed afar or near,And as he bowed they hailed with shoutsLord Lionel De Vere.A trouble flitted through her face—A shadow, and before her eyesShe passed her hands, as if to checkSome terrible surmise.Nearer and nearer, while like oneStruck dumb she gazed, the noble came,And as he passed the people flungTheir blessings on his name.One little cry—a feeble cry—The name of “Clarence,” and she passed:He heard it not, its tiny soundDied in the clarion’s blast.PART III.The cottage stood in solitude,The woodbine rustled on the wall,The Marguerites in the garden wavedIn murmurs one and all;And, rippling by, the rivuletSeemed sobbing, like a frightened child,Who, wandering on, has lost its wayIn some deserted wild.The day was waning in the west,And slowly, like a dainty dream,The delicate twilight dropped her veilOn fallow, field and stream.The purple sky was sown with starsWhen Clarence came: she was not there,And desolately frowned the night,And stagnant was the air.But on the little rustic seatWhere they had often sat, there shoneA letter, and the noble nameAlong it was his own.“Farewell,” it said, “that I existBreathing the word which is the knellOf love and hope is not my will.But God’s alone: Farewell.“Never more on this once loved spot,Never more on the rivulet’s bank,Shall we sojourn: my love, great lord,Insults thy lofty rank.“Go, seek some fitter mate: for me,Too poor to be thy wife, too proudTo be thy leman, grief, despair,The death-bed, and the shroud.”He read appalled, amazed, aghast,Stern as a statue, and the stoneWas pale Despair, its haggard lookLess awful than his own.A thought, and like a storm he dashedAlong the grassy walk: no sparkShone from the cottage: all within,Without, around, was dark.He knocked and knocked, but no one came:He entered, and the silent roomWas vacant, and his darkened heartGrew darker with the gloom.Next day the grim old castle stoodNeglected: whether its heart of stoneWas touched, I know not, yet I heardThe ancient mansion moan.Perhaps I was deceived; the windWent howling over woods and moors,And round the castle, like a ghostStalking its corridors.PART IV.The snow had fallen hour on hour;The wind was keen, and loud and shrillIt whistled through the naked treesAnd round the frozen hill.The country everywhere was white;The forest oaks that moaned and pinedWore caps of snow, which, bowing low,They doffed before the wind.Twilight descended, and the airWas gray, and like a sense of dread,Night on the virgin breast of earthHer sable shadows spread.Slowly, with wavering steps a manMoved on a solitary moor,With staff, and shell, and sandaled shoon,A pilgrim pale and poor.Slowly, with trembling steps he moved,Pausing, as if uncertain whereTo take his way, when, faint and far,A bell disturbed the air.And as with concentrated strengthHe sought the sound, a little lightShone flickeringly and glow-worm likeThrough the ravine of night.A little light that with each stepBecame distinct, until his eyesBeheld a convent’s welcome wallsBetween him and the skies.He reached the portal—rang the bell,And as above him rose the moon,Sank, like the storm: the portress foundThe pilgrim in a swoon.They bore the wasted wanderer in:Pallid but beautiful he lay,A dream which seemed to come from heavenThough clad in suffering clay.And when, long hours of anguish gone,His eyes once more shone calmly blue,Looks that seemed grievous memoriesDimmed their ethereal hue.His soul, which many days had walkedThe ploughshares of consuming love.Wrung by the ordeal, raised its eyesToward Him Who reigned above.He sought the chapel; at the shrineKnelt, while his eyes were wet with tears—God’s love in holy harmoniesFilling his penitent ears.Even as he knelt the solemn mass,“Ora pro nobis, domine,”Rose, like a dove on sun-lit wings,Seeking the heavenly way.Concordant voices sweet and clearRang through the consecrated nave,Discoursing melodies which rolledAnd broke, wave over wave.As in an ecstasy he knelt,Cheeks, lips and eyes alive with light,Radiant, as if a saint, or ChristHimself had blessed his sight.For in the voices one sweet voiceSwam, like a spirit’s, in his ears:He could not speak, or move, or breathe;While slowly trickling tearsRan down his cheeks, as, louder still,The swan-voiced organ breathed its knell,And on its cloudy height of songPaused, trembled, moaned and fell.But as its echoes died away,His spirit trod that golden shoreWhere hope becomes realityAnd sorrow is no more.He sought the abbess; on his kneesUnfolded, page by page, his grief;While she, albeit cold and stern,Wept, yielding to belief.And Florence came, while Clarence stoodIn breathless silence far apart,A thousand hopes and joys and fearsConflicting at his heart.Throwing aside his pilgrim cowlClarence fell trembling at her feet:“Florence,” he murmured, “loved and lost,At last, at last we meet.”She stood in silence, with her eyesFixed on the youth—a heavenly calmFrom out whose subsidence of soundCame “Clarence,” like a psalm.And then he knelt and told his tale:How he had loved in other lands,And she he sought had faithlesslyObeyed a sire’s commands,And left him desolate; how, when,After long weeks of aching painA pale, heartbroken, weary man,With fevered brow and brain,He sought his native land, and stoodAgain within his castle halls,But found that soothing Peace had flownForever from its walls;And how, when wandering in the woods,Accusing God of all his wo,Madder with memories of the PastThan any fiend below,She, Florence, like an angel, roseTo calm his heart, and dry his tears,And fill his brain with melodiesStolen from statelier spheres.And how he sought to test her love,And feared, recurring to the past,That this, his eidolon of joy,Might prove too bright to last.And so, in humble garb, in stateNo loftier than the maiden’s own,He sought her love, not for his landsBut for himself alone.And how he came and found her gone,And since, month after month, in pain,Had followed her from town to town,With burning heart and brain;And how, when hope was gone, and lifeSeemed like a land which lay behind—The future like a desolate void—How, when he most repined—When death had been a welcome thing,Her voice, the concord of the spheres,Had called his memory from her tombOn which it lay in tears.She stood and listened with her eyesAnd ears and heart—cheek, lip and browSerene with happiness which shone,Like sunlight over snow.And with a breathless eloquenceWhich, more than words or vows, exprestHer boundless confidence, she hidHer blushes in his breast.EPILOGUE.One day, in early autumn time,In spirit, I traversed the plain,And sought De Vere’s ancestral towers,And gazed on them again.They stood in green and glorious age;The rooks wheeled round the ancient walls,And peals of mirthful merrimentPeopled the castle halls—Loud laughs, which made the watchful deer,With ears thrown forward, look and bleatAnd seek a covert, while the soundsFollowed their pattering feet.The swallows, twittering in the air,Seemed sharers in the general gladness;The stares from oak and beach and elm,Chattered in merry madness.Across the drawbridge, as I gazed,A merry, laughing cavalcade,With dogs in leash and hawk on hand,Dashed madly down the glade.Among them, stateliest of them all,Sat one whose broad and ample brow,Though white with time, was full of lifeAs lichen under snow.And by his side, with smiling eye,And swelling breast, in robes of green,Rode one, round whom the nobles prestAs round a loving queen.And after, hand on hip, two youthsRode gayly onward, side by side,Returning with admiring loveTheir parents’ glance of pride.While in the distance, like a sireWho sees at Christmas festivalHis happy children laughing round,Smiled the baronial hall.
PROLOGUE.An humble cottage, overgrownWith woodbine, stood beside a hill,And nigh it, murmuring through moss,Rippled a little rill.The hill was high and wore a crownOf leafiness, whence, gazing down,An eagle might behold the towersAnd turrets of a town.And many a pleasant country cot,Snowy, and peering through the green,With, now and then, a rivulet,Meandering, might be seen.But in the landscape, like a king,A short half mile or more away,A grim old castle stood, erect,Baronial and gray.Around it lay an ample park,With, here and there, a drove of deer;A rude old Norman edifice,Dark, desolate and drear!Perhaps it was the morning sunWhich made the ancient building smile,But, nevertheless, a pleasant lookWas on the agéd pile.Perhaps it was with joy it smiledThat morn, the merriest of the year,Which welcomed home its youthful lord,Young Lionel De Vere.Perhaps the thought of earlier daysFlitted athwart its granite brain;Perchance it dreamed it might beholdThose golden hours again—Those hours when, in the tournament,Warriors, in glistering steel attired,Tilted before young demoiselles,Who blushed to be admired;Or when the forest echoes rangWith many a merry bugle-horn,And stag and hounds, a baying rout,Swept by some autumn morn.But whether it was the morning sunWhich made the ancient mansion smile,Or other things, a pleasant lookLit up the agéd pile.PART I.She stood among her garden flowers,The very loveliest lily there,Beauty, bloom, purity and truthUnfolding on the air.He paused among the trees and gazed,And like a bark with sails unfurled,His heaving heart went forth to seekAnother and a fairer world.All heaven he felt was in her eye;Its sunshine glistened in her glance;The air he breathed was elfin air;His soul was in a trance:“Ah, spirit of some virgin saint,Turn—turn those blesséd eyes on me,And let me kneel and worship thee!”Deliriously said he.She raised her eyes, her maiden cheekMounting the crimson tinge of dawn,And, looking timidly around,Stood, like a startled fawn.“Nay, do not fly,” exclaimed the youth;“Remain; allow my thirsty eyesTo quaff thy beauty: I would drainA draught of Paradise.”Wonder awaking in her face,The maiden stood, with lips apart,Drinking his voice, whose cadence stoleIn harmony to her heart.And even as she stood he came,And, kneeling, bade her fear no wrong;While all the while the murmuring airMoved musical with song.His words were not as other’s words,His voice was like no other voice,Somehow, she knew not why, it madeHer maiden heart rejoice.And from that moment all things grewLovelier with light, because of him,And, like a cup of wine, her heartWas crimson to the brim.“What shall I call thee?” asked the maid;“How name thee?” “Clarence is my name,”Returned the youth—“an honest one,Though all unknown to fame.“And how shall I call thee?” quoth he.“Florence,” replied the maid—“a meanAnd humble village girl.” “But fit,”Said he, “to be a queen!”Day after day, at eventide,The stranger sought her, breathing wordsOf passion, while her timid heartBeat like a frightened bird’s.But not with fear, for every pulseWas swayed by love, that, moon-like, ridesThe empyrean of the adoring heartAnd rules its purple tides.PART II.Merrily through the town they wentA proud, chivalric cavalcadeOf knights and nobles and esquires,In silken robes arrayed.And each sustained his high degree,But foremost there, without a peerIn manly majesty of mien,Rode Lionel De Vere.The ostrich plumes which flowed and wavedIn silver clouds above his brow,Were gray and lustreless besideThat forehead’s dazzling snow.The diamond broach which held the plumeFlashed in the sunlight, like a star,Throwing its ever radiant raysIn rainbow hues afar.The ruby burning on his breast,Blazing and blossoming as he turned,Was fervid as his heart, which, fedWith honor, nobly burned.And as he passed, his lofty headBending in answer to the criesOf loving vassals, nobler formNever met woman’s eyes.A smile for one of mean degree,A courteous bow for one of high,So modulated both that eachSaw friendship in his eye.Onward he rode, while like the soundOf surf along a shingly shore,The murmur of a people’s joyMarched, herald-like, before.Timidly, while before them pressedThe peasants, in a little nookTwo women stood—two timid things—To snatch a hasty look:One, weak and old—an agéd dame—December toward its latter day;The other young and pure and fair,The maiden month of May:Trembling with curious delightShe rose on tip-toe, gazing throughThe mass of heads which, like a hedge,Bordered the avenue.The sound of horns, which rolled and brokeLike summer thunder, and the crashOf cymbals, while the hound-like drumHowled underneath the lash;The toss of plumes, the neigh of steeds,The silken murmur of attire,As the proud cavalcade drew nigh,Filled her young heart with fire.He came, her lord, the lord of allWho gazed and gazed afar or near,And as he bowed they hailed with shoutsLord Lionel De Vere.A trouble flitted through her face—A shadow, and before her eyesShe passed her hands, as if to checkSome terrible surmise.Nearer and nearer, while like oneStruck dumb she gazed, the noble came,And as he passed the people flungTheir blessings on his name.One little cry—a feeble cry—The name of “Clarence,” and she passed:He heard it not, its tiny soundDied in the clarion’s blast.PART III.The cottage stood in solitude,The woodbine rustled on the wall,The Marguerites in the garden wavedIn murmurs one and all;And, rippling by, the rivuletSeemed sobbing, like a frightened child,Who, wandering on, has lost its wayIn some deserted wild.The day was waning in the west,And slowly, like a dainty dream,The delicate twilight dropped her veilOn fallow, field and stream.The purple sky was sown with starsWhen Clarence came: she was not there,And desolately frowned the night,And stagnant was the air.But on the little rustic seatWhere they had often sat, there shoneA letter, and the noble nameAlong it was his own.“Farewell,” it said, “that I existBreathing the word which is the knellOf love and hope is not my will.But God’s alone: Farewell.“Never more on this once loved spot,Never more on the rivulet’s bank,Shall we sojourn: my love, great lord,Insults thy lofty rank.“Go, seek some fitter mate: for me,Too poor to be thy wife, too proudTo be thy leman, grief, despair,The death-bed, and the shroud.”He read appalled, amazed, aghast,Stern as a statue, and the stoneWas pale Despair, its haggard lookLess awful than his own.A thought, and like a storm he dashedAlong the grassy walk: no sparkShone from the cottage: all within,Without, around, was dark.He knocked and knocked, but no one came:He entered, and the silent roomWas vacant, and his darkened heartGrew darker with the gloom.Next day the grim old castle stoodNeglected: whether its heart of stoneWas touched, I know not, yet I heardThe ancient mansion moan.Perhaps I was deceived; the windWent howling over woods and moors,And round the castle, like a ghostStalking its corridors.PART IV.The snow had fallen hour on hour;The wind was keen, and loud and shrillIt whistled through the naked treesAnd round the frozen hill.The country everywhere was white;The forest oaks that moaned and pinedWore caps of snow, which, bowing low,They doffed before the wind.Twilight descended, and the airWas gray, and like a sense of dread,Night on the virgin breast of earthHer sable shadows spread.Slowly, with wavering steps a manMoved on a solitary moor,With staff, and shell, and sandaled shoon,A pilgrim pale and poor.Slowly, with trembling steps he moved,Pausing, as if uncertain whereTo take his way, when, faint and far,A bell disturbed the air.And as with concentrated strengthHe sought the sound, a little lightShone flickeringly and glow-worm likeThrough the ravine of night.A little light that with each stepBecame distinct, until his eyesBeheld a convent’s welcome wallsBetween him and the skies.He reached the portal—rang the bell,And as above him rose the moon,Sank, like the storm: the portress foundThe pilgrim in a swoon.They bore the wasted wanderer in:Pallid but beautiful he lay,A dream which seemed to come from heavenThough clad in suffering clay.And when, long hours of anguish gone,His eyes once more shone calmly blue,Looks that seemed grievous memoriesDimmed their ethereal hue.His soul, which many days had walkedThe ploughshares of consuming love.Wrung by the ordeal, raised its eyesToward Him Who reigned above.He sought the chapel; at the shrineKnelt, while his eyes were wet with tears—God’s love in holy harmoniesFilling his penitent ears.Even as he knelt the solemn mass,“Ora pro nobis, domine,”Rose, like a dove on sun-lit wings,Seeking the heavenly way.Concordant voices sweet and clearRang through the consecrated nave,Discoursing melodies which rolledAnd broke, wave over wave.As in an ecstasy he knelt,Cheeks, lips and eyes alive with light,Radiant, as if a saint, or ChristHimself had blessed his sight.For in the voices one sweet voiceSwam, like a spirit’s, in his ears:He could not speak, or move, or breathe;While slowly trickling tearsRan down his cheeks, as, louder still,The swan-voiced organ breathed its knell,And on its cloudy height of songPaused, trembled, moaned and fell.But as its echoes died away,His spirit trod that golden shoreWhere hope becomes realityAnd sorrow is no more.He sought the abbess; on his kneesUnfolded, page by page, his grief;While she, albeit cold and stern,Wept, yielding to belief.And Florence came, while Clarence stoodIn breathless silence far apart,A thousand hopes and joys and fearsConflicting at his heart.Throwing aside his pilgrim cowlClarence fell trembling at her feet:“Florence,” he murmured, “loved and lost,At last, at last we meet.”She stood in silence, with her eyesFixed on the youth—a heavenly calmFrom out whose subsidence of soundCame “Clarence,” like a psalm.And then he knelt and told his tale:How he had loved in other lands,And she he sought had faithlesslyObeyed a sire’s commands,And left him desolate; how, when,After long weeks of aching painA pale, heartbroken, weary man,With fevered brow and brain,He sought his native land, and stoodAgain within his castle halls,But found that soothing Peace had flownForever from its walls;And how, when wandering in the woods,Accusing God of all his wo,Madder with memories of the PastThan any fiend below,She, Florence, like an angel, roseTo calm his heart, and dry his tears,And fill his brain with melodiesStolen from statelier spheres.And how he sought to test her love,And feared, recurring to the past,That this, his eidolon of joy,Might prove too bright to last.And so, in humble garb, in stateNo loftier than the maiden’s own,He sought her love, not for his landsBut for himself alone.And how he came and found her gone,And since, month after month, in pain,Had followed her from town to town,With burning heart and brain;And how, when hope was gone, and lifeSeemed like a land which lay behind—The future like a desolate void—How, when he most repined—When death had been a welcome thing,Her voice, the concord of the spheres,Had called his memory from her tombOn which it lay in tears.She stood and listened with her eyesAnd ears and heart—cheek, lip and browSerene with happiness which shone,Like sunlight over snow.And with a breathless eloquenceWhich, more than words or vows, exprestHer boundless confidence, she hidHer blushes in his breast.EPILOGUE.One day, in early autumn time,In spirit, I traversed the plain,And sought De Vere’s ancestral towers,And gazed on them again.They stood in green and glorious age;The rooks wheeled round the ancient walls,And peals of mirthful merrimentPeopled the castle halls—Loud laughs, which made the watchful deer,With ears thrown forward, look and bleatAnd seek a covert, while the soundsFollowed their pattering feet.The swallows, twittering in the air,Seemed sharers in the general gladness;The stares from oak and beach and elm,Chattered in merry madness.Across the drawbridge, as I gazed,A merry, laughing cavalcade,With dogs in leash and hawk on hand,Dashed madly down the glade.Among them, stateliest of them all,Sat one whose broad and ample brow,Though white with time, was full of lifeAs lichen under snow.And by his side, with smiling eye,And swelling breast, in robes of green,Rode one, round whom the nobles prestAs round a loving queen.And after, hand on hip, two youthsRode gayly onward, side by side,Returning with admiring loveTheir parents’ glance of pride.While in the distance, like a sireWho sees at Christmas festivalHis happy children laughing round,Smiled the baronial hall.
PROLOGUE.
An humble cottage, overgrown
With woodbine, stood beside a hill,
And nigh it, murmuring through moss,
Rippled a little rill.
The hill was high and wore a crown
Of leafiness, whence, gazing down,
An eagle might behold the towers
And turrets of a town.
And many a pleasant country cot,
Snowy, and peering through the green,
With, now and then, a rivulet,
Meandering, might be seen.
But in the landscape, like a king,
A short half mile or more away,
A grim old castle stood, erect,
Baronial and gray.
Around it lay an ample park,
With, here and there, a drove of deer;
A rude old Norman edifice,
Dark, desolate and drear!
Perhaps it was the morning sun
Which made the ancient building smile,
But, nevertheless, a pleasant look
Was on the agéd pile.
Perhaps it was with joy it smiled
That morn, the merriest of the year,
Which welcomed home its youthful lord,
Young Lionel De Vere.
Perhaps the thought of earlier days
Flitted athwart its granite brain;
Perchance it dreamed it might behold
Those golden hours again—
Those hours when, in the tournament,
Warriors, in glistering steel attired,
Tilted before young demoiselles,
Who blushed to be admired;
Or when the forest echoes rang
With many a merry bugle-horn,
And stag and hounds, a baying rout,
Swept by some autumn morn.
But whether it was the morning sun
Which made the ancient mansion smile,
Or other things, a pleasant look
Lit up the agéd pile.
PART I.
She stood among her garden flowers,
The very loveliest lily there,
Beauty, bloom, purity and truth
Unfolding on the air.
He paused among the trees and gazed,
And like a bark with sails unfurled,
His heaving heart went forth to seek
Another and a fairer world.
All heaven he felt was in her eye;
Its sunshine glistened in her glance;
The air he breathed was elfin air;
His soul was in a trance:
“Ah, spirit of some virgin saint,
Turn—turn those blesséd eyes on me,
And let me kneel and worship thee!”
Deliriously said he.
She raised her eyes, her maiden cheek
Mounting the crimson tinge of dawn,
And, looking timidly around,
Stood, like a startled fawn.
“Nay, do not fly,” exclaimed the youth;
“Remain; allow my thirsty eyes
To quaff thy beauty: I would drain
A draught of Paradise.”
Wonder awaking in her face,
The maiden stood, with lips apart,
Drinking his voice, whose cadence stole
In harmony to her heart.
And even as she stood he came,
And, kneeling, bade her fear no wrong;
While all the while the murmuring air
Moved musical with song.
His words were not as other’s words,
His voice was like no other voice,
Somehow, she knew not why, it made
Her maiden heart rejoice.
And from that moment all things grew
Lovelier with light, because of him,
And, like a cup of wine, her heart
Was crimson to the brim.
“What shall I call thee?” asked the maid;
“How name thee?” “Clarence is my name,”
Returned the youth—“an honest one,
Though all unknown to fame.
“And how shall I call thee?” quoth he.
“Florence,” replied the maid—“a mean
And humble village girl.” “But fit,”
Said he, “to be a queen!”
Day after day, at eventide,
The stranger sought her, breathing words
Of passion, while her timid heart
Beat like a frightened bird’s.
But not with fear, for every pulse
Was swayed by love, that, moon-like, rides
The empyrean of the adoring heart
And rules its purple tides.
PART II.
Merrily through the town they went
A proud, chivalric cavalcade
Of knights and nobles and esquires,
In silken robes arrayed.
And each sustained his high degree,
But foremost there, without a peer
In manly majesty of mien,
Rode Lionel De Vere.
The ostrich plumes which flowed and waved
In silver clouds above his brow,
Were gray and lustreless beside
That forehead’s dazzling snow.
The diamond broach which held the plume
Flashed in the sunlight, like a star,
Throwing its ever radiant rays
In rainbow hues afar.
The ruby burning on his breast,
Blazing and blossoming as he turned,
Was fervid as his heart, which, fed
With honor, nobly burned.
And as he passed, his lofty head
Bending in answer to the cries
Of loving vassals, nobler form
Never met woman’s eyes.
A smile for one of mean degree,
A courteous bow for one of high,
So modulated both that each
Saw friendship in his eye.
Onward he rode, while like the sound
Of surf along a shingly shore,
The murmur of a people’s joy
Marched, herald-like, before.
Timidly, while before them pressed
The peasants, in a little nook
Two women stood—two timid things—
To snatch a hasty look:
One, weak and old—an agéd dame—
December toward its latter day;
The other young and pure and fair,
The maiden month of May:
Trembling with curious delight
She rose on tip-toe, gazing through
The mass of heads which, like a hedge,
Bordered the avenue.
The sound of horns, which rolled and broke
Like summer thunder, and the crash
Of cymbals, while the hound-like drum
Howled underneath the lash;
The toss of plumes, the neigh of steeds,
The silken murmur of attire,
As the proud cavalcade drew nigh,
Filled her young heart with fire.
He came, her lord, the lord of all
Who gazed and gazed afar or near,
And as he bowed they hailed with shouts
Lord Lionel De Vere.
A trouble flitted through her face—
A shadow, and before her eyes
She passed her hands, as if to check
Some terrible surmise.
Nearer and nearer, while like one
Struck dumb she gazed, the noble came,
And as he passed the people flung
Their blessings on his name.
One little cry—a feeble cry—
The name of “Clarence,” and she passed:
He heard it not, its tiny sound
Died in the clarion’s blast.
PART III.
The cottage stood in solitude,
The woodbine rustled on the wall,
The Marguerites in the garden waved
In murmurs one and all;
And, rippling by, the rivulet
Seemed sobbing, like a frightened child,
Who, wandering on, has lost its way
In some deserted wild.
The day was waning in the west,
And slowly, like a dainty dream,
The delicate twilight dropped her veil
On fallow, field and stream.
The purple sky was sown with stars
When Clarence came: she was not there,
And desolately frowned the night,
And stagnant was the air.
But on the little rustic seat
Where they had often sat, there shone
A letter, and the noble name
Along it was his own.
“Farewell,” it said, “that I exist
Breathing the word which is the knell
Of love and hope is not my will.
But God’s alone: Farewell.
“Never more on this once loved spot,
Never more on the rivulet’s bank,
Shall we sojourn: my love, great lord,
Insults thy lofty rank.
“Go, seek some fitter mate: for me,
Too poor to be thy wife, too proud
To be thy leman, grief, despair,
The death-bed, and the shroud.”
He read appalled, amazed, aghast,
Stern as a statue, and the stone
Was pale Despair, its haggard look
Less awful than his own.
A thought, and like a storm he dashed
Along the grassy walk: no spark
Shone from the cottage: all within,
Without, around, was dark.
He knocked and knocked, but no one came:
He entered, and the silent room
Was vacant, and his darkened heart
Grew darker with the gloom.
Next day the grim old castle stood
Neglected: whether its heart of stone
Was touched, I know not, yet I heard
The ancient mansion moan.
Perhaps I was deceived; the wind
Went howling over woods and moors,
And round the castle, like a ghost
Stalking its corridors.
PART IV.
The snow had fallen hour on hour;
The wind was keen, and loud and shrill
It whistled through the naked trees
And round the frozen hill.
The country everywhere was white;
The forest oaks that moaned and pined
Wore caps of snow, which, bowing low,
They doffed before the wind.
Twilight descended, and the air
Was gray, and like a sense of dread,
Night on the virgin breast of earth
Her sable shadows spread.
Slowly, with wavering steps a man
Moved on a solitary moor,
With staff, and shell, and sandaled shoon,
A pilgrim pale and poor.
Slowly, with trembling steps he moved,
Pausing, as if uncertain where
To take his way, when, faint and far,
A bell disturbed the air.
And as with concentrated strength
He sought the sound, a little light
Shone flickeringly and glow-worm like
Through the ravine of night.
A little light that with each step
Became distinct, until his eyes
Beheld a convent’s welcome walls
Between him and the skies.
He reached the portal—rang the bell,
And as above him rose the moon,
Sank, like the storm: the portress found
The pilgrim in a swoon.
They bore the wasted wanderer in:
Pallid but beautiful he lay,
A dream which seemed to come from heaven
Though clad in suffering clay.
And when, long hours of anguish gone,
His eyes once more shone calmly blue,
Looks that seemed grievous memories
Dimmed their ethereal hue.
His soul, which many days had walked
The ploughshares of consuming love.
Wrung by the ordeal, raised its eyes
Toward Him Who reigned above.
He sought the chapel; at the shrine
Knelt, while his eyes were wet with tears—
God’s love in holy harmonies
Filling his penitent ears.
Even as he knelt the solemn mass,
“Ora pro nobis, domine,”
Rose, like a dove on sun-lit wings,
Seeking the heavenly way.
Concordant voices sweet and clear
Rang through the consecrated nave,
Discoursing melodies which rolled
And broke, wave over wave.
As in an ecstasy he knelt,
Cheeks, lips and eyes alive with light,
Radiant, as if a saint, or Christ
Himself had blessed his sight.
For in the voices one sweet voice
Swam, like a spirit’s, in his ears:
He could not speak, or move, or breathe;
While slowly trickling tears
Ran down his cheeks, as, louder still,
The swan-voiced organ breathed its knell,
And on its cloudy height of song
Paused, trembled, moaned and fell.
But as its echoes died away,
His spirit trod that golden shore
Where hope becomes reality
And sorrow is no more.
He sought the abbess; on his knees
Unfolded, page by page, his grief;
While she, albeit cold and stern,
Wept, yielding to belief.
And Florence came, while Clarence stood
In breathless silence far apart,
A thousand hopes and joys and fears
Conflicting at his heart.
Throwing aside his pilgrim cowl
Clarence fell trembling at her feet:
“Florence,” he murmured, “loved and lost,
At last, at last we meet.”
She stood in silence, with her eyes
Fixed on the youth—a heavenly calm
From out whose subsidence of sound
Came “Clarence,” like a psalm.
And then he knelt and told his tale:
How he had loved in other lands,
And she he sought had faithlessly
Obeyed a sire’s commands,
And left him desolate; how, when,
After long weeks of aching pain
A pale, heartbroken, weary man,
With fevered brow and brain,
He sought his native land, and stood
Again within his castle halls,
But found that soothing Peace had flown
Forever from its walls;
And how, when wandering in the woods,
Accusing God of all his wo,
Madder with memories of the Past
Than any fiend below,
She, Florence, like an angel, rose
To calm his heart, and dry his tears,
And fill his brain with melodies
Stolen from statelier spheres.
And how he sought to test her love,
And feared, recurring to the past,
That this, his eidolon of joy,
Might prove too bright to last.
And so, in humble garb, in state
No loftier than the maiden’s own,
He sought her love, not for his lands
But for himself alone.
And how he came and found her gone,
And since, month after month, in pain,
Had followed her from town to town,
With burning heart and brain;
And how, when hope was gone, and life
Seemed like a land which lay behind—
The future like a desolate void—
How, when he most repined—
When death had been a welcome thing,
Her voice, the concord of the spheres,
Had called his memory from her tomb
On which it lay in tears.
She stood and listened with her eyes
And ears and heart—cheek, lip and brow
Serene with happiness which shone,
Like sunlight over snow.
And with a breathless eloquence
Which, more than words or vows, exprest
Her boundless confidence, she hid
Her blushes in his breast.
EPILOGUE.
One day, in early autumn time,
In spirit, I traversed the plain,
And sought De Vere’s ancestral towers,
And gazed on them again.
They stood in green and glorious age;
The rooks wheeled round the ancient walls,
And peals of mirthful merriment
Peopled the castle halls—
Loud laughs, which made the watchful deer,
With ears thrown forward, look and bleat
And seek a covert, while the sounds
Followed their pattering feet.
The swallows, twittering in the air,
Seemed sharers in the general gladness;
The stares from oak and beach and elm,
Chattered in merry madness.
Across the drawbridge, as I gazed,
A merry, laughing cavalcade,
With dogs in leash and hawk on hand,
Dashed madly down the glade.
Among them, stateliest of them all,
Sat one whose broad and ample brow,
Though white with time, was full of life
As lichen under snow.
And by his side, with smiling eye,
And swelling breast, in robes of green,
Rode one, round whom the nobles prest
As round a loving queen.
And after, hand on hip, two youths
Rode gayly onward, side by side,
Returning with admiring love
Their parents’ glance of pride.
While in the distance, like a sire
Who sees at Christmas festival
His happy children laughing round,
Smiled the baronial hall.
THE DIAL-PLATE.
———
BY A. J. REQUIER.
———
All rusty is the iron grateThat girds the garden desolate,But there it stands, the dial-plate,A thing of antiquated date,Right opposite the sun.The wild moss and the fern have grownUpon its quaint, old-fashioned stone,And earthy mounds about it strownSeem each to say, in solemn tone,“A race is run!”Of yore, in vernal beauty smiledThis spot of earth so drear and wild,And you might chance to see a child,Up-scrambling on the gray stones piledAround the dial-plate;Then might you hear his laughter ringClear as the chime of bells in spring,When, like a pompous little king,He strutted on that queer old thingIn mock estate.Long years have circled slowly roundUpon that wheel which hath no sound;The urchin has in manhood foundA beauteous maid, and they are boundBy Hymen’s silken tie;There stand the couple, side by side,The bridegroom and his dainty bride,The sunbeams from the dial slideDeep in their cells beneath the tide—As deep Love’s sigh!Comes tottering age with thin, white hair,And that same youth is standing there!But now his head is almost bare,And twinkles in his eye a tear,Fresh from his withered core;Gone are the loved ones of his breast,Gone to their everlasting rest,Grim Death has robbed the old man’s nest,And they are now his mouldering guestFor evermore!Ye pilgrims on the shores of Time!Of every age and every clime,Like flowers ye spring up in your prime,Like them ye fade at vesper chimeIn twilight of the tomb;Oh! pluck the roses while ye may,Each instant heralds Life’s decay,Mark well the dial’s fleeting ray,There is a world beyond the clay—Beyond its gloom.Old father Time expects his fee,Look how he rubs his hands in glee,A mighty pair of scales hath he,To weigh Earth and Eternity,“As misers count their gold;”From earth he plucks each minute-pin,And down the other he drops it in—Take heed! the weigher soon must winHe stares upon you with a grin—Your days are told!
All rusty is the iron grateThat girds the garden desolate,But there it stands, the dial-plate,A thing of antiquated date,Right opposite the sun.The wild moss and the fern have grownUpon its quaint, old-fashioned stone,And earthy mounds about it strownSeem each to say, in solemn tone,“A race is run!”Of yore, in vernal beauty smiledThis spot of earth so drear and wild,And you might chance to see a child,Up-scrambling on the gray stones piledAround the dial-plate;Then might you hear his laughter ringClear as the chime of bells in spring,When, like a pompous little king,He strutted on that queer old thingIn mock estate.Long years have circled slowly roundUpon that wheel which hath no sound;The urchin has in manhood foundA beauteous maid, and they are boundBy Hymen’s silken tie;There stand the couple, side by side,The bridegroom and his dainty bride,The sunbeams from the dial slideDeep in their cells beneath the tide—As deep Love’s sigh!Comes tottering age with thin, white hair,And that same youth is standing there!But now his head is almost bare,And twinkles in his eye a tear,Fresh from his withered core;Gone are the loved ones of his breast,Gone to their everlasting rest,Grim Death has robbed the old man’s nest,And they are now his mouldering guestFor evermore!Ye pilgrims on the shores of Time!Of every age and every clime,Like flowers ye spring up in your prime,Like them ye fade at vesper chimeIn twilight of the tomb;Oh! pluck the roses while ye may,Each instant heralds Life’s decay,Mark well the dial’s fleeting ray,There is a world beyond the clay—Beyond its gloom.Old father Time expects his fee,Look how he rubs his hands in glee,A mighty pair of scales hath he,To weigh Earth and Eternity,“As misers count their gold;”From earth he plucks each minute-pin,And down the other he drops it in—Take heed! the weigher soon must winHe stares upon you with a grin—Your days are told!
All rusty is the iron grate
That girds the garden desolate,
But there it stands, the dial-plate,
A thing of antiquated date,
Right opposite the sun.
The wild moss and the fern have grown
Upon its quaint, old-fashioned stone,
And earthy mounds about it strown
Seem each to say, in solemn tone,
“A race is run!”
Of yore, in vernal beauty smiled
This spot of earth so drear and wild,
And you might chance to see a child,
Up-scrambling on the gray stones piled
Around the dial-plate;
Then might you hear his laughter ring
Clear as the chime of bells in spring,
When, like a pompous little king,
He strutted on that queer old thing
In mock estate.
Long years have circled slowly round
Upon that wheel which hath no sound;
The urchin has in manhood found
A beauteous maid, and they are bound
By Hymen’s silken tie;
There stand the couple, side by side,
The bridegroom and his dainty bride,
The sunbeams from the dial slide
Deep in their cells beneath the tide—
As deep Love’s sigh!
Comes tottering age with thin, white hair,
And that same youth is standing there!
But now his head is almost bare,
And twinkles in his eye a tear,
Fresh from his withered core;
Gone are the loved ones of his breast,
Gone to their everlasting rest,
Grim Death has robbed the old man’s nest,
And they are now his mouldering guest
For evermore!
Ye pilgrims on the shores of Time!
Of every age and every clime,
Like flowers ye spring up in your prime,
Like them ye fade at vesper chime
In twilight of the tomb;
Oh! pluck the roses while ye may,
Each instant heralds Life’s decay,
Mark well the dial’s fleeting ray,
There is a world beyond the clay—
Beyond its gloom.
Old father Time expects his fee,
Look how he rubs his hands in glee,
A mighty pair of scales hath he,
To weigh Earth and Eternity,
“As misers count their gold;”
From earth he plucks each minute-pin,
And down the other he drops it in—
Take heed! the weigher soon must win
He stares upon you with a grin—
Your days are told!
W.P. Frith AddisonTHE BRIDAL NIGHT.Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine
W.P. Frith AddisonTHE BRIDAL NIGHT.Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine
UNEQUAL MARRIAGES.
———
BY CAROLINE. H. BUTLER.
———
“Sister, are you determined, then, to marry Annette to Mr. Eccleson?” asked Mr. Goodman of his sister, Mrs. Doily.
“Certainly I am, brother,” answered the lady. “In every respect it is a most advantageous match for her; indeed, John, I assure you that I look upon an alliance with the Eccleson family as one of the most desirable things which could possibly happen, and so does Mr. Doily.”
“I do not agree with you,” said her brother; “and I fear in the end, you may have reason to change your present views.”
“And why so, brother?” returned Mrs. Doily. “It seems to me you are always looking upon the dark side! Now do tell me, John, what reasonable objection you can possibly have to Annette’s marriage—I am sure I see none—and, of course, no one can have her happiness more at heart than her own mother! Is not Mr. Eccleson very rich, and nearly allied to some of the very first families in the city? His age surely can be no serious objection—indeed, it is all for the best, for a man stands still, while a woman grows old; and fifteen years hence, depend upon it, no one will think him fifteen years her senior. Then he is very agreeable, and certainly uncommonly good-looking!” and with the air of one who feels satisfied that they have the best of the argument, Mrs. Doily complacently swung to and fro in her easy rocking-chair.
“Yes, Jane, he is all these—and, you may add, too, as proud as Lucifer!” said Mr. Goodman.
“He has reason to be proud!” put in Mrs. Doily.
“Perhaps he has,” answered her brother, “and you will find that his pride will not allow him to acknowledge willingly any connection with a dry-goods retailer!”
“Ridiculous, brother—how foolish you talk! Pray, then, why should he offer to marry Annette, if he looks upon the connection as something to be ashamed of?” said Mrs. Doily, getting almost angry.
“Why? why because he has fallen in love with Annette’s pretty face; he means to marryher, not her family, and he trusts to his future power over her, and to a woman’s devotedness to her husband, right or wrong, to wean her away from all her earlier ties!”
“John, you really talk very strangely!” exclaimed Mrs. Doily, almost ready to cry. “What possesses you to run on in this way, just as if my dear Annette could ever be brought to give up all her old friends for strangers. I do wish you would not talk so—it really makes me nervous!”
“Well, my dear sister, I may be mistaken, and for your sake, and for Annette’s sake, I hope to God I am! I call myself a pretty good judge of character, and if I err not, Mr. Eccleson has so much pride, arrogance, perhaps, would be the better word, for it is not the pride of a high-minded, honorable man, as will make him callous what ties he rends, or what sacred altars he may trample down to serve his own ambitious views. Besides, Jane, I never yet knew any true happiness to result from unequal marriages; and I tell you honestly, that were Annette my daughter, I would sooner see her the wife of an honest young tradesman, who has his own fortune and standing to build up, than the wife of Penn Eccleson, were he ten times richer than he is!”
“Oh, yes, John, were Annetteyour daughter!” said Mrs. Doily, forcing a laugh. “Yes, I know, old bachelors and old maids are always most wonderful patterns of parental prudence! but with all your prejudices you will allow one thing, I hope, that Mr. Eccleson is far from being either a selfish or a mercenary man!”
“I deny the first,” interrupted Mr. Goodman.
“For he refuses to receive any fortune with Annette; true, we could not give her much—five or six thousand dollars, perhaps—but even that is something; and I am sure his refusal to accept of it is very noble. It is Annette, and Annette alone he wants.”
“True, very true—it is Annette he wants, and not a penny of the retailer’s money—there shall be no obligation of that nature to bind him to the family of the future Mrs. Eccleson!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman, starting up angrily from his chair. “Jane, Jane, I protest against this marriage!” and seizing his hat and cane, he withdrew, leaving poor Mrs. Doily bathed in the tears she was no longer able to restrain—tears of vexation and anger, at what she deemed the willful obstinacy of her brother.
If what Uncle John said was true, it was certainly yet to be proved, for, perhaps, no marriage in the eyes of partial, hopeful parents, ever promised a fairer prospect of happiness to trusting girlhood than that so soon to be consummated.
Penn Eccleson belonged exclusively to the monied aristocracy. His grandfather and father before him, had both commenced life with a determination to be rich—richer—richest—and what the former had accumulated from small beginnings and careful savings, were as carefully and judiciously applied by the son, until little by little the broad foundation of future wealth was successfully established.
In the days of their youth, when the freshness of their young lives should have been given to better and holier ends, the parents of Penn Eccleson looked forward only to the aggrandizement of themselves and children, through the potent influence of money;and to this end they toiled and delved in the service of Mammon, with a bondage almost equal to that of the gold-seeking maniac amid the mountain fastnesses of California, denying themselves all the luxuries, and most of the comforts of life to swell the hoard of avarice, and feed their ill-directed ambition.
As years took their flight, step by step the Ecclesons gradually emerged from the obscurity of a narrow cross-street in the lower part of the city, to the possession of one of the most elegant establishments in the fashionable region of —— Square. The mostgenteelschools were selected for their children, who were expressly forbidden to form any friendships with their little school-mates, save those whose parents could at least boast of a carriage, and thus, their heads early filled with conceit and pride, the little Ecclesons formed as disagreeable a trio as one would care to see—for assuredly there is nothing more unpleasing, than to behold the beautiful simplicity of childhood lost in the supercilious airs and artificial graces of the fine lady!
The Ecclesons were regarded at first in no very favorable light, in the quarter they had chosen for their debut into high life, and occasionally their pride suffered severely. But with a pertinacity worthy a higher aim, they firmly stood their ground, and upon the strength of their fine dinners, and their splendid parties, were, in the course of a few years, not only tolerated, but received with favor into those circles they most coveted. Their only son, meanwhile, was traveling in Europe, with acarte-blanchein his pocket for any expenses he might choose to indulge, and the sage advice of worthy Polonius engrafted on his mind, in the sense, I mean, with which Mr. Hudson translates Shakspeare, that is, “to sit up all night to make himself a gentleman, and take no pains to make himself a man.”
Time rolled on. Their daughters made highly eligible matches, their son returned elegant in person, polished in manners, and then it was time for the old people to die.
Doubtless it would have been a satisfaction to them to have witnessed their own sumptuous funerals; to have known how daintily their rigid limbs were draped in the finest of linen, and upon what soft, downy cushions within their narrow bed their heads were pillowed. It would have been a splendid pageant for their pride—the richly emblazoned coffin—the pall of velvet sweeping to the ground—the hearse, with its long shadowy plumes—the high-mettled horses curbed to a solemn pace, yet tossing their heads and manes as if nobly spurning from them the trappings of fictitious wo in which they were forced to act a part—the stately equipages which follow their dust to the “City of the Dead”—and then their own epitaphs; it would have amazed them to have known how many virtues of which they themselves were ignorant, that finely chiseled marble bestowed upon them.
The old gentleman remembered each of his daughters and their families handsomely in his will, and then bequeathed to his son the residue of his large property, including the fine mansion in —— Square. Penn Eccleson might therefore be considered by speculating papas and mammas a most eligible match. Nature had also been most lavish in her personal gifts, while Fortune, as we have seen, had already secured him her favors.
But young Eccleson seemed in no hurry to take a wife, and he had nearly attained his thirtieth year ere he began seriously to look about him. At this time he accidentally saw Annette Doily at the Opera, and became instantly a victim to love at first sight. It must be owned his ardor was somewhat cooled, upon ascertaining that this beautiful young creature was—nobody! that is, she was only the daughter of a mere shopkeeper, who dealt out tapes and bobbins, and sold cambric by the yard. This fact, for a time, was sufficient to keep his ardor in check, but upon being thrown again into her presence, it broke forth with renewed violence. He gave himself no rest until he had found a way to make her acquaintance, and thus led by the little god, the haughty Penn Eccleson, who walked the earth as though he were lord of all, became a frequent visiter at the house of Mr. Doily, and a suitor for the hand of his daughter.
Annette was, indeed, a lovely young creature, whose seventeenth summer had scarcely dawned over her innocent, happy life. I would fain describe her, as her image comes up before me in the dream of the past, but my pen is unable to trace the indescribable charm which dwelt upon her countenance, or the artless grace which pervaded all her movements. And these were the least traits which endeared her to her friends, for never was there a heart more affectionate and confiding, or a disposition so guileless. What wonder that the polished manners and insinuating address of Eccleson should have gained her heart, and that with all the fervor and truthfulness of a first love, she blushingly consented to be his—grateful, too, for the preference he had yielded a simple child like herself.
Mr. and Mrs. Doily were proud of their daughter, and proud of the conquest she had achieved. In the alliance they saw an immense advantage; it not only placed their beloved Annette at once in the highest circles of rank and fashion, but to Mr. Doily, the benefit to his business, arising from a connection with the Eccleson family, would be incalculable. He already fancied himself turning his back upon the counter, and established among the bales and boxes of a large wholesale house—perhaps an importer—a ship-owner; while Mrs. Doily, with the true instinct of a mother, forgetting all self, rejoiced that her two younger daughters would be ushered into society under the patronage of their wealthy brother-in-law.
Uncle John was the only one who predicted aught but undivided happiness from the union.
Had the cloudless heaven which dawned upon their wedding morn, and the bright sun which burst in gladness over them, but typified their future lot, how blest and happy would it have been.
Eccleson preferred to be married in church, anda gay retinue attended the bridal pair to the sacred edifice wherein their solemn vows were to be registered. As side by side they stood in the holy chancel, all eyes turned admiringly upon them—she so charming, yet so unconscious of her loveliness, as with her little hand nestled in his she received the holy benediction of the priest, while as he bent his lips to her pure brow, a softness rested upon the features of the bridegroom, which rendered his beauty almost godlike.
The ceremony over, the two sisters of Eccleson, proud, haughty dames, advanced and coldly saluted the pale cheek of the fair bride, and honored the sadly happy mother with a stately bow. Eccleson touched his lips to the proffered cheek of Mrs. Doily, and then receiving the weeping Annette from the arms of her parents, bore her exultingly to the carriage, as if eager to point the barrier henceforth to be raised betweenherandthem.
The new married pair were absent two or three months on a bridal tour, and then returned to the city—their house in the interim having been newly and magnificently furnished to the tune of thousands, under the supervision of Mrs. Dash and Townlif, the sisters of Eccleson. But Annette pined to embrace her mother; not all thegilded baubles which on every side met her eye, not all the splendors of which her husband proudly proclaimed her the mistress, could for a moment quell the yearnings of her affectionate heart; and scarcely bestowing a glance upon the magnificence which surrounded her, she begged the carriage might take her to her parents and sisters.
Poor Annette! she was now to receive her first lesson from her haughty lord.
“No, Annette, you must not think of it,” replied Eccleson, carelessly loosing the arms twined so fondly round his neck, “you are very tired, love, and I cannot consent to your further fatiguing yourself.”
“Indeed, dear Penn, you are mistaken, I am not in the least tired; O, pray let me go home, if only for an hour!” said Annette, with her little hand upon his shoulder, and her large, dark eyes bent beseechingly upon his.
“I tell you, Annette, I cannot suffer you to go into P—— Street to-night; beside, love,” he added, “it pains me to hear you speak of goinghome, as if this were not your home, youronlyhome, Annette.”
There was a meaning stress upon the word “only,” which, however, Annette did not observe, so crushed was she by the disappointment his refusal caused her. She hesitated a moment, and then once more flinging her arms around him, she said,
“Dearest husband, I must go—do not refuse me. Only think, it is three months since I have seen them—three months, Penn, since I have embraced my mother. I know they are pining to behold me once more, for I was never away from them even for a day until I became yours, dear Penn; I am sure I shall not sleep unless I see them to-night.”
“Nonsense, Annette,” replied Eccleson; “you are no longer a child, I hope, to be thus sighing and whining after your mother; really I am quite ashamed of my little wife! Come, I will myself show you to your dressing-room; you have not yet seen the splendid diamonds I have for you, nor the eleganttrousseaumy sisters have prepared. Come, Annette,” and encircling her slender waist with his arm, he would have led her from the room.
Tears stood in Annette’s beautiful eyes.
“Dearest Penn, will you do me a favor? If you object to my going home to-night, then let the carriage drive round into P—— Street, and bring my mother here.”
Eccleson drew himself up haughtily.
“Absurd, Annette—I shall certainly do no such thing. In the morning I shall not object to your visiting your parents, provided you take an early hour ere we may expectmyfriends to call upon you; but the truth is, the less frequent you make your visits in P—— Street, Annette, the better I shall be pleased.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Annette, with a startled look upon the countenance of her husband; “indeed I do not understand you, dear Penn.”
“Well, my dear girl. I will endeavor to explain myself more clearly,” answered Eccleson. “You are, of course, aware that by your marriage with me, your position in life has wholly changed; you are now raised to a sphere greatly above that from which I took you; and as my wife will henceforth move in none but the highest and most distinguished circles of the city; and therefore, dearest Annette, for my sake as well as for your own, it will be desirable that you forget all old associations as soon as possible.”
“I do not understand you even now, I think,” said Annette, smiling sadly. “No, I am sure, dear Penn, I do not take your true meaning—for it cannot be you would have me sacrifice my parents to my new position, to renounce all the fond ties of home! that is not what you mean?” she added with an appealing look.
“In a certain sense thatismy meaning, love,” answered her husband. “I shall offer no objections to your visiting your excellent parents occasionally, or as your parents of receiving them into my house; but, my sweet Annette, you must study to control your wishes for a very frequent repetition of these family meetings. It may seem impossible to you now, but believe me, dearest, you will soon find so much that is novel and delightful to occupy your thoughts, that you will cease to regret that which appears to afflict you so much at present.”
With her little hands clasped upon her bosom, and her eyes gazing almost wildly into his, did Annette listen to the words of her heartless, selfish husband. But there was no resentment, no anger visible in her sweet face; with a sigh which would have moved any heart but his, she said,
“I am grieved to hear you speak so, dear Penn; nothing can ever make me forgetful of the ties of nature; you yourself would despise me, if, through the allurements of wealth and fashion, I could be brought to forget those who gave me being. You know you would; say so, dearest Penn—you onlywanted to prove me, did you?” and casting one arm fondly around his neck, with a sadly sweet smile she bent her lovely eyes upon him.
“Annette, we will not talk of this more at present,” answered her husband; “enough that if you love me, you will, by and bye, better understand anddomy meaning.”
The first night Annette passed under her husband’s roof was a sleepless one. Her chamber, in its luxurious adornments, might have received a princess—but little did she heed it. The beautiful hangings of pink and silver which swept around the bed—the rich counterpane of white satin which enveloped her lovely form—the downy pillows cased in the finest lace—nor all the splendors which surrounded her, had power for a moment to divert her saddened thoughts, or stay the tears of wounded affection.
But hope, bright hope is ever the blessing of youth as of age, and with the morning dawn gladdened the heart of the young wife with its peaceful influence, and whispered that her husband meant not the cruel words he had spoken, and that all would yet be well.
At an early hour the carriage was at the door, and Annette was borne once more to the arms of her parents. She hoped, but dared not ask her husband to accompany her, and it was with a heavy sigh and a starting tear that, after handing her into the carriage, she saw him once more ascend the marble steps, and then, as the carriage drove off, kissing his hand to her, re-enter the house.
In the fond welcome of home Annette lost the sorrow which already touched her young heart. As she viewed each dear familiar spot, her marriage seemed but a dream. From room to room she flew with the gladness of a bird—the kitchen—the nursery—the dear old school-room, all felt her light footstep now rapidly sweeping the keys of the piano as she glided past—now chasing the little kitten from “mother’s” work-basket—now releasing her pet canary from its wiry prison, to perch upon her finger—and finally seating herself upon a low cushion at the feet of her mother, with the shaggy, sleepy head of old Rover in her lap, she prepared to answer some of the many questions poured upon her.
And what a proud, happy mother was Mrs. Doily at that moment—laughing and crying at the same moment as she looked upon her dear, darling Annette. How many affectionate inquiries she had to make about her new son-in-law—what plans she laid for the future—why did not Mr. Eccleson come with her? But she knew he would soon—and Annette must stay to dinner; yes, the carriage must go back without her, she had been away from them so long they could not spare her to-day; and Mr. Eccleson would come to dinner—it was lucky, for they were going to have boiled turkey and oysters, and the nicest, fattest pair of ducks she ever saw. But Annette reluctantly excused herself—they were to receive their wedding visits, and she must go—some other day, soon, very soon she would come. And kissing them all a dozen times, she sprung into the carriage and returned home with a lightened heart—for it could not be that her husband would willingly deprive her of so much enjoyment as that one brief hour had given her.
It is needless to trace, day by day, and hour by hour, the thralls which gradually tightened around the kind, loving heart of Annette, who passively yielded herself to the selfish demands of her husband.
By the haughty relatives of Eccleson she was received either with formal courtesy, or with that condescending air of patronage, the most keenly cutting to a sensitive soul. She would have loved them, poor girl, if they would have suffered her love; but her advances were always chillingly repelled—they wished her to feel the vast difference which existed between a shopkeeper’s daughter and their “almighty dreadful little mightinesses.”
Eccleson loved his young wife as dearly as it was in his nature to love any one, saveself—and allbuthis pride, would have sacrificed to her happiness. To a gay round of parties,soirées, the opera, theatres, and concerts, he bore her night after night, until any less gentle nature than Annette’s would have been lost in the giddy whirl of fashion. Her dresses, her jewels, her equipage, out-rivaled all others; she was the belle of the brilliant circle in which she moved; but she pined in her gilded prison, and longed to lay her aching head upon her mother’s bosom.
The very fact that her husband looked upon her relatives as inferior to himself, marked the galling dependence of her situation. She was his wife, but fettered by bonds which ate into her soul. Almost wholly was she now debarred from the society of her own friends—for she could not see them insulted, and no better than insult was the haughty bearing which Eccleson assumed toward them, and therefore she preferred they should think her the heartless thing she seemed, than by persisting in her claims, subject them and herself to renewed contumely.
Better would it have been for Annette had she possessed more firmness of character—awillto do as she pleased—a determination to have her rights respected. But she was by nature too gentle to wrestle with the unfeeling hearts around her, and therefore yielded herself a passive victim. Or better, perhaps, would it have been, had her bosom covered a marble heart, and that, callous to all the tender ties which can make life desirable, she should have walked through life that mysterious anomaly—a beautiful woman without a soul!
But it was not so.
The step of Annette gradually lost its light elastic tread—her cheek grew pale—her eyes no longer reflected the innocent gayety of a happy heart, but bent low their drooping lids as if to hide their weight of sorrow—the bright smile which lent its charms to her speaking countenance faded sadly away. In less than two years after her marriage with that proud, haughty man, poor Annette was dying—dying of a broken-heart—of crushed and blighted affection!
Too late to save her did Eccleson see his error. He saw that he had drawn too strongly upon her gentle, pliant nature, and that barred from the lightand sun of her childhood’s home—shut out from the kindly sympathies of parental love, like some beautiful flower of the forest torn from its genial bed, she was to fade and die at ambition’s altar!
To restore her, if possible, and bitterly repenting his cruelty, Eccleson now did all in the power of mortal to stay her angel flight. He brought her parents around her—he surrounded her bedside with the most skillful physicians, and lavished upon her all the comforts which wealth could purchase. He took her home and restored to her the treasured associations of her early life.
Poor Annette was grateful—deeply grateful for this too long deferred kindness; and now that in this reunion life seemed again to present so many charms, she would have desired to live had her Heavenly Father so willed it. But it was too late. The barbed arrow had penetrated too deeply her innocent bosom to be withdrawn. With her hand clasped in that of her repentant husband, and her head pillowed on her mother’s breast, her gentle spirit took its flight.
Gentle reader, this is no exaggerated story I have given you. It is but another life-drawn sketch of the evils which too frequently arise from unequal marriages.