Oh! the times will never be againAs they were when we were young,When Scott was writing “Waverlies,”And Moore and Byron sung;When “Harolds,” “Giaours” and “Corsairs” cameTo charm us every year,And “Loves” of “Angels” kissed Tom’s cup,While Wordsworth sipped small beer.When Campbell drank of Helicon,And didn’tmixhisliquor;When Wilson’s strong and steady lightHad not begun to flicker;When Southey, climbing piles of books,Mouthed “Curses of Kehama;”And Coleridge, in his opium dreams,Strange oracles would stammer;When Rodgers sent his “Memory,”Thus hoping to delight all,Before he learned his mission wasTo give “feeds” and invite all;When James Montgomery’s “weak tea” strainsEnchanted pious people,Who didn’t mind poetichaze,If through it loomed asteeple.When first reviewers teamed to showTheir judgment without mercy;When Blackwood was as young and litheAs now he’s old and pursy;When Gifford, Jeffrey, and their clan,Could fix an author’s doom,And Keats was taught how well they knewTo killà coup de plume.Few womenfolk were rushing thenTo the Parnassian mount,And seldom was a teacup dippedIn the Castalian fount;Apollo kept nopursuivant,To cry out “Place aux Dames:”In life’s round game they heldGOODhands,And didn’t strive forpalms.Oh! the world will never be againWhat it was when we were young,And shattered are the idols nowTo which our boyhood clung;Gone are thegiantsof those days,For whom our wreaths we twined,Andpigmiesnowkick up a dustTo show themarch of mind.
Oh! the times will never be againAs they were when we were young,When Scott was writing “Waverlies,”And Moore and Byron sung;When “Harolds,” “Giaours” and “Corsairs” cameTo charm us every year,And “Loves” of “Angels” kissed Tom’s cup,While Wordsworth sipped small beer.When Campbell drank of Helicon,And didn’tmixhisliquor;When Wilson’s strong and steady lightHad not begun to flicker;When Southey, climbing piles of books,Mouthed “Curses of Kehama;”And Coleridge, in his opium dreams,Strange oracles would stammer;When Rodgers sent his “Memory,”Thus hoping to delight all,Before he learned his mission wasTo give “feeds” and invite all;When James Montgomery’s “weak tea” strainsEnchanted pious people,Who didn’t mind poetichaze,If through it loomed asteeple.When first reviewers teamed to showTheir judgment without mercy;When Blackwood was as young and litheAs now he’s old and pursy;When Gifford, Jeffrey, and their clan,Could fix an author’s doom,And Keats was taught how well they knewTo killà coup de plume.Few womenfolk were rushing thenTo the Parnassian mount,And seldom was a teacup dippedIn the Castalian fount;Apollo kept nopursuivant,To cry out “Place aux Dames:”In life’s round game they heldGOODhands,And didn’t strive forpalms.Oh! the world will never be againWhat it was when we were young,And shattered are the idols nowTo which our boyhood clung;Gone are thegiantsof those days,For whom our wreaths we twined,Andpigmiesnowkick up a dustTo show themarch of mind.
Oh! the times will never be again
As they were when we were young,
When Scott was writing “Waverlies,”
And Moore and Byron sung;
When “Harolds,” “Giaours” and “Corsairs” came
To charm us every year,
And “Loves” of “Angels” kissed Tom’s cup,
While Wordsworth sipped small beer.
When Campbell drank of Helicon,
And didn’tmixhisliquor;
When Wilson’s strong and steady light
Had not begun to flicker;
When Southey, climbing piles of books,
Mouthed “Curses of Kehama;”
And Coleridge, in his opium dreams,
Strange oracles would stammer;
When Rodgers sent his “Memory,”
Thus hoping to delight all,
Before he learned his mission was
To give “feeds” and invite all;
When James Montgomery’s “weak tea” strains
Enchanted pious people,
Who didn’t mind poetichaze,
If through it loomed asteeple.
When first reviewers teamed to show
Their judgment without mercy;
When Blackwood was as young and lithe
As now he’s old and pursy;
When Gifford, Jeffrey, and their clan,
Could fix an author’s doom,
And Keats was taught how well they knew
To killà coup de plume.
Few womenfolk were rushing then
To the Parnassian mount,
And seldom was a teacup dipped
In the Castalian fount;
Apollo kept nopursuivant,
To cry out “Place aux Dames:”
In life’s round game they heldGOODhands,
And didn’t strive forpalms.
Oh! the world will never be again
What it was when we were young,
And shattered are the idols now
To which our boyhood clung;
Gone are thegiantsof those days,
For whom our wreaths we twined,
Andpigmiesnowkick up a dust
To show themarch of mind.
THE GIPSY QUEEN.
———
BY JOSEPH R. CHANDLER.
———
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
Power, consequence, importance, greatness, are relative terms; they denote position or attainment, comparable with some other. And hence a queen is a queen at the head of a band of gipsies as much as if she sat upon a throne, at the head of a nation whose morning drum beats an eternalreveille. It wastherefore, and for another cause yet to be told, that I lifted my hat with particular deference when I opened suddenly upon the head woman of a gipsy tribe, as I was passing through a small piece of woodland. Though, truth to say, I had been looking at her for some time, an hour previous, as she was giving some directions to one or two of her ragged and dirty train. Now I had known that woman in other circumstances. I had seen her in the family, had heard her commended by the men for her graceful movements, and berated by the women for exhibiting those movements to the men, and being as free with her tongue in presence of her female superiors as she had been with her feet before her male admirers. But neither the admiration of the men nor the rebuke of the women produced any effect. All that this woman received from a long sojourn with the people of the village, was a little loss of the darkness of the skin, and a pretty good understanding of the wants and weaknesses of society. Everybody knew that she had been left in exchange for a healthful child—and some years before it had been discovered that the healthful child would be worth nothing to the gipsies, and the gipsy girl would, at the first opportunity, return to her “brethren and kindred according to the flesh.” And such was the skill which she manifested on her return, such her ability to direct, such her knowledge of the wants of the villagers, and her power to take advantage of these wants, that she became the head of the tribe with which she was associated, and might have directed numerous tribes, could they have been collected for her guidance.
I could not learn that there was much of a story connected with the life of the queen, much indeed that would interest the general reader. But she was a woman—and her heart, a mystery to the uninitiated, would, if exposed, have been worth a world’s perusal. A woman’s heart—alas! how few are admitted to loose the seals and open that secret volume! How very few could understand the revelation if it were made. I could not, I confess; and it is only when a peculiar light is thrown upon here and there a pace, that I can acquire even a partial knowledge of what is manifested. The Queen of the Gipsies, though elevated by right, and sustained by knowledge, was no less a woman than a queen. She could and did command male and female, old and young. She was treated with all that marked distinction which, even among her rude people, continues to be paid to preeminence. And while she sought to do the best for all, she received all this homage with that ease, and that apparent absence of wonder, which denote the right to distinction—this was a part of her queenly character admirably sustained, natural, easy, dignified. But the queen was awoman. I had heard her give orders, which sent certain of the most active of the young, male and female, to the other side of the village, and then she gave employment to the old and the young in the moving hamlet, and seeing the first depart, and the last busy, she left the camp, and took her way through the wood. I followed her and traced her rapid steps to the burying-ground of the town, which stood a distance from any dwelling.
Seating myself out of view, I saw the queen walk directly to a recently sodded grave, upon which she looked down for a moment, and then clasping her hands wildly above her head she threw herself with a subdued cry upon the grave. I was too far from her to distinguish all the words of her lament, but they were wild and agonizing.
After a short time the woman arose, and said with a distinct, clear voice, “With thee and for thee I could have endured the mockery of their boasted civilization, and suffered the ceremonies of their tame creed. With thee and for thee I would have foregone my native tribe and my hereditary rights. So persuasive was thy affection that I could have forgotten—or at least would not have boasted—that I was of the glorious race that knows no manacles of body or of mind, but what it chooses to impose. But thou art gone, and with thee all my attraction to the idle, wearisome life of thy race. I have returned to my people, and I may lead them, and power and activity may for a time weaken my agony. I need no longer sacrifice my love for my race—but yet one sacrifice I will make, and thy grave shall be the altar. With thee my heart is buried. To thee do I here swear an eternal fidelity—and year by year will I lead my tribe hither, that I may pour out my anguish upon the sod that rises above thee. And I may hope that such devotion may lead the spirit that made our race for future happiness as for present freedom, to give thee back to me when I enter on my world of changeless love and glorious recompense.”
Kneeling again, the Gipsy Queen kissed the grave, and gathered a few blades of grass and one or two flowers, shook away the tears which she had let fall upon them, and placing them in her bosom turned and left the burying-place, and proceeded toward the camp. I left my position by the other route, andpassing through the wood I met her. Her face was cleared from every cloud, no trace of a tear was evident; she had prepared herself to meet her party in a way to excite no inquiry.
THE GIPSEY QUEEN.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine
THE GIPSEY QUEEN.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine
The little that I knew of the Gipsy Queen previous to that day, and what was told me by one who had lived in the village very long, I have set down. I never saw her after I passed her in the woods. But she made an impression on my mind that will not be easily removed. And she bore in her heart motives for action which few but herself and me will ever know.
THE BROTHER’S LAMENT.
———
BY MRS. AMELIA B. WELBY.
———
One moment more, beneath the old elm, Mary,Where last we parted in the flowing dell—One moment more through twilight tints that vary,To gaze upon thy grave, and then, farewell!Ere from this spot, and these loved scenes I sever,Where still thy lovely spirit seems to stray—One look—to fix them on my soul forever—And then away!Mary, I know my steps should now be shrinkingFrom this sad spot—but on my mournful gazeA scene floats up that sets my soul to thinkingOn all the dear delights of other days!I’m gazing on the little foot-bridge yonderThrown o’er the stream whose waters purl below,Where I so oft have seen thee pause and ponder,Leaning thy white brow on thy hand of snow.I’m standing on the spot where last we parted,Where, as I left thee in the fragrant dell,I saw thee turn so oft—half broken-hearted—Waving thy hand in token of farewell.I start to meet thy footstep light and airy—But—the cold grass waves o’er thy sweet young head;Would that the shroud that wraps thy fair form, Mary,Wrapped mine instead!In vain my heart its bitter thoughts would parry,An adder’s grasp about its chords seem curled,For you were all I ever thought of, Mary—Were all I doted on in this wide world!And yet, I’d sigh not while thy fate I ponder,Did memory only bring thee to my eyesPale as thou sleepest in the church-yard yonder—Or as an angel dazzling from the skies!I then at least could treasure each sweet tokenOf thy pure love—and in life’s mad’ning whirlSteel my crushed heart—had not thine own been broken,Poor hapless girl!But, Mary—Mary, when I think upon thee,As when I last beheld thee in thy pride—And on the fate—oh God!—to which he won thee—I curse the hour that sent me from your side!Oh why wert thou so richly, strangely giftedWith mortal loveliness beyond compare?The look of love beneath thy lashes lifted—Its fatal sweetness was to thee a snare!Yet sleep, my sister—I will not upbraid thee—Thou wert too sweet—too innocently dear;But he—the exulting demon who betrayed thee—He lives, he lives, and I am loitering here!Even now some happier fair one’s chains may bind himIn dalliance sweet—but I’ll avenge thee well!Avenge thee?—Yes! a brother’s curse will find him,Though he should dive into the deeps of hell!I swear it, sister—as thou art forgiven—By all our wrongs—by all our severed ties,And by the blessedness of yon blue heaven,That gives its world of azure to mine eyes!By all my love—by every sacred dutyA brother owes—and by yon heaving sod,Thine early grave—and by thy blighted beauty,Thou sweetest angel in the realms of God!I swear it, by the bursting groans I smother,And call on Heaven and thee to nerve me now.Mary, look down!—behold thy wretched brother,And bless the vow!Sister, my soul its last farewell is taking,And I for this had thought it nerved to-night,But every chord about my heart seems breaking,And blinding tears shut out the glimmering sight.One look—one last long look to hill and meadow—To the old foot-bridge and the murmuring mill,And to the church-yard sleeping in the shadow—Cease tears—and let these fond eyes look their fill!One look—and now farewell ye scenes that varyBeneath the twilight shades that round me flow!The charm that bound my wild heart here, was Mary—And she lies low!
One moment more, beneath the old elm, Mary,Where last we parted in the flowing dell—One moment more through twilight tints that vary,To gaze upon thy grave, and then, farewell!Ere from this spot, and these loved scenes I sever,Where still thy lovely spirit seems to stray—One look—to fix them on my soul forever—And then away!Mary, I know my steps should now be shrinkingFrom this sad spot—but on my mournful gazeA scene floats up that sets my soul to thinkingOn all the dear delights of other days!I’m gazing on the little foot-bridge yonderThrown o’er the stream whose waters purl below,Where I so oft have seen thee pause and ponder,Leaning thy white brow on thy hand of snow.I’m standing on the spot where last we parted,Where, as I left thee in the fragrant dell,I saw thee turn so oft—half broken-hearted—Waving thy hand in token of farewell.I start to meet thy footstep light and airy—But—the cold grass waves o’er thy sweet young head;Would that the shroud that wraps thy fair form, Mary,Wrapped mine instead!In vain my heart its bitter thoughts would parry,An adder’s grasp about its chords seem curled,For you were all I ever thought of, Mary—Were all I doted on in this wide world!And yet, I’d sigh not while thy fate I ponder,Did memory only bring thee to my eyesPale as thou sleepest in the church-yard yonder—Or as an angel dazzling from the skies!I then at least could treasure each sweet tokenOf thy pure love—and in life’s mad’ning whirlSteel my crushed heart—had not thine own been broken,Poor hapless girl!But, Mary—Mary, when I think upon thee,As when I last beheld thee in thy pride—And on the fate—oh God!—to which he won thee—I curse the hour that sent me from your side!Oh why wert thou so richly, strangely giftedWith mortal loveliness beyond compare?The look of love beneath thy lashes lifted—Its fatal sweetness was to thee a snare!Yet sleep, my sister—I will not upbraid thee—Thou wert too sweet—too innocently dear;But he—the exulting demon who betrayed thee—He lives, he lives, and I am loitering here!Even now some happier fair one’s chains may bind himIn dalliance sweet—but I’ll avenge thee well!Avenge thee?—Yes! a brother’s curse will find him,Though he should dive into the deeps of hell!I swear it, sister—as thou art forgiven—By all our wrongs—by all our severed ties,And by the blessedness of yon blue heaven,That gives its world of azure to mine eyes!By all my love—by every sacred dutyA brother owes—and by yon heaving sod,Thine early grave—and by thy blighted beauty,Thou sweetest angel in the realms of God!I swear it, by the bursting groans I smother,And call on Heaven and thee to nerve me now.Mary, look down!—behold thy wretched brother,And bless the vow!Sister, my soul its last farewell is taking,And I for this had thought it nerved to-night,But every chord about my heart seems breaking,And blinding tears shut out the glimmering sight.One look—one last long look to hill and meadow—To the old foot-bridge and the murmuring mill,And to the church-yard sleeping in the shadow—Cease tears—and let these fond eyes look their fill!One look—and now farewell ye scenes that varyBeneath the twilight shades that round me flow!The charm that bound my wild heart here, was Mary—And she lies low!
One moment more, beneath the old elm, Mary,
Where last we parted in the flowing dell—
One moment more through twilight tints that vary,
To gaze upon thy grave, and then, farewell!
Ere from this spot, and these loved scenes I sever,
Where still thy lovely spirit seems to stray—
One look—to fix them on my soul forever—
And then away!
Mary, I know my steps should now be shrinking
From this sad spot—but on my mournful gaze
A scene floats up that sets my soul to thinking
On all the dear delights of other days!
I’m gazing on the little foot-bridge yonder
Thrown o’er the stream whose waters purl below,
Where I so oft have seen thee pause and ponder,
Leaning thy white brow on thy hand of snow.
I’m standing on the spot where last we parted,
Where, as I left thee in the fragrant dell,
I saw thee turn so oft—half broken-hearted—
Waving thy hand in token of farewell.
I start to meet thy footstep light and airy—
But—the cold grass waves o’er thy sweet young head;
Would that the shroud that wraps thy fair form, Mary,
Wrapped mine instead!
In vain my heart its bitter thoughts would parry,
An adder’s grasp about its chords seem curled,
For you were all I ever thought of, Mary—
Were all I doted on in this wide world!
And yet, I’d sigh not while thy fate I ponder,
Did memory only bring thee to my eyes
Pale as thou sleepest in the church-yard yonder—
Or as an angel dazzling from the skies!
I then at least could treasure each sweet token
Of thy pure love—and in life’s mad’ning whirl
Steel my crushed heart—had not thine own been broken,
Poor hapless girl!
But, Mary—Mary, when I think upon thee,
As when I last beheld thee in thy pride—
And on the fate—oh God!—to which he won thee—
I curse the hour that sent me from your side!
Oh why wert thou so richly, strangely gifted
With mortal loveliness beyond compare?
The look of love beneath thy lashes lifted—
Its fatal sweetness was to thee a snare!
Yet sleep, my sister—I will not upbraid thee—
Thou wert too sweet—too innocently dear;
But he—the exulting demon who betrayed thee—
He lives, he lives, and I am loitering here!
Even now some happier fair one’s chains may bind him
In dalliance sweet—but I’ll avenge thee well!
Avenge thee?—Yes! a brother’s curse will find him,
Though he should dive into the deeps of hell!
I swear it, sister—as thou art forgiven—
By all our wrongs—by all our severed ties,
And by the blessedness of yon blue heaven,
That gives its world of azure to mine eyes!
By all my love—by every sacred duty
A brother owes—and by yon heaving sod,
Thine early grave—and by thy blighted beauty,
Thou sweetest angel in the realms of God!
I swear it, by the bursting groans I smother,
And call on Heaven and thee to nerve me now.
Mary, look down!—behold thy wretched brother,
And bless the vow!
Sister, my soul its last farewell is taking,
And I for this had thought it nerved to-night,
But every chord about my heart seems breaking,
And blinding tears shut out the glimmering sight.
One look—one last long look to hill and meadow—
To the old foot-bridge and the murmuring mill,
And to the church-yard sleeping in the shadow—
Cease tears—and let these fond eyes look their fill!
One look—and now farewell ye scenes that vary
Beneath the twilight shades that round me flow!
The charm that bound my wild heart here, was Mary—
And she lies low!
SONNET TO MACHIAVELLI.
———
FROM THE ITALIAN OF MAMIANI.
———
Thou mighty one, whose winged words of yoreHave spread on history’s page Italia’s wars,The sad mischances of intestine jars,Like beacons blazing where the breakers roar.Still canst thou glance out civil discords o’er?Some solace for us canst thou not divine?Canst thou not oil on troubled waters pour,And soothe each petty tyrants ruthless mind?Why else unveil the falsehood of our land,Which sees not why its tale thou deign’st to tell?Why else didst thou with an unsparing handMake bare the wounds whose angry scars will tellThe lasting shame of ignomy’s brand,All petrified at history’s command?
Thou mighty one, whose winged words of yoreHave spread on history’s page Italia’s wars,The sad mischances of intestine jars,Like beacons blazing where the breakers roar.Still canst thou glance out civil discords o’er?Some solace for us canst thou not divine?Canst thou not oil on troubled waters pour,And soothe each petty tyrants ruthless mind?Why else unveil the falsehood of our land,Which sees not why its tale thou deign’st to tell?Why else didst thou with an unsparing handMake bare the wounds whose angry scars will tellThe lasting shame of ignomy’s brand,All petrified at history’s command?
Thou mighty one, whose winged words of yore
Have spread on history’s page Italia’s wars,
The sad mischances of intestine jars,
Like beacons blazing where the breakers roar.
Still canst thou glance out civil discords o’er?
Some solace for us canst thou not divine?
Canst thou not oil on troubled waters pour,
And soothe each petty tyrants ruthless mind?
Why else unveil the falsehood of our land,
Which sees not why its tale thou deign’st to tell?
Why else didst thou with an unsparing hand
Make bare the wounds whose angry scars will tell
The lasting shame of ignomy’s brand,
All petrified at history’s command?
THE DARSIES.
———
BY EMMA C. EMBURY.
———
Don Pedro.I pray you, hold me not responsible for all these travelers’ tales. I am but the mouthpiece of others: therefore, if I question the infallibility of the Pope, summon me not before the Inquisition; if I speak treason against the king, clap me not up in the Tower; and if I utter heresy against the ladies, let me not be flayed alive by the nails of enraged damsels.Old Play.
Don Pedro.I pray you, hold me not responsible for all these travelers’ tales. I am but the mouthpiece of others: therefore, if I question the infallibility of the Pope, summon me not before the Inquisition; if I speak treason against the king, clap me not up in the Tower; and if I utter heresy against the ladies, let me not be flayed alive by the nails of enraged damsels.Old Play.
“There is no use in wasting words, Cousin Charles; you never can persuade me that men love more devotedly than women.”
“How can you be so unreasonable, Anne? I only want to convince you that affection being an essential part of woman’s nature, she cannot help loving something or somebody all her life. The most she does, even in her most intense devotion, is toindividualizethe general sentiment which pervades her character; but when men love, they actually take up a new nature, and concentrate upon it all their strength of mind and force of character.”
“You have certainly a droll method of reasoning, cousin; because women arelovingcreatures, therefore they cannot love as well as the rougher sex.”
“You are willful, Anne, and are determined not to understand me. I mean that love is usually a habitude with women, while with men, if it exists at all, it is a positive, determinate thing—a graft, as it were, upon their sturdy natures, and partaking therefore of the strength of the stock which nourishes it.”
“How can you say so when men are always in love, from the time they quit the nursery until they are gray-headed, ormarried?”
“Such attachments are mere fancies.”
“Pray, how is one to distinguish between a fancy and a fact in so delicate a matter?”
“It is difficult to decide at first, because in their inceptive state they are much alike; but time is the true test. A fancy, a mere intoxication of the senses, is scarce worth talking about; but in a genuine manly love there is a depth, a fervor, a disinterestedness, a devotion, such as woman can never feel—nay, which they can rarely appreciate.”
“Heresy—rank heresy—Cousin Charles. I appeal to Uncle Lorimer, who has heard our whole discussion, if you do not deserve excommunication with ‘bell, book and candle,’ for holding such opinions.”
The cousins were sitting together in the twilight, and, as the shadows of evening deepened around them, the light of the soft-coal fire in the polished grate gave a beautifully cheerful look of home comfort to the pleasant apartment. An old gentleman, whose silver hair glittered in the fire-light, had been sitting in the chimney-nook, and, thus appealed to by his merry niece, he smiled good-humoredly as he replied—
“If you submit the dispute to me, I must decide against both.”
“Why so?”
“Because you are both too generalizing in your remarks. In this work-a-day world of ours there is a daily and hourly need of the tender, watchful, kindly ministry of sympathy and affection; now the peculiar attributes of woman’s nature are such as fit her for this ministry; and whether it be a mere habitude or not, it is the quality most needed by men and most generally possessed by women.”
Anne clapped her hands, and looked triumphantly at her cousin; but Uncle Lorimer continued—
“I must agree with Charles, however, that when men give out their whole strength to a genuine affection, it is a more unselfish, magnanimous and higher emotion than ever could dwell in the bosom of woman. The same qualities which make her the gentler half of man mingle their leaven in her affections. For instance, a woman will make any sacrifice for one whom she loves, she will bear all kinds of privation and suffering for his sake, but earth holds not the creature more pitilessly exacting of affection than she is, or more jealously awake to every whisper of distrust. Another weakness in her character is vanity; and I must confess I never yet found a woman so much in love with her lover, that she would not curl her hair and dress in her best to meet the eyes of other men.”
“Oh! uncle. You are worse than Charles.”
“But perhaps you will like to hear my whole opinion, Anne. I have said that women possess most of the quality which is required in daily life; as I am not one of those who pretend to despisegood habitsbecause they are notheroic virtues, I think you ought to be satisfied with my decision.”
“But you attribute so much nobler a quality to men.”
“That is true, but let me comfort you by just whispering in your ear, that not one man in a thousand is capable of such an affection. True sentiment is the rarest thing upon earth. To use the language of your favorite poet—
Accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving,
Accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving,
Accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving,
Accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving,
often bring together hearts which habit afterward keeps united. Few, very few, create an ideal in their youth and see it substantialize into a reality as life goes on. Still fewer of those men who are capable of real love ever bestow its treasures upon one who can appreciate them. I think I have never known a single instance of such an attachment being reciprocated and rewarded.”
“Did you ever know more than one man who possessed this faculty of loving, uncle?”
“In the course of my long life I have knownthree; and if you choose I will tell you the history of one of these, to prove my theory.
“Among my earliest school friends and playmates were Edgar and Herbert Darsie. They were twin-brothers, the only children of a widow, whom I remember as a tall, pale lady in close mourning, which she never laid aside till the day of her death. There was little of that resemblance between the twins which generally makes the pleasant puzzle of mothers and nurses in similar cases; for, though alike in feature and height, and even in their peculiarity of gait and manner, yet Edgar had the fair complexion, blue eyes, and light silken hair of his mother; while Herbert’s olive complexion, dark eyes, and curling black locks betrayed the French blood which he derived from his father. They were cheerful, happy-tempered boys, and possessed a certain natural sweetness of manner, which made them universal favorites with old and young. Their mother lived in the retired but handsome style which, in those days, was considered the proper mode of showing respect for the memory of a husband. She kept up the establishment exactly as it had been during Mr. Darsie’s life, and seemed to find her only pleasure in doing precisely as he would have wished. She was apparently in the enjoyment of a handsome income, kept her carriage, and had a number of servants, while the house and grounds exhibited taste as well as no stint of expense.
“The boys were about twelve years of age, when an accident happened to Herbert, which, though apparently slight at first, finally led to the most disastrous consequences. While skating, he fell and received some injury, which, after months of suffering, finally developed itself in an incurable disease of the spine, entailing upon him a life-time of pain, and branding him with frightful deformity. The tall, lithe, graceful boy, whose step had been as light and free as the leap of the greyhound, was now a dwarfed and distorted cripple. As soon as he was able to leave his sick-room, Mrs. Darsie placed Edgar at boarding-school, and sailed for Europe, with the intention of giving Herbert the benefit of all the modern discoveries in medicine. She designed to be absent a year, but, led on by fallacious hopes, she traveled farther, and remained much longer than she had anticipated. Three years elapsed before her return, and to all appearance Herbert had derived little benefit from the various experiments to which he had been subjected. He was still dependent on his crutch, and his gnarled and stunted figure presented a pitiable contrast to the tall and well-knit form of his brother. But his health was somewhat improved; his paroxysms of pain were less frequent, and he could now enjoy weeks of comparative ease and comfort.
“The brothers had early been remarkable for their affection for each other, and their unbroken concord, but their long separation had not been without its effect upon them. Edgar was gay, active, volatile, and not destitute of a leaven of selfishness; while Herbert had become grave, quiet, gentle in manner, and most thoughtful and considerate for others. To him suffering had been a teacher of all good things, and the misfortune of being cut off from fellowship with the world had taught him to find resources within himself. He could not and did not expect Edgar to sympathize in all his tastes, for he was conscious that their paths must henceforth be divided ones. He schooled himself to overcome the pang which this reflection gave to his sensitive spirit, and tried to find in his brother’s enjoyments of outer life, a pleasure which he could only receive from the reflection of another’s joy.
“Soon after their return from Europe, Mrs. Darsie received into her family the orphan child of a poor clergyman, partly from charity, partly with a view to furnish a companion and attendant for Herbert. Jessie Graham was a pale, delicate-looking child, about twelve years old, when she took up her abode with her benefactress. Her thin and almost transparent cheek, her bloodless lips, and large gray, timid-looking eyes, spoke of fragile health, and of a certain shyness of character which might be the result of early anxieties, or perhaps denoted feebleness of mind and indecision. But she was a sweet-tempered, gentle little girl, and her compassion for Herbert’s melancholy condition soon dissipated her shyness toward him, though to every one else, even to Mrs. Darsie, she was as timid as a startled fawn.
“To divert his lonely hours Herbert undertook her instruction. He was but a boy of fifteen, but sorrow had given him the stability of manhood; and never did a more discreet, tender, and watchful Mentor attempt the training of a female mind. Jessie was docile and intelligent, quickly acquiring every thing which called forth the perceptive faculties, but utterly incapable of abstract reasoning or profound reflection. Her mind possessed a certain activity, and a kind of feminine patience that enabled her to do full credit to her teacher, without ever attaining to his high reach of thought. To cultivate her mental powers, to impart to her a portion of his accomplishments, and to train her moral sense, now became Herbert’s chief occupation. That such employment of heart and mind saved him from bitterness and misanthropy there can be no doubt; but whether he did not pay dearly for his exemption we shall see in the sequel.
“Time passed on without making any great change in the affairs of the Darsies. Edgar went through college rather because it was necessary to a gentlemanly education than from any love for study, and, immediately after graduating, he set off on the tour of Europe. In the meantime Herbert continued to lead his usual quiet life, driving out in his low pony-carriage every day, teaching Jessie all she would learn, and surrounding himself with pictures of his own painting in the intervals of his severer studies.
“It was on the anniversary of their birth—the day they attained their twenty-first year—that the brothers again met upon their own hearth-stone. Mrs. Darsie’s health had begun to fail, and Edgar, at Herbert’s suggestion, had unwillingly torn himself from the enjoyments of Parisian life to return to his quiet home. He found his mother sadly changed, and evidently suffering from the insidious disease whichso slowly saps the foundations of health and life. Herbert, like all deformed persons, had early lost the freshness of youth, and he was not surprised, therefore, to find him looking at least ten years older than himself, but he was astonished at the intellectual beauty which seemed to radiate from his noble countenance. To the shapeless form of a stunted tree he united the head of a demi-god. The beauty of his classical features, the splendor of his deep, dark eyes, and rich glossy hair curling in heavy masses round his temples, gave him the appearance of a magnificently sculptured head joined on to some distorted torso.
“But if Edgar was startled at the change in his mother and brother, how was he amazed and bewildered when he saw Jesse Graham! The pale, puny, frightened-looking little girl had expanded into one of the very loveliest of women. At eighteen Jessie had all that delicate yet fresh beauty which a painter would select as his model for a youthful Hebe. “A rose crushed upon ivory” was not too extravagant a simile for her cheek; her lips were like the berry of the mountain-ash; and her eyes so soft, so tender, with just enough of their former shyness to make them always seem appealing in their expression, were like nothing else on earth.”
“You are extravagant, Uncle Lorimer; pray how did you avoid falling in love with such a creature?” asked Anne, saucily.
“By the best of all preventives—pre-occupation. But my story has to do with others, not with me. Soon after Edgar’s return, his mother took an opportunity to inform him of her plans with regard to Jessie. She had watched the progress of Herbert’s attachment to his young pupil, and she believed it to be fully reciprocated by the docile girl. She had, therefore, as she thought, fully provided for Herbert’s future happiness; and, lest Edgar should be attracted by Jessie’s loveliness, she hastened to tell him that in the beautiful orphan he beheld his brother’s future wife. Mrs. Darsie was a weak woman, though kind-hearted and affectionate. She proceeded to inform Edgar how the idea first came into her head—how she had told Herbert of it—how she had been at first shocked at the thought of sacrificing Jessie’s youthful loveliness to such a union—how she discovered his secret love even from his heroic self-denial—how she had finally succeeded in persuading him that Jessie really loved him better than any one in the world—and how he had at last consented to entertain the hope and belief that Jessie might become his wife without repugnance. To Edgar’s very natural question, whether Jessie was really willing to marry Herbert, his mother replied that as yet Jessie knew nothing of their plans, Herbert having forbidden her to use her influence in the matter, being determined that if he won Jessie, it should be through her own free andunbiased will.
“Whether it arose from that perverseness in human nature, which teaches men to value a thing just in proportion to its difficulty of attainment, or whether Jessie’s loveliness was irresistible to a man of Edgar’s temperament, I cannot determine; but certain it is, that from that time he looked upon her with far different eyes than he had at first regarded her. Edgar was precisely the kind of man who is always successful with women. His talents and accomplishments were all of the most superficial kind, but he danced well, sung beautifully, played the guitar gracefully, and withal was exceedingly handsome. His voice was perfect music, and when he bent down in a half-caressing manner over a lady’s chair, flinging back his bright, silken hair, and gazing in her face with eyes full of dangerous softness, while his rich voice took the sweetest tone of deference and heart-felt emotion, it was next to impossible for any woman to resist his fascinations.”
“Was his character a perfectly natural one, uncle, or was this exquisite manner the result of consummate art?”
“It was natural to him to wish to please, and he aided his natural attractions by a certain devotedness of manner, which made each individual to whom he addressed himselfappropriatehis tenderness as her own right. Jessie had lived in such close seclusion that she knew nothing of the world or its ways. It is probable that had Herbert asked her to become his wife before the return of Edgar, she would have easily consented, for she certainly loved him very dearly, and long habit of associating with him had accustomed her to his deformity. To her he was not the shapeless dwarf, whose crippled limbs scarce bore the weight of his crooked body. He had been her ideal of excellence—the friend, the Mentor who had made her orphaned life a blessing, and she could imagine no stronger, deeper affection than that which he had long since inspired.
“But after Edgar had been at home a few months, she was conscious of a great change in her feelings. She loved Herbert as well as ever, but she had learned the existence of another kind of affection. Edgar’s sweet words and honied flatteries were unlike any thing she had ever heard before, and unconscious of any disloyalty to Herbert, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of this new sensation of happiness.
“Herbert was tried almost beyond his strength, for it was when his mother lay on what was soon to be her death-bed that he first suspected the fatal truth respecting his brother and Jessie. A lingering illness, protracted through many weeks (during which time Herbert was his mother’s constant companion, while Edgar enjoyed the opportunity of unrestrained companionship with Jessie,) finally terminated in Mrs. Darsie’s death; and, as Herbert closed her eyes, he could not but feel that sinking of the heart which told him that he was now alone upon earth. Immediately after his mother’s funeral he was taken alarmingly ill, and for several days his life was considered in imminent danger. It was not until his recovery that he again saw Jessie Graham, who, in compliance with the world’s notions of decorum, had left the home of her childhood on the decease of her benefactress. She had found her temporary abode in the family of a friend in the neighborhood, and Herbert’s sick-bed had known no other attendance than that of the housekeeper and servants. In his first interviewwith Jessie after his convalescence, he drew from her a confession, or rather an admission of her love for Edgar. The manner in which she confided this to him—the frank, sisterly feeling which seemed to animate her, stung him to the heart. But he possessed great self-command, and Jessie never suspected the actual state ofhisfeelings while she confided to him her own.
“As soon as practicable after Herbert’s recovery, his mother’s will was opened, and then arose a new subject of wonder and dissatisfaction. No one but Mrs. Darsie and her lawyer had known that she had been merely in the enjoyment of a life interest in her fortune; but it was now ascertained that her husband’s estate had been very trifling, and that her large income was the product of a handsome fortune bequeathed to Herbert by an old uncle, in consideration of his physical misfortunes. The yearly product was given to Mrs. Darsie during her life, but at her death the whole reverted to Herbert. His father’s property, amounting only to a few thousand dollars, was bequeathed solely to Edgar, and a legacy of five hundred dollars, (to purchase her wedding-dress, as the will stated,) marked the testator’s wishes regarding her protégé, Jesse Graham. Every body was surprised at this development, but no one more so than the brothers. Why their mother had left them in such close ignorance of their affairs, it is impossible to say, but they certainly had no suspicion of the facts until they were thus legally made known.
“One of the first wishes of Herbert’s heart was to see Jessie placed in her proper position, and he therefore nerved himself to speak to Edgar on the subject. What was his surprise, therefore, when his brother treated the whole thing as a boyish affair, and avowed his determination to spend his pittance (as he termed it) abroad, and then to repair his fortunes by a wealthy marriage! If ever the gentle spirit of Herbert entertained a feeling of abhorrence for any living creature, it was at that moment. His own hopes had been ruthlessly blighted, and Jessie’s heart estranged from him, merely to gratify aboyish fancy!
“What he suffered, and what he felt, however, it is not for me to attempt describing. He had garnered up all his treasures of affection in Jessie and his brother. Now Jessie was lost to him, and Edgar was a villain. How he, with his delicate sensibility, his high sense of honor, and his stern principles of duty, must have suffered, I leave you to imagine. But his love for Jessie conquered all other feelings. He knew that her happiness depended on her union with Edgar, for she was precisely that kind of character, which, though infirm of purpose in the outset, yet have a certain tenacity of feeling when once a decision has been made for them. He revolved many schemes in his mind before he could form a practicable one, and at last he suffered his frank and candid nature to lead him with its usual directness to his object. He asked Edgar to be more explicit in his confidences, and when Edgar declared that had he been the heir of wealth he would gladly make Jessie his wife, but that nothing would ever induce him to tie himself down to a life of privation and poverty, Herbert’s decision was at once made. He proposed dividing his income with Edgar, on condition that his brother should marry Jessie, and reside in the home of their childhood, while he himself should travel into distant lands. But Edgar, with the quick-sightedness of selfishness, saw how deeply Herbert’s soul was interested in the matter. Pretending a jealousy of his brother’s influence over Jessie—a jealousy of which he declared himself ashamed, yet which he could not subdue—he said that if he had the means he would marry Jessie, and take her far from all her early associations, but that he would never let her live in Herbert’s house, or in a place where she might at any time be subject to his visits.
“Pained as he was by this appearance of distrust, Herbert’s conscience accused him of cherishing a wicked love for one who was about to become his brother’s wife, and he therefore submitted meekly to this new trial. What terms were finally decided upon could only be known at that time to the two brothers.
“Six months after Mrs. Darsie’s death Edgar was united to Jessie Graham, in the little village church, and immediately after the ceremony, the wedding-party left for New York, from whence they sailed a few days afterward for Havre.
“Herbert dismissed the greater part of the servants, shut up all except one wing of the large house, sold off the carriage and horses, (reserving only the little pony-carriage, without which he would have been deprived of all means of locomotion,) and restricted his expenses within such narrow limits, that people began to consider him mean and miserly. He withdrew entirely from society, and lived more utterly alone than ever. His books, his pictures, his music, were now his only companions. Yet he did not forget that earth held those to whom even he might minister. The door of the poorest cottages often opened to admit the distorted form of the benefactor and friend, but the sunlight on the rich man’s threshold was never darkened by his shapeless shadow.
“Edgar Darsie went to Paris with his beautiful wife, and there he lived in luxury and splendor, surrounded by every thing that could minister to his love of pleasure. Only himself and one other, the lawyer who had drawn up the papers, knew whence his wealth was derived. Even Jessie never suspected that Herbert was living with the closest economy in order that the poor should not suffer from the lavish generosity which had induced him to secure to his brother more than three-fourths of his whole income as a bribe to insure her happiness.
“Ten years passed away, dragging their weary length with the lonely and suffering Herbert, winging their way on golden pinions to Edgar, weaving their mingled web of dark and bright to the womanly heart of Jessie. She had witnessed the changes of a fickle nature in her husband—she had learned to endure indifference, and to meet with fitful affection from him—she had borne children, and laid them sorrowing in the bosom of mother earth—she had drunk of the cup of pleasure and found bitterness in its dregs; and now she stood a weeping mourner beside thedying bed of that faithless but still beloved husband. Edgar Darsie had inherited his mother’s disease, together with her beauty. His excesses had hastened the period of its development, and ten years after his marriage he was withering like grass before the hunter’s fire, beneath the touch of consumption. Day after day he faded—his stately form became bowed, his bright face changed, his silken locks fell away from his hollow temples. Health was gone, and beauty soon departed.
“With the approach of death came old memories thronging about his heart, and filling his sick chamber with fantasies and spectres of long by-gone days. “Take me home! take me home!” was the bitter cry. But his “home-wo” came too late. Never again would he leave his bed until he was carried to the house appointed for all living. At the first tidings of his illness Herbert had sailed for Havre, and traveled with all speed to Paris; but when he arrived there his heart failed him. He remembered Edgar’s avowed jealousy of him, and the wild, fierce joy which thrilled his heart when he found himself once more near to Jessie, taught him that he was not entirely guiltless toward his brother. He accordingly took lodgings in the same hotel, that he might be near Edgar, in case he should wish to see him, well knowing that the mode of life in Paris secured him the most perfect privacy. He made known his present abode to a certain business-agent, through whose hands letters had usually been sent to him from Paris, and thus he received from Jessie’s hand constant tidings of his brother’s condition.
“But this state of things could not last long. His impatience to be with Edgar led him to seize upon the first faint intimation of a wish to see him, and he soon found himself welcomed with tears of joy by Jessie while Edgar thanked him with his eyes—those tender eyes—for his thoughtful kindness in coming without waiting for a summons. During three months Herbert shared with Jessie her care and watchfulness over the invalid. All the lovable qualities of Edgar’s nature were brought out by his sickness, and Herbert could not help feeling the full force of those fascinations which had won for him the love of every one. Weakened in mind as well as in body by his disease, he was like a lovely and gentle child, so docile, so affectionate, so helpless, so tender, and so altogether lovely did he appear, as the dark wing of death flung its shadow broader and deeper above his couch.
“He died with penitence for past misdeeds deep-rooted in his heart, and prayer for pardon lingering on his lips. He died clasping his brother’s hand in his, and the last act of his life was a vain attempt to unite Jessie’s hand in the same grasp. There was no time for the indulgence of selfish feeling at such a moment. The presence of death had hushed the whispers of earthly passion, and the grief of both the brother and the widow was the genuine tribute of affection to the departed.
“As soon as Edgar’s affairs could be arranged, the widow, with her only surviving child, returned to America under the protection of Herbert. Ignorant as a child about pecuniary affairs, Jessie left every thing to Herbert, and consequently never knew at what sacrifice he rescued Edgar’s good name from obloquy, and paid his enormous debts. Nor did she ever know that the money which had supported their extravagant expenditure in Paris, was the free gift of Herbert. But daily and hourly did she experience Herbert’s considerate kindness. Fearing to awaken her suspicions relative to his agency in her marriage, he determined to continue to her an allowance similar to that which he had bestowed upon his brother. But to do this required new retrenchments, and the sacrifice of a fine landed property; for Edgar’s lavish prodigality had cost him so large a portion of his fortune that it now needed the most careful and judicious management.
“If Herbert hoped to marry his brother’s widow, he at least determined to leave her free to choose for herself. Jessie found herself pleasantly domiciled in a new home, with a handsome provision for herself and child, and surrounded by all the appliances of American comfort before she had yet recovered from the dull torpor of her grief. For fifteen years Herbert had lived but for her. During the five years preceding her marriage his whole soul had been devoted to her; and when afterward he tried to banish her image, he found though he might dethrone the idol, the sentiment of loyal love, like a subtile perfume, had diffused itself through his whole being. Was it strange, then, if he should once more dream that his love and faith might do more than remove mountains—that his devotion might veil the unsightliness of his person—that he might yet be beloved andrewarded?
“Now tell me, Annie, how do you think my story is going to end?”
“In the marriage of Jessie to the devoted Herbert,” replied Annie. “It is not in the nature of woman to be insensible to such devotion.”
“Remember that Jessie knew nothing of his pecuniary sacrifices, had no suspicion of his agency in bringing about her marriage; did not dream of his self-denying, self-forgetting love.”
“But no woman could doubt the true meaning of all his devotedness.”
“He had never flattered her with gentle words; never wooed her in courtly phrase; never played the lover in the most approved fashion. He had been the adviser, the Mentor, the steady friend; love had been the pervading and animating soul of all he thought and all he did, but his very magnanimity had been as a cloak to conceal his affections. Do you think a woman like Jessie—an ordinary woman, lovely and gentle, but withal having no perception of that inner life which so few can penetrate—do you think she could see through this magnanimous reserve, and detect the hidden love?”
“Surely, surely!”
“Recollect that she had early learned to pity him for his personal defects, and though ‘pity’ may be ‘akin to love’ in our sex, yet no woman ever loves a man she must look down upon with compassion.”
“But his nobler qualities must have commanded her respect.”
“Suppose they were so far above her perceptions as to inspire her withaweinstead of respect? A woman never loves the man shepities, nor will she love the man whose superiority shefears. Jessie compassionated Herbert’s bodily weaknesses, and she had a vague terror of his stern, uncompromising ideas of right and wrong.”
“Nevertheless, I am sure she married Herbert, uncle.”
“You are mistaken, Annie. Herbert continued his devotion for years; he learned to love her child as if it were his own, and gave proofs of disinterestedness and tenderness such as no woman could misinterpret; but he never offered her his hand.”
“Why not?”
“Because heknewit would be rejected, and he preferred being a life-long friend, to occupying the position of an unsuccessful suitor.”
“Then I suppose she never married again.”
“You are wrong again, Annie. At forty years of age, when her beauty was faded, and her character had deteriorated amid the follies of society, she married a man some ten years her junior, who, tempted by the income whichHerberthad bestowed upon her, flattered her into the belief that she had inspired him with the most passionate love.”
“And her child?”
“Was adopted by Herbert Darsie, and at his death inherited his estate.”
“Poor, poor Herbert!”
“He suffered the penalty which all must pay who give to earth the high and holy sentiment which is only meant to make us companion with the angels in heaven. Not one in a thousand can love thus, and that one always finds that in the world’s vast desert, he has expended his strength in vain—‘hewn out broken cisterns which can hold no water.’”