A CASE OF GOLD FEVER.

———

BY JOHN JONES.

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[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Mr. Edwards Perley was not a man of wealth, although, at different periods of his life, he had been the owner of property valued at from one hundred thousand dollars to half a million. But this property being either in Texas land scrip, South Carolina gold mines, Western town lots, Mulberry trees, Maine wild lands, or other people’s promises to pay, Mr. Perley had never been able to realize what was so nearly a splendid fortune within his grasp. The revolution in Texas destroyed the value of Mexican grants, in which he had become largely interested, and the sale of square leagues of the “best cotton land in the world,” not only ceased suddenly, but the bills received for previous sales came back upon him dishonored. This was a sad damper on the golden hopes of the enthusiastic Mr. Edwards Perley. For a couple of years he had been selling land scrip from Bangor to New Orleans; and had been out on the Red River twice, during the time, with a surveying company, whose business it was to locate the little league-square lots. On these expeditions, he had become rather intimately acquainted with alligators and ague, and, on his return, deemed it no more than prudent to keep himself quiet until he regained his complexion, and the healthy roundness of his limbs and features. Mr. Perley worked hard in this matter; but it suited his temperament. He was no plodding genius, content to count sixpences first, then shillings, and so on until dollars began to appear. Not he. In that slow way to wealth he could not walk.

Just as Mr. Perley, who valued his property at hundreds of thousands of dollars in the present, and looked upon it as possessing an annually duplicating quality—just as Mr. Perley had selected a beautiful site for building a palace in New York, and had decided upon the plans submitted by a distinguished architect, the troubles in Texas destroyed the value of his scrip, and down he went to ruin like a collapsed balloon; and dozens of his confiding friends went with him.

But Mr. Edwards Perley had too much native buoyancy of character, too much hope in life, to be put down by ill-natured fortune after this summary manner. In the wreck and ruin in which he was involved, he managed to get hold of a plank on which to float ashore. With a few hundred dollars, which he had contrived to save, under a self-enacted “homestead exemption” law, he opened an exchange office in Wall street, on a very small scale. Though his business operations scarcely reached, for a time, the aggregate of hundreds per day, there were not a few of his acquaintances who believed his transactions to be limited only by thousands; and they were indebted to him for their ideas on the subject. Give a man the reputation of doing a large business, and business will be sure to come. So it was in the case of Edwards Perley. Talking and boasting were of great use to him. In a few years he was getting along, as the saying is, “swimmingly.” But, like the man who, after creeping along for a week in a stage-coach, grows impatient if the cars do not make thirty miles an hour instead of twenty, Mr. Perley, as soon as affairs became prosperous with him again, grew dissatisfied with what appeared a slow accumulation, and began to look around him for some good speculation. He was not long in finding what he sought.

But it is not our purpose to follow Mr. Perley through the various stages of his Carolina gold and Morus Multicaulis fevers; nor to minutely detail his operations in Western lands and town lots. As it had been in Texas land scrip, so it proved in all these. The visionary speculator, who sought wealth for its own sake, and was too eager for its possession to be willing to give back to society an equivalent of useful acts, after running a wild course for a few years, again tripped and fell. This time he found it much more difficult to recover himself. But with an elasticity of feeling that few possess, he went hopefully to work, and by dint of magnifying his own peculiar abilities, and his knowledge of business, induced a shrewd, calculating Yankee, who had a few thousand dollars, to join him in business.

For a year or two, Perley was content to move on slowly. After that, he grew ambitious and restless again. The fire had not burned out; it was only covered for a while. Of Jenkins, his partner, he had no very high opinion. He considered him a mere plodding genius, whose mind was in no way suggestive. He would do for a well beaten track, but for enterprise he was nobody. So he thought. But Jenkins had rather more shrewdness than his partner gave him credit for. He belonged to the class of men who think a great deal before they act, and who, therefore, rarely make mistakes in business matters. He understood Perley “like a book,” and was, therefore, prepared to counteract, judiciously, all his efforts that were not wisely directed. Reactions of this kind becoming, as business grew into importance, more and more frequent, Mr. Perley felt restless under them, and often lamented that affairs were not entirely under his own control.

This was the aspect of things when the golden news from California startled the most sober-minded with its tale of wonder. Perley believed every word of the first account, while Jenkins coolly took the liberty of doubting the whole story.

“It’s preposterous,” said he.

“But look at the official nature of the intelligence,” urged Perley.

Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine.A CASE OF GOLD FEVER.

“Officials can lie as well as other people. It’s all a speculation to get settlers out there. Don’t tell me of gold scattered about as thick as jack-stones.”

Perley maintained the other side of the question, and soon had the satisfaction of pushing most abundant confirmations into the face of his partner.

“Well,” said Jenkins, “what of it? Suppose there is gold there? It doesn’t make me any better off.”

“But it will make you better off, if you seize the advantage now offered to every energetic and truly enterprising man.”

Mr. Jenkins opened his eyes rather wider than usual; then shrugging his shoulders, he answered:

“My business creed is—‘Let well enough alone.’ ”

“And mine,” replied Perley, “is to seize upon every advantage that offers.”

At this point the conversation was interrupted, and as neither party, for good reasons, thought it advisable to renew it, the subject did not come up between them for several days. During this time Perley could think of little else but California, and the golden harvest it presented; and the more he thought of it, the more fully satisfied was he that an immense fortune might speedily be realized by trading in that region. What was in the way, when blankets sold for ten dollars each, a pair of boots for double that sum, flour for sixty dollars a barrel, and every thing else in proportion?

“The fact is, Jenkins,” said he, renewing the subject not many days after the first conversation, “we must make some of this hay while the sun is shining.”

“The golden hay, you mean.”

“I do.”

“How are we to make it?”

“By going sickle in hand to the field, and reaping with the rest.”

“Suppose the field should be reaped before we get there?”

“That cannot be. The gold region is a thousand miles in length and several hundreds in breadth. There is enough for all who will go for the next ten years.”

“I must beg leave to doubt that,” coolly replied Jenkins. “It’s all a feverish imagination. Gold dazzles the eyes and keeps men from seeing in a clear light.”

“But, my dear man,” said Perley, “look at the facts and judge for yourself. Take Governor Mason’s statement.”

“Very well. Suppose we believe all the governor says, what then? Why, the man who finds an ounce of gold a day has to pay about sixteen prices for the necessaries of life, and, so is no better off than the man here who earns a dollar in the same time. The only way in which he can accumulate gold is to live like a savage.”

“But, I wouldn’t go todiggold!”

“Go! Surely you do not think seriously of going?”

“I certainly do.”

“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Perley. We are doing exceedingly well and our business is growing. Last year it doubled, and is in a fair way of doubling itself again this year.”

“But what is such a rate of increase to the golden gains that are now offered? Nothing—nothing.”

Mr. Jenkins could not talk as fluently as his partner, and was in this instance, as he had been once or twice before, silenced but not convinced.

Daily there came some fresh intelligence touching the gold deposits in our new possessions, and the note of preparation for a speedy flight was sounded in all directions. The newspapers teemed with exciting statements, and every man you met in the street, on ’change, or in the social circle, had something to say about California. Daily the fever increased, and particularly with Mr. Edwards Perley, until he began to be slightly delirious. But, though the epidemic raged all around him, Mr. Jenkins remained calm and cool. If any one talked to him about California, he shook his head with an emphasis that left no doubt as to the state of his mind.

“My California is here,” he sometimes replied. “Wait for ten years, and see then who is best off. If gold is so abundant as they say it is, and obtained so easily, I shall benefit as well as those who dig for it. ‘Come easy, go easy,’ you know. The man who picks up a pound of gold wont value it as much as he who earns it by the sweat of his brow, and will part with it far more easily. So, after all, the gold will flow from the hands of those who gather it freely, through all the channels of trade, and we who continue in the pursuit of useful employments, will be likely to reap the most abundant harvest.”

“All this,” Perley said, “was little better than nonsense. ‘Give me a bird in the hand, and you may have two in the bush.’ ”

“Just my own sentiment,” returned Jenkins. “I have the bird in the hand here, I can’t let it go for two in the bush away out on the Pacific.”

Still the fever went on increasing.

“Mr. Jenkins,” said Perley, as he was about leaving the store one afternoon, “I wish you would drop down to my house this evening, I want to have some talk with you.”

“Very well,” replied the partner. So about eight o’clock he called down.

“I want to see you in order to have a more serious talk about California,” said Perley. “I am satisfied that the subject has not had in your mind the consideration it demands, and that if you saw it as I do, you would not be so insensible to the extraordinary advantages that are now offered.”

Jenkins felt in no mood for argument or controversy, though his mind was as clear as a bell, and his purpose as immovable as ever. So he bent his head in a listening attitude, and looked up from under his drooping eyelashes, willing to listen, but firmly resolved not to be started from the rock upon which he had fixed himself.

The first proposition made by Perley, after eloquently setting forth the advantage of turning all their capital and energy into this new field, was to charter a vessel, put their whole stock of goods on board, and take a flight to San Francisco. But the wonderful profit to be made did not in the least tempt his phlegmatic, long-headed partner, who was beginning to calculate the amount of advantage he might gain in the approaching dissolution of co-partnership—for to that he saw it would come.

“You will not go,” said Perley, on receiving a positive negative to this proposal.

“No, not for twice the inducement. I am not going to risk my life, nor abridge my comfort, in a wild enterprise like this, when I am doing well at home.”

Perley leaned back, looked to the ceiling, and mused for some moments.

“Very well,” said he, “if you are unwilling to assume so great a risk, let me go out with an adventure, and you remain at home.”

But Jenkins was growing wider awake every moment. Having once entertained the idea of getting rid of his partner, and coming into the undivided advantage of his business, he had no notion of agreeing to any thing short of that. So he affirmed, in his quiet way, that he would have nothing to do with the gold bubble in any form.

“Then we must dissolve,” said Perley, half fretfully. He was restive under the check-rein of his cool-tempered partner.

“As you like about that,” was imperturbably answered. It would have taken an eye well skilled in the signs of human emotions to have detected, in the immovable face of the calculating Yankee, the smallest indication of pleasure. Yet his pleasure was great.

The proposition thus made and agreed to, was forthwith carried out. As Perley was determined upon a dissolution at all hazards, and, as his partner affected entire indifference, the odds were altogether against him, and he was compelled to accept of any arrangement that suited the other. So excited was he about California, and so eager to get off, that he accepted, as his half of the business, a portion of old, and, to a great extent, unsaleable stock, and shipped it by the first vessel that sailed for Monterey and San Francisco. Its real value in the New York market was about five thousand dollars; its estimated value in the settlement ten thousand, and its prospective value as an adventure at the gold diggings fifty thousand. Above this, three thousand dollars in cash were paid to Mr. Perley. Two thousand were left for the support of his family, and one thousand he took with him.

Three weeks after the vessel in which he had shipped his goods sailed, the impatient Mr. Perley, who neither thought nor dreamed of any thing else but gold, and who already saw himself surrounded with heaps of the precious lumps and scales from Feather River, left New York in a steamer for Chagres. As to what Chagres was really like, and as to the real nature of the journey across the Isthmus, Mr. Perley had no correct notion. He had thought of a town with comfortable accommodations, and when those around him talked of canoes and mules as the means of transportation to Panama, something elegant, like a Venetian gondola, or a richly caparisoned animal, was present to his imagination. A few mud huts, with their naked inhabitants, was all he found, upon being disgorged, with some two hundred others, in the rain, to join a congregation of nearly a hundred others, who had arrived on the day before, and who were awaiting the return of canoes from Cruces.

Mr. Perley, like most men of his class, never gave as much attention to little things as prudence required. The man who couldn’t waste time and precious thought on so insignificant an article as a linchpin, was about as wise as Mr. Perley in many of the affairs of life. His friends had nearly all asked him in regard to his outfit.

“Oh, that is all right!” or, “I’ve taken good care of that,” he would unhesitatingly answer. Yet, on reaching Chagres, he had neither tea, coffee, sugar, bread nor meat in his possession. He had money, and this he knew to be all powerful in procuring supplies of any kind; at least, such had been his experience in life. But he was about coming into some new experiences. Neither food nor lodgings were to be had from the natives at Chagres, for “love or money.” Such a sudden influx of Yankee gold diggers was a thing altogether unanticipated and unprovided for, and those who came had, therefore, to provide for themselves.

A week was spent at Chagres before Mr. Perley was lucky enough to procure passage up the river in a canoe, with one of the five trunks of merchandise he had brought with him in the steamer—the remaining four were left behind, with instructions to have them sent over to Panama as quickly as possible. He never saw or heard of them afterward! During this week the poor man nearly starved, for all he could get to eat was an occasional hard biscuit from some fellow passenger. It rained nearly the whole time, and night and day he was in the open air. Wet to the skin, when affirmed of Mr. Perley, was about as literally true as ever the saying was or will be. In this plight, with a fever of rather a more serious character than the gold fever, our adventurer embarked in a canoe, for the privilege of sitting in one end of which, or lying flat on the bottom, for three or four days, he paid the moderate price of fifty dollars, and then thought himself lucky. For a hundred dollars more he was to share the scanty food of his traveling companion, who, wiser than he, had more accurately counted the cost, and prepared himself for the contingencies of the journey.

On the day after leaving Chagres, the sun came out from beneath a veil of clouds, and poured its hot rays upon the head of Mr. Perley. Under this he wilted down like a leaf before the fire. On the second day he was so ill that he could not hold up his head; and by the time he reached Cruces, instead of being in a condition to take his place on a mule’s back, he was utterly prostrate in body, and delirious with fever. Seeing this, and considering him as good as dead, his companion, after possessing himself of his money and trunk, gave the natives who had brought them up twenty dollars to take him back to Chagres in their canoe.

When distinctly conscious once more, Mr. Perley found himself on shipboard, with the rush of waters around him. He was as weak as an infant in body, and almost as weak as an infant in mind. Ideas came confusedly, and faded ere he was able to separate the tangled mass. In a few days he was enough recovered to connect his thoughts, and to call up events to the period of his embarking from Chagres. Beyond that, his memory did not serve him. He soon after becameapprized of the fact that he was on his way to New York, and might expect to be there in less than a week.

On arriving at home, Mr. Perley was as one who had risen from the grave. News of his illness, with a prophecy of his certain death, had reached New York by a previous arrival. Slowly recovered the disappointed man, and as health came flowing once more along his veins, his thoughts were again turned toward El Dorado, whither he had sent an adventure, and from which, he yet hoped to realize a splendid fortune. Of his five trunks and the money he had taken with him no traces remained. Even he had some pretty well grounded doubts of ever seeing them again; and in this matter his doubts only foreshadowed the truth.

A month after Mr. Perley’s return to New York, he was preparing to start again, although thousands and thousands had gone before, and were choking up all the avenues of communication to the Pacific and along the coast. His friends urged him not to risk his life again; but his goods were on the way to San Francisco, and here was his only chance to realize a fortune. So he got himself ready for another flight. But just as he was on the point of starting, the vessel in which he had shipped his goods returned to port, so much damaged by a storm as to be unfit to weather the Cape. When she put to sea she was scarcely equal to the voyage, and insurance could only be effected at very high rates. A heavy leak had damaged, more or less, a great portion of the cargo, among which were the goods of Mr. Perley. This damage, so far as Mr. Perley was concerned, was assessed at one thousand dollars, and paid. The balance of his goods were sold off at auction, in a spirit of recklessness engendered by a temporary despondency, for two thousand dollars more. And thus ended Mr. Perley’s California expedition!

Disappointed, disheartened and almost beside himself, the unfortunate man wandered about the city in a state of irresolution for a month or two; while his old partner, the cool, shrewd Yankee, was rejoicing over the fine business which had come exclusively into his hands, and saying to himself—“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.” At last Mr. Perley’s organ of Hope became again active; and, as intelligence from the gold region came with so many drawbacks, he concluded to try his fortune once more at home, and so, with the three thousand dollars that remained, started his old exchange business in Wall street, where he may now be seen counting his uncurrent money, and sighing over the smallness of his gains.

THE OLD WOODEN CHURCH ON THE GREEN.

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BY HENRY MORFORD.

———

They are all laying hands on the things I loved best,They are all closing up my dim past,They are all heaping sods upon Memory’s breast,Till but little is left me at last;But I sometimes look back to the things of old time,And I think of the things that have been,And the memory comes, like a nursery rhyme,Of the Old Wooden Church on the Green.It is little and old in this plentiful age,It has neither a steeple nor bell,It is bowing its roof to the pitiless rageOf the storms it has battled so well;It is guiltless of glass, and the paint’s washed awayIn the storm and the sunshine, I ween,For no kind hand attends, for this many a day,To the Old Wooden Church on the Green.Beneath the mossed roof the small swallow-nests hang,And the bees hive and swarm in the eaves,And the loosed shutters swing with a sorrowful clangWhen the wind through the old church-yard grieves;Neglect and decay are around the old walls,Dark ruin looks over the scene,Oh, sad is the sound of the lone foot that falls,Round the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

They are all laying hands on the things I loved best,

They are all closing up my dim past,

They are all heaping sods upon Memory’s breast,

Till but little is left me at last;

But I sometimes look back to the things of old time,

And I think of the things that have been,

And the memory comes, like a nursery rhyme,

Of the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

It is little and old in this plentiful age,It has neither a steeple nor bell,It is bowing its roof to the pitiless rageOf the storms it has battled so well;It is guiltless of glass, and the paint’s washed awayIn the storm and the sunshine, I ween,For no kind hand attends, for this many a day,To the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

It is little and old in this plentiful age,

It has neither a steeple nor bell,

It is bowing its roof to the pitiless rage

Of the storms it has battled so well;

It is guiltless of glass, and the paint’s washed away

In the storm and the sunshine, I ween,

For no kind hand attends, for this many a day,

To the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

Beneath the mossed roof the small swallow-nests hang,And the bees hive and swarm in the eaves,And the loosed shutters swing with a sorrowful clangWhen the wind through the old church-yard grieves;Neglect and decay are around the old walls,Dark ruin looks over the scene,Oh, sad is the sound of the lone foot that falls,Round the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

Beneath the mossed roof the small swallow-nests hang,

And the bees hive and swarm in the eaves,

And the loosed shutters swing with a sorrowful clang

When the wind through the old church-yard grieves;

Neglect and decay are around the old walls,

Dark ruin looks over the scene,

Oh, sad is the sound of the lone foot that falls,

Round the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

Yet I’d rather to-day they should crumble away,Earth’s proudest and loftiest pile,Built up as a mock for neglect and decay,To stand while the broad heavens smile—Than tear off one shred from its moss-eaten roof,Or call it the shabby and mean,For we’re all, when grown old and neglected enoughLike the Old Wooden Church on the Green.And I hear the sweet voices that chanted within,Oh! many a summer ago,Still chanting the hymn when the eve closes in,Though they echo from heaven, I know;And I sit in the pew where they sat by my side,And as back in the shadows I lean,I hear the low prayers that echoed and diedIn the Old Wooden Church on the Green.I will weep when it falls, I will smile while it stands,As winter on winter goes by,Protected by naught but invisible hands,Till I sleep in its shade when I die;Let them bury me there in a mound poor and low,When the blast of the winter is keen,That the winds that wail over me pass as they goThe Old Wooden Church on the Green.

Yet I’d rather to-day they should crumble away,

Earth’s proudest and loftiest pile,

Built up as a mock for neglect and decay,

To stand while the broad heavens smile—

Than tear off one shred from its moss-eaten roof,

Or call it the shabby and mean,

For we’re all, when grown old and neglected enough

Like the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

And I hear the sweet voices that chanted within,Oh! many a summer ago,Still chanting the hymn when the eve closes in,Though they echo from heaven, I know;And I sit in the pew where they sat by my side,And as back in the shadows I lean,I hear the low prayers that echoed and diedIn the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

And I hear the sweet voices that chanted within,

Oh! many a summer ago,

Still chanting the hymn when the eve closes in,

Though they echo from heaven, I know;

And I sit in the pew where they sat by my side,

And as back in the shadows I lean,

I hear the low prayers that echoed and died

In the Old Wooden Church on the Green.

I will weep when it falls, I will smile while it stands,As winter on winter goes by,Protected by naught but invisible hands,Till I sleep in its shade when I die;Let them bury me there in a mound poor and low,When the blast of the winter is keen,That the winds that wail over me pass as they goThe Old Wooden Church on the Green.

I will weep when it falls, I will smile while it stands,

As winter on winter goes by,

Protected by naught but invisible hands,

Till I sleep in its shade when I die;

Let them bury me there in a mound poor and low,

When the blast of the winter is keen,

That the winds that wail over me pass as they go

The Old Wooden Church on the Green.

OPERA EXTRAVAGANCE.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine.

MY FIRST LOVE;

OR THE NIGHT-KEY.[1]

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BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

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[1]Herlotzsohn, in his Experiences, relates a story similar to the following.

[1]

Herlotzsohn, in his Experiences, relates a story similar to the following.

Although a stricken bachelor, I cannot speak without emotion of my first love. An eastern philosopher says—it is with first love as with a first cigar; one precipitates himself upon it, luxuriates to the utmost in the draught, and when it is over, is sensible of a melancholy unlike that induced by any other loss. I suppose I may consider myself particularly fortunate, having felt no reaction after my first cigar, and finding equally harmless consequences from my first love. I do not mean to say that I was so happy as to find the passion returned; ah, no! for then—I should have been a Benedict. I mean that I imbibed all of bliss which belongs to the feeling, without hazarding the loss of my peace; I enjoyed it while it was permitted to last, with but a few trifling drawbacks, and that without stirring a fountain of remorse or regret to sprinkle with bitterness my future years.

In the winter of 18— I chanced to lodge in —— Place, in the establishment then kept by Mrs. ——. My apartment was on the third floor, and overlooked the street; the room immediately back of it, which I used for my books and papers, looked into a small court, and commanded a view through the windows opposite, of the parlor on the second floor in the rear, which was occupied by the young lady to whom my attention was devoted. She and her mother had been inmates of the house but a short time, when the sight of her, seated at her embroidery-frame near the window, took my heart captive at once. She had long, fair ringlets, that seemed touched with gold when the light fell on them; her complexion was beautifully fair, with a rose-like tint in her cheeks; the bright line of her lips disclosed pearly teeth, and she had the finest turned neck and shoulders nature ever fashioned to put art to shame. But her hand—that small, white, dimpled hand, which she often held up in my view, while selecting a shade of worsted, threading her needle, counting the stitches, or practicing any of the little coquetries of her work! No sculptor could have rivaled the perfection of that hand. Those taper fingers drew the string which sped Cupid’s arrow to my heart. I often tried to draw that hand, and as often gave up the task in despair, for it never was still long enough. Sometimes I saw it wandering over the strings of her guitar; for almost always, of an evening, she played andsang, and then, after having watched her tuning it, how I hated the envious curtains that were so closely drawn to shut out paradise from my longing eyes. For hours I would stand at my window, having no other occupation than feeding the pigeons that gathered about the frame, observing her by stealth as she worked or watered the flowers that lived under her care, or petted a delicate canary-bird, whose cage hung on the wall outside. I had no pleasure so great as that of gazing upon her; yet I could plainly see that my devotion was unmarked, for she was near-sighted, and could not, at even a short distance, perceive that she was so earnestly regarded. To that circumstance, in all probability, I owed the liberty I enjoyed.

I always retreated from the window when her mother approached, for she had eyes that rivaled those of a lynx. She was tall, moreover, with black eyes and hair; rather robust in person, and with an unmistakable air of hauteur, which proved quite as effectual as she could have wished in keeping people at a distance. Her voice was naturally harsh and imperious, though usually subdued in its tones, except on occasions when sudden irritation caused the speaker to forget her dignity. Even in her gentlest moods it had a latent sharpness that twanged uneasily on my ears, especially when I remembered how necessary it was to secure the favor of this haughty lady, in order to advance a step toward the accomplishment of my hopes with the lovely daughter.

Thus, then, stood the case; I was desperately, irremediably in love with this young girl; ready for any venture to win her, but uncertain how to commence an acquaintance, for I was not even among the privileged number of her visiters. We lodged under the same roof; we sat at the same table, though at different ends of it; but I knew no one of whom I could ask an introduction to her; and I felt, alas! that my position in life did not quite entitle me to enter the list of her suitors without such formalities as might smooth over a surprise. I was a painter; rising in my profession, it is true, and numbering many friends, but as yet, having fortune only in prospect. Mrs. Elwyn, for that was the name of the mother of my charmer, was independent, though not rich; and having in early life moved much in fashionable society, and been much admired, was very proud, and would scarcely have owned among her acquaintances one who depended on the labor of hands or head for a maintenance. Neither she nor her daughter ever entered the common drawing-room; and those of the lodgers who knew her slightly, spoke of her as distant and unsocial, except to the favored few whom she thought worth cultivating, on account of their possession of worldly advantages. She was precisely the sort of woman on whom I would never have wasted an act of courtesy, had she been the mother of any other daughter. But in the fair Gertrude there was such a bewitching unconsciousness of her own superiority, such an appealing eloquence in silence, to the sympathy of those around her—such an air of child-like humility, mingled with just enough of the graceful pride of woman, as completed the fascination her beauty had begun, and inspired one with a wish to please even her repulsive parent. I sawher not only at meals, but occasionally out of the house, at concerts or the Opera. To me she was the soul of the music, and the finest symphony of Beethoven would have been lifeless without her. At church I met her now and then, and sometimes walking; but Mrs. Elwyn never vouchsafed me the most distant bow of recognition. She seemed by intuition to guess my bold wishes and frown upon them. Gertrude was always modestly looking down; but at intervals the fringe of her blue eyes would be suddenly lifted, disclosing a world of witchery beneath, to be quickly veiled again, as if she knew she was transgressing. It was the evidence of this consciousness on her part that fanned my love continually into a brighter flame, and caused me to revolve various expedients to secure to myself the enjoyment of her society.

I thought of painting her picture as she sat embroidering at the window, and sending it as a present to the mother; but I lacked as yet, sufficient confidence in my talent for the art, in which I was but a student, and the terror of her condemnation, both of the artist and the lover, was too formidable to be encountered. A dread of her cold penetration prevented me also from putting in execution a cherished project; that of offering my services to teach the beautiful Gertrude Italian, which I knew she wished to acquire. The very day I had mustered up courage to resolve on the experiment, I heard that Mrs. Elwyn had hired a teacher—a dark-visaged, whiskered fellow, whom, from that moment, I wished in the dungeons of Spielberg.

Was there ever a more hopeless case of love; yet I was not unhappy, for I had the privilege of seeing her, unawed by fear of interruption; and my passion was not yet so encrusted with selfishness that it demanded more. I lived in the present, and hope colored the future with rosy light; even the feeling of disappointment was but momentary. I almost dreaded a change, though I knew this could not satisfy me long, and that a wilder, more impetuous, and less amiable stage was to follow. Already the first sweet, sparkling foam of the cup had been quaffed; beneath was that which bewilders the brain and steals away the senses.

I had been reading one night till past midnight—for strangely enough, I had a taste for novels after the beginning of the romance of my life—when my attention was arrested by hearing a carriage stop in the street before the door. Presently the bell rang, not very gently. A short pause, and it was again rung; while I was conscious of a twinge of sympathy for the late comer; for the night was piercing cold, and the wind came in hoarse blasts, rattling the window-panes, and sending a chill through the bones. The contrast offered by my snug apartment, with its crimson curtains and chintz-covered sofa, and the dying glow of the embers thrown on the Venetian rug, was peculiarly suggestive of ideas of comfort. I thought how hard it must be for the porter to be summoned out of his warm bed in the little chamber at the back of the court, and judged the applicant for admission at such an hour justly punished by delay.

Again, and again, and yet again sounded the bell, each time with a more prolonged and angry pull, as if the person at the door, with patience exhausted, was resolved to take the house by storm. A thought darted like lightning through my brain. I had seen Miss Elwyn that evening, in full dress, passing with her mother through the hall. They had gone to a party—they had returned late. I sprung to the window—threw it open; and sure enough, though it was too dark to distinguish any object, I heard with sufficient distinctness the shrill, complaining tones of the mother.

By good luck I was still dressed, and I lost not an instant. Snatching up the light, I hastened down two flights of stairs, to the front door. My heart beat; my breath came quickly; I felt as if the crisis of my life were at hand. I should meet her face to face; I should speak to her—should render a service that demanded acknowledgment, and might open for me a vista of happiness; I grasped the handle of the door, and with trembling hands unlocked and opened it; there was a rush of wind, and—my light was extinguished.

“You sleep like a night-watcher, sir!” screamed the angry voice of Mrs. Elwyn, as she pushed her way in. “To keep us standing half an hour in the cold! We might have caught our death! You deserve to lose your place; I shall make complaint of you in the morning, depend upon it.”

While she spoke, the daughter’s silken mantle brushed past me, and her gloved fingers pressed something into my hand. I had no time to explain; I could not have uttered a word; my breath seemed to forsake me, and my silly bashfulness held me motionless, as if chained to the spot. I stood there till the ladies had ascended the first flight of stairs—the mamma grumbling as she went—still grasping mechanically in my hand what the fair Gertrude had placed therein. Ere long, however, my self-possession returned; I ascended to my room, lighted the candle, and examined the gift. My beloved had presented me with half a dollar.

It was quite evident that both had mistaken me for the unlucky porter, at that time snoring in his dormitory; and that the gentle girl had bestowed the coin by way of consolation for her mother’s chiding. I kissed the piece of silver which had come from her hand, and was a token of the benevolence of her heart. A ray of hope gleamed from its polished face. The matter must necessarily be explained; the mistake must be rectified. This would lead to an interview; and I would trust fortune for the rest.

After due deliberation, I came to the conclusion that as the affair in some points wore a comical aspect, it would be best to present it in that light. I took my pencil and hammered out some poetry, which was to be sent with the half dollar to the fair donor. Under the veil of a sprightly and facetious effusion, I thought, more could be said, than in a grave note; and no offence could be taken at verses meant for ajeu d’esprit, describing the feeling experienced when the coin touched my palm, as “shocking”—which word terminated the line—imperative necessity called for a rhyme—it ran as follows:

“Oh, had the gift been but a glove—or stocking!Such token fromthyhand a joy had given,I would not barter for the joy of heaven!”

“Oh, had the gift been but a glove—or stocking!

Such token fromthyhand a joy had given,

I would not barter for the joy of heaven!”

I was not much used to writing poetry; but on reading over the missive, it struck me as combining humor and sentiment in a manner peculiarly felicitous. The lines could not fail to make an impression; she would, perhaps, reply; all would fall out as I wished, and I should look upon that night as the most fortunate of my life. I mended a crow-quill, and copied the verses neatly on rose-colored paper, resolving to send them the first thing in the morning. She would then see they had been written impromptu. It was late when I threw myself on the bed, and late when I awoke. No benevolent genius warned me in the visions of slumber.

The next day I folded the money and verses together, and dispatched the package to my charmer by the maid. I was frequently at my post of observation; but not once did I catch a glimpse of her at the window. The guitar was silent—the embroidery-frame untouched. Toward evening I waylaid the chamber-maid, and having crossed her hand with a piece of silver, inquired particularly how my dispatch had been received.

“Why, sir,” was the answer, “the young lady only laughed, and showed the paper to her mother; and Mrs. Elwyn threw it into the fire, and said as how she wondered how you could have had the impudence; but she expected you did not know any better.”

A blight fell upon my hopes; I had evidently committed an error. That unlucky “stocking!”, it was that which had played me false—which had offended the lady’s sense of propriety—which had suddenly let down a partition-wall between me and the accomplishment of my hopes. But through the chinks of that now impassable barrier, Gertrude appeared lovelier than ever. A thousand wild projects floated through my brain. I would hire bandits to assail her; would rush in time to the rescue, and be wounded in her defense. I would play the incendiary, and bear her in triumph through the flames; I would get up a quarrel, and fight a duel for her sake. But these were only feverish fantasies—castles built in the air—which melted in the cold current of reality. I could perceive plainly that at table, when I stole a glance at her, Mrs. Elwyn had grown colder and statelier than ever. She never honored me by a look, and, worse than all, Gertrude did not appear. It was not till after two days I learned, by mere accident, that she had taken cold on that eventful night, and was indisposed.

But ill luck cannot last always. The beautiful girl soon reappeared at meals as blooming and radiant as usual; and, oh joy! again I was so happy as to behold her seated at the window, and watch the movements of her delicate fingers over the strings of her guitar. Here was a bliss of which no frowning matron could deprive me. One day, too, as in my eagerness to drink in the tones of her music, I had softly opened my window, and was imprudently leaning forward, rapt in a trance of bliss, I saw an unmistakable smile on her lips. Yes, she smiled; and though at the same moment she drew back, and let the guitar slide from her lap, my heart was thrilled by the knowledge that she was at last aware of my secret. What woman could be insensible to homage so delicate and unobtrusive. Hope once more stirred within me. The next morning I bribed the maid to leave on her table, as if by mistake, a just published number of the “Home Journal,” in which was a poem of rare beauty, which aptly expressed my admiration and my love. I had ventured to draw a light pencil line around the verses, which I hoped she might perceive and understand. My little ruse succeeded. A servant brought me the paper in the evening, saying it had been left by mistake in Mrs. Elwyn’s apartment; but it bore evidence of having been carefully read.

It was not safe to venture often on such expedients; but the fourteenth of February was at hand; and the most timid lover might avail himself of its privileges. Valentines of all descriptions, for all stages of the tender passion, were to be had at the fancy stores; and a little alteration made them original. On the morning of the festival, one, delicately painted on embossed paper, and glowing with sentiment, was dispatched to the fair Gertrude, and was followed by one for each day of the week succeeding. I received none in return—but I was not discouraged; it was enough that mine were read.

I was now at the height of my content; for there was a charm in the sort of mystery that enveloped our intercourse, the more delightful to me, because I had the authority of all the romances I had ever read, for believing that it was the best nourisher of affection. Fancy would invest with a thousand gifts and graces, the lover whom she knew not, yet whose devotion was breathed into the air around her. Flowers would succeed verses as the messengers of the heart; I should grow bolder in time, till every obstacle was triumphed over. Such would have been the natural course of things but for the awkward interruption which brings me to the conclusion of my story.

I had gone one evening to a supper given by a bachelor friend, and returned late from the scene of mirth and revelry. As I walked rapidly down —— Place, for the night was chilly, and the street covered with snow, I saw two ladies alight from a carriage in front of Mrs. ——’s house. I hastened my pace; a thrill of joy penetrated my breast; it was she—my beloved, with her mother; and both were, by a happy chance, destined to be obliged to me. I sprung up the steps, murmured a “good evening,” and drew out my night-key. I was surprised to find how much courage, nay, even pride, I derived from the possession of this little instrument. Briefly apologizing to the ladies for thus venturing to save them the trouble of summoning a servant, I thrust the key in the lock, and turned it with all my force. It snapped violently; I drew out the fragment, and, to my horror, discovered that in my haste, I had not used the night-key, but the key of my chamber.

“I really—beg ten thousand pardons,” I faltered—“it was the wrong key⁠—”

“The key is broken!” cried the shrill voice of Mrs. Elwyn. “It is dreadful to be kept standing here!” She pulled the bell furiously.

In affright I pulled it also; the porter’s hurried steps were presently heard in the hall, and he was rattling at the lock.

“Open the door!” cried the lady, impatiently.

“I cannot unlock it!” said the man within; “there must be something in the key-hole.”

“The broken key!” screamed Mrs. Elwyn, with an angry glance at me; “so officious, to insist—”

“Mother!” pleaded the soft, low voice of Gertrude; for she saw that the dame was forgetting herself.

“It must—it can—I will run for a locksmith!” I exclaimed. I saw that the carriage had driven off.

“And we are to stand here alone, perhaps to be insulted by any drunken vagabond!” cried Mrs. Elwyn. “But go—nothing else can be done. Make haste—why do you wait?”

A locksmith lived in the next street; I flew thither; by chance he was still up, and as soon as his tools could be collected, he hastened to the spot. There stood the angry lady, her teeth chattering with cold, her mantle covered with the snow-flakes that had begun to fall, murmuring at the delay; her daughter was leaning in silence against the side of the door; and within could be heard the grumbling of the porter. I could not see Gertrude’s face, even if I had been calm enough to read its expression.

The skillful locksmith, with the ready tact of his profession, soon comprehended the difficulty, and having tried to pick the lock, decided that it must be done from the inside. A ladder was in requisition, to enter by the window above. Mrs. Elwyn was in despair at this intelligence, and broke out into complaints and reproaches, intended for me, which I heard but imperfectly, as I ran to borrow a ladder of some firemen in the neighborhood. It was brought by two of the company, who were followed by several others eager to learn what was going on. These were joined by some late idlers, while the windows of the adjoining and opposite houses, as well as those of our own, were thrown open, and a multitude of heads thrust out to see what was the matter. A pretty scene for the crowd-hating, aristocratic, haughty Mrs. Elwyn! For once, unmindful of her dignity, she stood giving voluble directions to the locksmith, already at the window, calling to him with flurried emphasis, to be careful not to throw down the flower-stand, or break the vase full of goldfish—which articles belonged to her. As for me, my only feeling was one of absolute despair, for I knew that my transgression, with its consequences, was unpardonable. We obtained entrance at last, and I heard the farewell of my love in the indignant rustle of Mrs. Elwyn’s mantle, as she swept up stairs. A day or two after she and her daughter departed on a visit to Washington, and when they returned, took lodgings elsewhere. I heard in a few months of Gertrude’s marriage, but felt no sorrow, for the spell was broken. That midnight scene, with the mortification it caused me, was a harmless termination to my First Love.

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