STORIES FROM THE OLD DRAMATISTS.
NO. 1.—MASSINGER’S GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE.
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BY ENNA DUVAL.
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“I cannot pretend in thesesuccinct narrations to have rivaled Charles Lamb and his excellent sister in the art of turning drama into narrative. The “Shakspeare Tales” is an unique book, the beauty of which all can perceive who are worth pleasing; but few who have not tried the like, can appreciate the difficulty, the matchless skill of its execution.”Hartley Coleridge.
“I cannot pretend in thesesuccinct narrations to have rivaled Charles Lamb and his excellent sister in the art of turning drama into narrative. The “Shakspeare Tales” is an unique book, the beauty of which all can perceive who are worth pleasing; but few who have not tried the like, can appreciate the difficulty, the matchless skill of its execution.”
Hartley Coleridge.
Cozimo, duke of Florence, a noble and virtuous prince had the misfortune to lose, by death, his duchess, Clarinda, a lady of such rare and matchless virtues, that, as he said, the whole world could not produce one worthy to be her second. In her grave he buried all thoughts of woman.
His courtiers, and ministers of state, repeatedly urged him to a second marriage, for they feared that after his death, he being childless, distraction might breed in the state, and cause the downfall of his noble house. Residing at the court was a beautiful and wealthy orphan, Fiorinda, duchess of Urbin, the ward of Cozimo, and she was the one that his counsellors desired him to wed. Kindly, but sadly, he always waived aside their counsel, telling them, that the lovely Fiorinda should have a more fitting mate, and that as regarded the welfare of the state, his princely care would provide one worthy to succeed him.
This “worthy successor,” was his nephew Giovanni, his sister’s son, an orphan, dependent on his bounty. This youth he loved for his dear sister’s sake, and he spared no pains or trouble to render him worthy of his future high position. The more to further this, Cozimo placed Giovanni under the sole charge of a noble, and highly educated Florentine gentleman, Carolo Charomonte by name, who lived retired on an estate five hours distance from Florence. This gentleman discharged, to the utmost of his power, the duty the duke committed to him, and by means of his rare experience, using great care, he trained the young Giovanni up in all those arts, peculiar and proper to future greatness; therefore it was no wonder, but rather a necessity, that when this young prince had grown to be a man, he should make good the princely education he had derived from his accomplished tutor.
His uncle had studiously kept him away from court, during the perilous season of youth; but as the young Giovanni approached manhood, he gave such great promise of ability, that Cozimo could no longer withstand his tender desire for his company. Report filled the duke’s ears with stories of his nephew, which, if true, would have made him a miracle—a wonder in arts and arms; and in order to test the verity of this fine account, he sent his secretary, Contarino, to summon Giovanni to his presence.
This secretary came to Charamonte’s house, bearing compliments, and courtly thanks, and promises of munificent reward, from the duke. These the noble Charamonte received with dignified, courteous gratefulness; and although it was a sweet thought to him, that nature had so well aided him in his great duty as to enable him to return to his royal master a phœnix of grace and goodness, in the person of his nephew, this very yielding up of his charge, filled his breast with sadness. The young Giovanni had a disposition so gentle and sweet by nature, that it won on all appointed to attend him, insomuch that it made them rivals, even in the coarsest office, to get precedency to do him service; no wonder then, that his guardian, who had always found him obedient, loving, and reverential as a son, should have unconsciously permitted his affections to twine around him with a parent’s fondness. Nor did Giovanni receive his uncle’s summons with pleasure; as he read the duke’s letter the frequent changes of his countenance, manifested how strongly his unwillingness contended with his duty.
He loved his guardian, regarded him with as much respect and service as would have been due to the one who gave him life; but still more fondly did he love the good Charamonte’s incomparable daughter—the fair Lidia. She had been his companion from childhood; the partner of his studies and his pleasures. The commands of his uncle revealed to him in an instant the nature of his regard for her; but, at the same time, he felt the misery and hopelessness of such a love. His high station he felt would be a barrier to honorable love, and this thought deepened tenfold his anguish. In sweet, tender words he bewailed his sad fate, when he bade farewell to her, describing, in touching language, their future lot had he been born in a more humble state.
“Ah! Lidia,” he exclaimed, “then I might have seen and liked with mine own eyes, and not as now, with others. I might still continue my delights with you, that are alone, in my esteem, the abstract of society. We might walk in solitary groves, or in choice gardens, and in the variety of curious flowers, contemplate nature’s workmanship and wonders; then for change, near to the murmur of some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing, and from the well tuned accents of your tongue, in my imagination, conceive the melody of Heaven’s harmony; then with chaste discourse we would return imp feathers to the broken wing of time. But all this I must part from—I might after continued innocence of love and service have been your husband—”
Here Lidia checked him, and reminded him thatshe was, and ever would be his servant; that it was far from her, even in a thought, to cherish such saucy hopes as these. Had she been heir to all the globes and sceptres, that mankind bows to, then, at her best, she might have deserved him; but now, in her humble state, she could only wish that he might find a partner—a princess equal to him, who would make it the study of her life, with all the obedience of a wife, to please him. For her own part, she would be content to live and be their humblest handmaid. So humble and childlike doth love show itself in a pure, gentle nature.
In this sweet sorrowful manner they parted from each other, and Giovanni hastened to do his uncle’s bidding; but first he embraced his good old guardian, saying, farewell, and assured him that should he ever reach his high destination their fortunes should be shared—then joining the secretary, he repaired to the Florentine court.
Duke Cozimo had a favorite, Lodovico Sanazarro by name, and he loved him so dearly that he used to say Sanazarro’s merits were so great that should he divide his dukedom with him, he would still continue his debtor. Princes’ favorites are apt to be undeserving men, notwithstanding they may be set off with all the trim of greatness, state, and power; for princes are men, not gods, and though they can give wealth and titles, they cannot give virtues, that is out of their power. But Duke Cozimo had proved the correctness of his judgment in the choice of his friend. Sanazarro’s nature was like pure, tried gold, and any stamp of grace the duke was pleased to give him, to make him current to the world, did but add honor to the royal bestower. Even the courtiers felt no envy against him, for he was no lazy drone, but an industrious bee. He fought the enemies of the state, and displayed great valor; then, after returning crowned with conquest, he labored in the service of his royal master, sharing in the cares and burthen of the government.
Duke Cozimo’s secret design was to wed this favorite with his wealthy ward, Fiorinda. This noble princess was not averse to this plan, for Lodovico being a handsome and brave gentleman, had quite won her heart and she loved to dwell on his exploits in the field, and abilities displayed in the council. Sanazarro, however, was very modest, and never dared to lift his thoughts so high as to woo so rich and noble a dame as the Princess Fiorinda.
Encouraged by her guardian, Fiorinda endeavored by courteous, but delicate advances, to remove this diffidence. She always received him with distinction, and took occasion repeatedly to send him gifts, which he received with the reverent gratefulness of a subject; expressing more ceremony in his humble thanks, than feeling of the favor—appearing almost willfully ignorant, and blind to the tender feeling which prompted these courteous condescensions. But true love is patient, and forbearing, and as Sanazarro displayed no love for any other lady, she used to comfort herself with the thought, that it was the light of her high estate that made him blind, and taxed her woman’s wit for means to lessen the difference between them. The frequent dangers that he was exposed to, however, in the service of the state, made her unhappy, and after the young Prince Giovanni came to court, she took occasion to interest him in Sanazarro’s favor, begging that he would be suitor to the duke not to expose this brave, noble gentleman to so much peril, but rather to command him, after his great labors, to take rest.
Prince Giovanni received this request with delight, for he also had a boon to ask of the duchess. So great was his love for the fair Lidia Charomonte, that he could no longer bear the separation from her, and after describing her with a lover’s colors to the princess, he begged she would take occasion to ask permission of the duke, to add this matchless virgin to her train of ladies. She promised to effect his desire, right quickly; and they parted from each other with bright hopes.
Soon after Giovanni’s return to court, the secretary who had brought him, while reporting to the duke an account of his journey, gave an enthusiastic description of Charomonte’s daughter, and in doing this, implied that the prince loved her. Straightway, but quietly, the kind duke conceived the design of securing also his dearly loved nephew’s happiness, but fearing that this object of his love might not be worthy of so high a fortune, he resolved to send his trusty favorite, Sanazarro, to Charomonte’s house, to see this paragon of beauty and virtue.
This he did without acquainting Sanazarro with his reasons, and the favorite fulfilled his master’s orders, thinking the duke wished to contract a marriage with this humble maid. But after seeing the fair Lidia he was so struck with her beauty, modesty, and wit, that he forgot his duty to his master and his honor. The recollection of past favors from the duke, even the beautiful, kind, forbearing Duchess Fiorinda, seemed as nothing to him, under the influence of this wild infatuation. He returned to court, resolved to find some means of blinding the duke, and turning him aside from pursuit of the fair Lidia. The secretary he knew he could silence, and the Prince Giovanni, the only one who could disclose his falsehood, he hoped to quiet, by telling him of the duke’s purpose of marriage, which would of course endanger his prospect of succeeding to the dukedom.
How weak and wicked are the best of men when exposed to some trials. Here was this loyal, noble, honorable gentleman, who had withstood the weakening effects of princes’ favor, yielding truth and allegiance at a moment when he should have been most strong—at a moment when he felt most confidence. He forgot the honors and glories by Cozimo’s grace conferred upon him; he deceived his trust and made shipwreck of his loyalty. Did he not deserve ruin?
Prince Giovanni received the news of his uncle’s projected marriage with indifference, answering most nobly, that he had no right, because he had received benefits from his uncle’s hands, to prescribe laws for his pleasure. But when he heard who his uncle purposed to wed, then his own love raised the standardof rebellion in his heart, and he willingly united with the false Sanazarro in decrying the charms of his loved mistress. Both singly and together they spoke disparagingly of this beautiful lady, and Cozimo believed them, although it caused him some surprise, but, as he said, he had never found them false.
But falsehood in weaving its net, always forgets to leave a loop-hole for its own escape. Too late Giovanni remembered the favor he had asked of the Duchess Fiorinda, and he hastened to request her to be silent in the matter. But while he was seeking her fruitlessly, she was already with the duke moving him, with all a woman’s eloquence, to command the presence of Charomonte’s fair daughter at the court, saying, that his nephew had given her such an abstract of perfection in his description of this maiden, that she did not wish to employ her as a servant, but to be by her instructed, and use her as a dear companion.
Duke Cozimo listened with amazement, and then, almost doubting his senses, made the princess repeat all that Giovanni had told her. This she did, using his very words: that she possessed all that could be wished for in a virgin. That she had rare beauty, her discourse was ravishing, she had quickness of apprehension, with choice manners and learning too, not usual with women.
This account was so unlike the report given by Giovanni and Sanazarro to him, that the duke saw with anger he had been deceived. This wounded him deeply, for he could not bear the thought of insincerity and falsehood in his nephew and bosom friend. He felt that he had been trifled with, and resolved to examine into the matter himself, then, if he found they had played him false, he would punish them with rigor. But he smothered his wrath, meaning to act quietly without their knowledge. He told the duchess her suit was granted; that the fair Lidia should come to her; but in return he would ask her to go with him the following morning on a short journey to the country. As he made this request, Giovanni and Sanazarro entered just in time to hear it. The duke greeted them coldly and left them. Joyfully the duchess hastened to communicate to Prince Giovanni her success. He dissembled his confusion awkwardly, and essayed to thank her for her kindness. She courteously received his thanks, and then with sweet condescension greeted Sanazarro, begging him to accept of a diamond from her, and wear it for her sake. Saying this, she bade them both adieu, and hastened to be in readiness for the duke’s journey.
The young prince and Sanazarro gazed at each other in consternation. Something must be done, however, and that right quickly, for they both felt certain that it was the duke’s intention to see Lidia with his own eyes, and that the journey of the following day was to Charomonte’s house. Hastily Giovanni decided upon sending his serving man that night with a letter to Lidia. In this letter he told her that the duke, his uncle, had heard of her, and her beauty, and was about to seek her he feared, with unlawful love. “If he see you, as you are, fair Lidia,” he concluded, “my hoped-for happiness will be changed into an everlasting night. Let your goodness find some means to prevent my uncle seeing you, and thus you will save two lives, your own and the honorer of your virtues, Giovanni.”
Giovanni’s messenger found the young Lidia in the midst of her father’s household, who with the kind, old Charomonte, were devising all manner of merry-makings, in order to divert the sadness which had hung over her since the departure of the young prince. She received the letter with joy, and retired to read it in secret, that no one might witness her emotion. So soon as she read his request, the very means of accomplishing it flashed quickly into her mind. As the duke had never seen her, she resolved upon presenting to him another in her place. Her maid, Petronilla, was the person decided upon. This girl was ill-favored, coarse and rude. The only difficulty she had to surmount, would be her father’s opposition, but she thought she would contrive with the servants’ aid, to have Petronilla presented to the duke when her father was not present. This difficulty the duke unconsciously relieved her from, for he came to Charomonte’s mansion in anger; and so soon as he arrived he dismissed his train, desiring to see Charomonte alone. Then he upbraided him with treason—for he suspected the old man of dishonor. He feared that Giovanni had become entangled with this Lidia, and not knowing Sanazarro’s suspicions, he attributed Giovanni’s double dealings, to a dishonorable illicit connection with this girl, connived at by her father.
Poor old Charomonte listened to his royal master’s reproaches with angry amazement. So soon as the duke had ended, he replied with words that proved how his loyalty and outraged feelings contended for mastery. In speaking of his daughter, the light of his eyes, the comfort of his feeble age, he described her so lovingly and tenderly that the duke commanded she should be shown to him.
“But,” said he, “you shall not prepare her to answer these charges. We will see her immediately, and to prevent all intercourse, we do confine thee close prisoner to thy chamber, till all doubts are cleared.”
Lidia was summoned, and in her place came Petronilla, escorted by Giovanni and Sanazarro, followed by the servants, bearing a sumptuous banquet. At the sight of her coarse appearance the duke felt that the manners of her mind must be transcendent to defend so rough an outside. She received him boisterously, and at the banquet, behaved rudely and indelicately, and drank so freely of the wine, that she had to be carried away from the duke’s presence. The imposture, however, was so gross, that the duke began to suspect some cunning deceit or trick had been played upon him; but he dissembled this suspicion, and sent out Giovanni and Sanazarro with his train, saying he would soon join them; that he wished first to see the Signor Charomonte in private, that he might, with a few kind words of comfort, take leave of the poor old man.
It appeared to him unlikely that both Charomonteand Contarino, his old secretary, could be so blinded. “It may be,” he said to himself, “that the daughter, for some ends unknown, has personated this rude behaviour, which seems so ridiculous and impossible. Whatever be the riddle, however, I will resolve it, if possible.”
Charomonte, on being summoned, came to him; but when he heard the duke’s pitying description of the pretended Lidia, he instantly went to his daughter’s chamber, where she was feigning illness, and forced her into the presence of Cozimo. The beautiful Lidia trembling, and in tears, knelt before him and besought his mercy.
“Ah,” exclaimed the duke, “this is the peerless form I expected to see;” then turning to Charomonte, he commanded that Sanazarro and his nephew, Giovanni, should straightway be imprisoned in separate chambers, guarded, until he should pronounce sentence against them as traitors.
In tender, touching language, Lidia pleaded for the prince, and asked that whatever punishment he deserved, to inflict it on her, as she was the sad cause of his offence.
“I know,” she said, “that the prince is so far above me that my wishes even cannot reach him, and to restore him to your wonted grace and favor, I’ll abjure his sight forever, and betake myself to a religious life, where, in my prayers, I may remember him, but no man will I ever see but my ghostly father. Be not, O sire, like the eagle that in her angry mood destroys her hopeful young for suffering a wren to perch too near them.”
Cozimo listened with admiration, and raising her tenderly put her suit off with courteous compliments, telling her that if she would cheer her drooping spirits, bring back the bloom of health to her pale cheek, and let him see the diamond of her beauty in its perfect lustre, there could be no crime that he would not look with eyes of mercy upon if she advocated it.
Already in his mind had he thought of a fitting punishment for his nephew. He resolved to make them all believe that he intended himself to wed the fair Lidia, and acted accordingly.
Poor Sanazarro, in the solitude of his prison, awakened too late to a sense of his wicked, disloyal treachery. He remembered the duke’s kindness and love, in making him almost his second self. The influence of Lidia’s charms faded away, and he recalled the loving favors he had received so carelessly from the beautiful Duchess Fiorinda. Now, he stood without friends, and no one dared or even cared to make intercession to the duke for him. As he thought of the Duchess Fiorinda’s love and past kindness, he resolved to appeal to her, and sent a message to her, begging her mediation in his favor, although he acknowledged himself most unworthy.
But true love forgetteth and forgiveth all injuries, and so soon as the lovely Fiorinda heard his sad plight, she repaired to the duke and entreated of him to be merciful and gracious to his poor servant, Sanazarro. Cozimo reminded her of his infidelity to him, his kind master; and then, to move her still more to anger, he recalled how coldly Sanazarro had always received her courtesies, and how easily he had yielded to the charms of another, and that other beneath her in rank.
The poor lady for a moment struggled with her pride, which whispered to her that, to endure a rival, and one also who was an inferior, betokened poverty of spirit, but her noble heart obtained the mastery, and she replied,
“True love must not know degrees or distances. Lidia may be as far above me in her form as she is in her birth beneath me; and what I liked in Sanazarro he may have loved in her. Vouchsafe to hear his defense.”
The duke consented, and said that both Sanazarro and the young prince should have a speedy trial, in which he would not only be judge, but accuser; and then expressed himself in such courteous, gallant words about the fair Lidia, that Charomonte and the courtiers stared in amazement. They could scarcely credit what he wished to make them believe—that he, the faithful, mourning widower, who had remained constant so many years, purposed a second marriage with this young maiden, so unfit for him in station and age.
The trial commenced, and the prisoners, almost hopeless of mercy, presented themselves, with their lovely advocates, the duchess and Lidia, before the duke. Cozimo, at the sight of Lidia, professed to forget every thing in the rapture her beauty caused him; and after exhausting love’s sweet language in describing her charms, he turned, with looks of rage, to the prince and Sanazarro, and told them they knelt too late for mercy. But Lidia and the duchess reminded him he had promised a gracious hearing to his prisoners, before passing sentence.
Duke Cozimo descended from the chair of state, and placing the two ladies in his seat, told them they should be his deputies; but they must listen to his accusation which would justify the sentence he was about to pronounce on these traitorous heads. First, he reminded Sanazarro of his cold indifference to Fiorinda’s condescending love, and his unfaithfulness to her; but the duchess interrupted him, and told him that charge was naught; she had already heard the count’s confession, and had freely pardoned him.
The duke courteously bowed, but continued and upbraided Sanazarro with his treachery to him, his indulgent master. Then he turned to Giovanni and reminded him of how careful of his interests he had always been; how he had remained unwedded, to secure to a thankless nephew a throne. “We made you both,” continued the duke, “the keys that opened our heart’s secrets, and what you spoke we believed as oracles. But you, in recompense of this, to us, who gave you all, to whom you owed your being, with treacherous lies endeavored to conceal this peerless jewel from our knowledge. Look on her,” he said, pointing to the blushing Lidia, “is that a beauty fit for any subject? Can any tire become that forehead but a diadem? Even should we grant pardon for your falsehood to us, your treachery to her,in seeking to deprive her of that greatness she was born to, can ne’er find pardon.”
As the duke finished, the ladies quickly descended from the chair of state, and kneeling, with the prince and Count Sanazarro before him, besought his mercy, which Charomonte reminded him, was more becoming in a prince than wreaths of conquest. The courtiers and old councillors united their entreaties, but the duke remained inflexible. Turning to Charomonte, he said,
“You, Carolo, remember with what impatiency of grief we bore our Duchess Clarinda’s death, and how we vowed—not hoping to see her equal—never to make a second choice. We did not know that nature had framed one that did almost excel her, and with oaths, mixed with tears, we swore our eyes should never again be tempted. Charomonte, thou heardest us sware—are those vows, thinkest thou, registered against us in heaven?”
Charomonte told him that if he were to wed a woman who possessed all woman’s beauties and virtues united, he had already sworn so deeply, that the weight of his perjury would sink him.
“This is strong truth, Carolo,” replied the duke, “but yet it does not free them from treason.”
“But,” answered the good old Charomonte, who began to suspect the duke’s design, “the prince, your nephew, was so earnest to have you keep your vows to heaven, that he vouchsafed to love my daughter.”
The duke turned to Lidia, as if for assurance of this, who blushingly replied, “He told me so, indeed, sire.”
“And the count has averred as much to me,” said the Duchess Fiorinda, with a playful air and a merry laugh, for she saw by the duke’s manner that he had only been feigning this stern severity as a punishment to the young men.
“Ah,” said Duke Cozimo, smiling, “you all conspire to force our mercy from us.”
Then he placed the gentle, lovely Lidia’s hand in Giovanni’s, and as he pronounced the pardon of the prince and count, he told them they must merit their forgiveness by service and love to their mistresses, the duchess and the beautiful Lidia.
Thus ends this story, courteous reader, and
“May the passage prove,Of what’s presented, worthy of your loveAnd favor, as was aimed, and we have allThat can in compass of our wishes fall.”
“May the passage prove,Of what’s presented, worthy of your loveAnd favor, as was aimed, and we have allThat can in compass of our wishes fall.”
“May the passage prove,Of what’s presented, worthy of your loveAnd favor, as was aimed, and we have allThat can in compass of our wishes fall.”
“May the passage prove,
Of what’s presented, worthy of your love
And favor, as was aimed, and we have all
That can in compass of our wishes fall.”
LINES
WRITTEN AT NIGHT IN CAVE HILL CEMETERY.
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BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.
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One evening, dear Virginia, in thy life,When thou and I were straying side by sideBeneath the holy moonlight, and our thoughtsSeemed taking a deep hue of mournfulnessFrom the sweet, solemn hour, I said if thou,Whose young years scarcely numbered half my own,Should’st pass before me to the spirit-land,I would, on some mild eve beneath the moon,Shining in heaven as it was shining then,Go forth alone to lay me by thy grave,And render to thy cherished memoryThe last sad tribute of a stricken heart.Thine answer was a sigh, a tear, a sob,A gentle pressure of the hand, and thusMy earnest vow was hallowed. A thin cloud,Like a pole winding-sheet, that moment passedAcross the moon, and as its shadow fell,Like a mysterious omen of the tomb,Upon our kindred spirits, thou didst turnThine eye to that wan spectre of the skies,And, gazing on the solemn portent, weepAs if thy head were waters.Weary yearsSince then have planted furrows on my brow,And sorrows in my heart, and the pale moon,That shone around us on that lovely eve,Is shining now upon thy swarded grave,And I have come, a pilgrim of the night,To bow at memory’s holy shrine and keepMy unforgotten vow.Dear, parted one,Friend of my better years, dark months have passedWith all their awful shadows o’er the earth,Since this green turf was laid above thy rest,’Mid sighs and streaming tears and stifled groans,But oh! thy gentle memory is not dimIn the deep hearts that loved thee. We have setThis sweet young rose-tree o’er thy hallowed grave,And may the skies shed their serenest dewsAround it, may the summer clouds distilTheir gentlest rains upon it, may the freshWarm zephyrs fan it with their softest breath,And daily may the bright and holy beamsOf morning greet it with their sweetest smile,That it may wave its roses o’er thy dust,Dear emblems of the flowers that thou so oftIn life didst fling upon our happy heartsFrom thy own spirit’s Eden. Yet we know’Tis but an humble offering to thee,Who dwellest where the fadeless roses bloom,In heaven’s eternal sunshine.To our eyesThy beauty has not faded from the earth;We see it in the flowers that lift their lidsTo greet the early spring-time—in the bowThe magic pencil of the sunshine paintsUpon the flying rain-clouds—in the starsThat glitter from the blue abyss of night—And in the strange mysterious lovelinessOf every holy sunset. To our earsThe music of thy loved tones is not lost;We hear it in the low, sweet cadencesOf wave and stream and fountain, in the notesOf birds that from the sky and forest hailThe sunrise with their songs, and in the wildAnd soul-like breathings of the evening windO’er all the thousand sweet Eolian lyresOf grove and forest. Yet no sight or soundIn all the world of nature is as sweet,Dear, lost Virginia, as when thou wast hereTo gaze and listen with us. The young flowersAnd the pure stars seem pale and cold and dim,As if they looked through blinding tears—alas!The tears are in our eyes. The melodiesOf wave and stream and bird and forest-harp,Borne on the soft wings of the evening gale,Seem blended with a deep wail for the dead—Alas! the wail is in our hearts.Lost one!We miss thee in our sadness and our joy!When at the solemn eventide we stray,’Mid the still gathering of the twilight shades,To muse upon the dear and hallowed pastWith its deep, mournful memories, a voiceComes from the still recesses of our hearts“She is not here!” In the gay, festive hour,When music peals upon the perfumed air,And wit and mirth are ringing in our ears,And light forms floating round us in the dance,And jewels flashing through luxuriant curls,And deep tones breathing vows of tendernessAnd truth to listening beauty, even then,Amid the wild enchantments of the hour,To many a heart the past comes back again,And, as the fountain of its tears is stirred,A voice comes sounding from its holiest depths,“Alas! she is not here!” The spring-time nowIs forth upon the fresh green earth, the valesAre one bright wilderness of blooms, the woods,With all their wealth of rainbow tints, repose,Like fairy clouds upon the vernal sky,And every gale is burdened with the gushOf music, free, wild music, yet, lost one,Through all these wildering melodies, that voiceAs from the very heart of nature comes,“Alas! she is not here!” But list! oh, list!From the eternal depths of yonder sky,From where the flash of sun and star is dimIn uncreated light, an angel strain,As sweet as that in which the morning starsTogether sang o’er the creation’s birth,Comes floating downward through the ravished air,“Joy! joy! she’s here! she’s here!”’Tis midnight deep,And a pale cloud, like that whose shadow fellUpon our souls on that remembered eve,Is passing o’er the moon, but now the shadeFalls on one heart alone. I am alone,My dear and long-lost friend. Oh! wheresoe’erIn the vast universe of God thou art,I pray thee stoop at this mysterious hourTo the dark earth from thy all radiant home,And hold communion with thy weeping friendAs in the hours departed.Ah, I feel,Sweet spirit, thou hast heard and blessed my prayer!I hear the rustling of thy angel-plumesAbout me and around—the very airIs glowing with a thousand seraph thoughts,Bright as the sparkles of a shooting star—A hand from which the electric fire of heavenSeems flashing through my frame is clasped in mine—Thy blessed voice, with its remembered tonesSoftened to more than mortal melody,Is thrilling through my heart, as ’twere the voiceOf the lost Pleiad calling from its placeIn the eternal void—and our two soulsBlend once again as erst they used to blend—The heavenly with the earthly!Fare thee well!Sweet spirit, fare thee well! the blessed wordsThat thou, this night, hast whispered to me here,Above the mound that hides thy mortal form,Will purify my soul, and strengthen meTo bear the ills and agonies of life,And point me to an immortalityWith thee in God’s own holy Paradise.
One evening, dear Virginia, in thy life,When thou and I were straying side by sideBeneath the holy moonlight, and our thoughtsSeemed taking a deep hue of mournfulnessFrom the sweet, solemn hour, I said if thou,Whose young years scarcely numbered half my own,Should’st pass before me to the spirit-land,I would, on some mild eve beneath the moon,Shining in heaven as it was shining then,Go forth alone to lay me by thy grave,And render to thy cherished memoryThe last sad tribute of a stricken heart.Thine answer was a sigh, a tear, a sob,A gentle pressure of the hand, and thusMy earnest vow was hallowed. A thin cloud,Like a pole winding-sheet, that moment passedAcross the moon, and as its shadow fell,Like a mysterious omen of the tomb,Upon our kindred spirits, thou didst turnThine eye to that wan spectre of the skies,And, gazing on the solemn portent, weepAs if thy head were waters.Weary yearsSince then have planted furrows on my brow,And sorrows in my heart, and the pale moon,That shone around us on that lovely eve,Is shining now upon thy swarded grave,And I have come, a pilgrim of the night,To bow at memory’s holy shrine and keepMy unforgotten vow.Dear, parted one,Friend of my better years, dark months have passedWith all their awful shadows o’er the earth,Since this green turf was laid above thy rest,’Mid sighs and streaming tears and stifled groans,But oh! thy gentle memory is not dimIn the deep hearts that loved thee. We have setThis sweet young rose-tree o’er thy hallowed grave,And may the skies shed their serenest dewsAround it, may the summer clouds distilTheir gentlest rains upon it, may the freshWarm zephyrs fan it with their softest breath,And daily may the bright and holy beamsOf morning greet it with their sweetest smile,That it may wave its roses o’er thy dust,Dear emblems of the flowers that thou so oftIn life didst fling upon our happy heartsFrom thy own spirit’s Eden. Yet we know’Tis but an humble offering to thee,Who dwellest where the fadeless roses bloom,In heaven’s eternal sunshine.To our eyesThy beauty has not faded from the earth;We see it in the flowers that lift their lidsTo greet the early spring-time—in the bowThe magic pencil of the sunshine paintsUpon the flying rain-clouds—in the starsThat glitter from the blue abyss of night—And in the strange mysterious lovelinessOf every holy sunset. To our earsThe music of thy loved tones is not lost;We hear it in the low, sweet cadencesOf wave and stream and fountain, in the notesOf birds that from the sky and forest hailThe sunrise with their songs, and in the wildAnd soul-like breathings of the evening windO’er all the thousand sweet Eolian lyresOf grove and forest. Yet no sight or soundIn all the world of nature is as sweet,Dear, lost Virginia, as when thou wast hereTo gaze and listen with us. The young flowersAnd the pure stars seem pale and cold and dim,As if they looked through blinding tears—alas!The tears are in our eyes. The melodiesOf wave and stream and bird and forest-harp,Borne on the soft wings of the evening gale,Seem blended with a deep wail for the dead—Alas! the wail is in our hearts.Lost one!We miss thee in our sadness and our joy!When at the solemn eventide we stray,’Mid the still gathering of the twilight shades,To muse upon the dear and hallowed pastWith its deep, mournful memories, a voiceComes from the still recesses of our hearts“She is not here!” In the gay, festive hour,When music peals upon the perfumed air,And wit and mirth are ringing in our ears,And light forms floating round us in the dance,And jewels flashing through luxuriant curls,And deep tones breathing vows of tendernessAnd truth to listening beauty, even then,Amid the wild enchantments of the hour,To many a heart the past comes back again,And, as the fountain of its tears is stirred,A voice comes sounding from its holiest depths,“Alas! she is not here!” The spring-time nowIs forth upon the fresh green earth, the valesAre one bright wilderness of blooms, the woods,With all their wealth of rainbow tints, repose,Like fairy clouds upon the vernal sky,And every gale is burdened with the gushOf music, free, wild music, yet, lost one,Through all these wildering melodies, that voiceAs from the very heart of nature comes,“Alas! she is not here!” But list! oh, list!From the eternal depths of yonder sky,From where the flash of sun and star is dimIn uncreated light, an angel strain,As sweet as that in which the morning starsTogether sang o’er the creation’s birth,Comes floating downward through the ravished air,“Joy! joy! she’s here! she’s here!”’Tis midnight deep,And a pale cloud, like that whose shadow fellUpon our souls on that remembered eve,Is passing o’er the moon, but now the shadeFalls on one heart alone. I am alone,My dear and long-lost friend. Oh! wheresoe’erIn the vast universe of God thou art,I pray thee stoop at this mysterious hourTo the dark earth from thy all radiant home,And hold communion with thy weeping friendAs in the hours departed.Ah, I feel,Sweet spirit, thou hast heard and blessed my prayer!I hear the rustling of thy angel-plumesAbout me and around—the very airIs glowing with a thousand seraph thoughts,Bright as the sparkles of a shooting star—A hand from which the electric fire of heavenSeems flashing through my frame is clasped in mine—Thy blessed voice, with its remembered tonesSoftened to more than mortal melody,Is thrilling through my heart, as ’twere the voiceOf the lost Pleiad calling from its placeIn the eternal void—and our two soulsBlend once again as erst they used to blend—The heavenly with the earthly!Fare thee well!Sweet spirit, fare thee well! the blessed wordsThat thou, this night, hast whispered to me here,Above the mound that hides thy mortal form,Will purify my soul, and strengthen meTo bear the ills and agonies of life,And point me to an immortalityWith thee in God’s own holy Paradise.
One evening, dear Virginia, in thy life,
When thou and I were straying side by side
Beneath the holy moonlight, and our thoughts
Seemed taking a deep hue of mournfulness
From the sweet, solemn hour, I said if thou,
Whose young years scarcely numbered half my own,
Should’st pass before me to the spirit-land,
I would, on some mild eve beneath the moon,
Shining in heaven as it was shining then,
Go forth alone to lay me by thy grave,
And render to thy cherished memory
The last sad tribute of a stricken heart.
Thine answer was a sigh, a tear, a sob,
A gentle pressure of the hand, and thus
My earnest vow was hallowed. A thin cloud,
Like a pole winding-sheet, that moment passed
Across the moon, and as its shadow fell,
Like a mysterious omen of the tomb,
Upon our kindred spirits, thou didst turn
Thine eye to that wan spectre of the skies,
And, gazing on the solemn portent, weep
As if thy head were waters.
Weary years
Since then have planted furrows on my brow,
And sorrows in my heart, and the pale moon,
That shone around us on that lovely eve,
Is shining now upon thy swarded grave,
And I have come, a pilgrim of the night,
To bow at memory’s holy shrine and keep
My unforgotten vow.
Dear, parted one,
Friend of my better years, dark months have passed
With all their awful shadows o’er the earth,
Since this green turf was laid above thy rest,
’Mid sighs and streaming tears and stifled groans,
But oh! thy gentle memory is not dim
In the deep hearts that loved thee. We have set
This sweet young rose-tree o’er thy hallowed grave,
And may the skies shed their serenest dews
Around it, may the summer clouds distil
Their gentlest rains upon it, may the fresh
Warm zephyrs fan it with their softest breath,
And daily may the bright and holy beams
Of morning greet it with their sweetest smile,
That it may wave its roses o’er thy dust,
Dear emblems of the flowers that thou so oft
In life didst fling upon our happy hearts
From thy own spirit’s Eden. Yet we know
’Tis but an humble offering to thee,
Who dwellest where the fadeless roses bloom,
In heaven’s eternal sunshine.
To our eyes
Thy beauty has not faded from the earth;
We see it in the flowers that lift their lids
To greet the early spring-time—in the bow
The magic pencil of the sunshine paints
Upon the flying rain-clouds—in the stars
That glitter from the blue abyss of night—
And in the strange mysterious loveliness
Of every holy sunset. To our ears
The music of thy loved tones is not lost;
We hear it in the low, sweet cadences
Of wave and stream and fountain, in the notes
Of birds that from the sky and forest hail
The sunrise with their songs, and in the wild
And soul-like breathings of the evening wind
O’er all the thousand sweet Eolian lyres
Of grove and forest. Yet no sight or sound
In all the world of nature is as sweet,
Dear, lost Virginia, as when thou wast here
To gaze and listen with us. The young flowers
And the pure stars seem pale and cold and dim,
As if they looked through blinding tears—alas!
The tears are in our eyes. The melodies
Of wave and stream and bird and forest-harp,
Borne on the soft wings of the evening gale,
Seem blended with a deep wail for the dead—
Alas! the wail is in our hearts.
Lost one!
We miss thee in our sadness and our joy!
When at the solemn eventide we stray,
’Mid the still gathering of the twilight shades,
To muse upon the dear and hallowed past
With its deep, mournful memories, a voice
Comes from the still recesses of our hearts
“She is not here!” In the gay, festive hour,
When music peals upon the perfumed air,
And wit and mirth are ringing in our ears,
And light forms floating round us in the dance,
And jewels flashing through luxuriant curls,
And deep tones breathing vows of tenderness
And truth to listening beauty, even then,
Amid the wild enchantments of the hour,
To many a heart the past comes back again,
And, as the fountain of its tears is stirred,
A voice comes sounding from its holiest depths,
“Alas! she is not here!” The spring-time now
Is forth upon the fresh green earth, the vales
Are one bright wilderness of blooms, the woods,
With all their wealth of rainbow tints, repose,
Like fairy clouds upon the vernal sky,
And every gale is burdened with the gush
Of music, free, wild music, yet, lost one,
Through all these wildering melodies, that voice
As from the very heart of nature comes,
“Alas! she is not here!” But list! oh, list!
From the eternal depths of yonder sky,
From where the flash of sun and star is dim
In uncreated light, an angel strain,
As sweet as that in which the morning stars
Together sang o’er the creation’s birth,
Comes floating downward through the ravished air,
“Joy! joy! she’s here! she’s here!”
’Tis midnight deep,
And a pale cloud, like that whose shadow fell
Upon our souls on that remembered eve,
Is passing o’er the moon, but now the shade
Falls on one heart alone. I am alone,
My dear and long-lost friend. Oh! wheresoe’er
In the vast universe of God thou art,
I pray thee stoop at this mysterious hour
To the dark earth from thy all radiant home,
And hold communion with thy weeping friend
As in the hours departed.
Ah, I feel,
Sweet spirit, thou hast heard and blessed my prayer!
I hear the rustling of thy angel-plumes
About me and around—the very air
Is glowing with a thousand seraph thoughts,
Bright as the sparkles of a shooting star—
A hand from which the electric fire of heaven
Seems flashing through my frame is clasped in mine—
Thy blessed voice, with its remembered tones
Softened to more than mortal melody,
Is thrilling through my heart, as ’twere the voice
Of the lost Pleiad calling from its place
In the eternal void—and our two souls
Blend once again as erst they used to blend—
The heavenly with the earthly!
Fare thee well!
Sweet spirit, fare thee well! the blessed words
That thou, this night, hast whispered to me here,
Above the mound that hides thy mortal form,
Will purify my soul, and strengthen me
To bear the ills and agonies of life,
And point me to an immortality
With thee in God’s own holy Paradise.
A SONG FOR A DOWN-TRODDEN LAND.
———
BY WILLIAM P. MULCHINOCK.
———
Air—“Some love to roam o’er the dark sea-foam.”
Fill high to-night, in our halls of light,The toast on our lips shall be“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,Our homes and our altars free.”Ho! ho! ho! etc.Though the coward pale, like a girl may wail,And sleep in his chains for years,The sound of our mirth shall pass over earthWith balm for a nation’s tears.Ho! ho! ho! etc.A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold,A smile for the girls we love;And for him who’d bleed, in his country’s need,A home in the skies above.Ho! ho! ho! etc.We have asked the page of a nobler ageFor a hope secure and bright,And the spell it gave to the stricken slaveWas in one strong word—“Unite.”Ho! ho! ho! etc.Though the wind howl free o’er a single treeTill it bends beneath its frown—For many a day it will howl awayEre aforestbe stricken down.Ho! ho! ho! etc.By the martyred dead, who for Freedom bled,By all that man deems divine,Our patriot band, for our own dear land,Like brothers shall all combine.Ho! ho! ho! etc.Then fill to-night, in our halls of light,The toast on our lips shall be—“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,Our homes and our altars free.”Ho! ho! ho! etc.
Fill high to-night, in our halls of light,The toast on our lips shall be“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,Our homes and our altars free.”Ho! ho! ho! etc.Though the coward pale, like a girl may wail,And sleep in his chains for years,The sound of our mirth shall pass over earthWith balm for a nation’s tears.Ho! ho! ho! etc.A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold,A smile for the girls we love;And for him who’d bleed, in his country’s need,A home in the skies above.Ho! ho! ho! etc.We have asked the page of a nobler ageFor a hope secure and bright,And the spell it gave to the stricken slaveWas in one strong word—“Unite.”Ho! ho! ho! etc.Though the wind howl free o’er a single treeTill it bends beneath its frown—For many a day it will howl awayEre aforestbe stricken down.Ho! ho! ho! etc.By the martyred dead, who for Freedom bled,By all that man deems divine,Our patriot band, for our own dear land,Like brothers shall all combine.Ho! ho! ho! etc.Then fill to-night, in our halls of light,The toast on our lips shall be—“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,Our homes and our altars free.”Ho! ho! ho! etc.
Fill high to-night, in our halls of light,
The toast on our lips shall be
“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,
Our homes and our altars free.”
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
Though the coward pale, like a girl may wail,
And sleep in his chains for years,
The sound of our mirth shall pass over earth
With balm for a nation’s tears.
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold,
A smile for the girls we love;
And for him who’d bleed, in his country’s need,
A home in the skies above.
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
We have asked the page of a nobler age
For a hope secure and bright,
And the spell it gave to the stricken slave
Was in one strong word—“Unite.”
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
Though the wind howl free o’er a single tree
Till it bends beneath its frown—
For many a day it will howl away
Ere aforestbe stricken down.
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
By the martyred dead, who for Freedom bled,
By all that man deems divine,
Our patriot band, for our own dear land,
Like brothers shall all combine.
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
Then fill to-night, in our halls of light,
The toast on our lips shall be—
“The sinewy hand, the glittering brand,
Our homes and our altars free.”
Ho! ho! ho! etc.
LUCY LEYTON.
———
BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.
———
I have been induced to a brief series of heart-histories by a remark of Longfellow, in Kavanagh. In speaking of the ever sanguine yet irresolute schoolmaster, who was “forced to teach grammar when he would fain have written poems,” he says, “Mr. Churchill never knew that while he was exploring the Past for records of obscure and unknown martyrs, in his own village, ——, the romance he was longing to find and record, had really occurred in his neighborhood, among his own friends.” Again, Emerson says, “Every roof is agreeable to the eye until it is lifted, and then we find tragedy, and moaning women, and hard-eyed husbands, and deluges of lethe.”
There is truth in this. Beneath every roof-tree some romance is at work—some heart-history compiling. The evening lights twinkle from cottages sleeping peacefully upon the hill-sides and valleys—music and mirth break on the air from brilliantly illuminated dwellings—then the night wears on—the cottage-lights no longer gleam—silence wraps the abode of wealth—and from out the majesty of the heavens encircling all, the gentle moon and bright, flashing stars look down alike on sheltered cot or marble dome. Yet, “lift the roof,” lay bare the heart which pulsates in every bosom, and we shall find each has its own tale of romance woven from life’s mingled threads of grief, of love, of happiness—perhaps of shame.
Let me, then, from out the “simple annals” of a quiet country town, sketch, with a faithful pen, these heart-histories—these romances from real life.
The little village to which they may be traced, I must forbear to name. That it does not exist merely in the imagination, let it suffice the incredulous reader. There are bright, dancing rills spangling its broad meadows—the “sweet south wind” plays over innumerable fields of billowy grain, and the tinkle of the cow-bell is heard within the sweet-scented pine forests which crown the summit of each rising hill. The roots, some of which I am about to “lift,” cover no costly edifices. They are for the most part humble and unpretending, yet so embosomed among fruit and forest-trees as to render each cottage of itself a coup d’œil of beauty. There are, to be sure, two or three exceptions; the large, three-story brick house of Judge Porter, for instance, with its long, winding avenues, and, as Mrs. Malaprop would say, its “statutes” placed in awful frigidity about the grounds, frightening the children of the neighborhood as so many sheeted ghosts. The beautiful villa, too, of Dr. Bartine, (these names are, of course, fictitious,) which stands on a gentle eminence somewhat remote from the village. It was built by a gentleman of wealth and cultivated taste, who lived only to see it completed. It was then knocked down under the hammer of Tom Pepper, the village auctioneer, to the highest bidder, a worthy farmer, with as many children as barn-door fowl. For six months, droning spinning-wheels, and rattling looms, made music in the classic rooms—squashes and red-peppers hung on the frescoed walls, while the conservatory, with its marble fount, served admirably for the dairy of the notable Mrs. Grimes—pots of butter, and round, yellow cheeses, taking the place of rhododendrons and fragrant jessamines. Fortunately for the preservation of this tasteful dwelling, at the end of six months, it was purchased by young Doctor Bartine, who, after putting it in complete repair, and removing the unseemly pig-stye and other excrescences from the face of the beautiful lawn, brought hither his pretty young bride. There is the parsonage sequestered from the street by elms a century old; and the venerable church, from whose well-worn portals a narrow foot-path conducts to that peaceful spot where, “when life’s fitful fever ended,” the villagers come one by one and lie down to their dreamless rest. There all is hushed. The wind, as it softly sweeps the pliant willow, seems to whisper arequiem for the peaceful dead; a few birds flit noiselessly about, but no song of gladness trills from their little throats, their notes are low and plaintive, as if they mourned for the hand which once fed them, but will never feed them more.
Such are the prominent local features of the little village, into whose quiet precincts I have wandered. And there are many such primitive towns nestling among our hills and valleys, some even less pretending; and there are lone cottages scattered by the road-side, and huts of squalid poverty, and the thrifty homestead of the farmer, all of which have their heart-histories.
Love’s autocrasy must form the theme of my first romance from the real; and, indeed, if the truth was known, there are but few heart-histories in whose compilation that troublesome little sprite has not more or less interfered.
Lucy Leyton, with that bright, roguish eye of hers, and her sunny smile shall attest the truth of my words.
The proprietor of the great Leyton farm which covers more than a hundred acres of the richest land in New England, is a true specimen of her stalwort sons, her independent, industrious farmers—a noble race, uniting integrity, sound sense, and a high standard of moral worth, under manners the most plain and unpretending—keenly sensitive for the public weal, hospitable, kind, and thrifty—not over generous, not over prodigal of their means, yet far removed from that selfish avarice which would refuse a helping hand to those who would rise in theworld if they had the means to start with, (and how many such there are,) or close their doors upon the weary wayfarer, vagrant though he might be. Of this class is Andrew Leyton.
A few words upon the domestic economy of Leyton farm. Mr. Leyton is a widower, and my little heroine, Lucy, his only child. People wondered, as people always will, why such a young-looking, hale, hearty man as Andrew Leyton, did not take a second wife; but when asked about it, he always had two answers ready—first, he was too much hurried about his farm-work to spend time in courting and marrying; second, old Dinah, who had lived with his father before him, though she was old, was a first-rate manager; and Heaven forbid he should unloose her tongue by talking about bringing a second Mrs. Leyton into the house. And so year after year old Dinah stood her ground, holding undisputed sway in kitchen and hall, doing pretty much as she pleased with her master, looking, in fact, upon the strong, athletic, six-foot Andrew Leyton as a mere child, “the boy,” as she termed him, when speaking to her cronies; and as for Lucy, she would have held her in leading-strings to this day probably, if Mr. Leyton had not sent her from home to acquire more advantages of education than the village-school could offer.
Lucy was a bright, darling little child, saying and doing a thousand witty things; and Mr. Leyton made up his mind that she was a perfect prodigy even at four years old—parents are pretty apt to imagine just such things—so he determined, from the time she could first lisp her letters, that she should have the very best education his means would afford; and when in process of time she came to know more than the schoolmaster, (in farmer Leyton’s opinion,) he resolved to part with his darling for a little while, that she might have the benefit of a fashionable boarding-school. In selecting the establishment of Mrs. Tracy, situated some thirty miles from Leyton farm, he proved himself more fortunate than many who send forth their children to gather “apples of wisdom,” but who return with thistles.
At the end of two years Lucy was pronounced “finished,” and returned home. If Mr. Leyton had thought her a prodigy at four years old, what must he have considered her at seventeen, for she had contrived to store away a goodly amount of knowledge in her little head, even if she was at times a little flighty. Yes, and notwithstanding she must have been so hurried at Mrs. Tracy’s with her algebra, and her French, and her philosophy, and her history, she had somehow managed to commence a little heart-history of her own; but then she did not let any one read it, not she. Farmer Leyton himself never knew a word about this unbargained for accomplishment.
One day when Lucy had been at home about a week, Mr. Leyton had occasion to go down into the village with a load of his renowned potatoes for Judge Porter.
“Dear father, will you please see if there is not a letter in the post-office for me?” cried Lucy, running out to the gate.
“Ha! ha!—a letter for you! that’s a new idea! Yes, but come and kiss me.”
And poising one little foot upon the hub of the cart-wheel, Lucy sprang lightly to the side of her father, gave him a hearty smack upon each sunburned cheek, and then alighted again like a bird upon the soft, green turf.
Now the farmer was no great scribe. Unless to announce a marriage or a death, it was a rare thing for him either to indite or receive a letter. The post-office revenue of Uncle Sam was but little benefitted by Andrew Leyton. He was somewhat pleased, therefore, that his Lu should expect a letter; so, after unloading, he brought his team to a stand-still in front of the tavern, which, beside offering entertainment for man and beast, served also for the post-office. Sure enough, there was a letter—a very thick one too—for “Miss Lucy Leyton,” directed in an elegant flowing hand—a gentleman’s hand.
“Hum!—What does this mean!” thought Farmer Leyton, turning the letter over and over, and looking at the seal,—“L’Amour,” “Fidelité.”
Lucy was watching for his return; and as soon as she saw the well-known team rise the hill, she flew swiftly along the road to meet it. Her father held up the letter. Ah! what a bright, happy face was hers, as she caught it from his hand; and seating herself under a shady tree by the road-side, she eagerly tore off the envelope, and pressed the insensible chirography to her lips.
“Hum!—what does this mean!” again thought the farmer, eyeing Lucy keenly. “Gee-haw, Darby—Gee-up, Dick!” he cried, sweeping his cart-whip above the sleek hides of his oxen, yet all the time noting uneasily the bright blush, the happy smile of Lucy, all absorbed as she was in the contents of her letter.
In less than a week there came another.
“Hum!” said Mr. Leyton, putting it in his pocket, “I must see what this means.”
He went home, foddered the cattle, and then walked into the house.
“Come here Lu, sit down by me.”
Lucy laid aside her work, and drawing a low foot-stool to the side of her father, folded her dimpled hands upon his knees, and looked up smiling into his face.
“Well, Lu, you had a nice time, didn’t you, at Mrs. Tracy’s?” said Mr. Leyton, smoothing back the long, golden curls from her white upturned brow.
“Indeed I did, my dear father. I am sure, although I was so anxious to see you, I was sorry to come away.”
“Hum! Mrs. Tracy used to keep you pretty strict, I suppose—never let you go out, did she?”
“O yes, we walked every day—an hour in the morning, and an hour after school at night; it was very pleasant, sometimes Mrs. Tracy would go with us, and sometimes—O, it wassopleasant!” and Lucy heaved a sigh as she concluded.
“I take it for granted you never saw any boys there, Lu, did you?”
Lucy blushed, and wondered what in the world possessed her father to talk so; at last she answered, very demurely:
“Why, father, it was a school for girls you know; it would have been very strange, I am sure, to have seen a set of rude boys in our pleasant school-room.”
“That is not what I mean, you little puss you—did any young men ever visit at Mrs. Tracy’s?”
“Mercy, no, Mrs. Tracy would not even let Edward invite—”
“Edward—who is Edward?”
“Mrs. Tracy’s nephew, father,” replied Lucy, stooping to tie her little slipper, which just at that particular moment it seemed necessary for her to attend to.
“Hum—and I suppose Edward walked with you, didn’t he?” said Mr. Leyton.
“Yes, father, when Mrs. Tracy could not go.”
“I thought so. Who is he? What is he? What is his name—this Edward?”
Poor Lucy, how she tried not to blush, and yet what a glow instantly suffused the tell-tale countenance she averted from the scrutinizing glance of her father.
“His name is Bartine—Edward Bartine—he is a very fine young man, father—every body loves him.”
“Hum!”
“All the girls loved him, just like a brother.”
“And you loved him just like a brother, I suppose.”
“Sir.”
“Hum—well go on—what was this very fine young man doing at a young ladies’ boarding-school?”
“He only came up from New Haven to pass a few months with Mrs. Tracy, and to pursue his studies with Dr. Heber—he is going back to college very soon, I suppose.”
“Going back to college! Ah, I understand, I understand—some wild scapegoat, I’ll be bound, suspended for misdemeanor—never will be worth a straw—never will be good for any thing, not he—wasting the money which his father has toiled hard to earn, I’ll warrant you!”
“No, indeed, father, Edward Bartine is no such person, indeed he is not!” eagerly interposed Lucy.
“How do you know? I tell you he is. See here Lu—who is this from?” and putting his hand in his ample coat-pocket Mr. Leyton drew forth the letter, holding it up, however, at arm’s length.
“O, dear, dear father, please give it to me, please do—that’s a dear father!” cried Lucy, springing up, her face radiant with joy, and extending her hand for the precious missive.
“Not so fast, little Miss Lucy Leyton—sit down again—there is your letter—now open it and read it to me,” said Mr. Leyton, passing his arm around her waist to prevent her flight.
“O, father, please let me go—indeed I cannot read it to you!” urged Lucy, the tears trembling like dew-drops on her long fringed eye-lids.
“Well, then, I’ll read it myself—it must be very fine; I should like to read a letter from such a nice young man,” said Mr. Leyton, attempting to take it.
“Father, please don’t, it is only about—about—”
“Never mind, I will see what it is about. Lucy, you must either give me the letter or read me the contents—I must know them!” and this time Mr. Leyton spoke sternly.
The poor girl dared not disobey. With a trembling hand she broke the seal, and, in a voice scarcely audible, read:
“My dearest, sweet Lucy.”
“Hum—puppy! go on.”
“My dearest, sweet Lucy—To-morrow—to-morrow I leave for—for—” Lucy could proceed no further, but covered with blushes hid her face in her father’s bosom.
“Well, well Lu, don’t cry; I don’t want to hear any more of such silly stuff. There give me the letter, it will serve nicely to light my pipe,” said Mr. Leyton, twisting it in his fingers.
“Father, wont you let me have the letter—wont you, father?” pleaded Lucy.
“No, Lucy. Now go and get pen, ink, and paper; this must be answered.”
Quite pale and frightened, Lucy brought her little desk and placed it on the table.
“Are you ready?” said Mr. Leyton, “well then, begin, Mr. Edward—what’s his name—Bartine—”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are a base designing young man—”
“Must I say so, father? indeed, he is no such thing!” interrupted Lucy, looking up all in tears.
“I say he is—go on—‘you are a base designing young man, so, although I am but a farmer’s daughter, never presume to address another letter to me.’ Have you wrote that—very well, now add, ‘My father desires his compliments, and would like to try the strength of his new raw-hide upon your shoulders.’”
Lucy sobbed aloud.
“Now, say, ‘Respectfully, very, Lucy Leyton.’”
Mr. Leyton took up the blotted page, read it, sealed and directed it, and put it in his pocket. Then taking Lucy in his arms and kissing her, he said:
“My darling, I would not grieve you for the world; what I am doing is for your good, my child, though I know you think me very cruel, but you will thank me one of these days. There—now go to your chamber and lie down awhile; kiss me, dear Lu.”
Lucy pressed her lips to his with a loud sob, and then hastening to her little chamber, she bolted the door, and throwing herself upon the bed, gave way to her affliction—for the first time a tear had blotted her heart-history!
“What the mischief ails the girl I wonder? she don’t eat—she don’t sleep, and half the time there are tears in her pretty eyes; her rosy cheeks are all gone, and every now and then she sighs enough to break one’s heart! Hang me if I can stand it! she thinks I don’t see it—when I am by she tries to smile and sing as she used to—she thinks I haven’t any eyes—but I have. Confound that fellow—I wish I had kept herat home—well, well, poor Lu—something must be done, or else she’ll die!”
Thus soliloquized Andrew Leyton, a few weeks after the scene just related. Now, Mr. Leyton was neither a severe nor an obstinate man—there was never a more tender father, nor a kinder master. He was little connusant of the great world, it is true, but enough so to render him keenly apprehensive for his daughter. He knew there were unprincipled young men enough, who solely from vanity, and for self-gratulation would not scruple to win the affections of a young, artless girl like Lucy, and his jealous fears imputed the same unworthy motive to the professions of young Edward Bartine. Thus it was his love for his only child, amounting almost to idolatry, which had caused him to take the perhaps somewhat hasty step he had done—he was a father, and who can blame him? Yet it cut him to the heart when he saw how deeply poor Lucy suffered from his well meant kindness.
“Something must be done!” again exclaimed Mr. Leyton, slowly pacing to and fro the little porch, and watching, with a sad, perplexed countenance, the slight figure of Lucy strolling pensively through the garden, and at length the “something” took upon itself a shape which mightily pleased his fancy.
Mr. Leyton had one sister who, in his boyhood, had emigrated, together with almost every member of the Leyton family, to the far west. She had married there, but had been early left a widow, with one son. Andrew had several times offered her a home in his house; but the distance was great—new friends and associations had been formed to supplant earlier ties, and the widow, though grateful for her brother’s kindness, preferred the banks of the Ohio to the fertile vale of the Connecticut. Now, Mr. Leyton had no son, and a vague idea had now and then seized him to unite Lucy to his sister’s child. Thus the great Leyton farm would be continued in the family, when he was dead and gone. True, he had never seen him—but what of that—he was certain he must be a fine fellow, a good honest lad, for all the Leytons were so from the beginning.
“Yes, I will write this very night!” said Mr. Leyton, stopping suddenly in his walk, as this bright thought suggested itself. “I’ll just invite Reuben to come on and see the old homestead, where his grandfather, and his great grandfather lived and died, and then if he only takes a fancy to Lu, which of course he cannot fail of doing, I shall be happy as a lord—he will soon drive this college scape-grace from her mind!”
“Lu, how do you like your Cousin Reuben?” said Mr. Leyton, knocking the ashes from his third evening pipe.
Lucy looked up from her work and smiled faintly, as she replied:
“My dear father, you know I have never seen him.”
“True, true, neither have I, but I tell you what, Lu, I am going to write out to Reuben to come on and make us a visit, and bring his mother too, if she will; how should you like it?”
“Very much, indeed, I shall be delighted to see Aunt Richards, whom you have so often talked to me about.”
“And Cousin Reuben too?”
“Yes, of course I should.”
“Well, Lu, I hope you will like Reuben, for do you know I have quite set my heart upon having him for a son-in-law—what say you?” said Mr. Leyton, abruptly.
Lucy at once burst into tears, and went on to protest, in the most earnest manner, that she should never marry—she would not marry for the world, she could never love anybody—she wished her father would not talk so—she was very happy as she was—O, very happy, indeed!
However, Mr. Leyton wrote the letter, and it took him three good hours to do so. Then in the morning, as he was very busy, for it was haying time, he told Lucy he wished she would walk down into the village and put it in the post-office.
What could have put it into Lucy’s little head to do as she did, I am sure I don’t know. I will not pretend to exculpate such a piece of mischief, not I, I will only state facts.