THE TWO PALMS.
———
BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN.
———
As the last column of a temple vanished,A Palm-tree, in a city of the West,Stood, like a hero from his country banished,A proud though lonely guest.Perchance its birth-place was a holy mountain,Or radiant valley of some tropic isle,Near pyramid, or mosque, or wayside fountain,By Jordan or the Nile.And oft its high and tufted crest beholding,In each vibration of the arching leaves,A plaintive strain I seemed to hear unfolding,As when an exile grieves.For solemn is the air of isolation,And that lone offspring of the desert wildWore to my eye a look of consecration,That sympathy beguiled.No more around it eastern balms were stealing,But smoke and dingy vapors of the town,No Moslem in its pillared shade was kneeling,Nor caravan sunk down.Before it once the sandy ridges heaving,Spread like an ocean, limitless and free,And the mirage its panorama weaving,Rose beautiful to see!Now waves of eager life beneath it swelling,With restless care mock oriental ease,And chimney-stacks, tiled roof and murky dwelling,Shut out the sun and breeze.Yet even here I marked, each day, appearingAn aged Syrian, sorrowful and calm,With folded arms, wan smile, and looks endearingCast on the lonely Palm.And once he murmured, as the night descended,While gazing fondly through unconscious tears,“Fair tree,the promise of thy life is ended,For here thou hast no peers.”How near the good we distantly are craving!The Syrian long had weary vigil kept —One morn his country’s tree was gaily waving —It blossomed while he slept!Some far-off nook of that vast city treasuredAnother Palm by careless eyes unseen,That drearily the lingering years had measured,Yet put forth shoots of green;Until its ripened flower-dust uplifting,On the strong currents of the tideless air,With certain aim to his pent garden drifting,A mate encountered there!Thus seeds of Truth their noiseless flight are winging,And Love instinctively steals through the crowd,To hearts receptive consolation bringing,They may not breathe aloud!Accept the omen, thou who toilest lonely,And patiently Life’s blossoming await,Where God has planted thee be faithful only,And thou shalt conquer Fate!
As the last column of a temple vanished,A Palm-tree, in a city of the West,Stood, like a hero from his country banished,A proud though lonely guest.Perchance its birth-place was a holy mountain,Or radiant valley of some tropic isle,Near pyramid, or mosque, or wayside fountain,By Jordan or the Nile.And oft its high and tufted crest beholding,In each vibration of the arching leaves,A plaintive strain I seemed to hear unfolding,As when an exile grieves.For solemn is the air of isolation,And that lone offspring of the desert wildWore to my eye a look of consecration,That sympathy beguiled.No more around it eastern balms were stealing,But smoke and dingy vapors of the town,No Moslem in its pillared shade was kneeling,Nor caravan sunk down.Before it once the sandy ridges heaving,Spread like an ocean, limitless and free,And the mirage its panorama weaving,Rose beautiful to see!Now waves of eager life beneath it swelling,With restless care mock oriental ease,And chimney-stacks, tiled roof and murky dwelling,Shut out the sun and breeze.Yet even here I marked, each day, appearingAn aged Syrian, sorrowful and calm,With folded arms, wan smile, and looks endearingCast on the lonely Palm.And once he murmured, as the night descended,While gazing fondly through unconscious tears,“Fair tree,the promise of thy life is ended,For here thou hast no peers.”How near the good we distantly are craving!The Syrian long had weary vigil kept —One morn his country’s tree was gaily waving —It blossomed while he slept!Some far-off nook of that vast city treasuredAnother Palm by careless eyes unseen,That drearily the lingering years had measured,Yet put forth shoots of green;Until its ripened flower-dust uplifting,On the strong currents of the tideless air,With certain aim to his pent garden drifting,A mate encountered there!Thus seeds of Truth their noiseless flight are winging,And Love instinctively steals through the crowd,To hearts receptive consolation bringing,They may not breathe aloud!Accept the omen, thou who toilest lonely,And patiently Life’s blossoming await,Where God has planted thee be faithful only,And thou shalt conquer Fate!
As the last column of a temple vanished,A Palm-tree, in a city of the West,Stood, like a hero from his country banished,A proud though lonely guest.
As the last column of a temple vanished,
A Palm-tree, in a city of the West,
Stood, like a hero from his country banished,
A proud though lonely guest.
Perchance its birth-place was a holy mountain,Or radiant valley of some tropic isle,Near pyramid, or mosque, or wayside fountain,By Jordan or the Nile.
Perchance its birth-place was a holy mountain,
Or radiant valley of some tropic isle,
Near pyramid, or mosque, or wayside fountain,
By Jordan or the Nile.
And oft its high and tufted crest beholding,In each vibration of the arching leaves,A plaintive strain I seemed to hear unfolding,As when an exile grieves.
And oft its high and tufted crest beholding,
In each vibration of the arching leaves,
A plaintive strain I seemed to hear unfolding,
As when an exile grieves.
For solemn is the air of isolation,And that lone offspring of the desert wildWore to my eye a look of consecration,That sympathy beguiled.
For solemn is the air of isolation,
And that lone offspring of the desert wild
Wore to my eye a look of consecration,
That sympathy beguiled.
No more around it eastern balms were stealing,But smoke and dingy vapors of the town,No Moslem in its pillared shade was kneeling,Nor caravan sunk down.
No more around it eastern balms were stealing,
But smoke and dingy vapors of the town,
No Moslem in its pillared shade was kneeling,
Nor caravan sunk down.
Before it once the sandy ridges heaving,Spread like an ocean, limitless and free,And the mirage its panorama weaving,Rose beautiful to see!
Before it once the sandy ridges heaving,
Spread like an ocean, limitless and free,
And the mirage its panorama weaving,
Rose beautiful to see!
Now waves of eager life beneath it swelling,With restless care mock oriental ease,And chimney-stacks, tiled roof and murky dwelling,Shut out the sun and breeze.
Now waves of eager life beneath it swelling,
With restless care mock oriental ease,
And chimney-stacks, tiled roof and murky dwelling,
Shut out the sun and breeze.
Yet even here I marked, each day, appearingAn aged Syrian, sorrowful and calm,With folded arms, wan smile, and looks endearingCast on the lonely Palm.
Yet even here I marked, each day, appearing
An aged Syrian, sorrowful and calm,
With folded arms, wan smile, and looks endearing
Cast on the lonely Palm.
And once he murmured, as the night descended,While gazing fondly through unconscious tears,“Fair tree,the promise of thy life is ended,For here thou hast no peers.”
And once he murmured, as the night descended,
While gazing fondly through unconscious tears,
“Fair tree,the promise of thy life is ended,
For here thou hast no peers.”
How near the good we distantly are craving!The Syrian long had weary vigil kept —One morn his country’s tree was gaily waving —It blossomed while he slept!
How near the good we distantly are craving!
The Syrian long had weary vigil kept —
One morn his country’s tree was gaily waving —
It blossomed while he slept!
Some far-off nook of that vast city treasuredAnother Palm by careless eyes unseen,That drearily the lingering years had measured,Yet put forth shoots of green;
Some far-off nook of that vast city treasured
Another Palm by careless eyes unseen,
That drearily the lingering years had measured,
Yet put forth shoots of green;
Until its ripened flower-dust uplifting,On the strong currents of the tideless air,With certain aim to his pent garden drifting,A mate encountered there!
Until its ripened flower-dust uplifting,
On the strong currents of the tideless air,
With certain aim to his pent garden drifting,
A mate encountered there!
Thus seeds of Truth their noiseless flight are winging,And Love instinctively steals through the crowd,To hearts receptive consolation bringing,They may not breathe aloud!
Thus seeds of Truth their noiseless flight are winging,
And Love instinctively steals through the crowd,
To hearts receptive consolation bringing,
They may not breathe aloud!
Accept the omen, thou who toilest lonely,And patiently Life’s blossoming await,Where God has planted thee be faithful only,And thou shalt conquer Fate!
Accept the omen, thou who toilest lonely,
And patiently Life’s blossoming await,
Where God has planted thee be faithful only,
And thou shalt conquer Fate!
“A MERE ACT OF HUMANITY.”
A SLIGHT SKETCH.
———
BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
———
“Health to the art whose glory is to giveThe crowning boon that makes it life to live.”Holmes.
“Health to the art whose glory is to giveThe crowning boon that makes it life to live.”Holmes.
“Health to the art whose glory is to give
The crowning boon that makes it life to live.”
Holmes.
Start not, my fastidious reader, when I announce that the young gentleman, in whose favor and fortunes I would enlist your friendly sympathies, as the hero of this sketch, is, or rather was, amedical student. Now I am very well aware that medical students are proverbially “hard cases”—wild, spreeing, careless, skeptically inclined young gentlemen, whose handkerchiefs smell of ether, and whose gloves are strongly suggestive of rhubarb; whose talk runs large, with bold jests ongrave subjects, sly anatomical allusions, and startling hints at something
“Mair horrible and awfu’,Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’,”
“Mair horrible and awfu’,Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’,”
“Mair horrible and awfu’,Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’,”
“Mair horrible and awfu’,Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’,”
“Mair horrible and awfu’,
Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’,”
and whose very laughter has a sort of bony-rattle about it.
But our friend, Will Ashley, fortunately belonged not to the Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen class of Esculapian disciples. He was a man of refinement, intellect, education, and principle—pleasing address, fine person, and good family. Republican as I am, I can but think much ofgood blood—pure and honorable blood, I mean. He had no bravado, no pretension, no recklessness, no skepticism about him. He chose his profession at the first, from a real, natural leaning that way, and pursued it with true enthusiasm and untiring constancy; and this partiality and devotion have been rewarded with the happiest success. Dr. Ashley is now regarded by his many patients, with a remarkable confidence and affection. To them, there seems “healing in the very creak of his shoes on the stairs,” his cheerful smile lights up the sick room like sunshine; his gentle words and sympathetic tones are as balm and “freshening oil” to hearts and minds, wounded and distempered with the body, and his bright laugh and playful wit are a positive tonic to the weak and nervous and fearful. But I am anticipating; my story has perhaps most to do with the student-life of Ashley.
When William was quite young—a mere boy indeed, he became much attached to a pretty cousin of his own—a gentle, dark-eyed, Southern girl, who made her home for some years with his mother and sister, in the quiet, New England city of H——, where she was attending school.
Jessie Archer was, in truth, a lovely creature—with a heart full of all good and kindly feelings—with a soft, endearing manner, but with very little strength of character, or stability of purpose. She tenderly loved her Northern relatives, and parted from them at last, from her cousin William in particular, with many tears and passionate expressions of regret. She was not positively betrothed to this cousin—such a measure would have been opposed by their friends, on account of the extreme youth of the parties—but she knew well his love and his dear hope—that he looked upon her as his future bride, and she was well content with this understanding.
As a matter of course, and lover-like necessity, William Ashley corresponded with his cousin. At first, the letters on both sides were frequent, long, and confidential; but after the first year of absence, those of Miss Jessie changed gradually in their tone, and became “few and far between.” But William, who was faithful and believing, made a thousand kind excuses for this, and continued to write out of his own affectionate and changeless heart. But at length his Jessie ceased to write altogether. Two months went by, and then poor Ashley, in much distressful anxiety, wrote to her, entreating to be told the cause of her strange silence. There came a reply at last—a brief reply, written in the dear, familiar hand, but bearing for a signature, a strange name. She had been a fortnight married to a wealthy Virginia planter.
This home-thrust at his heart by a beloved hand; this sudden annihilation of his dearest hopes, by her whose sweet source and centre they had been, almost prostrated the young student, mind and body. He was proud, sensitive, and twenty-one; he had the heart and was at the age to feel acutely, to suffer and despair. His ambition died out—his energies flagged—then his appetitewent by the board; his eye grew spiritless, his step heavy, and his cheek pale. “He must give up study,” said his mother. “He must take a journey,” said his sister, speaking one word for him and two for herself. This last proposition, which was strongly pressed, was finally acceded to; and the young gentleman set forth, dispirited and ill, under the care, (“protection,” she called it,) of his charming sister, Ellen. They went directly West, for a visit to the Falls; the very journey which William had always looked forward to as his bridal-tour. Now it seemed but to depress and sadden him the more; he was restless, moody, and abstracted—the very worst traveling-companion possible to have. Ellen found it exceedingly difficult to divert him from his melancholy thoughts and tender recollections, “pleasant and mournful to the soul.” The fine scenery along their route, constantly reminded him of the double pleasure he had anticipated in first viewing it with his beautiful bride.
At Buffalo, our travelers took the afternoon boat forChippewa. It was a bright and breezy day, early in in July—water, earth and sky were lit up gloriously by the declining sun, as they swept down that grand, immortal river. As the brother and sister stood on deck, silently drinking in the rare beauty of the scene and hour, they noticed a party near them, distinguished amid all the crowd, by a certain quiet elegance of dress and manner, with a bearing of perhaps unconscious superiority. This was a family party, and consisted of an elderly gentleman, Mr. Harley, a wealthy banker, and an honorable citizen of New York—his wife, a sweet, motherly-looking woman—their daughter, Juliet, a fair and delicate girl of eighteen, and their only son, Master Fred, a lad of nine or ten.
Ashley was a thorough republican—poor and proud; and being now more than usually inclined to coldness and reserve, instinctively shrunk from all contact with this party, in whom he at once recognized the air patrician and exclusive. But toward evening, Mr. Harley made some courteous advances, and finally succeeded in getting up quite a free and animated conversation with his young fellow-traveler, with whose well-bred air and thoughtful countenance he had been attracted and impressed. They discoursed on the magnificent scenery around them, then on the battles and sieges, bold generalship and grand fighting which had made classic ground of the wild Niagara frontier; and Ashley, who was an admirable talker, soon became earnest and even eloquent, in spite of himself. All at once, in looking up, he met the beautiful blue eyes of Miss Juliet fixed upon him with evident interest and admiration. The young lady dropped her gaze instantly, while a deep blush suffused her bright, ingenuous face. An involuntary thrill of pleasure agitated the heart of Ashley, and his cold eye kindled with a new fire; but as thought returned—the thought of all the fickleness and coquetry, and heartlessness of woman, his brow clouded, he bit his lip, and with a few hasty words, turned abruptly, and drawing his sister’s arm within his own, walked to the side of the vessel, and there stood, silently and moodily, gazing down into the darkening waters and off into the deepening twilight.
Owing to some detention, the boat was later than usual, so that it was quite dark when they landed at Chippewa. On leaving the boat, Mr. Ashley and his sister found themselves directly behind the party with whom they had been conversing. Mr. Harley looking round and seeing them, began making some inquiries respecting the hotel of which they had made choice, when Master Fred, who, in his boyish independence, was walking alone, suddenly stumbled and fell—fell from the broad plank over which they were passing, into the river below. There were screams and shouts, and rushings to and fro, but no rescue was attempted, until Ashley, breaking from the clinging hold of his sister, leaped boldly into the deep, dark water. For a few moments, which seemed an age to the spectators, he searched in vain along the narrow space between the vessel and the wharf, but finally he espied the lad’s head appearing from under the boat, caught, and drew forth the already insensible child, and greatly exhausted himself, swam back to the plank with his precious burden. They were drawn on board together with joyful shouts and earnest thanksgiving.
As Ashley stood in the gangway, staggering and half blind, the crowd cheering and pressing around him, his sister flung her arms about his neck, and hung upon him, laughing and weeping hysterically. But the poor fellow was faint and chilled, and strove to release himself from her passionate embrace. But just as he stood free, he felt his hand clasped, but gently, timidly, and looking round, saw Miss Harley at his side. She hastily raised that cold, wet hand to her warm, quivering lips, and kissed it gratefully, while her tears, her irrepressible tears, fell upon it, as she murmured—“God bless you! God in heaven bless you!” and then hurried away to attend upon her brother, who had been carried back into the cabin. The little lad soon recovered sufficiently to be able to join the party, who together took their way to the Clifton House.
That night, after supper, which he had served in a private parlor, Mr. Harley sought the room of Ashley—his heart overflowing with gratitude toward the young hero, and his thoughts busy with plans of generous recompense. At the door he met a servant bearing away a wet traveling-suit, which sight quickened even more his warm and kindly feelings. He entered, to find Mr. Ashley wrapt in a dressing-gown, sitting by a table, his head bent down on his hands, a plate of light food, almost untasted, and a cup of tea, half drank, pushed back from before him. He was looking even paler and more spiritless than usual. In fact, our friend was completely exhausted by the excitement and exertion of the evening, and consequently deepened in moodiness and reserve. He rose, however, as his visiter entered, and bowing politely, begged him to be seated. But Mr. Harley came forward, took his hand, and pressing it warmly, looked kindly into that pale, quiet face, his own countenance all a-glow, and tears actually glistening in his deep-set, gray eyes. Ashley cast down his own eyes in painful embarrassment, which Mr. Harley perceiving, took the proffered chair, and strove to converse awhile on indifferent topics. But he soon came round to the subject nearest his heart—dwelt long and at large on his paternal joy and gratitude, not seeming to heed the impatience of his sensitive auditor, and finally closed with,
“I trust that there is some way in which I canprovemy gratitude—in part reward you for your generous heroism. Tell me, my dear young friend, can I repay you in any way?”
To Ashley’s jealous ear there was a tone of patronage—an insulting jingle of the banker’s purse in these words, at which he involuntarily drew himself up, and curled his short upper-lip; and when Mr. Harley earnestly repeated his question, thus:
“Is there no way in which I can serve you?” he replied with a sort of nonchalant hauteur,
“Yes; by never mentioning this little circumstance again. I but did for your son what I would do for any fellow-creature. It wasa mere act of humanity, I assure you.”
Mr. Harley, quite taken aback, chilled, and withal deeply hurt, rose at once, and with a stately bow and a cold “good-night,” parted from the rescuer of hischild, the young hero, with whom five minutes before he would have divided his fortune. Tired and indifferent, Ashley flung himself upon his bed, and slept soundly till late in the morning; then rose with a headache, made a light breakfast, and hurried down to Table-Rock with his sister, who had been up since daybreak, impatiently awaiting his appearance.
Ashley was long lost in that first contemplation of the grand scene before him; his soul seemed born to a new life—a new world of beauty, and power, and dread, overwhelming sublimity.
The day was wondrously beautiful, and floods of sunlight were mingling with the waters, and pouring over that stupendous precipice; into the darkest deeps fell the fearless, glad sunbeams, sounding like golden plummets those terrible abysses. There hung the rainbow, and Ellen, as she gazed, remarked a wild-bird, who seemed sporting in the spray, pass through the illuminated arch, and become glorified in its midst; and it seemed to her like an innocent, confiding spirit, coming near to the might and grandeur of Deity, through the beautiful gateway of love.
Ashley was at length roused from his trance of high-wrought rapture, by feeling a small, timid hand laid on his arm, and turned to see Master Fred standing at his side, with a faint glow on his cheek, and an affectionate pleasure shining in his sunken eye. The lad, to-day something of an invalid, was accompanied and half-supported by a servant. Ashley felt an instinctive attraction toward this child, who was a fine, intelligent boy, by the way, and talked with him more kindly and familiarly than he had ever felt disposed to converse with the elder Harley.
On leaving the rock, the Ashleys overtook Mr. Harley with his wife and daughter. Juliet blushed painfully, as her eye met that of William, but he bowed and smiled, as she bade the brother and sister, “Good-morning.” Mr. Harley merely lifted his hat, but Mrs. Harley, who had been so absorbed the evening previous by her intense anxiety for her son, as almost to forget his brave rescuer, now, dropping the arm of her husband, and grasping the hand of the young student, poured the whole story of her boundless gratitude, of her deep, immeasurable joy, into hisnotwilling ear. But after all, the blessing of that mother sunk into his heart—a good heart, though somewhat wayward, and sadly out of harmony with life just now.
A short time after this, Ashley again saw Miss Harley. They met in a fearful place, behind the sheet, on Termination Rock—the secret, dread abode, the dim, awful sanctuary of sublimity.
Even then, Ashley, exalted by poetry, solemnized by grandeur as he was, could but remark the miracle of beauty which made the young lady look lovely as ever in the rude, grotesque costume, the clumsy waterproof dress provided for this adventurous expedition. He next noticed the fearless, yet awe-struck enthusiasm, the high, rapt expression of her face, as, sheltering her eyes from the storm of spray with her fair hand, she gazed upward, to where the huge columns of water, dark-green, and snowy-white, leaped over the shelving precipice, and plunged with a thunderous roar into the black abyss at her side.
In after days he often thought of that fair creature, as she thus appeared—so young, so delicate, yet so brave—so lost to herself almost to life, in a deep trance of awe and adoration. He often thought of her thus, as his last sight of her; for after this they parted—he and Ellen passing over to the American side, saw no more of the Harleys during their brief stay at the Falls.
Ashley was, almost in spite of himself, much improved in health and spirits by travel; and on his return resumed his studies with a sort of dogged devotion, if not with all his old enthusiasm. Yet sometimes, as formerly, the vision of a fair being would come to disturb and distract his thoughts—would flit across his humble room, be almost palpably present to his waking dreams. But it hardly seemed the “lovely young Jessie,” the “beloved of his early years;” this was a fairer, slighter form, clad, oddly enough, in a heavy dress of yellow oil-cloth, with a sort of hood, which, half-falling back, revealed a sweet face, all glorified by sublime adoration. He saw—how distinctly he saw, the deep, abstracted eyes, the bright, parted lips—ah, those lips! whenever he recalledthemby some mysterious association, his eye would fall on his own right hand—a tolerably symmetrical hand, surely, but with nothing more peculiar about it, that I could ever see.
The fall succeeding the journey to Niagara, William Ashley received his diploma, and the next spring opened an office in his native city. Not possessing wealth, or much family-influence, and being young and modest, he had at first few, very few calls. But he was always at his post, never employed his leisure unworthily, or was idle or desponding. He studied as diligently as ever, and waited patiently for those patients whom he rested assured, in the future—the fair, golden future—were “bound to come.”
It happened that the young physician’s way home from his office, lay past, and very near to the elegant residence of Mr. N——, a wealthy and somewhat distinguished citizen of H——; and, pouring through the open windows of this mansion, he one night heard the sweetest singing that had ever met his ear. It was a clear, fresh contralto voice, artistic in execution, yet sweet, and full of feeling.
Ashley, a fine singer himself, was passionately fond of music; and he lingered long before that house, walking up and down beneath the thick shadows of the grand old elms.
This was but the beginning of pleasure; night after night, for some weeks, found the young physician in the same spot, when he was almost always so happy as to hear that rare, delicious singing, thrilling and quivering through the still and dewy air. It was generally accompanied by the piano; but sometimes he would see a gay group on the piazza, and among them a slight figure in white, looking very fair and delicate in the moonlight; then there would come the tinkling of a guitar, and sweet love-lays of Italy, or wild ballads of Spain.
And thus it went on, till Ashley, the invisible listener, had become altogether enchanted, spell-bound—in love with a voice, till fast and far in the dim distance, fadedaway that late familiar vision in yellow oil-cloth and falling hood, and fair, kindling countenance. He now spent as many hours over his books as ever, but his thoughts, alas! were far enough from the page; for, to tell the truth, and expose his boyish folly, he was constantly dreaming out the form and features of the dear, unknown—of her with the voice. Unlike his former self, he now looked searchingly at the fair promenaders whom he met on the street, and he there saw pretty young ladies enough, but no one in whom he recognized his idea of the sweet singer.
At length the hour of good fortune came alike to the physician and to the lover.
Just at sunset, one pleasant evening, a young horseman came dashing up to Dr. Ashley’s office, to summon him to a lady who had dislocated her ankle in springing from her horse. Our hero’s heart beat quick as the messenger directed him to the house of Mr. N. The doctor was shown into a small parlor, where, on a lounge, clad in a white wrapper, reclined his first patient. A wealth of rich, golden hair, somewhat disheveled, first attracted Ashley’s eye; there was something strangely familiar in those bright curls, and he was not taken altogether by surprise when Mrs. N—— presented him to her niece, “Miss Harley.”
The lady was lying with her hands over her face, to conceal the tears drawn forth by her acute suffering; but at the mention of the doctor’s name, she removed them, and looked up eagerly, smiling in the midst of her pain, with pleasure and surprise.
But this was no time for more than a simple recognition, and the next moment saw the doctor bending professionally over the throbbing and swollen foot of the sufferer.
The setting of the dislocated joint caused this young girl excruciating torture; but she bore herself through all with heroic patience—the silent resignation of a true woman.
Yet when all was over—the ankle bound up, and a composing draught administered, as the doctor took leave of his interesting patient, he saw that her cheek was deathly pale, and that her lips quivered convulsively.
From that time, for some weeks, day after day, the young physician might have been seen (by Mrs. N——) kneeling by the side of Miss Juliet’s couch—bending over that poor foot, bathing and dressing it, watching with intense interest the subsiding of the swelling, and the disappearance of the discoloration, till it became at last white and delicate, like its mate and former fellow-traveler.
It is strange how, through all this time, the late music-mad young gentleman existed without listening to the beloved voice, for now, through the windows of that parlor, through the vines and roses of that piazza, no sweet singing floated out into the moonlight.
I told you, dear reader, that Dr. Ashley used to kneel by Juliet’s side to dress her ankle; but when that was better—very much better, almost well, indeed, and clad in silken hose and slipper—it happened that once, when quite alone with his fair patient, at the dreamy twilight hour, the doctor suddenly found himself, by the force of habit, I suppose, in his old position. This time Miss Juliet bent over him till her hand lay on his shoulder—till her long, bright curls touched his forehead, till they mingled in with his own dark locks. She said but a word or two, and the young practitioner sprung up, impulsively and joyfully, and took a prouder position by the side of his beloved patient. His arm was soon about her slight waist—to support her, probably, as her recent indisposition had left her but weak; her hand was in his own; and as he held it thus, he mentally observed—“Quite the quickest pulse I have ever felt.”
Miss Harley called herself well, but she did not seem perfectly so, while she remained with her relatives in H——; at least her physician called more and more frequently, nor did it appear that her poor ankle ever quite regained its strength; for when she took her evening strolls with Dr. Ashley, they were observed to saunter along slowly, and she was seen to lean heavily on the arm of her companion.
It is said that there are men who think that a slight lameness imparts a new interest to a lovely woman—and Dr. Ashley was probably one of these.
One fine morning, early in September, Mr. Ogden Harley, the rich banker, and respectable citizen, was seated in his cushioned arm-chair, in his elegant library, in his princely residence in Waverly Place, in the city of Gotham. He was looking as easy and comfortable as usual—as well pleased with the world, and its ways in general, and its ways toward himself in particular; and even more than usually happy and genial.
Mr. Harley was not alone on this morning. There was then and there present a young man, rather tall, and quite handsome, modestly, yet elegantly dressed—(our friend, the doctor, to let you into the secret, dear reader)—who, with a very red face, and in a manner half proud, half fearful, was just making a confidant of the old gentleman—telling him a love-story of his own, in short. The good man seemed greatly interested in this history, badly told as it was; and at its close, he rose, quite hastily for one of his aldermanic proportions, and going up to his visiter, and laying his hand kindly on his shoulder, said,
“With all my heart—with all my heart! I will give you my Juliet, and place her fortune in your hands—for I honor and like you, young man.”
Ashley, quite overcome, could only stammer out,
“Oh, Mr. Harley, my dear sir, how can I ever repay you for this goodness—this great kindness!”
“By never mentioning this little circumstance again!” replied Mr. Harley, with a roguish twinkle of the eye. “I saw, my dear boy, what a sad condition you were in, and this is ‘A Mere Act of Humanity, I assure you.’ ”
KING WITLAF’S DRINKING HORN.
———
BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
———
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed;That whenever they sat at their revelsAnd drank from the golden bowlThey might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached his holy word.They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was empty,They remembered one Saint more.And the Reader droned from the pulpit,Like the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint Guthlac,And Saint Basil’s homilies;Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomæus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,And the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickered,But the Abbot was stark and dead!Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more!”
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed;That whenever they sat at their revelsAnd drank from the golden bowlThey might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached his holy word.They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was empty,They remembered one Saint more.And the Reader droned from the pulpit,Like the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint Guthlac,And Saint Basil’s homilies;Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomæus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,And the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickered,But the Abbot was stark and dead!Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more!”
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,Ere yet his last he breathed,To the merry monks of CroylandHis drinking-horn bequeathed;
Witlaf, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed;
That whenever they sat at their revelsAnd drank from the golden bowlThey might remember the donor,And breathe a prayer for his soul.
That whenever they sat at their revels
And drank from the golden bowl
They might remember the donor,
And breathe a prayer for his soul.
So sat they once at Christmas,And bade the goblet pass;In their beards the red wine glistenedLike dew-drops in the grass.
So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;
In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,They drank to Christ the Lord,And to each of the Twelve Apostles,Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and MartyrsOf the dismal days of yore,And as soon as the horn was empty,They remembered one Saint more.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty,
They remembered one Saint more.
And the Reader droned from the pulpit,Like the murmur of many bees,The legend of good Saint Guthlac,And Saint Basil’s homilies;
And the Reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil’s homilies;
Till the great bells of the convent,From their prison in the tower,Guthlac and Bartholomæus,Proclaimed the midnight hour.
Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomæus,
Proclaimed the midnight hour.
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,And the Abbot bowed his head,And the flamelets flapped and flickered,But the Abbot was stark and dead!
And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,
And the Abbot bowed his head,
And the flamelets flapped and flickered,
But the Abbot was stark and dead!
Yet still in his pallid fingersHe clutched the golden bowl,In which, like a pearl dissolving,Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
Yet still in his pallid fingers
He clutched the golden bowl,
In which, like a pearl dissolving,
Had sunk and dissolved his soul.
But not for this their revelsThe jovial monks forbore,For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!We must drink to one Saint more!”
But not for this their revels
The jovial monks forbore,
For they cried, “Fill high the goblet!
We must drink to one Saint more!”
STANZAS:
TO A FRIEND, WHO COMPLAINED OF WINTER AS A SEASON OF ENDURANCE.
———
BY A. D. WILLIAMS.
———
What if the snowy draperyOf winter clothe the earth,And rude “north-westers” chase theeTo the quiet fireside hearth?And if the sportive wildnessOf others please thee not;If summer’s balmy mildnessComes not from grove or grot?If in the narrowed towersOf granite walls and gray,Thy spirit mourns the flowers,Through all the live-long day?The muses still are beamingTheir radiance on thy way;With light and beauty gleaming—Dread shadows flit away.And Art the breast is fillingWith generous impulse, free;The Poet’s lyre is thrillingThe soul with melody.The student’s vigil proffersThe hope-lit spirit’s aim;And honored duty offersWhat truth and virtue claim.And friendship true is smilingIn confidence and joy,The lonely hours beguiling.With sweet and loved employ.Nor think that oft it fadeth,On earth’s cold chilling stream,Through many a heart pervadeth,More than a “poet’s dream!”And should thy soul be wearyOf mundane joys and ill,Yet think not winter dreary,For heaven the soul can thrill.Bright, strong-winged Hope is pointingIn gladness to the skies,And Faith, with Heaven’s anointing,Bids brighter visions rise.Then, call not winter dreary,Sigh not for summer’s joy,Nor let thy soul be wearyWith dutiful employ.
What if the snowy draperyOf winter clothe the earth,And rude “north-westers” chase theeTo the quiet fireside hearth?And if the sportive wildnessOf others please thee not;If summer’s balmy mildnessComes not from grove or grot?If in the narrowed towersOf granite walls and gray,Thy spirit mourns the flowers,Through all the live-long day?The muses still are beamingTheir radiance on thy way;With light and beauty gleaming—Dread shadows flit away.And Art the breast is fillingWith generous impulse, free;The Poet’s lyre is thrillingThe soul with melody.The student’s vigil proffersThe hope-lit spirit’s aim;And honored duty offersWhat truth and virtue claim.And friendship true is smilingIn confidence and joy,The lonely hours beguiling.With sweet and loved employ.Nor think that oft it fadeth,On earth’s cold chilling stream,Through many a heart pervadeth,More than a “poet’s dream!”And should thy soul be wearyOf mundane joys and ill,Yet think not winter dreary,For heaven the soul can thrill.Bright, strong-winged Hope is pointingIn gladness to the skies,And Faith, with Heaven’s anointing,Bids brighter visions rise.Then, call not winter dreary,Sigh not for summer’s joy,Nor let thy soul be wearyWith dutiful employ.
What if the snowy draperyOf winter clothe the earth,And rude “north-westers” chase theeTo the quiet fireside hearth?
What if the snowy drapery
Of winter clothe the earth,
And rude “north-westers” chase thee
To the quiet fireside hearth?
And if the sportive wildnessOf others please thee not;If summer’s balmy mildnessComes not from grove or grot?
And if the sportive wildness
Of others please thee not;
If summer’s balmy mildness
Comes not from grove or grot?
If in the narrowed towersOf granite walls and gray,Thy spirit mourns the flowers,Through all the live-long day?
If in the narrowed towers
Of granite walls and gray,
Thy spirit mourns the flowers,
Through all the live-long day?
The muses still are beamingTheir radiance on thy way;With light and beauty gleaming—Dread shadows flit away.
The muses still are beaming
Their radiance on thy way;
With light and beauty gleaming—
Dread shadows flit away.
And Art the breast is fillingWith generous impulse, free;The Poet’s lyre is thrillingThe soul with melody.
And Art the breast is filling
With generous impulse, free;
The Poet’s lyre is thrilling
The soul with melody.
The student’s vigil proffersThe hope-lit spirit’s aim;And honored duty offersWhat truth and virtue claim.
The student’s vigil proffers
The hope-lit spirit’s aim;
And honored duty offers
What truth and virtue claim.
And friendship true is smilingIn confidence and joy,The lonely hours beguiling.With sweet and loved employ.
And friendship true is smiling
In confidence and joy,
The lonely hours beguiling.
With sweet and loved employ.
Nor think that oft it fadeth,On earth’s cold chilling stream,Through many a heart pervadeth,More than a “poet’s dream!”
Nor think that oft it fadeth,
On earth’s cold chilling stream,
Through many a heart pervadeth,
More than a “poet’s dream!”
And should thy soul be wearyOf mundane joys and ill,Yet think not winter dreary,For heaven the soul can thrill.
And should thy soul be weary
Of mundane joys and ill,
Yet think not winter dreary,
For heaven the soul can thrill.
Bright, strong-winged Hope is pointingIn gladness to the skies,And Faith, with Heaven’s anointing,Bids brighter visions rise.
Bright, strong-winged Hope is pointing
In gladness to the skies,
And Faith, with Heaven’s anointing,
Bids brighter visions rise.
Then, call not winter dreary,Sigh not for summer’s joy,Nor let thy soul be wearyWith dutiful employ.
Then, call not winter dreary,
Sigh not for summer’s joy,
Nor let thy soul be weary
With dutiful employ.
THE RUMSEYS:
OR THE PEOPLE WHO KNEW EVERY BODY AND WHOM NOBODY KNEW.
———
BY AGNES L. GORDON.
———
“My dear Mrs. Armitage, I am delighted to see you; I have just this moment heard of your return, and hastened to claim the privilege of an old friend, in being the first to welcome you home again.”
So saying, little Mrs. Grey carefully navigated her way amid the piles of trunks and band-boxes that strewed the hall, and warmly saluted her friend, who was superintending the arrangement of the baggage.
After the first greetings were over, Mrs. Armitage led her visiter into the drawing-room, that looked cheerless enough, draped in brown Holland and shrouded in gloom. When the ladies were seated upon one of the veiled divans, Mrs. Armitage said —
“I need not apologize to you, my dear Mrs. Grey, for the disorder in which you find me. We have but just arrived, and the covers are not yet removed from the furniture—nothing is in readiness for our reception, because our return is entirely unexpected. Mr. Armitage was obliged to be in the city, or we should have staid at least a fortnight longer. I am quite at a loss to know how you should so soon have heard of our arrival.”
“Why, I called upon Mrs. Leonard, this morning,” replied her guest, “and there met your friend Mrs. Rumsey, who came down in the cars with your party; she said she had just parted with you, and on that hint I rushed off, regardless of etiquette, that I might give you the warm welcoming I felt.”
Mrs. Armitage pressed her friend’s hand in acknowledgment, and then with a puzzled look exclaimed:
“Mrs. Rumsey! Who in the name of wonder is she? I know no person of that name, neither have I any recollection of it.”
“Not know her!” ejaculated Mrs. Grey, now surprised in turn. “Not know her!—impossible! Why she was entertaining Mrs. Leonard with a long account of your sayings and doings, and went off in ecstasies over Helen’s beauty and musical talent.”
“Very strange!” repeated the other lady, musingly. “Mrs. Rumsey—Rumsey—I cannot remember any such person. However, there were so many people at the hotel that I did not see half of them, and of course only made acquaintance with those who pleased me. Certainly this Mrs. Rumsey was not among the number.”
“Well, you certainly must have had some conversation with her,” said Mrs. Grey, “else she would not have repeated remarks that you made to her, and beside she told us how very intimate Helen was with her daughters, and what delightful strolls you all took together. Perhaps you have not heard her name aright?”
“Perhaps not,” answered Mrs. Armitage; “what kind of looking person is she?”
“Oh!” replied her friend, smiling, “she has not much in appearance to delight one, certainly, though hertout ensembleis rather striking, and I should think not easily forgotten. She is rather short, and rather thin, with a quantity of light frizzed curls, surmounted with pink flowers and marabout feathers—she seems to make up in drapery what she lacks in solidity, and wears deep flounces, and a quantity of lace trimming, beside a very elegant watch and chatelaine. Altogether, she was rather over-dressed, but must be of some standing, for I heard her mention many of our first families in the most familiar manner.”
“And perhaps with no more claim to their acquaintance than she has to mine,” replied Mrs. Armitage in a provoked tone, for she prided herself a little upon her rank in the world of fashion. “I am sure I have no acquaintance with the person whom you describe, and as for her daughters—but here comes Helen, let her answer for herself.”
As she spoke Helen Armitage entered the room. She was a graceful, beautiful girl of eighteen, with a decided style, though quiet in manner, and justified the proud glance which her mother bestowed upon her, as she advanced to welcome Mrs. Grey, who was deservedly loved by all the family.
“My dear Helen how well you are looking,” exclaimed their visiter. “Really you fully deserve all the encomiums that I have heard lavished upon you this morning by the mother of your friends, the Miss Rumseys.”
“Helen, who are these Rumseys who seem to know us so well? I have no recollection of them,” interrupted her mother.
“Really, mamma, I cannot tell,” replied Helen with a smile. “I think there must be a mistake—where did they say they had met us, Mrs. Grey?”
Mrs. Grey then repeated all she had previously said, and added—“You must surely remember them, Helen, since I understand that the young Mr. Rumsey, Samuel Rumsey, junior, was your devoted cavalier.”
Helen shook her head—“I do not think I can claim the gentleman as upon my list of admirers,” she said laughing; “and as for the young ladies, I have no recollection of them.”
“Really, Helen,” said her mother, a little impatiently, “I wish you had been more discreet in your choice of associates, it is not pleasant to have one’s name connected with every ill-bred person whom you may meet at a watering-place. You must have had some intimacy with them, or they would not presume to mention you so familiarly.”
“I assure you, mamma, that I made no acquaintance except with those whom you approved. Of the Rumseys I have not the slightest knowledge. I remembernow, that the day before we left, our general picknick party was joined by a group who had arrived in the morning. The eldest lady answered to Mrs. Grey’s description of our unknown friend; she was accompanied by two younger ladies and a gentleman, whose style of appearance, as well as her own, was ratheroutré, and they were evidently strangers. One of the young ladies addressed a remark to me upon the beauty of the scenery, to which of course I replied, and the gentleman upon whose arm she leaned showed a desire to continue the conversation, but as I had not been introduced, and he was moreover, an ignorant, ill-bred person, I merely bowed and passed on. What their names were I cannot tell, but they might have been the Rumseys.”
“Very likely,” said Mrs. Armitage, with a half smile, “but they say they came down with us, and seem to know me.”
Helen laughed outright—“I remember that they were in the same car with us. Don’t you recollect, mamma, that a lady sitting behind you, very considerately pulled your shawl up on your shoulders, saying she feared you would take cold? That was the same person whom I supposed to be Mrs. Rumsey, and her polite son quite stared me out of countenance during the journey, while his sisters seemed comparing notes together.”
“Taking an inventory of your dress and charms, Helen, that they might be able to describe you correctly,” laughed Mrs. Grey, who began to enter into the spirit of the affair, and was a good deal amused at her friend’s evident annoyance.
“But really,” she continued, “you should not have cut your brother’s college chum so decidedly. I understood that Harry and the young Rumsey were a second Damon and Pythias.”
“Absurd,” exclaimed Mrs. Armitage, now more nettled than ever. “Absurd, my dear Mrs. Grey, I wonder you could have patience to listen to such an evident tissue of falsehoods. You could not suppose I would tolerate such a person as you describe.”
“I had no right to suppose them falsehoods,” replied the other quietly, for she was the least bit of a quiz in the world. “I found the lady comfortably seated in Mrs. Leonard’s drawing-room, and conversing familiarly of you as a friend for whom she had the highest esteem. I saw she was rather ill-bred to be sure, but she may be a very good sort of woman for all that you know, and so on the strength of your friendship I invited her to call upon me.”
“Poor Mrs. Grey,” ejaculated Helen, laughing, “she will come of course, and then it will be your turn to be victimized. How could she ever have become known to the Leonards?”
“I shall take care never to meet her,” said Mrs. Armitage, decidedly. “To think of that officious person who insisted upon carrying my traveling bag upon her lap, and constantly annoyed me with offers of services, claiming my acquaintance, indeed. One thing is very certain, she shall never procure an introduction.”
“Don’t be too sure,” said her merry friend, as she rose to take leave; “strange things do happen sometimes. However, I am sorry that I have caused you any annoyance, though I must say I think I have the worst of it.”
So speaking Mrs. Grey departed, and Mrs. Armitage was speedily so deeply engaged in household arrangements, that she forgot for a season the unlooked-for acquaintance of Mrs. Rumsey.
A few days after her return home, Mrs. Armitage called upon Mrs. Leonard, and here again was doomed to hear of Mrs. Rumsey, and the warm friendship that existed between the young scion of the Rumseys and her son Harry, with the decided admiration of the former for her daughter Helen. Poor Mrs. Armitage! she began to think this Mrs. Rumsey was an evil-genius sent to persecute her. She disclaimed all knowledge of her tormentor, and asked Mrs. Leonard how she became known toher.
Her friend replied that she had met Mrs. Rumsey at the house of a friend very frequently, and from her apparent familiar acquaintance with many good families, supposed her to be a desirable visiter. She gave her a casual invitation to call, which was immediately accepted, and she had since brought her daughters. They were tall, showy girls, Mrs. Leonard said, and much more presentable than their mother.
Mrs. Armitage denying all knowledge of the family seemed to surprise her friend, as Mrs. Rumsey, to her knowledge, had used her name as a card of introduction to several other persons.
Perplexed and thoroughly annoyed, Mrs. Armitage returned home. This determined claim of friendship from a person who she was very sure must be ill-bred and ridiculous, troubled her not a little.
The Armitage family occupied a high position in society. Mr. Armitage was a man of intelligence and wealth, his mercantile influence was great, and though mingling but little in the gay crowds which his wife and daughter frequented, he was universally sought after and respected. Mrs. Armitage was a refined and elegant woman, nurtured in luxury—she shrunk from any contact with rude, or ill-bred persons, and thoroughly despised the mean-spirited parasites who sought to bask in the influence which her husband’s wealth and her own fashion shed abroad. She was fastidious in her choice of associates, perhaps a little too much so, and consequently her acquaintance was eagerly sought.
Her daughter Helen was, as has been said, a beautiful girl of eighteen, with as much refinement, and less exclusiveness than her mother; a belle in society, and the idol of her father at home. While Harry Armitage, a frank, manly, high-spirited youth, just of age, full of fun, yet the soul of honor, was his mother’s delight and the beau ideal of the ladies.
Truly not to know the Armitages was to argue oneself unknown.
Harry Armitage, who was away on a shooting excursion, did not return home until a few days after his mother, and consequently had heard nothing of the Rumseys. But it so chanced, that on the very morning upon which his mother called upon Mrs. Leonard, he was strolling up one of the principal promenades with a friend, when they met a person whose appearance attracted Harry’s attention.
“Who, in the name of all the tailors, is this walking fashion-plate?” he exclaimed, glancing at the same moment toward a small, slight young man, with very light hair, and a luxuriant buff-colored moustache, who, with an air of ill-attempted ease, came sauntering toward them. He was attired according to the latest mode, his bottle-green “cut-away” displaying a gaudy vest and plaid neckerchief to great advantage, while from beneath his drab pantaloons appeared feet snugly encased in patent-leather pumps and crimson hose.
Harry’s friend looked up, as he replied smiling—“Why, Armitage, don’t you remember your old chum and particular friend, young Rumsey?”
“I can’t say that I do,” replied the other with a smile, as the individual in question passed, with a stare at Armitage and a low bow to his friend. “At least,” he added, “you see he has cut me quite coolly. I don’t think he recognized me any better than I did himself, for I am pretty sure we never met before.”
“Strange, that he should not have known you,” said his companion. “Why, he used your name as a means of introducing himself to me.”
“My name!” ejaculated Harry in surprise. “Impossible—how did it happen?”
“Why, I met him at the tailor’s one day, and as I was waiting to be served, heard him say—‘I think I will have a coat from the same piece as my friend Armitage ordered, I like his taste.’ Of course I turned upon hearing your name, and noticing my inquiring look, he asked—‘Do you know Harry Armitage, sir?’ I bowed assent. ‘Fine fellow,’ said he, ‘an old college chum, and particular friend of mine—his sister Helen is a superb girl. Happy to make your acquaintance, sir.’ He tendered me his card, which bore the name of Samuel Rumsey, Esq., and received mine in exchange. Since then I have met him several times at the theatre and elsewhere, and have been not a little amused at his assumption of fashionable manners, which sit upon him as awkwardly as a dress-coat upon a Turk; but as your friend I have always treated him civilly. I am surprised at your apparent ignorance of each other now.”
“I have been trying to recollect when I ever knew a person by that name,” said Harry, after a pause, “and I remember such a boy at one of the first schools to which I ever went. He was a lazy fellow, who spent all his pocket-money in buying gilded watch-chains and imitation breast-pins, and his leisure time in writing letters directed to himself, purporting to come from fashionable friends in town. I recollect he burnt nearly half his hair off at one time with the curling tongs, and was constantly begging old boot-tops from the elder boys to make straps, which he pinned fast to his pantaloons. We called him ‘gentleman Rumsey,’ a title with which he appeared highly delighted. This person is doubtless the same, though I have never met him since I left school, and why he should claim me as an acquaintance, I know not. Do you know the family?”
“I have seen his sisters,” replied the other, “they are dashing girls, but seemingly infected with the same desire to shine.”
“It is very evident that he did not know me, at least,” said Harry; “if you meet him don’t enlighten him as to my identity, we may have some sport yet.”
Soon after the young men separated, and Harry returned home.
Mrs. Armitage had just concluded a most pathetic account of her morning visit, when Harry entered the room where his mother and sister were seated, and began in his off-hand style an amusing relation of his morning rencontre. When he mentioned the name of Rumsey, his mother lifted her hands with an exclamation of terror, and Helen exclaimed laughing —
“ ‘Monsieur Tonson come again,’ I declare. Well, Harry, I am wicked enough to rejoice in your share of our annoyance, as perhaps through your restless wits we may find a way to rid ourselves of it. This very morning, when I returned to purchase some more ribbon such as I had to trim my fall bonnet, the milliner said she had sold the last to the Miss Rumseys, who were decided in their choice on being told I had selected the same.”
“What is all this about the Rumseys?” asked Harry. And forthwith his mother and sister proceeded to enlighten him on the subject so far as they knew themselves.
Harry shared fully in the annoyance, and determined to devise some method of punishing this pushing and impertinent family, and to find out who and what they were.
“Who were the Rumseys?” This was a question much easier asked than answered, as all allusion to past years was carefully avoided by the people in question, and moreover, they came from an eastern city. They occupied a stylish house in a fashionable quarter, and lived in a showy manner; spending most of their time in promenading and receiving the visits of those who ventured to call upon them.
The mother was an ignorant, ill-bred, over-dressed woman, who, to judge by her conversation, was intimate with almost every family of note, and who by dint of persevering assiduity had succeeded in gaining theentréeto a few fashionable houses. It was whispered about, to be sure, that a waiter had seen her quietly transfer the card of anexclusivefrom the card-receiver of the lady she was visiting to her own pocket, and said card was afterward observed occupying a conspicuous place upon her centre-table. But this might have been mere servant’s gossip, and it was scarcely credible that all the cards of distinction that filled her gilded card-racks were obtained in the same way. The supposition that she was known in one circle was the magical spring that opened her way into another, and in this way she endeavored to pick the locks, as it were, of the gates of fashionable society.
The daughters were what men of coarse taste would call “dashing girls that make a fine show.” They were rather tall, with bright dark eyes, brilliant complexions, irregular features, wide mouths, and large feet. Their bonnets were always bent to the last extreme of fashion, and the bright colors they wore were always in striking contrast. They affected the fashionable, and certainly most ungraceful lounge, with decided success, and in their daily promenades receivednumerous bows from gentlemen of every variety. The son has been already introduced, it need only be added that he excelled his family in forward impertinence, and we have the picture complete.
Such were the Rumseys as they appeared candidates for fashionable distinction. One peep behind the curtain will discover who they were.
Samuel Rumsey, senior, had been a green grocer in an eastern city. He was a thrifty, pains-taking, plain man, who amassed a small fortune by small means. His wife, who was a milliner’s apprentice, never could persuade him to live in any other than the plain manner to which he had always been accustomed. She succeeded, however, in prevailing on him to send his children to fashionable boarding-schools, and upon his death, the delighted widow found herself mistress of her own actions, and a comfortable income. She immediately determined to become a woman of fashion, but finding this impossible in a place where she was known, and which is beside noted for the peculiarly high-bred tone of its aristocracy, the ambitious widow removed to the goodly city of Gotham, where she had understood that a golden key would unlock every avenue to distinction, and where wealth is the only acknowledged sign of caste.
True as this opinion was, (and it has passed into a proverb and a reproach to the great metropolis,) Mrs. Rumsey found some difficulty in making her way. She visited watering-places, and freely used the names of those of standing in her original place of abode. But she found herself regarded with distrust by those whose acquaintance she was most anxious to claim, and thought no subterfuge too mean to gain her desired aim. Theprestigeof Mrs. Armitage’s friendship she was particularly anxious to secure, and thus followed the family to the watering-place where they were staying, in the hope of accomplishing her designs. Their unexpected departure foiled her plans; but determined not to be baffled, she returned to town in the same cars, and hastened to spread abroad the news of her friend, Mrs. Armitage’s, unexpected arrival. It did not seem to occur to her shallow conception that such bare-faced falsehoods as she found it necessary to tell must eventually be exposed. In her anxiety to accomplish her wishes she lost sight of prudence, and thus hastened the mortifyingdénouement.
Harry could not discover much of the Rumseys’ history, but he heard enough of their proceedings to justify himself, he thought, in the scheme he had formed for their mortification and exposure. He persuaded his friend to introduce him to young Rumsey by his middle name, which was Lee, and represented himself as a young stranger who was anxious to become acquainted in the city. His friend feared exposure, but Harry was sure of never meeting the Rumseys in his circle, and so persisted in his design.
Young Mr. Lee was accordingly introduced, and received with patronizing condescension. His fine appearance and elegant manners could not fail of making a favorable impression, and the family contented themselves with the remark, that if they were harboring a nobody, he was at least a very presentable one.
Harry said nothing at home regarding his plans, but visited the family frequently. He could scarcely forbear discovering himself when he heard his mother and sisters mentioned in the most familiar terms, and one of the Miss Rumseys would occasionally say —
“I certainly must introduce you to my lovely friend, Helen Armitage; you will be struck with her, I am sure.”
On one occasion Harry could not forbear pointedly replying that he should claim her promise upon the first opportunity. He amused himself by observing their adroitness in parrying questions about their supposed acquaintances, while he became thoroughly disgusted at the deliberate falsehoods which he heard them repeat of persons whom he knew perfectly well, but of whom they had no knowledge further than a chance introduction, or perhaps only knew by sight. When he thought them sufficiently committed by their deceptions, he prepared for the grand finale.
Harry’s friend and confidant in this affair was Mrs. Grey, with whom he was an especial favorite, and who, beside her innate love of mischief and desire to assist her young friend, had her own private reasons for desiring to mortify the Rumseys. They had annoyed her exceedingly by the perseverance with which they followed up her chance invitation to Mrs. Rumsey. That lady promptly accepted the invitation, and although her visit was not returned, yet came again, introducing her daughters, and running over her list of fashionable friends with all the volubility of a parrot. Go where she would, poor Mrs. Grey was doomed to meet her tormentor, and at every turn found herself already heralded by her indefatigable follower. She fully sympathised now in the annoyance of her friend Mrs. Armitage, but concealing her vexation waited until the proper season for crushing this impertinence effectually.
Many moments of merriment did the two conspirators enjoy over the contrivances to which this foolish family subjected themselves. And Harry described the patronising air of Samuel Rumsey, Esq., and his adroit avoidance of those to whom he had promised Mr. Lee an introduction, with infinite glee. It was fortunate for Harry that his companion did so, or the ruse might have been discovered too early. He frequently heard himself mentioned as a particular and intimate associate, and often felt like punishing the impostor who thus made mention of himself and family.
It was decided, at length, that Mrs. Grey should give asoirée, to which the Rumseys were to be invited. She was afraid they would decline the invitation, fearing to meet the people of whose acquaintance they had falsely boasted; but Harry, who knew them better, was sure they would not lose so favorable an opportunity of an introduction into the society they aspired to, and so prevailed upon his friend to send the invitations.
The Rumseys received Mrs. Grey’s card of invitation with delight. No scruples were felt, no fear of exposure entertained. The mother had repeated the names of fashionable people so often, that she began to believe she really knew them, and the daughters trusted to their address in avoiding any mortifyingcontre-temps, while the son was wholly absorbed in theone idea of the great sensation his stylish appearance would produce. An acceptance was sent, dress-makers, milliners, and tailors put in immediate requisition, and on the appointed evening, fluttering in lace and rustling in silks, the Rumseys were ushered into Mrs. Grey’s elegant and crowded apartments.
After due presentation to the hostess, the Rumseys looked about them and found themselves surrounded by entire strangers. There were a very few, and among them Mrs. Leonard, upon whom Mrs Rumsey had called, and several whom they knew by sight only. As the group were debating which way to turn their steps, Mrs. Grey advanced, and addressing Mrs. Rumsey, said —
“You will meet many of your friends here this evening, Mrs Rumsey. There are Mrs. Starsbury and the Floyds, have you spoken to them yet? Shall I walk over with you?”
Now these ladies Mrs. Rumsey had only heard of through her milliner, and had no claim whatever to their acquaintance; she therefore replied that she was waiting an opportunity of speaking to her friend, Mrs. Leonard, who was engaged in conversation with another lady.
“Oh yes!” said the provoking Mrs. Grey, “now she is looking this way, she evidently recognizes you, as does her friend.” So saying she escorted her visiter toward the group.
Mrs. Leonard replied civilly to Mrs. Rumsey’s eager salutation, but the lady at her side maintained a dignified silence.
“My dear Mrs. Mornton,” cried Mrs. Grey, “don’t you recognize your friend, Mrs. Rumsey? I have heard her talk of you so frequently.”
“Who is Mrs. Rumsey?” replied the lady, who was very exclusive, with a well-bred stare. “I do not know her.”
“Not know her! Oh, I understand—some little disagreement,” said Mrs. Grey, in an undertone.
“Not at all,” answered the other decidedly; “the lady is an utter stranger, believe me.”
Mrs. Grey looked around, but Mrs. Rumsey had disappeared.
Meanwhile the young ladies met several gentlemen whom they knew slightly, and who relieved their awkwardness by a polite attention. They were evidently surprised, however, to see troops of ladies constantly passing, among whom were many whose acquaintance the Miss Rumseys had claimed, but none of whom recognized or noticed them in any way. As for Samuel Rumsey, Esq., he was quite shocked at the indifference with which his attentions and remarks were received, and Mrs. Rumsey now joining her daughters, their position was becoming very unpleasant, when they beheld the quondam Mr. Lee talking with their hostess. Surprise at seeing him was mingled with satisfaction at the appearance of one person, at least, to whose acquaintance they had a real claim. But their astonishment was increased upon beholding the general welcome he received from those to whom they supposed him an utter stranger.
He soon approached them, and after a few remarks observed that he had been introduced to several of their friends, and offered his arm for a promenade. This offer was gladly accepted by the young ladies.
“Here are the Miss Floyds,” said Harry, pausing before two elegant looking girls; “doubtless they will be delighted to see you.”
The Miss Rumseys colored—they had seen the Miss Floyds at their milliners. They bowed in confusion, and Harry mischievously added:
“The Miss Rumseys have not met you before in a long time, I presume.”
“I do not remember the name,” replied the eldest Miss Floyd politely; “where had we the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Rumsey?”
“We met at Mrs. Leonard’s,” answered one of the young ladies, determined to brave it out, and with an affected air of indifference she gave place to a group who now advanced, and remarking to Harry that “they were proud girls,” moved away.
Harry replied with a quizzical look, and the young ladies fearful of another mortification, complained of the heat, and took their seats near where Mrs. Armitage was sitting. Mrs. Rumsey was upon a sofa at their side talking energetically to a strange lady, who, like many others had been, was deceived by her apparent acquaintance with persons of standing, and who was entertained by the personal chit-chat which she retailed.
Meanwhile the rebuff of Mrs. Mornton, and the confusion of the young ladies upon meeting the Miss Floyds was whispered about, and the question of “Who are the Rumseys?” was passed from one to another of those whose names had been freely used by the family.
Harry stationed himself behind the young ladies, and out of his mother’s view, then bending low —
“Who is that beautiful girl with a camelia in her hair?” he asked, pointing to his sister, who stood near her mother with a group of admirers about her.
“That is Helen Armitage,” replied Miss Rumsey, proud of her knowledge of the belle of the evening.
“I shall claim your promise of an introduction,” answered Harry, “she does not appear at all proud.”
The sisters looked confused, and Harry pitying their evident uneasiness almost repented of his scheme, when he heard his mother’s name coupled with that of “dear Helen,” mentioned in the most familiar manner by Mrs. Rumsey, who was enlarging upon the delightful summer excursion which she had so much enjoyed with her dear friend Mrs. Armitage. Harry could bear this no longer, but rising, addressed Mrs. Rumsey.
“My dear madam, your daughters have kindly promised me an introduction to Miss Armitage, but as the young lady is engaged at present, may I beg your kind offices in making me acquainted with her mother, who it seems is your intimate friend, and I will trust to my own address in winning her daughter’s suffrage.”
Just then Mrs. Grey, accompanied by young Rumsey, approached. She had heard Harry’s speech, and Mrs. Rumsey finding herself completely cornered, and elated by her confidential conversation with the strange lady, who was evidently a guest of note, determined by a bold stroke to master her dilemma. Sheaccordingly, despite her daughters’ appealing looks, rose, and accompanied by Harry and her son, approached Mrs. Armitage, and dropping a profound courtesy, said very rapidly —
“My dear Mrs. Armitage, you have perhaps forgotten me, as we have not met since last summer, but allow me to present you my son, Mr. Samuel Rumsey, a college chum and companion of your son Henry, they were great friends, I assure you; and this is a youngprotégéof mine, very desirous to make your acquaintance, Mr. Harry Lee.”
“Armitage!” added Mrs. Grey, who stood at her shoulder.
Mrs. Rumsey looked around in surprise, and Mrs. Armitage with a flushed cheek, rose from her seat, saying haughtily —
“The introduction is altogether valueless, as yourself and son are both entirely unknown to me—and as to this young gentleman,” she added, turning with a displeased air to the ci devant Mr. Lee, “it is scarcely necessary to introduce a son to his mother, though I marvel much at finding him in such society.” And placing her hand upon her son’s arm she moved away with a stately air.
Poor Mrs. Rumsey stood perfectly still in a state of blank bewilderment, while Mrs. Grey exclaimed —
“How could you, Mrs. Ramsey, present Harry Armitage as a stranger to his mother, can it be possible that you had no acquaintance with her after all?”
Mrs. Rumsey looked around, she saw the suppressed smile that hovered on the lips of those about her, and murmuring something about explaining it all on another occasion, hastily left the room. Her daughters had already vanished, and as for Samuel Rumsey, Esq., he was no where.
Mrs. Armitage was some time in becoming reconciled to the stratagem of Mrs. Grey and Harry, but finding herself no longer haunted by the Rumseys, forgave the two conspirators at last.
The Rumseys found it convenient to leave town immediately. Their furniture was sold—the house rented to another tenant, and “The people who knew every body and whom nobody knew,” ceased to be talked of or remembered.
But many hundred miles away, in another state, the Rumseys still flourish, and occasionally boast of their charming friend Harry Armitage, and the elegant Mrs. Grey.
Who that mingles in the harlequin crowd of this jostling, restless world, has not known one person at least who might belong to the Rumseys?