THE BRIDE OF BROEK-IN-WATERLAND.

A DUTCH ROMANCE.

———

BY CHARLES P. SHIRAS.

———

One night, when skies were bright and calm,I left my home in Amsterdam;I cast my schuyt from moorings looseAnd steered across to Wilhelm Sluis:Upon the North Canal I sailed;The wind was fair and never failed.Quoth I: “My prow shall kiss no sandTill I reach Broek-in-Waterland.”Before an hour I saw the town,And soon the tapering mast was down;But ere I left my graceful schuytI heard the music of a flute;And songs of love and shouts of joyUpon the wind came floating by.Quoth I: “They seem a happy bandThat dwell in Broek-in-Waterland.”I walked upon a winding streetThat seemed too clean for mortal feet,Ere long a stranger met my gaze—What joy!—one loved in boyish days!Quoth he: “We revel here to-night,That all may share in my delight,For soon I’ll claim the fairest handIn happy Broek-in-Waterland.”As thus he spoke, we walked along,And soon were mingled in the throng;He vowed, in all a lover’s pride,That I should see his chosen bride,And soon he cried: “Behold her now,Yon maiden of the peerless brow.The richest, claims the fairest handIn happy Broek-in-Waterland!”I looked, and swift as lightning dartA hopeless anguish seized my heart!It once had been my lot to saveA maiden from the Zuyder’s wave;I bore her to her friends on shore,And never thought to see her more;Nor did I, till I saw her standBetrothed in Broek-in-Waterland!But why such grief? for what to meThis maiden saved from Zuyder Zee?She knew me not before that day,Scarce saw me ere I turned away.I heard her voice, I saw her face,Yet asked nor name nor dwelling place.Then why this grief to see her standBetrothed in Broek-in-Waterland?Love’s deeds are wild—his power divine!The maiden’s eye had glanced to mine!I heard her speak of thanks to me,My heart was moved and yet was free;But parting told, and told too late,That love had mingled with my fate;And now another claimed her handAnd heart, in Broek-in-Waterland!Grown sick at heart, I turned to go,Lest men might see and mock my wo;But one cried out: “Oh stir not forth,A storm has risen in the north!”I looked, the sky, of late so blue,Was hung in clouds of darkest hue;An ocean-storm had reached our strand,And burst on Broek-in-Waterland!I turned, and heard the maidens shout:“What reck we for the storm without,For joy is mistress here within—Again! again! the dance begin!”The waltzers float around the floor—But stay! what means that dreadful roar,Those shouts of grief or stern command,In peaceful Broek-in-Waterland?Alas! the troth too soon was known,The northern dykes were overthrown;And far and wide the vengeful wavesTheir victims swept to markless graves!How changed this scene of wild delight!Some shrieking fled, some swooned in fright;The bravest hearts were now unmannedIn hapless Broek-in-Waterland!The bride, who had betrayed no joy,Yet seemed in truth more sad than coy,Looked quickly round, with dauntless brow,And cried: “Come death or freedom now!”Strange words were these! but marked by none,For even the lover now had flown,And I, alone, for her had plannedEscape from Broek-in-Waterland.Thus far, it seemed she knew me not;I turned to draw her from the spot;But long before I reached her side,She saw—she knew me! and she cried:“The guardian of my life restored!My own, though seeming lost! adored!With thee I dare all storms withstand,Come! fly from Broek-in-Waterland!”Around my neck her arms were prest,She laid her cheek upon my breast,Then, yielding, swooned, as if no harmCould pass the shelter of my arm!An age of thought swept through my brain,And joy that rose to fearful pain:“All mad!” I shrieked, “some demon’s wandIs held o’er Broek-in-Waterland!”’Twas but a moment! then I knewA chance with every moment flew;For as I bear her through the streetThe waves come dashing round my feet.My schuyt floats on the deepening tide;By struggling long I reach her side.With oar and sail at my command,We’re saved from Broek-in-Waterland!An hour has past—in Wester DockThe maid recovers from the shock;But, danger past, deep blushes rise,Hot tears of shame start from her eyes;She feels that fear hath made her bold,That all her secret love is toldFor one who, calmly, saw her standBetrothed in Broek-in-Waterland!But love hath power, and bears the willTo clear all doubts with matchless skill!Before the weeping maid I kneel,My own long cherished love reveal;Believing all, she checks her sighs,And, smiling, gently lifts her eyes,To tell me why I saw her standBetrothed in Broek-in-Waterland.“With strangers I have dwelt,” she said,“For I’m a lonely orphan maid.They loved me not, and would have soldMy hand to one who offered gold.I scorned him, for I knew his soulWas lost to virtue’s safe control.He was a stranger—born in Gand—No son of Broek-in-Waterland!”“Yet hold! he was my friend,” said I;“I loved him well in days gone by.”She answered: “But your friend in youth,In manhood left the paths of truth.For wealth, how steeped his soul in sin!How basely sought my hand to win!And vainly hoped to see me standHis bride in Broek-in-Waterland!”“Whyvainlyhoped?” I quickly cried.“I scorned their power,” the maid replied—“I loved”—she paused—I knew the rest,And clasped her closely to my breast.I felt that she was truly mine,By honor’s law, by law divine,That none with shame our flight could brand,From hapless Broek-in-Waterland.We never thought of storm or calm,But held our course to Rotterdam.The gale had fallen to a breeze,And sails were spread to greet the seas.We bade our native land adieu,And o’er the waste of waters flew;And soon we touched a foreign strandFar, far from Broek-in-Waterland!And there, in lawful marriage rite,We claimed the triumph of our flight;But many a year had passed beforeWe touched again our native shore.No traces of the storm were seen,The meadows waved in brightest green!We wept with joy once more to standIn happy Broek-in-Waterland!

One night, when skies were bright and calm,

I left my home in Amsterdam;

I cast my schuyt from moorings loose

And steered across to Wilhelm Sluis:

Upon the North Canal I sailed;

The wind was fair and never failed.

Quoth I: “My prow shall kiss no sand

Till I reach Broek-in-Waterland.”

Before an hour I saw the town,And soon the tapering mast was down;But ere I left my graceful schuytI heard the music of a flute;And songs of love and shouts of joyUpon the wind came floating by.Quoth I: “They seem a happy bandThat dwell in Broek-in-Waterland.”

Before an hour I saw the town,

And soon the tapering mast was down;

But ere I left my graceful schuyt

I heard the music of a flute;

And songs of love and shouts of joy

Upon the wind came floating by.

Quoth I: “They seem a happy band

That dwell in Broek-in-Waterland.”

I walked upon a winding streetThat seemed too clean for mortal feet,Ere long a stranger met my gaze—What joy!—one loved in boyish days!Quoth he: “We revel here to-night,That all may share in my delight,For soon I’ll claim the fairest handIn happy Broek-in-Waterland.”

I walked upon a winding street

That seemed too clean for mortal feet,

Ere long a stranger met my gaze—

What joy!—one loved in boyish days!

Quoth he: “We revel here to-night,

That all may share in my delight,

For soon I’ll claim the fairest hand

In happy Broek-in-Waterland.”

As thus he spoke, we walked along,And soon were mingled in the throng;He vowed, in all a lover’s pride,That I should see his chosen bride,And soon he cried: “Behold her now,Yon maiden of the peerless brow.The richest, claims the fairest handIn happy Broek-in-Waterland!”

As thus he spoke, we walked along,

And soon were mingled in the throng;

He vowed, in all a lover’s pride,

That I should see his chosen bride,

And soon he cried: “Behold her now,

Yon maiden of the peerless brow.

The richest, claims the fairest hand

In happy Broek-in-Waterland!”

I looked, and swift as lightning dartA hopeless anguish seized my heart!It once had been my lot to saveA maiden from the Zuyder’s wave;I bore her to her friends on shore,And never thought to see her more;Nor did I, till I saw her standBetrothed in Broek-in-Waterland!

I looked, and swift as lightning dart

A hopeless anguish seized my heart!

It once had been my lot to save

A maiden from the Zuyder’s wave;

I bore her to her friends on shore,

And never thought to see her more;

Nor did I, till I saw her stand

Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland!

But why such grief? for what to meThis maiden saved from Zuyder Zee?She knew me not before that day,Scarce saw me ere I turned away.I heard her voice, I saw her face,Yet asked nor name nor dwelling place.Then why this grief to see her standBetrothed in Broek-in-Waterland?

But why such grief? for what to me

This maiden saved from Zuyder Zee?

She knew me not before that day,

Scarce saw me ere I turned away.

I heard her voice, I saw her face,

Yet asked nor name nor dwelling place.

Then why this grief to see her stand

Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland?

Love’s deeds are wild—his power divine!The maiden’s eye had glanced to mine!I heard her speak of thanks to me,My heart was moved and yet was free;But parting told, and told too late,That love had mingled with my fate;And now another claimed her handAnd heart, in Broek-in-Waterland!

Love’s deeds are wild—his power divine!

The maiden’s eye had glanced to mine!

I heard her speak of thanks to me,

My heart was moved and yet was free;

But parting told, and told too late,

That love had mingled with my fate;

And now another claimed her hand

And heart, in Broek-in-Waterland!

Grown sick at heart, I turned to go,Lest men might see and mock my wo;But one cried out: “Oh stir not forth,A storm has risen in the north!”I looked, the sky, of late so blue,Was hung in clouds of darkest hue;An ocean-storm had reached our strand,And burst on Broek-in-Waterland!

Grown sick at heart, I turned to go,

Lest men might see and mock my wo;

But one cried out: “Oh stir not forth,

A storm has risen in the north!”

I looked, the sky, of late so blue,

Was hung in clouds of darkest hue;

An ocean-storm had reached our strand,

And burst on Broek-in-Waterland!

I turned, and heard the maidens shout:“What reck we for the storm without,For joy is mistress here within—Again! again! the dance begin!”The waltzers float around the floor—But stay! what means that dreadful roar,Those shouts of grief or stern command,In peaceful Broek-in-Waterland?

I turned, and heard the maidens shout:

“What reck we for the storm without,

For joy is mistress here within—

Again! again! the dance begin!”

The waltzers float around the floor—

But stay! what means that dreadful roar,

Those shouts of grief or stern command,

In peaceful Broek-in-Waterland?

Alas! the troth too soon was known,The northern dykes were overthrown;And far and wide the vengeful wavesTheir victims swept to markless graves!How changed this scene of wild delight!Some shrieking fled, some swooned in fright;The bravest hearts were now unmannedIn hapless Broek-in-Waterland!

Alas! the troth too soon was known,

The northern dykes were overthrown;

And far and wide the vengeful waves

Their victims swept to markless graves!

How changed this scene of wild delight!

Some shrieking fled, some swooned in fright;

The bravest hearts were now unmanned

In hapless Broek-in-Waterland!

The bride, who had betrayed no joy,Yet seemed in truth more sad than coy,Looked quickly round, with dauntless brow,And cried: “Come death or freedom now!”Strange words were these! but marked by none,For even the lover now had flown,And I, alone, for her had plannedEscape from Broek-in-Waterland.

The bride, who had betrayed no joy,

Yet seemed in truth more sad than coy,

Looked quickly round, with dauntless brow,

And cried: “Come death or freedom now!”

Strange words were these! but marked by none,

For even the lover now had flown,

And I, alone, for her had planned

Escape from Broek-in-Waterland.

Thus far, it seemed she knew me not;I turned to draw her from the spot;But long before I reached her side,She saw—she knew me! and she cried:“The guardian of my life restored!My own, though seeming lost! adored!With thee I dare all storms withstand,Come! fly from Broek-in-Waterland!”

Thus far, it seemed she knew me not;

I turned to draw her from the spot;

But long before I reached her side,

She saw—she knew me! and she cried:

“The guardian of my life restored!

My own, though seeming lost! adored!

With thee I dare all storms withstand,

Come! fly from Broek-in-Waterland!”

Around my neck her arms were prest,She laid her cheek upon my breast,Then, yielding, swooned, as if no harmCould pass the shelter of my arm!An age of thought swept through my brain,And joy that rose to fearful pain:“All mad!” I shrieked, “some demon’s wandIs held o’er Broek-in-Waterland!”

Around my neck her arms were prest,

She laid her cheek upon my breast,

Then, yielding, swooned, as if no harm

Could pass the shelter of my arm!

An age of thought swept through my brain,

And joy that rose to fearful pain:

“All mad!” I shrieked, “some demon’s wand

Is held o’er Broek-in-Waterland!”

’Twas but a moment! then I knewA chance with every moment flew;For as I bear her through the streetThe waves come dashing round my feet.My schuyt floats on the deepening tide;By struggling long I reach her side.With oar and sail at my command,We’re saved from Broek-in-Waterland!

’Twas but a moment! then I knew

A chance with every moment flew;

For as I bear her through the street

The waves come dashing round my feet.

My schuyt floats on the deepening tide;

By struggling long I reach her side.

With oar and sail at my command,

We’re saved from Broek-in-Waterland!

An hour has past—in Wester DockThe maid recovers from the shock;But, danger past, deep blushes rise,Hot tears of shame start from her eyes;She feels that fear hath made her bold,That all her secret love is toldFor one who, calmly, saw her standBetrothed in Broek-in-Waterland!

An hour has past—in Wester Dock

The maid recovers from the shock;

But, danger past, deep blushes rise,

Hot tears of shame start from her eyes;

She feels that fear hath made her bold,

That all her secret love is told

For one who, calmly, saw her stand

Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland!

But love hath power, and bears the willTo clear all doubts with matchless skill!Before the weeping maid I kneel,My own long cherished love reveal;Believing all, she checks her sighs,And, smiling, gently lifts her eyes,To tell me why I saw her standBetrothed in Broek-in-Waterland.

But love hath power, and bears the will

To clear all doubts with matchless skill!

Before the weeping maid I kneel,

My own long cherished love reveal;

Believing all, she checks her sighs,

And, smiling, gently lifts her eyes,

To tell me why I saw her stand

Betrothed in Broek-in-Waterland.

“With strangers I have dwelt,” she said,“For I’m a lonely orphan maid.They loved me not, and would have soldMy hand to one who offered gold.I scorned him, for I knew his soulWas lost to virtue’s safe control.He was a stranger—born in Gand—No son of Broek-in-Waterland!”

“With strangers I have dwelt,” she said,

“For I’m a lonely orphan maid.

They loved me not, and would have sold

My hand to one who offered gold.

I scorned him, for I knew his soul

Was lost to virtue’s safe control.

He was a stranger—born in Gand—

No son of Broek-in-Waterland!”

“Yet hold! he was my friend,” said I;“I loved him well in days gone by.”She answered: “But your friend in youth,In manhood left the paths of truth.For wealth, how steeped his soul in sin!How basely sought my hand to win!And vainly hoped to see me standHis bride in Broek-in-Waterland!”

“Yet hold! he was my friend,” said I;

“I loved him well in days gone by.”

She answered: “But your friend in youth,

In manhood left the paths of truth.

For wealth, how steeped his soul in sin!

How basely sought my hand to win!

And vainly hoped to see me stand

His bride in Broek-in-Waterland!”

“Whyvainlyhoped?” I quickly cried.“I scorned their power,” the maid replied—“I loved”—she paused—I knew the rest,And clasped her closely to my breast.I felt that she was truly mine,By honor’s law, by law divine,That none with shame our flight could brand,From hapless Broek-in-Waterland.

“Whyvainlyhoped?” I quickly cried.

“I scorned their power,” the maid replied—

“I loved”—she paused—I knew the rest,

And clasped her closely to my breast.

I felt that she was truly mine,

By honor’s law, by law divine,

That none with shame our flight could brand,

From hapless Broek-in-Waterland.

We never thought of storm or calm,But held our course to Rotterdam.The gale had fallen to a breeze,And sails were spread to greet the seas.We bade our native land adieu,And o’er the waste of waters flew;And soon we touched a foreign strandFar, far from Broek-in-Waterland!

We never thought of storm or calm,

But held our course to Rotterdam.

The gale had fallen to a breeze,

And sails were spread to greet the seas.

We bade our native land adieu,

And o’er the waste of waters flew;

And soon we touched a foreign strand

Far, far from Broek-in-Waterland!

And there, in lawful marriage rite,We claimed the triumph of our flight;But many a year had passed beforeWe touched again our native shore.No traces of the storm were seen,The meadows waved in brightest green!We wept with joy once more to standIn happy Broek-in-Waterland!

And there, in lawful marriage rite,

We claimed the triumph of our flight;

But many a year had passed before

We touched again our native shore.

No traces of the storm were seen,

The meadows waved in brightest green!

We wept with joy once more to stand

In happy Broek-in-Waterland!

MINNIE CLIFTON.

A HEART-HISTORY.

———

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

———

“I wish that those whose vocation it is to tell stories would deal less in the details of human events, and give us a glimpse, sometimes, of the hidden springs which move the human machine, and influence its volition.”

In these stirring times of revolution and anarchy, of experiment and discovery, of mighty changes and astounding vicissitudes, it would seem as if a story so simple and uneventful as that I am about to relate, ought to be prefaced by an apology for its very simplicity. But let the world wag as it may there will ever be a few dwellers by the woodland brook, a few sojourners at the cottage door, a few wayfarers along the by-paths and green lanes of quiet life who will like to listen to the “still small voice,” that counts the throbbings of a single human heart amid all this sounding tramp of nations. The tale of wild adventure and startling incident charms us by its very wildness and improbability—the story of life’s many-colored changes draws us from our own commonplace cares—the glowing record of passionate love comes to us like a realization of our own early ideal, and for all these narratives there are many readers. But who will ponder over the quiet domestic details of a life which wasted slowly away, unmarked even by the ordinary events which checker woman’s tranquil existence, and colored with so sober a gray that even the rose-tint of love’s romance scarce brightened its dull hue? Who will read such a record save those whose own life presents to their remembrance the same sober volume of tear-blurred pages? Earth holds too many such, but the world knows not of them. Life has been to them a monotonous round of anxiety and care—a November day of clouds unbroken by a single sunbeam, and thus youth passes away, and hope dies out, and in time they forget their own identity, living on to old age with their souls dead within them and their hearts dry as dust. “The heart may break yet brokenly live on,” but even this is happiness compared to the slow,chronicheart-withering, which in its dull but certain progress, leaves no remembrance of any healthier or more vivid existence in the past.

The father of Minnie Clifton was one of those gifted and graceful (too often alsoGRACELESS) persons on whom society generally bestows the mysteriously comprehensive epithet of “fascinating.” He was exceedingly handsome, possessed many of those superficial accomplishments which the indiscriminating and good-natured world regards as the blossomings of genius, and was master of the most perfect tact in the display of his various gifts. It is in no wise extraordinary therefore that the elegant Charles Clifton should have been one of the most consummate “lady-killers” of his time, and that the innumerable hearts he was said to have broken, or at least cracked, during his fashionable career should have won for him, among graver people, the despicable title of a “male flirt.” At the age of forty-five, when his credit with his tailor was utterly exhausted, and when histoo faithful mirror convinced him that⁠—

“Years may fly with thewingsof thehawk; but, alas!They are marked by thefeetof thecrow,”

“Years may fly with thewingsof thehawk; but, alas!

They are marked by thefeetof thecrow,”

he condescended to bestow himself upon a young and pretty heiress, who eloped with him from boarding-school. Fortunately for him, his wife proved to be one of those tender, devoted, womanly creatures, who never call in the aid of the head to destroy the illusions of the heart. Her love for her husband long outlived the qualities, real or imaginary, which had first called it into being, and in the dull selfish egotist of the fireside she could still see the brilliant and attractive man of fashion who had won her gratitude by deigning to accept her fortune and affection. When a woman is won unsought, in other words, when she lovesfirst, she is always doubly enslaved by her affections, and this was decidedly the case with Mrs. Clifton. She fancied she could never do enough for her selfish husband, and he soon showed himself the despot when he found himself possessed of a slave. As he grew older he became a martyr to gout, and in the slovenly, plethoric, testy-looking, elderly man, who swore at his pale wife fifty times a day, and kept his only child in bodily fear by his fierce threats—none of his former friends would have recognized the “model man of fashion.”

In the atmosphere of such a home, Minnie imbibed her first ideas of womanly duties and womanly rewards. She idolized her gentle mother, and that mother’s idea of home duties and virtues was condensed into one single article of faith—perfect submission to the will of a husband and father. Mrs. Clifton’s mind was too feeble, her experience too limited, and her affection to her husband too extravagant to allow her to entertain the slightest doubt of his wisdom or his virtue. She honestly believed woman to be the inferior creation, and her ideal of a wife was the patient Grizzel of the old Fabliaux—a creature whose will, whose wishes, whose very sense of duty was to be placed at a husband’s mercy. That men might be found whose noble, generous, self-forgetting affection would place woman like a queen upon the throne of their hearts, asking nothing in return but the enlightened and true devotion of a loving nature, was an idea that never had been presented to her imagination. She fancied that hers was but a common lot, and therefore she earlytrained Minnie to the servitude which she supposed would accomplish her destiny.

Minnie inherited none of the rare beauty which had been her father’s greatest charm. She had the soft dove-like eyes, the pale clear complexion, and the peculiar delicacy, almost fragility of frame which she derived from her mother. These personal traits, combined with her timid, gentle manner, her perfect good temper, and quiet undemonstrative tenderness of nature, made her seem merely one of those commonplace children whom old ladies are apt to praise as good quiet little girls. Yet Minnie had a fund of practical good sense, together with a certain playfulness of fancy, and a quick perception of the beautiful as well as the good in life, which if properly trained and cultivated might have made her a very superior woman. But in her early home patience, good temper, and industry were the only qualities called into exercise, and neither her father nor her mother knew or cared for any thing beyond the useful attributes in her character. As she emerged from infancy, she gradually became the little domestic drudge, for the rapid waste of her mother’s fortune soon reduced them to the narrowest mode of life, and when her father came home from the club, where he could still keep up appearances, to the small, ill-furnished house where his extravagance had imprisoned his wife, it was Minnie who waited on his caprices and ran at his call like a servant. As he became diseased and still more reduced, matters grew worse, and poor Minnie’s home became the scene of discord and discomfort, as well as the abode of positive want. Mr. Clifton grew into a sick savage, Mrs. Clifton sunk into querulous discontent, and Minnie was little more than the recipient of the ill-humor of both.

Yet Minnie loved her parents dearly, and not a murmur ever escaped her lips, however unreasonable might be the demands upon her childish patience or her limited time. But she was destined to a heavier thraldom than that which nature had imposed. One of those local epidemics which sometimes devastate a neighborhood broke out near them, and both her parents fell victims to it while she lay in a state between life and death. When she recovered her consciousness she learned that her father and mother had been buried a week before, and she was now a poor friendless orphan. The tidings, uncautiously communicated, caused a relapse which brought her a second time to the brink of the grave. But the principle of life is wonderfully strong in youth, and after many weeks of suffering Minnie was restored to health. During her convalescence she gradually learned all the circumstances of her bereavement from a kind and careful nurse, in whose neat and pleasant apartment she found herself domiciled.

“But how came I here?” asked the bewildered child, as she looked out upon the green fields that surrounded her present abode.

“Let me answer you, my little cousin,” said a strange but pleasant voice, as a tall young stripling entered the room.

The explanation was soon given. There was a certain Mrs. Woodley, the maternal aunt of Mrs. Clifton, who, offended at her imprudent marriage, had refused to hold any intercourse with her. This lady had a son pursuing his studies in the metropolis, who hadaccidentally heard Minnie’s story told by a benevolent physician. To Hubert Woodley such a story would have been felt as a call upon his sympathies under any circumstances, but when he found upon inquiry that the child was his own blood relation, he acted promptly and decidedly. Minnie was removed to healthy country lodgings, and when all danger was over he wrote to his mother requesting her to give Minnie a home with her for the future. To his doting parents Hubert’s will was law, and he was fully authorized to bring his little cousin home as soon as her health would bear the journey.

How many people there are in the world who perform all the duties of life, and apparently enjoy a fair proportion of its pleasures, yet are as utterly deficient in all that goes to constitute a warm, generous, sympathizing heart, as if they had been mere animals! They are like machines, moving with clock-like regularity in their own narrow circle, doing exactly what their “hands find to do,” but never seeming to suspect that the head might suggest, or the heart might impel to higher duties or broader responsibilities. Such were the new friends who now came forward to claim the friendless orphan.

Mr. and Mrs. Woodley were dull, plodding, commonplace people, who had begun life in a very small way, and by close attention to the “day of small things,” had grown moderately rich, exceedingly selfish, and tolerably fat. Mr. Woodley had made his fortune by such minute accumulations that he might perhaps be pardoned for literally believing that

“Trifles make the sum of human things.”

And to those who hold the belief in “predestinate missions,” Mrs. Woodley’s taste for watching over the trivialities of existence proved that she was born “to look after candle-ends and cheese-parings.” As soon as they had collected what they considered a competent fortune they had retired to a country town, where the attractions of a new brick-house, planted in the midst of a broad and treeless meadow, proved irresistible to the utilitarian tastes of both, especially as it could be purchased at a low price. In this new home the good couple had ample opportunity to gratify their peculiar tastes. Mr. Woodley raised his own vegetables, and occasionally was not above selling any surplus produce of his land to a neighbor, while his wife succeeded in making her house the very pattern of cold formal neatness, merely at the expense of hospitality, good-humor, cheerfulness, and everything like rational or intellectual occupation. She scrubbed, and scoured, and scolded, until she drove her single servant to desperation, when a new one was found to go through the same ordeal for awhile. She saw no company, because it was expensive and troublesome—she went no where because she was too busy at home—she enjoyed nothing, not even her own neatness, because there was always some mote in the sunbeam, or some grain of dust in the air which either had, or would, or might fall somewhere in the midst of her cleanliness.

One only feeling seemed to have lived and thrived in the stiff hard soil of these people’s hearts, and this was their love for their only son. It is true it had required the death of eight other children to concentrate and condense parental affection into any thing like a sentiment upon the remaining one, but all there was of love in their natures was unreservedly bestowed upon Hubert.

To such parents and in such a home Hubert might well seem like a human sunbeam. He was one of those light-hearted, merry-tempered, affectionate boys, who are always such loveable creatures in early youth, and whose characters are in after life entirely formed by the mould and pressure of circumstances. The only strong quality in his whole nature was ambition, but this ambition was without fixed aim or purpose. To go beyond his companions in whatever they chose to undertake was his usual object, but he never struck out a path for himself. His earliest friends had become students, and therefore Hubert was a student with them; his versatility and quickness of mind enabling him to keep pace with plodding industry, and sometimes even to emulate genius. He was tall, well-made, and handsome, but a physiognomist might have detected infirmity of purpose in his flexible, loosely-cut lips, and phrenology would have turned in despair from a head which exhibited such a deplorable want of balance. But at eighteen Hubert was handsome enough to satisfy a mother’s pride, and warm-hearted enough to be agreeable to every one.

Hubert’s kind feelings had been especially called forth by the desolate child whom he had rescued from distress, perhaps from death. He looked upon her as his especial charge, and the gratified self-love which is apt to mingle with all our better feelings, made him cherish her with unusual tenderness. But Minnie had been so unused to kindness that she shrunk almost in dismay from her cousin’s boyish gayety and boisterous attentions. Disappointed by her cold quiet manner and unconquerable sadness, Hubert soon ceased all attempt to call her out from her shy reserve, and as he soon returned to the city to resume his studies, Minnie was left to learn the routine of daily duties by which she was expected to repay her debt of gratitude to Mrs. Woodley.

Minnie was twelve years old when she entered the dull and quiet home in which she was thereafter to dwell, apart from all companionship with youth, and chained by the strong fetter of gratitude to the most exacting of domestic despots. Timid, submissive in temper, and meek, both from natural temperament and from early experience of suffering, she was precisely the docile, uncomplaining, unresisting slave that realized Mrs. Woodley’s ideal of a poor relation. Of course she was thoroughly and severely drilled into an intimate knowledge of all the important minor duties of life. Her early taste for books was diligently repressed, her delicate perceptions of every thing good and beautiful were sadly confounded by Mrs. Woodley’s practical views of life, and from a child of great intellectual promise, she was gradually transformed into a faithful, unwearied, and industrious upper servant, in a household where eating and drinking and house-cleaning were such important objects of existence, that the whole soul must be devoted to them.

And thus passed on the sunny years of childhood and the beautiful days of early girlhood, while not one ray of the sunshine, nor one gleam of the beauty ever blessed the eyes and heart of poor Minnie. A dull calm stole over all her faculties, and in time she might have become the mere machine which her benefactress could best appreciate, had it not been for the occasional visits which Hubert Woodley paid to his quiet home. Hubert was one of those restless versatile beings who in early life often exhibit something so resembling genius that they are allowed to indulge a sort of dreamy indolence, which their friends mistake for the waywardness of superior powers. He was something of an artist, a little of a poet, an easy conversationist, and, as he had really studied much, was certainly superior to most youths of his age. But whether he would concentrate himself upon any one pursuit, or whether he would remain an idle dreamer, or whether, as his father secretly hoped, he would finally centre his ambition upon the rewards of wealth and become a man of business, was yet doubtful. He deferred a decision as long as possible, and it was rather to put off the necessity of choosing a course of life than from any other motive, that he determined to make the tour of Europe.

For more than four years Hubert wandered about the world with a vague purpose and aimless projects, happy only in escaping from the dull monotony of home, until a long-continued illness, contracted by imprudent exposure in the Campagna de Roma, at length sent him to England in the hope of benefiting by the skill of a celebrated physician there. During his stay in that land of wealth and comfort, Hubert found himself surrounded by new and powerful influences. He had learned that he was not born to “build the lofty rhyme,” and as he walked through the rich galleries of art in Italy, he had discovered that he was not a painter. What then was his destiny? He still had his old restlessness of ambition, and felt that he must be something in order to satisfy his own cravings. As he stood on the quay at Liverpool, and looked abroad upon the winged ships and crowded storehouses, the mystery of his being was suddenly solved. Commerce was the most liberal of deities to her true votaries, and riches would command rank and control talent. The same sudden impulse which had formerly made him fancy he would be an artist, now decided him to become a merchant and a man of fortune. He determined to return to his native land and devote himself to business. His next letter to his father made known his present views, and while his father gladly made all necessary arrangements for his new pursuit, Hubert hastened his preparations for revisiting his long deserted home.

It is an old proverb that “opportunity makes thieves,” and I once heard an old maid say that “opportunity makes wives;” one thing is most certain—thatpropinquity often makes lovers. When Hubert returned he found Minnie wonderfully developed in her personal appearance. She was now nineteen, with a graceful figure, a face combining delicacy of feature with great sweetness of expression, and manners of the most winningsoftness. Yet she was not one calculated to excite admiration, still less was she a person to be fallen in love with suddenly, but there never was a creature so eminently fitted to glide quietly into one’s heart of hearts as gentle Minnie Clifton. Hubert had seen much of women while abroad, but a creature so like “the angel of one’s home,” had never before crossed his path. Had he met her in society she would have been like a lovely picture placed in a wrong light, but in the narrow circle of home every trait in her exquisitely feminine character was unconsciously displayed to the best advantage.

Mrs. Woodley, like all selfishly affectionate mothers, had long dreaded the time when her influence over Hubert would be superseded by that of a wife. Unwilling to have him leave her for another home, she was quite as unwilling to resign her authority, and sink into merely the dowager dignity of “old Mrs. Woodley,” yet her good sense told that she could scarcely hope to retain the sceptre of power for many years longer. Nothing could have happened so effectually to disappoint her fears and brighten her hopes, as this dawning affection of Hubert for his “little cousin,” as he still called her. With a daughter-in-law so thoroughly trained to submission, so docile, so perfectly good-tempered, so exactly moulded after Mrs. Woodley’s own model, she could have nothing to fear either for herself or for Hubert. As for Mr. Woodley he had become really attached to the quiet girl who aired his shirts, mended his stockings, brought him his slippers, and always made his second cup of tea quite as good as the first. He wanted Hubert to marry and settle down to business, but he hated change of all sorts, and if Minnie became Hubert’s wife the whole affair could be settled without either expense or trouble; therefore, after talking the matter over with his good lady, it was decided that nothing could have turned out better for all parties.

Minnie was the only one who was ignorant of these new plans and projects. From the time when Hubert had entered her sick-room, and uttered his kindly greeting at the moment when she felt herself the most desolate of human beings, she had regarded him as something more than mere mortal. But when he returned from Europe, so much improved in person, so polished by society, and with a mind enlarged by travel, she looked upon him almost with awe as well as admiration. Unaccustomed as she was to kindness or appreciation, it is not strange that she should have been entirely unaware of Hubert’s growing attachment to her. She felt that the atmosphere of her home had become a more congenial one—she was conscious that every thing had grown brighter even to her sad and serious eyes, since he had taken up his abode among them, but she did not dream of the individual influences which were about to waken her to a new perception of life and its enjoyments.

But the chief defect in Hubert’s early character was indecision. He loved his cousin Minnie, but, somehow or other, he hated to put it out of his power to change if he pleased. He wanted to be unshackled by any bond except his own inclinations, and feeling very sure that no rivals could ever interfere with his plans, he made no open avowal of his love for the present. He devoted himself to business with an ardor that showed he had at last found his true bent, and that money was actually the true aim of his ambition. He lived a lonely retired sort of life, being only one of the “singles” in a large private boarding-house, and as he never gave suppers, or went to parties, not even the servants were interested in him. Once a month the stage set him down within a quarter of a mile of his father’s door, and then he found himself in the enjoyment of all the attentions that could be lavished upon him for the few days of his stay. To say that he beguiled the time during his visits by making love to his cousin, would be hardly fair, but he certainly said and did things which a woman of the world, without any great stretch of vanity might have understood as love-making.

Thus passed on month after month, and Minnie was unconsciously drinking deep from that fountain of freshness which had so lately sprung up in her lonely path, while Hubert lived in the full enjoyment of all that sweet unconsciousness, which lent such a charm to her manners, such new loveliness to her gentle face. It was not until more than two years had passed that, in an unguarded moment, he was led into such a warm expression of his feelings as to require some decided explanation. He then spoke out plainly and manfully, avowed his love and asked Minnie to become his wife. Terrified at the excess of her own emotions, shocked at her own apparent ingratitude toward her benefactors in being thus made happy by what she could not hope they would approve, Minnie could only weep. But when Hubert assured her that his parents would willingly receive her as a daughter, she gave her whole soul up to the enjoyment of such unlooked for bliss. Yet, even in that moment of full unrestrained affection, why did Hubert counsel silence for the present, and secrecy until he should fix the moment for frank disclosure?

Convinced that matters were going on as they wished, the old people asked no questions. Perhaps Mrs. Woodley was not sorry to defer the period which would elevate Minnie from the humble position of a poor relation into the condition of an equal, so Hubert was allowed to manage matters in his own way, and a stranger would have seen nothing in the manner of the quiet family which portended any change among them. Indeed to no one but Minnie herself had this new state of affairs made any difference. To her, the sad and lonely and unloved orphan, the consciousness of being at last beloved for her own sake, lent a charm to every thing in life. But her heart had been too early crushed to regain the elasticity and buoyancy which ought to have belonged to her youth. She was happy, deeply, entirely happy, but no one could have suspected the fervid thankfulness of her prayerful happiness, beneath the quiet demeanor which had now become so habitual to her. It was when alone, in the solitude of her own chamber, that she gave way to the emotions which almost overpowered her. It was on her knees that she poured out the fullness of her joy to Heaven—it was only for the eye of her Heavenly Father to see the swelling surges of that sea of happy emotion,which she was too timid, too self-distrustful to exhibit to her lover.

Perhaps there are no people so completely enslaved by habit as those who are only moved by impulse. Persons who have fixed principles of action govern their lives by those principles, and habits are only the secondary forms which those motives assume. But when a man is thoroughly impulsive, and only to be stirred through some strong emotion, a large part of his life must be controlled through the unconscious agency of circumstance and habit, unless, indeed, he should be one of those human volcanoes, occasionally to be met with, who are never in repose except the moment after an explosion. Hubert Woodley was a perfect exemplification of the apparently anomalous fact that a man may have noble and generous impulses yet be involved in a net-work of selfish habits. The selfishness which he had inherited from both parents was overlaid by so much that seemed good and beautiful in his nature, that its existence was utterly unsuspected by every one, and certainly unknown to himself. Yet it was this very quality which had made him ambitious at first of the renown of the scholar, and afterward of the fame of the painter, and now actuated him to seek after great wealth. Self was the soil in which every thing grew, even the herbs of grace, which embellished and concealed the base source from whence they sprung.

Hubert loved Minnie as well as he could love any one beside himself, but he knew nothing of that affection which makes self a forgotten idea, and concentrates the whole being upon another. His love had been a fancy growing out of the novelty of finding so sweet a flower in such an ungenial spot. Then the desire of approbation, which had always been a latent propensity with him, stimulated him to make love to her. The vague stirrings of passion, the necessity of some habitual stimulus to make home endurable, and the cravings of an unoccupied heart made up the rest of those mixed motives which led him first to stir the quiet depths of Minnie’s half-frozen soul. He enjoyed the excitement of her feelings, just as one might enjoy their first glass of champagne. His brain was not in the least bewildered, but the effervescence gave him a new and pleasurable sensation. He liked to hear the hurrying of her quiet footsteps as she came forward to meet him at the door; he loved to see the flitting blush come over her pale face when he took her hand in his; and it was with a sort of epicurean pleasure he felt the trembling of her shrinking frame as with an excess of maiden reserve she would glide from his encircling arm in some moment of endearment.

But never once did Hubert reflect on the rights which all these things were gradually giving her over him. Never did he consider that those quiet depths of affection which but for him would have been sealed forever, were now destined to become a fountain of sweetness, or a pool of bitter waters, according as he directed their flow.

Months had now become years, and yet the relations between the cousins remained unchanged. Living amid all the gentle ministry of affection, Hubert scarcely felt the want of any thing beyond what he had already won. Minnie was tender, gentle and affectionate, ever meeting him with a smile of welcome, ever studying all his humors, never thwarting his moods, never exacting any return except such as his own whim might dictate; content if he was cold and absorbed, grateful and happy if he was affectionate in his manner; and Hubert certainly enjoyed some of the pleasantest privileges of married life, without any of its attendant evils, and therefore he was content to go on year after year, heaping up money, of which he had become exceedingly careful, and growing richer every day, while his marriage seemed just as much hidden in the mists of the distant future as it had been years before.

But changes will occur in human life, not withstanding all our efforts to prevent them. The Woodleys had a sort of morbid dread of a wedding, but they did not seem to remember that there might be such a thing as a funeral to alter the aspect of affairs, until one fine morning, just as Mrs. Woodley had succeeded in turning the whole house out of the windows, preparatory to what she called her “spring cleaning,” she was struck with apoplexy, and died in a few hours. The shock was a terrible one to the family, and in addition to the grief of such a loss, the fearful quiet of the house, now that the voice of the restless mistress was silenced forever, pressed with overpowering weight upon the spirits of the survivors. But there was little of the sentiment of affection to embalm the memory of the dead. Mrs. Woodley was buried, and under the direction of Minnie the house cleaning was completed, after which matters seemed to resume their old course. Mr. Woodley said something to Hubert about “settling himself,” and giving the house a mistress, now that his poor mother was gone. But Hubert looked down at his deep mourning dress, and seemed shocked at his father’s irreverent haste in suggesting such ideas, at such a moment. So nothing more was said on the subject.

In the meantime, what thought, and what felt, and what said Minnie? Shesaidnothing—shethoughtshe was most unreasonable and ungrateful not to be perfectly contented—shefeltas if the best years of her life were gliding away, and bearing with them the youth, and freshness and cheerfulness which were her chief claims upon Hubert’s affection.

Ten years had passed away since the quiet, half-acknowledged engagement which bound the cousins to each other, and opened for Minnie a vista of happiness which seemed ever receding as life advanced. Ten years had passed andMinnie was certainly changed. The unsatisfied yearnings of affection, the wearing anxiety of hope deferred, the dull stagnation of a life whose destiny seemed decided, yet never fulfilled, all aided the work of time, and the thin, pale, careful-looking woman of nine-and-twenty was only the shadow of the quiet, gentle, graceful creature of nineteen. Busied in accumulating wealth, Hubert had scarcely noticed these gradual changes, but when the shock of his mother’s death awakened his faculties, and startled up his home feelings,thenhe beheld Minnie’s faded face in the mirror of his own altered heart. At thirty-four he was as handsome as ever, notwithstandingthe lines of care which Mammon had stamped on his brow. He was rich, too—rich even beyond his hopes; he felt full of the energy of animal life, for his health was perfect, and he began to fancy that he had made a mistake in confining himself to so monotonous a kind of existence. There was an uncomfortable routing of conscience whenever he caught himself thinking of Minnie’s faded looks, so, with his usual palliating policy, he resolved to settle up his business, spend a winter in Washington, and marry Minnie the following spring.

His business was soon arranged, he retained a special partnership in the lucrative concern, leaving all responsibility in the hands of trusty persons, and, without informing Minnie of hisfinalintentions, set off on his winter’s pleasuring. It was just as well that he was silent on the subject, for it would only have increased the turpitude of his conduct. His good looks, pleasant manners, and great wealth, made him a favorite in that emporium of speculation. His vanity, which had been kept so long in abeyance by his love of money, was called forth by the flatteries and attentions of society. He was surrounded by beautiful and gifted women; he lived in a constant whirl of excitement, and the remembrance of his home, haunted by the sad-eyed spectre of the woman he had once loved, became utterly disgusting to him.

The end of all this may easily be guessed. One night Hubert sat until dawn, pondering over a letter which he wanted to write, which he felt he must write, yet which he knew not how to shape into words without branding himself as a villain. At last the letter was written and dispatched; he had not quite satisfied himself, but it read thus:

“I write to you, my dear cousin, because I want you to inform my father of an event which may not be altogether pleasing to him, but which you can soften away so as to quiet any irritation he may feel. You perhaps know, Minnie, that he has always wishedyouto become my wife, indeed I partly made him a promise to that effect, ages ago, at the time when you and I had some boy-and-girl love-passages—do you remember them, my little cousin? or have you forgotten our moonlight rambles, and all our juvenile love-making when I first returned from Europe. It seems to me like a far-off dream, and yet it was only ten or twelve years ago. Well—I was a romantic boy then, and you as romantic a little girl—my father always liked you, and fearing I might be led into bondage by some strangeDelilah, he wanted to make a match between us. My mother, poor soul, liked your housewifery, and so she joined in the plot. Had we been marriedthen, Minnie, we might have been a quiet, comfortable couple, treading in the footsteps of my honored parents; I, daily growing pursy and plethoric, you a matron, in all the dignity of lace-caps, growing more learned every year in the management of children and the making up of baby-linen. When I look back at the past, Minnie, I can almost find it in my heart to wish it had been so. But perhaps it is best as it is. If under the excitement of my boyish passion I ever said any thing to you, Minnie, which could involve any bond between us, I pray you to forgive me, and to attribute it entirely to my ignorance of my own nature. We have lived on terms of the closest intimacy ever since I found you, a little sick and suffering child, without a friend or protector in the wide world. It has been a bond closer than that of brother and sister, because it had much of the peculiar piquancy which belongs only to that sweetest of all relationships, which early entitled me to call you my little cousin. But I am dallying with old recollections, when I should be telling you of coming events. I am going to be married, Minnie; you will wonder when I tell you that my bride has not yet counted her eighteenth summer. She is the prettiest little fairy in the world, and as artless as a child, indeed she has not beenoutin society, so I have plucked the flower with the morning dew yet fresh upon it. My father will object to her youth, and will conjure up the image of my mother, armed with her bunch of keys, the insignia of her old-fashioned housekeeping. But you must make my peace with him, Minnie. My intention at present is to take furnished lodgings in New York, where I can be near my business, which I mean to resume as soon as this affair is settled. You will of course remain with my father and watch over his declining years, unless you should marry, when I shall take care that a suitable provision be made for you. And now, my dear cousin, having wearied you, doubtless, as well as myself, with this long epistle, I bid you adieu; trusting that my father may not be inexorable under your kind ministry, I shall wait with some impatience for your reply.”

Such was the heartless, yet craftily worded letter which was put into Minnie’s hands, as she sat watching beside the sick-bed of poor Mr. Woodley, who had been stricken with paralysis, and now lay between life and death. It would require a colder heart and more graphic pen than mine to describe her feelings. Fortunately for her Mr. Woodley was utterly insensible, and there was no one to witness her emotion. When the doctor came to visit the patient at evening, he looked amazed at the change which he saw, not in the sick man, but in the gentle nurse.

“You are ill, Miss Clifton, suffer me to send a nurse for Mr. Woodley, and let me persuade you to go to bed.”

“If I am not better tomorrow, doctor, I will accept your kind offer, but I would rather watch him to-night!”

The next morning the good doctor found Minnie looking as pallid as a corpse, though she had now obtained more control over her nerves. She refused to give up her charge, but she requested the doctor to write to Mr. Hubert Woodley and inform him of the event which had befallen his father. In the course of the following day came a Washington paper. With trembling hands Minnie unfolded it and looked at the list of marriages. She had conjectured truly; Hubert had been married the day after he wrote the letter which had crushed that gentle and loving heart.

The doctor’s letter did not reach Hubert until his return from his bridal tour. Leaving his wife among her relatives to lament over the interruption which this untoward event would necessarily make in her weddingfestivities, he hastened to his father’s bedside. But Mr. Woodley had lost the use of every faculty. He did not know his son—he could not lift his hand to welcome him—all that remained to him of life was the merest animal existence; he could take food and sleep, but all hope of restoration to reason and the use of his limbs was out of the question.

“He may linger thus for years,” said the doctor, in reply to Hubert’s questioning.

Hubert could ill bear to see his father’s distorted visage, but it was worse, far worse, for him to look upon the ghastly pallor which had settled on the face of Minnie. She scarcely raised her eyes to his face, and the hand she extended toward his proffered grasp was cold and nerveless. He could not stand it. In three days he was again in Washington, and as his father was so accommodating as to live on, the round of projected gayeties was not interrupted. Hubert daily received tidings from the doctor respecting his father, until it was decided that death was yet far distant, and this living death might be dragged out through many months, when all present anxiety ceased.

His first care was to secure a provision for Minnie, hoping in this way to relieve his conscience of the terrible load which weighed upon it. The house where she had so long resided with his parents was secured to her for life, together with a small annuity, to commence at his father’s death,on condition that she remained with his father during the remainder of his existence. It was a cruel precaution, for Minnie would never have dreamed of deserting her benefactor. To look upon the ghastliness of death for the rest of her life—to humor the caprices and minister to the diseased appetite of a gibbering and restless corpse (for such seemed the stricken man) was the fulfillment of her destiny.

For five years Minnie lived on in this dreary and solitary manner, the helpless invalid and a single servant forming the whole household. But it mattered little to her now. A dull torpor had gradually crept over her feelings. She was like an automaton, moved by some other mechanism than that of her own volition. Long ere Mr. Woodley dropped into the grave, she had grown gray, and wrinkled, and bent, like one in extreme old age. At length the end came. The last spark of life went out, and Mr. Woodley was consigned to darkness and the worm. Again Hubert came to look upon the wreck he had made. She made a feeble attempt to tell him her future plans. She wished to enter a recently established charity for “poor gentlewomen,” but the pride of the man of wealth revolted at such a scheme. He refused to permit her to depend on any other than himself for a support, and Minnie felt that the time was past when she could have earned her own maintenance. The last remnant of her womanly pride was crushed by the strong hand of him who had ruled her whole life with a rod of iron. She lived a dependent on the bounty of Hubert Woodley, dwelling in the house where he had wooed her in her days of girlish loveliness, and fed by the dole with which he had silenced his remorse, until she had counted her half century of sorrow; then, weary and worn out in mind and body, she sunk into the grave, with none to mourn over her, none to treasure any memorial of her existence. Hubert, of course, took possession of her few effects. He found among her papers a lock of sunny brown hair, which he well remembered to have given her, and the cruel letter which had announced his marriage. There were no love-gifts—he had been too cautious to commit himself by such trifles. As he sat alone in that dreary old parlor, with its sombre paper, its dark carpet, its high-backed perpendicular chairs, and that dreadfully monotonous clock ticking as loudly as if it would fain awaken the conscience of the solitary occupant of that melancholy apartment, he felt asuperstitious awe steal over him which he could not overcome. He threw the letter and the lock of hair into the smouldering embers of the wood fire upon the hearth, and as the flame leaped up to consume those remnants of the past, the drooping figure of Minnie Clifton stood between him and the sudden blaze. A wild cry broke from his lips, he started from his seat, and at that moment a servant unclosed the door. To the day of his death Hubert Woodley believed that by the mysterious agency of fire, burning as it did into the very soul of that mystery which involved the happiness of a human being, he had called up the spectre of the wronged and joyless object of his early love—the victim of his selfishness—whose whole life had been like a dull and dreary dream.

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