From dewy day-dawn to its dewy close,Between the lark's song and the whippo-wil's,With life as fresh and musical as fillsTheir varied round, in quiet joyance goesThe faithful gardener, spying out the foesOf queenly Beauty, whom, for all the illsThey wrought her reign, his hand in pity kills.That pure-eyed Peace may in her realm repose.He bears cool water to the drooping flowers,And gently crops o'erflushed exuberance;Trains the young vines to crown imperial bowers,And guardeth well fair buds from foul mischance;Let others find what prize befits their powers,Hisdeeds put smiles on Nature's countenance.
From dewy day-dawn to its dewy close,Between the lark's song and the whippo-wil's,With life as fresh and musical as fillsTheir varied round, in quiet joyance goesThe faithful gardener, spying out the foesOf queenly Beauty, whom, for all the illsThey wrought her reign, his hand in pity kills.That pure-eyed Peace may in her realm repose.He bears cool water to the drooping flowers,And gently crops o'erflushed exuberance;Trains the young vines to crown imperial bowers,And guardeth well fair buds from foul mischance;Let others find what prize befits their powers,Hisdeeds put smiles on Nature's countenance.
A realm of forest, hill and lake I sing,Nestling in wild and unknown lovelinessBeneath the "Empire State's" protecting wing;But be not too inquisitive and pressIts name—my motto must be, reader! "StatNominis umbra"—I'll not tell that's flat.But this much I will say; it bears the nameOf a brave warrior, who, in times of old,Burst through the forests like a flood of flame,And on the savage foe deep vengeance told.And well that warrior kept unstained the wreathReaped by his sword in fields of blood and death.And to be more explicit—on the westThe Chihohocki[1]laves its mountain sides;East the grim Shawangunk uprears its crest,And monarch-like this forest-land dividesFrom that whose name superfluous 't were to utterIf mention's made of golden "Goshen butter."Within this realm Dame Nature's mantle wideHas scarcely yet been rent by human toil;Here tower the hill-tops in their forest pride,There smile the sylvan valleys, though the soilIs such, in truth, no wonder people choseTo leave Dame Nature to her wild repose.Yet pleasant are the sights and sounds when SummerWakens the forest depths to light and life;The woodpecker, a red-plumed, noisy drummer,Times to the thrasher's clearly flourished fife;The partridge strikes its bass upon its log,And with his deep bassoon chimes in the frog.The stream reflects the leaf, the trunk, the root,The sunlight drops its gold upon the moss,Whose delicate fringes sink beneath the footOf the quick squirrel as it glides across;And, glancing like a vision to the eye,Through the tall trees the deer shoots, dream-like, by.Fancy your wearied foot has clambered nowThe Delaware's steep hill, and then glance back.The splendid sight will put you in a glow!There winds the river in its snake-like track,Whilst rural beauty laughs upon your view—Meadows of green, and fields of golden hue,And then White Lake, expanding far away!Oh, its pure waters gleam before me now!It sheds upon my world-worn heart a rayBright as the crystal beauty of its brow.Loveliest of lakes! this pulse must cease to beatEre I forget thee, beautiful and sweet!M., too, (the village,) is a lovely place,Clustered midst grain-fields rich and orchards green,With the grand woods around—in blended graceNature and Art at every point are seen.Brimmed is it with good fellows, and those pearlsOf man's prosaic being—witching girls.Yet there are places in this rising countyWhere Nature seems determined not to grow;Where travelers merit an especial bountyFor perseverance, where the starving crowWould pass, disdaining to arrest his flight;(But these things in strict confidence I write.)The earth is sprinkled with a scanty growthOf ragged, scrubby pine, and here and thereA lofty hemlock, looking as if loathTo show its surly head—while grim and bareThe ghosts of former trees their mossy locksShake, but all else is one great bed of rocks.Yet there is beauty even there when greenAnd sunbright—there the ground-pine twines its fringe,And the low whortleberries give the scene(So thick their downy gems) a purple tinge,And mossy paths are branching all about,But if you meet a rattlesnake, look out!Hour after hour, the stranger passing throughThis member of the "southern tier" will seeNaught but the stretching forests, grand, 't is true,But then life's naught without variety,Though if he seeks with care to find that charm,He 'chance may stumble on some stumpy farm,And then the road called "Turnpike," "verbum sap!"Now climbing o'er some mountain's rugged brow,Now plunging headlong in some hollow's lap,Still, "vice versa," laboring on you go,How high soe'er the hill, it has its brother,You're scarce down one before you go up t'other.The people, too, who live—I mean, who stayIn their green Alpine homes, (I like a touchOf the sublime,) presents a queer arrayOf three most interesting species—Dutch,Yankee and mongrel—and this triple mixtureForm when they meet a very curious picture.They call one "smart" who's keen at overreaching,"Tonguey" the babbler of the loudest din,They'll travel miles on Sunday to a "preaching,"And seek next day to "take their neighbor in,"And the word "deacon," in this charming region,Covers, like charity, of sins a legion.And there's another race, "half flesh, half fish,"That live where rolls the Delaware its flood,Ready to fight or drink as others wish,Not as they care; whose speech is loud and rude,Half oath half boast, and think that all things slumberWhen "Philadelfy" markets fall in "lumber."Their toil is pastime when the river leapsOn, like a war-horse foaming in his wrath,With thundering hoof and flashing mane, and sweepsThe forest fragments on its roaring path,What time the Spring-rains its mild current thresh,And make what vulgarly is called a "fresh."Then from deep eddy and from winding creekHis mammoth platform the bold raftsman steers,And, as his giant oar he pushes quick,With song and jest his wearying labor cheers,Whilst confident in skill he fearless driftsBy swamping islands and o'er staving rifts.From rafts we glance to saw-mills—oft you meetTheir pine-slab roofs and board-piles by some brook,And, with the splashing wheel and watery sheetFlinging its curtain o'er the dam, they look,(When tired of gazing at the endless woods,)Though saw-mills, pleasant in their solitudes.
A realm of forest, hill and lake I sing,Nestling in wild and unknown lovelinessBeneath the "Empire State's" protecting wing;But be not too inquisitive and pressIts name—my motto must be, reader! "StatNominis umbra"—I'll not tell that's flat.
But this much I will say; it bears the nameOf a brave warrior, who, in times of old,Burst through the forests like a flood of flame,And on the savage foe deep vengeance told.And well that warrior kept unstained the wreathReaped by his sword in fields of blood and death.
And to be more explicit—on the westThe Chihohocki[1]laves its mountain sides;East the grim Shawangunk uprears its crest,And monarch-like this forest-land dividesFrom that whose name superfluous 't were to utterIf mention's made of golden "Goshen butter."
Within this realm Dame Nature's mantle wideHas scarcely yet been rent by human toil;Here tower the hill-tops in their forest pride,There smile the sylvan valleys, though the soilIs such, in truth, no wonder people choseTo leave Dame Nature to her wild repose.
Yet pleasant are the sights and sounds when SummerWakens the forest depths to light and life;The woodpecker, a red-plumed, noisy drummer,Times to the thrasher's clearly flourished fife;The partridge strikes its bass upon its log,And with his deep bassoon chimes in the frog.
The stream reflects the leaf, the trunk, the root,The sunlight drops its gold upon the moss,Whose delicate fringes sink beneath the footOf the quick squirrel as it glides across;And, glancing like a vision to the eye,Through the tall trees the deer shoots, dream-like, by.
Fancy your wearied foot has clambered nowThe Delaware's steep hill, and then glance back.The splendid sight will put you in a glow!There winds the river in its snake-like track,Whilst rural beauty laughs upon your view—Meadows of green, and fields of golden hue,
And then White Lake, expanding far away!Oh, its pure waters gleam before me now!It sheds upon my world-worn heart a rayBright as the crystal beauty of its brow.Loveliest of lakes! this pulse must cease to beatEre I forget thee, beautiful and sweet!
M., too, (the village,) is a lovely place,Clustered midst grain-fields rich and orchards green,With the grand woods around—in blended graceNature and Art at every point are seen.Brimmed is it with good fellows, and those pearlsOf man's prosaic being—witching girls.
Yet there are places in this rising countyWhere Nature seems determined not to grow;Where travelers merit an especial bountyFor perseverance, where the starving crowWould pass, disdaining to arrest his flight;(But these things in strict confidence I write.)
The earth is sprinkled with a scanty growthOf ragged, scrubby pine, and here and thereA lofty hemlock, looking as if loathTo show its surly head—while grim and bareThe ghosts of former trees their mossy locksShake, but all else is one great bed of rocks.
Yet there is beauty even there when greenAnd sunbright—there the ground-pine twines its fringe,And the low whortleberries give the scene(So thick their downy gems) a purple tinge,And mossy paths are branching all about,But if you meet a rattlesnake, look out!
Hour after hour, the stranger passing throughThis member of the "southern tier" will seeNaught but the stretching forests, grand, 't is true,But then life's naught without variety,Though if he seeks with care to find that charm,He 'chance may stumble on some stumpy farm,
And then the road called "Turnpike," "verbum sap!"Now climbing o'er some mountain's rugged brow,Now plunging headlong in some hollow's lap,Still, "vice versa," laboring on you go,How high soe'er the hill, it has its brother,You're scarce down one before you go up t'other.
The people, too, who live—I mean, who stayIn their green Alpine homes, (I like a touchOf the sublime,) presents a queer arrayOf three most interesting species—Dutch,Yankee and mongrel—and this triple mixtureForm when they meet a very curious picture.
They call one "smart" who's keen at overreaching,"Tonguey" the babbler of the loudest din,They'll travel miles on Sunday to a "preaching,"And seek next day to "take their neighbor in,"And the word "deacon," in this charming region,Covers, like charity, of sins a legion.
And there's another race, "half flesh, half fish,"That live where rolls the Delaware its flood,Ready to fight or drink as others wish,Not as they care; whose speech is loud and rude,Half oath half boast, and think that all things slumberWhen "Philadelfy" markets fall in "lumber."
Their toil is pastime when the river leapsOn, like a war-horse foaming in his wrath,With thundering hoof and flashing mane, and sweepsThe forest fragments on its roaring path,What time the Spring-rains its mild current thresh,And make what vulgarly is called a "fresh."
Then from deep eddy and from winding creekHis mammoth platform the bold raftsman steers,And, as his giant oar he pushes quick,With song and jest his wearying labor cheers,Whilst confident in skill he fearless driftsBy swamping islands and o'er staving rifts.
From rafts we glance to saw-mills—oft you meetTheir pine-slab roofs and board-piles by some brook,And, with the splashing wheel and watery sheetFlinging its curtain o'er the dam, they look,(When tired of gazing at the endless woods,)Though saw-mills, pleasant in their solitudes.
[1]The Indian (Delaware) name for the Delaware River.
[1]The Indian (Delaware) name for the Delaware River.
What shall I write about? A sensible question enough for me to address to you, good reader, were I a worn-out school-girl, with a mind quite like an "exhausted receiver" on the one subject, frightful, dismal, and hated at all times toher. But, thanks be to Time, I amnoschool-girl—and it is rather a foolish question, this same one I have proposed, considering that for sixty long seconds my mind has been fully determined as towhatI will write about this morning.
I have been looking over a file of old magazines, which are now scattered about me in most beautiful confusion, for the sole purpose of discovering in the steps ofhow many"illustrious predecessors" I am to follow, when I expatiate on that, which, by the last tale in the last new magazine, seems to be still a marvelous object in creation, namely, "The Coquette."
And oh the poems, and tales, and essays, by the Mrs.'s and Misses—the Mr.'s and Esqr.'s, let alone the Dr.'s and Rev.'s, who have not disdained to pour forth their thoughts like water on this exhausted (?) topic! I will spare you, through mere Christian charity, dear reader, from listening to their enumeration.
By this time, if you are any thing of a magazine or newspaper reader, you mustnecessarilyhave arrived at some conclusion as to this tribe of humans. Well, what do you think of coquettesin general, my friend—what do you think of those with whom you have had to do within particular? According to Johnson, a coquette is "a gay, airy girl, who by variousartsendeavors to gain admirers." Natural enough, all that,Ishould say.
When women are blessed (?) by a kind Providence with beauty, does it not follow rapidly on the heels of the truth, that they are meant and made to be admired, and loved, and wooed by the gender masculine? And when the admiration and homage of men's hearts are offered at the shrine of beauty—and the favored fair one tastes the cup of adulation manforcesto her lips, say, ye wise ones! is there any thing so veryunnaturalin the fact that her human heart cries "more?" Why, even that poor, miserable daughter of the horse-leech was not content with saying "give!" once, it must needs be "give—give!"
Now, in all fairness, I put the question to you—what warrior, after a brilliant achievement inonebattle—after one glorious conquest over his foes, was content ever after to dwell in a quiet obscurity, and suffer his name to be at last almost forgotten by men, because of his very inaction? Tell me, was that shining light so often lit and re-lit on the Mountain of Warning for the benefit of the sojourners in the vallies of the world—I mean Napoleon Bonaparte? Was Cortes? Was Alexander?
Whatauthor, after writingonebook that took the reading world by storm, ever after that blessed day laid down his pen and said, "I have done." Did any of those glorious beings who, with their death-stiffened fingerscanwrite for us no more? Are the writers ofourday satisfied withonebrilliant and successful effort in the field of literary labor? Bear witness, oh, Bulwer, and Dickens, and Cooper, and James, to the absurdity ofsuchan idea! Wait—I would be truthful—even as I write there comes before me a bright remembrance ofoneglorious bard, living, voicelessnow—our own well-beloved Halleck; but evenhemay awake, and speak yet—and so make way withtheexception to my rule.
And what does the warrior battle for? Tell it not in this wise, wide-awake century it is allfor country and the good of man! We are a wise people,WE! Such humbugging is too ancient. Say out plainly it is for glory, for distinction, for place in the higher room, and we will honor you for your honest words! And what does the author labor and strive for, through dreary days and sleepless nights? Is it for the enlightenment of mankind—the improvement of his fellows? Who will say thatthisis not oftenest, when indeed it is thought of at all, thesecondaryconsideration? Ay, yes! there are such things as poor misguided scribblers dipping their pens in their life-blood, wherewith to leave a mark on the pages of time, "to be seen of men!" Thereissuch a thing as a "lord of creation,"piningfor distinction, and braving every distress, and even death, for—Fame! Yes, we have records of sons of Genius who havediedbecause men recognized not the lighttheyset before them. I mind me, and I "weep for Adonais! he is dead."
I tell you, among men it is rare to find one who, after he has tasted the honey of applause and world-admiration, but will taste, and continue to taste, until he has cloyed himself, and almost (I do notsayquite) sickened the patient bystanders.
Is there, then, any thing wonderful in the fact that woman loves admiration? With such noble examples before her, why should she not? I know it has been hinted broadly that it is heartless, and selfish, and sinful, in a woman, merely for her personal gratification, to make wrecks of the hearts of men(!!) and that coquetting is set down among masculines in the catalogue of sins as one of the blackest dye. But, if man, in his wonderful wisdom, can suffer himself to be so fooled, pray whose fault or sin is it? If he rests his happiness on the smiles ofonewoman, which is a rarer thing than ye think, oh, maidens! whom shall he blame, if the smile does not alwaysawait him? Whose fault is it if he does notcontinueto please, when the eyes of the fair one are awakened to his numberless "short comings?" And some day when a more favored one of nature draws near with his homage, why should the old lover listen in amaze to cold words and colder sentiments? Trust me, if men would only apply to this subject of our consideration one iota of the coolness and calmness of unprejudiced thought which distinguishes many of their other musings, they might some day come to a just conclusion.
But enough of this; I have given apreface—and I know a case in point—more satisfactory than allmyarguments I think it will prove; and I imagine it will clear me from all suspicion, or charge, if you should prefer it against me, of entertaining wrong opinions on this important subject.
From a far longer time since than I can well remember, till within two years past, the Cleveland family were our next door neighbors. Florence, the eldest daughter, was a very dear friend of mine, and I would not make her the heroine of this story to-day, were it not for the following fact. Two years ago the whole family emigrated to Wisconsin; and now that they are gone so very far "out of the world," I think no blame should be attached to me for giving her "experience" to the good public. Sure am I, that buried as she is in the backwoods, she will never know thatIhave seized upon her as a "subject" whereabout to expatiate. But if you should chance to meet Florence in your wanderings, reader, do not, I pray you, wound her feelings, by touching on this topic.
Every body said Flory was a coquette—and adopting as a settled point the sentiment that "what every body saysmustbe true," I suppose she was; that is, she was "a gay, airy girl, who was fond of admiration;" and I will not deny that she may have exerted herself the least bit in the world to obtain it. But I do repel most indignantly the idea thatshewas artful and designing, or that she ever regularlyset a trapto ensnare any human heart.
Florence, when she parted from us, was of middle height, very fair, and her cheeks wore the bloom of early roses; her hair was of a light, glossy brown—and, oh, those beautiful ringlets! I can vouch for the truth of it,theynever emerged from curl-papers—(and by the way, how refreshing and pleasant now-a-days it is to see any thingnatural, even a paltry curl!) Then her eyes, "deeply, divinely blue," sometimes filled with a sober, tranquil,holylight, and again dancing, beaming, and running over with joy and happiness.
Though Flory was the admiration of all eyes, and "the beaux" seemed really to have no appreciation of the presence of we poor insignificants when she was by, yet to not many ofusdid the "green-eyed monster" ever whisper one bad, ungracious thought of her.
We all loved her—and a sadder set never waited in our depôt the arrival of the eastern train, than gathered there the day Mr. Cleveland and family were to leave for a home in the "far West."
There were some, indeed, who invariably honored Florence with the title of "coquette!" and pursed up their lips very sanctimoniously whenever they heard of her new conquests; particularly may this remark apply to old Widow Forbes, who rejoiced in the possession of four grown-up daughters—"fixtures" most decidedly they were in her household—for these four above-mentioned, were not in any way remarkable for their personal attractions; and two of them had well-nigh passed the third stage of woman's unmarried life! But by far the greater part of the villagers rejoiced in the presence of Florence Cleveland as they would in a sunbeam on a dull day; she was always so cheerful, so generous and obliging.
None of those sunny curls of hers were visible the day Florence set out on her journey; perhaps you think that was because ladies do not usually travel with such appendages in view, and that they were snugly packed away in the back part of her traveling hat. But had Flory's head been uncovered then, I fear me it would have borne terrible witness of the desecrating hands which had been busy about it; for the fairy-like ringlets which had so long adorned the beautiful head, full beautiful enough withoutthem, were slumbering on the hearts of us, her miserable, weeping cronies; and I know not how many gentlemen's purses were freighted with like treasure.
What a silent, stupid company we were gathered there that day. It was a bright morning—there was not a cloud to be seen in all the sky; and Susy, the old fortune-teller, said it was a day that augured well for their future prosperity; but that did not helpusany. Every body seemed to think we were to lose one of the choicest lights of our village—and so, indeed, we were.
At last the odious depôt-bell rung—soon after the "fire-demon" heaved in sight, followed by its long train of crowded cars. In ten minutes the leave-taking was all over, our friends were seated—their "worldly goods" were stowed away—another ring of the bell, that never sounded half so remorselessly before, and away they went, over the road—across the bridge—past the burial-ground—and on—on—on!
To my bosom I pressed a package Florence had given to me that morning of her departure, which she bade me not open till she was fairly gone. I need not tell you how I hastened home when I had seen her depart—how, with just one look at their old garden, which ran back of my father's house, through whose paths we had wandered so often together—how with one thought of how lonely I was and always should be, now thatshewas gone, I hied away to my room, that I might be alone with my sorrow. But every thing seemed determined to speak out to me ofher; there, by the window, washer"old arm-chair;" she had given it to me as a keepsake; and many, many a time had the broad, leather-covered seat supported us both—so, of course, the very sight of that gave me such a blue-fit that I threw myself into its open "arms," and indulged in the most luxurious fit of weeping, the length whereof might be counted by hours, not by minutes. Butwhen I had fairly "cried it out," (you know all things must have an end,) I went to bed with the most dreadful headache conceivable, and opened with more of regret than curiosity, the last "testament" of dear Flory.
It was in the shape of a long, long letter, filling many pages of paper; but I shall not indulge you, reader, with a glance even, at all the contents—satisfy yourself with these few extracts, and oblige yours, &c.
"Writing is not myforte, Carry, you know that very well," the epistle began, "but I had for a long time determined to explain myself to you; and when father finally succeeded in convincing mother that the West issucha wonderful country, and that it is the best and only place for them to safely settleourtroop of boys, then I made up my mind towriteyou what I had intended to speak. Don't think me vain, but I'm going to be my own heroine in these pages; I'm going to give you the key wherewith to unfold parts of my life, which you, with others, may now think quite unexplainable.
"When I am gone, and the partial regret some will feel at first, is worn away, and they begin with all earnestness to give me whattheythinkmy'due,' and honor me once more with the flattering titles they have given me before this, then do you, my friend, take up the gauntlet in my defence. If I should happen to die of those horrible 'fevers,' into whose hands we are about to commit ourselves, 'Aunt Sally,'maysay it is a just 'dispensation of Providence' that has removed me; and that old Juliet Bakermighttake it into her head to write my veritable history, under the title of 'The Coquette,' and so be published in one of the magazines as a warning for all who shall come after me—an immortality to which I assure you I do not aspire. Or Tom Harding might be tempted to discourse more eloquently than ever on my respective demerits—drawing some of his sage conclusions therefrom. So, dear, if such thingsshouldhappen, remember to stand up valiantly for 'woman's rights,' andme! As I have mentioned Tom Harding's name, I may as well, in these 'confessions,' have done with him as speedily as possible. I know very well what all the gossips said when it was rumored that I had 'cut him dead,' after encouraging the poor fellow, who was really 'too good for me!' But, as it happened inthiscase, they were all wrong—as doth unfortunately sometimes happen even with gossipers. Tom, since time immemorial, (you will bear me out in the truth of this statement,) has been one of the mostactive beauxin our village; attaching himself, with all hiscaninecharacteristics, to every lady who was favored with the least pretensions to beauty, and making himself vastly useful in the way of getting up all sorts of 'parties of pleasure' in summer, and in the winter also. It was very needful, was it not, that we should be always on good terms withhim, which, as a body, we managed very well to do. As he had beenin love with, and offered himself to at least a dozen girls of our acquaintance, I don't yet know why he should have thought thatIwould take up with him at last. Now was it not presumption, Carry? To be sure, he came to our house night after night, and sat often with us in church on Sundays—and itwasrumored we were engaged; but that, I fancy, did not make the case a clear one."
Ladiesmay be attentive and agreeable, even over the verge of intimacy with one another, and yet not be suspected ofdesigns matrimonial; but boys and girls, who have from early childhood grown up with the most fraternal feelings, as soon as childhood has passed, must be expected to give up what was a very delightful kind of friendship, indeed; is that wise?
"The fact is, I never for a moment thought of marrying Tom Harding; but Ididthink him a great deal better youth than he proved to be. When he foolishly proposedthesubject to me, I dismissed it again quietly as might be, convincing him, as I hope, that the thing was forever impossible. And I kept his secret well. No one till to-day can say that I was ever guilty of parading this offer, and its refusal, before my friends; and I scarcely thinkyouwill consider me as parading itnow; or, indeed, of entering on this recital merely to gratify a foolish personal vanity. Tom, himself, by his ungentlemanly conduct, exposed all that ever was exposed; and his impudent, silly behavior toward me has had the final result of making me heartily despise him; and I sincerely hope no damsel thatIlove will ever accept offers, which some dozens may yet have the honor, or—which is it? bedoomedto hear!
"Harry Kirkland was, indeed, a fine fellow—at least I thought so once, for I was engaged to him within a time I well remember. Talented, too—was he not? But, oh, what an unreasonable mortal he was.
"When I engaged myself to Harry, I did love him truly, or what Ithoughtwas him, but you will not wonder that my love cooled before such evidences of tyranny,incipientit could hardly be called, as he exhibited, truly in a petty manner, but giving me good, overpowering evidence of what I might expect when thechainsof Hymen should be flung around us.
"Hewent to his Club, and the Lyceum, and became a member of the Odd Fellows Society, so soon as there was one organized in the village—indeed, on all points acted his own pleasure, even as to the number of cigars he would smoke per day. And I, like a reasonable woman, thinking all this part and parcel of his own business, never for a momentthoughtof interfering. But no sooner had I, in a kind of dumb way, (foolishly enough, I confessnow,) answered his pathetic appeals, by acknowledging that I loved him, than he at once, without questioning his right and title, proceeded to take the reins of government into his own hands. And then it was incessantly, 'Florence, why do you allow that cox-comb to visit you?' or, 'why did you go to the party last night when I was away?' or, 'howcanyou endure that conceited fool?' or, 'do, dear, arrange your hair in some other style—curls are so common!' or, at another time, when I had adorned myself with special thoughts of him, and his particular taste, theungracious salutation would be, 'It issostrange you will wear flounces—Icannot endure them, and they are so unbecoming for you!'
"Well, Ididgive James Thompson, 'the cox-comb,' as Harry called him, leave to understand I was not 'at home' to him; and I stayed away from all places of amusement to which Harrywould not, or could not go, (which former I came at last to know was most frequently the case.) And I did treat Charles Wood more coolly than my conscience approved, for nature gave to him a good, kind heart, if she did not make him a genius. And I left off flounces, which my tasty little 'dress-maker' thought 'sucha pity;' and I braided my hair, which all the time cried out against the stiff bands I put on the curly locks; in short, for six months I made a fool of myself, by giving way to all my exacting lover's whims. It makes me shudder when I think of what had been my fate had I married him—I should have died a very martyr long before this day.
"I knew that on most subjects Harry's opinion was worth having—his judgment sound; so I resolved to try what might be done onthispoint, which certainly concerned our happiness so much. By degrees I went back to my old habits, saying never a word to him of the test I was intending to put to him. Perhapsyouwould have proceeded differently—you might have reasoned with him, and urged him not to distress himself about affairs far too trifling for him to interfere with—about which no woman likes the interference, even of a favored lover.
"But such a course was not the one for me—and in the end, a person pursuing a far different method of reasoning might, probably would, have arrived at the same climax that I did. Wherever among my old friends I chose to go, I went without consulting the pleasure of his highness, who had led me about as a child in leading-strings quite long enough. What books I liked, I read; concerning my judgment on this point, perhaps, (not altogether unwarrantably either,) quite as good as his own. I dressed in what fashion I pleased—and wore my hair in the style nature intended. At one determined stroke I broke the thread-like chains which, from their very fineness, had been more galling to me than links of iron. I could read by Harry's look of astonishment what his thoughts were, as he saw these changes in me—and it was with some anxiety, I do confess, that I awaited the result; for all this time I loved him well, though my attachment wasnotso selfish in its nature as was his love toward me.
"One day I sent Harry a note, with a purse which I had knitted for him, and requested that he would accompany me in the evening, when there was to be a horseback-party on the lake-shore. In about half an hour much was I astonished by the return of the messenger, with an answer to my note, and myrejected gift. He declined the ride also, saying that he had a severe headache—(well might his head ache when it contained a brain capable of suggestingsucha note.) After some few preliminaries, Harry proceeded to tell me that my gifts were altogether unacceptable so long as my heart continued not right toward him; that I had grieved him beyond all power of expression by the heartlessness I had exhibitedin my disregard of all his wishes and opinions; this strange note ended by begging that I would not join the riding-party that night; that he would visit me in the evening, and receive from me then any explanations I might be ready to make.
"In ten minutes more the messenger was on his way back to Harry Kirkland's office, with a neat package, which contained the young man's notes, miniature, gifts, &c., with an assurance, which I wrote with a most steady hand, that my evening ride would, doubtless, prove more agreeable than atête-têtewith him, and that, as I had no explanations or apologies to offer, he need not be under the inconvenience of seeking me again at home, or elsewhere. I will not speak of the manner in which I passed that afternoon, after I had returned Harry'ssecondnote,unanswered, andunopened; nor what thoughts were busy in my mind, nor what feelings were busy in my heart. But I will tell you this, at tea-time, when father came home,hedid not reject his daughter's kiss, or the purse either; and now it is snugly resting in the bottom of his pocket, well-filled, as I hope it ever will be.
"That moonlight ride—you remember it; perhaps you remember, also, that there was no gayer mortal among you than a certain Florence Cleveland. She might not have sleptquitesoundly that night, when she was alone in her little chamber, but it was notverylong that Harry Kirkland's image disturbed her dreams. Harry was proud as I; doubtless he thought himself the abused one, (andthat, you know, is wonderfully efficacious in curing heart-wounds,) and I can readily believe that many times since he has blessed the day that saved him fromcoquettingFlorence Cleveland. But—you know already how suddenly Harry moved to New York that autumn, and also how you wondered we did not correspond.
"And what of George Stephenson? Ha! ha! I always laugh when I think of him—do you, dear? What didwethink of him,mon ami, till we discovered one day, much to our amaze, that he was engaged to us both.
"Never shall I forget that tableau we presented—being our own spectators—when, with your head resting on my knee in the old summer-house, you, with trembling lips, told me of that delightful youth! and of your future prospects; and how, when you approached the interesting climax, I joined in with you and toldmystory, too; and how, instead of our becoming sworn foes from that hour, two more loving and light-hearted beings seldom took pen in hand, than we, when we wrote that joint letter, and saved George from the fate of bigamists! Well, there wasnevera more captivating youth than he—at least we mustsayso, to save ourselves from the obloquy of falling in love with such ascamp! Who'd have thought it? those very stories of his early life, and sorrows which drew such earnest tears frommyeyes. I suppose you, too, have wept upon his shoulder as he told them. Ah, me!
"Then there was the poet, Earnest Ward. Itoleratedhimbecause his father was a college friend of my paternal, who wished us always to show him kindness, and make the orphan feel himself not quite so friendless. But you cannot believe thatIlovedhim. Poor fellow! he is dead now. He never seemed destined to a long life to me; the fact is, he did not possessenergyenough to keep him alive. And he was eternally railing against Fate and his poverty, which no man who wishes to gain favor inmyeyes must indulge in. His talentswere notof that order which commands the ear of the public—and yet he seemed to think so, and in that thought centered all his hope. There was nothing practical about Ernest. He belonged to that miserable class of beings, (how many of them we see about us,) who are aptly described as having losttheir wayin the great roads of life, having early groped blindly past the stations they were designed to fill. Ernest had a good deal of fancy and ingenuity—more than should have been lavished on newspaper enigmas, and verses descriptive of the color of my hair and eyes; he might have made a capital manufacturer, or designer of toys. He was made, I am convinced, for some such purpose, and might have excelled in some suchart; but least of all, you will acknowledge, was Ernest Ward fitted to bemyhusband. And well for us was it, that if he did not know it,I did.
"And, last of all of whom I will speak, there was Edward Graham; and thus I fancy I hear him described by some (whom Iwillsay I am not sorry to have left behind me,) 'a fine fellow! but driven to desperation and to sea by that worthless flirt, Florence Cleveland!' Now I will give you an opportunity,ma chere, to laugh in your sleeve, if you will, for beyond the shadow of a doubt, I am engaged to this same Edward Graham, who departed in such desperation; and what's more, I mean to marry him, too.
"And how shall I explain conduct that will appear so strange as this to you? You know Ned Grahamalmostas well as I do; and as we both have known him from childhood, it would be idle in me to speak of his fine, noble, generous character, and of hissensibleness, by far a rarer component of the human character than many people seem to imagine. Our engagement was, I confess, an altogether unanticipated thing to me, though there was always a lingering thought in my mind that Ned approached alittlenearer my standard of manly perfection than any suitor I ever had. You and I have often together admired the outward man, so I will not now speak of those great black eyes of his, which seem to pierce you through and through, as though theywouldknow your secret thoughts, (which, as far as they regarded him,couldbe only thoughts of admiration and respect.) And that manly form, so sweet and noble, that was never yet bent by the weight of a mean or sordid thought—thatcould notstoop to any thing low or ignoble. Now, when I tell you that Ned has hired himself to a sea-captain, whom his father has known from boyhood, for three years, that his wages (excepting only a moiety) have been paid at Ned's request into his father's hands to aid the old man, who is now in difficulties, when I tell you this, you will concur with me in thinkingmyEdward Graham the most noble and generous youth in the world.
"Only a week before his departurewemade our arrangements; for before that time Ned had never spoken to me of love—and I never heard of his broaching the subject to any one else, did you? In three years he is coming back again. By that timeweshall have become settled, and have learned to love our new home. What farmers we shall be! Then Ned will join us in Wisconsin—and who says we shall not be a happy family there? And that Flory Cleveland will not prove herself quite tractable and human, although people have dared and presumed to call her a 'desperate flirt?'
"So, my dearest, I have given you a true history of mycoquetting(?) life, with the exception of those tragedies you are acquainted with already. Frank Blake died, it is true, but never for a moment have I reproached myself withhisdeath. He was 'found drowned,' so the verdict of the coroner's jury ran; but have none others been ever 'found drowned,' than men who were in love? I am not jesting, or speaking lightly now. Heaven knows the subject is far too fearful to jest about! Could they who have seemed to delight in calling me little better than a murderess, but know what bitter, bitter hours I have passed writhing under their 'scorpion tongues,' they would, I think, be satisfied. I tell you again, my friend, Frank never treated me more kindly, or considerately, orjustlythan he did that day when I told him Icould notlove him as he deserved to be loved, though I must ever bear toward him the utmost respect and the kindliest feelings. And when Tom Harding made that incident a theme for newspaper gossip, I wonder Heaven had not blasted the right hand that dared to write such things!
"You know how afterward I went to Frank's home—to his widowed mother. She, too, turned in horror from me when I told her who I was, and why I had come so far from my home in search of her. Go to hernow, my friend, and she will tell you that she attaches to menoblame. Even the agonized, heart-broken mother believed me, when I told her all that had transpired between her son and me. Sheknows, asyouknow, and asIknow, that I never won the affections of her son intentionally, for the purpose of adding one more name to my list of conquests.
"And of that other, whose name I will not write—he who died in the convict's cell—my friend,had Iaught to do with that man's crimes? The brutish madness with which he heard my refusal of his suit—his dreadful downward course afterward; oh, can unreturnedlovebe the instigator of such crimes? Had he not been a reckless youth ever; disliked of all the village boys, whose friendship, even his wealth and good family could not buy for him? If I would not wed a villain such as he, where rests the blame? Oh, surelynot with me!Idid not make that festering, sinful heart of his, nor did I lure him on to hope that I wouldeverwed him. If love isheaven, what were life with him!
"I cannot write more—non sum qualis eram! yet the sun shines brightly on me still as in my childhood, and the future isfullof hope. If I have cleared myself of the imputation of the folly and heartlessness some have laid to my charge, it is well;Icannot think that my proceedings have beenverydreadful, or sinful; they did not frighten honest-hearted, noble Ned Graham.
"And after this, when you see a woman whose conduct to you is quite unexplainable, and full of mystery, listen, dear friend, and bid those around you listen a little more earnestly, to the voice ofhuman love and Christian charity; and trustme, the number of womenwho have the powerto actlongin direct opposition to all the better impulses of woman's nature, issurprisingly small.
"If your trust continues in me still unshaken, as in the days gone by, come ere long to Wisconsin, and I will insure you a husband of the 'free soil,' who shall bear as little resemblance toourfaithless George, as my Ned does—and a home in the wilderness, this glorious wilderness.
"God bless you, love—good bye!—--."
"I have not yet obeyed the call of my friend to the far west,"nowher happy home. Do you think it advisable that I should place myself in the hands of such a—; but first let me ask you,
Doyou think Florence Cleveland was a coquette?
And—isthisonceprolific topicyetexhausted?
I cannot conclude this discourse, "my hearers," without repeating to you a song, which appeared some years ago in "Graham." It is by Miss Barrett. Has it ever yet been "set to music?" if not, I would advise some composer to neglect no longer so beautiful an effusion. And when thedeed is done, let every lady learn the song, and every gentleman stand by and listen to it humbly. Here it is.
"Yes!" I answered you last night—"No'!" this morning, sir, I say;Colors seen by candlelight,Cannot look the same by day.When the tabors played their best,And the dancers were not slow,"Love me" sounded like a jest,Fit for "yes" or fit for "no."Thus the sin is on us both;Was the dance a time to woo?Wooer light makes fickle troth—Scorn ofmerecoils onyou.Learn to win a lady's faithNobly, as the thing is high—Bravely, as in fronting death,With a virtuous gravity.Lead her from the painted boards—Point her to the starry skies—Guard her by your truthful words,Pure from courtship's flatteries.By your truth she shall be true—Ever true, as wives of yore,And her "yes" once said to you,Shall be yes for evermore.
"Yes!" I answered you last night—"No'!" this morning, sir, I say;Colors seen by candlelight,Cannot look the same by day.
When the tabors played their best,And the dancers were not slow,"Love me" sounded like a jest,Fit for "yes" or fit for "no."
Thus the sin is on us both;Was the dance a time to woo?Wooer light makes fickle troth—Scorn ofmerecoils onyou.
Learn to win a lady's faithNobly, as the thing is high—Bravely, as in fronting death,With a virtuous gravity.
Lead her from the painted boards—Point her to the starry skies—Guard her by your truthful words,Pure from courtship's flatteries.
By your truth she shall be true—Ever true, as wives of yore,And her "yes" once said to you,Shall be yes for evermore.
Write—with the finger of the angel-born,Upon the tablet of the human soul,That old December, wearied and outworn,Drags on his failing footsteps to the goal.Write—that the Christmas bells ring on till mornPeace and eternal pardon to the whole,And I, before I drop my farewell tear,Must lay December's closing record here.Write—for I weary; Age with failing thoughtForgets the triumph of his younger days—Forgets the changes that himself has wrought—Forgets the lip that tuned to woman's praise—Forgets in summer how his fingers broughtFresh flowers in olden time for manhood's ways,Forgets all pleasure save an old man's word,To think of bygone sorrows and record.Write—ere he passes—even now they comeWith wailing harps and wreaths of withered flowers,To bind his brows and bear him to his homeAmid the multitude of buried hours—A moment's respite ere his senses numbAnd the death throe seals up his mental powers;He shall not die, e'en in his age and dearth,Without a legacy of good to earth.His course has been with manhood, and his nameHas changed with human years—we yet recallHow bounding onward at the first he came,And trembled wearily unto his fall—How in his noon of life his strength was flame,Spurning the very hand that gave him all,How day by day and month by month he changed,Till Time on old December is avenged.The air he breathes is but ingratitudeFrom each unto the other—from the airUnto the Giver of Eternal Good,And from man to the years unceasing care.Spirit to spirit on the moving flood,And demon unto demon in his lair,Jarring with discord, scarcely yet set freeFrom the kind measure of God's harmony.And so he gave unto the sons of menLast winter, snow, and ice, and driving sleet,And the cold winds, each from his northern den,Strewed wrecks of forest branches at our feet.Old trees all naked shivered in the glen,And houseless wretches shivered in the street—It was the time when poor and cold mankindShould know the welcome of a generous mind.Few read the lesson—there was passing byOf squalid poverty by gilded pride,Wealth from the needy turned away his eye,Rich doors to richer guests were opened wide—Pity sought out a fancy scene to sighAnd gave not burial to the poor who died—Beside the gourmand with his food opprest,Mothers hugged starving infants to the breast.Oh, not for this came winter, not for thisRolled out the storm clouds from the northern zone,There was a hope that gay luxurious blissWould not be happy in itself alone:There was a hope that wealth might stoop to kissLips paler with cold sorrow than its own—There was a hope that severed things might blend,And man, the selfish, soften to the friend.The old man was but young, but thankless heartsThey say are "sharper than the adder's tooth,"And ere the Spring came, by inhuman artsThe marble forehead was no longer smooth;Cold blasts of scorn repaid him his deserts,Bitter forebodings grew too often sooth,At twenty years, they say, who knew him then,He had grown sadder than old withered men.Spring lay upon the garden—from his handShowered the blossoms and the springing buds,The songsters sang tales of a summer land,And a new music lived upon the floods:And o'er the scene there waved a magic wand,And watched the spirit of the fields and woods,Laying in golden promise on the earthBeauties that mocked him in their very birth.The buds of spring grew withered in his grasp,The thorns lay hid beneath the rose's leaf,Leaving a poison deeper than the asp,Long as the memory of corroding grief.Rude hands tore off the petals, to unclaspToo soon the fullness of a lot so brief—There was ingratitude in bud and flower,And rude unkindness in man's thankless power.And all the summer long the rays he gave,To cheer the weary sons of sweat and toil,Flashed back with blistering brightness from the wave,And burned like molten lava from the soil.And vainly oft the giver came to craveA shelter from the burning heat the while,Beneath the bending vines the welcome fled,And yellow harvest seldom crowned his head.They knew not, as he pressed the table seat,That he alone had spread the groaning board,They cared not that the master came to eatWhere one small blessing glittered from his hoard;They knew not, cared not, how the angel's feetHave trodden in the steps of good restored—The furrows deepened on the old man's brow,And sadly humankind had sped the plough.Autumn grew brown upon the teeming zone,Lo! here at last he should forget his painAmid the mellow fruits around them thrown,With garners brimful of the golden grain,Men should look smiling to the giver's throne,And gentle peace sit on the loaded wain—There was a discord when the year began,That jarred the wider as the circle ran.The wheat-sheaf grew into the curse of life,And from the stalk the burning pain distilled—The orchard mast with the dark bane was rife,Pouring out poison as the master willed.The purple wine-grape reddened into strife,And in its shadow man by man was killed—Poison, dark poison, rankled in the cup,Pressed to his lips foredoomed to drink it up.So should the blessing of the fields and woodsBe moulded into curses? think it not!Cold and unfeeling man's ingratitude,Who to the season gave back such a lot,To drink the cup gemmed with a poison flood,And bitter with the felon's loathsome blot;Oh deeply on our bosoms rests the stainThat never years shall wash away again.The wail of autumn winds was on the air,That played with forest trunks as little things;The demons of the storm, each from his lair,Shot forth and hissed upon the tempest wings;Rent from the old man's head the scanty hair,Sung on the north wind as the cordage sings:Little they spared him in their giant course,The whirling winds that owed him all their force.Again 't is winter, to the sons of menCome forth the snow and wind and driving sleet—Again the storm-cloud lowers o'er the glen.Again the branches shiver at our feet.Faint and uncovered, over moor and fen,The weary man has come his doom to meet,The storms of winter beat upon his head,The record of his failing time is read.Chill to his heart strikes in the northern blast,Ending the season as the year began;December hastens to his final rest,Friendless by the dark cruelty of man.E'en now, while to his death-couch he is prest,A wail rings round his head so pale and wan,And withered flowers are ready for his bier,That mock the dying with his past career.His course has been with manhood, and his endIs fitting for a type of humankind,Around whose heavy head the laggard friendThe veil of useless pity comes to bind.The dirge of his departure shall ascendFrom those who scarce recalled his life to mind,The tide of life above his grave rolls on,And few remember he is dead and gone.December passes, in the opening skyOf the new year's first morning breaks a star,The record he has left us here shall lieBeside us when his form is borne afar.Bending above his last farewell, I sighThat he has left us, ingrate as we are,And turning to the New Year, I beholdA new-born spirit throned upon the old.
Write—with the finger of the angel-born,Upon the tablet of the human soul,That old December, wearied and outworn,Drags on his failing footsteps to the goal.Write—that the Christmas bells ring on till mornPeace and eternal pardon to the whole,And I, before I drop my farewell tear,Must lay December's closing record here.
Write—for I weary; Age with failing thoughtForgets the triumph of his younger days—Forgets the changes that himself has wrought—Forgets the lip that tuned to woman's praise—Forgets in summer how his fingers broughtFresh flowers in olden time for manhood's ways,Forgets all pleasure save an old man's word,To think of bygone sorrows and record.
Write—ere he passes—even now they comeWith wailing harps and wreaths of withered flowers,To bind his brows and bear him to his homeAmid the multitude of buried hours—A moment's respite ere his senses numbAnd the death throe seals up his mental powers;He shall not die, e'en in his age and dearth,Without a legacy of good to earth.
His course has been with manhood, and his nameHas changed with human years—we yet recallHow bounding onward at the first he came,And trembled wearily unto his fall—How in his noon of life his strength was flame,Spurning the very hand that gave him all,How day by day and month by month he changed,Till Time on old December is avenged.
The air he breathes is but ingratitudeFrom each unto the other—from the airUnto the Giver of Eternal Good,And from man to the years unceasing care.Spirit to spirit on the moving flood,And demon unto demon in his lair,Jarring with discord, scarcely yet set freeFrom the kind measure of God's harmony.
And so he gave unto the sons of menLast winter, snow, and ice, and driving sleet,And the cold winds, each from his northern den,Strewed wrecks of forest branches at our feet.Old trees all naked shivered in the glen,And houseless wretches shivered in the street—It was the time when poor and cold mankindShould know the welcome of a generous mind.
Few read the lesson—there was passing byOf squalid poverty by gilded pride,Wealth from the needy turned away his eye,Rich doors to richer guests were opened wide—Pity sought out a fancy scene to sighAnd gave not burial to the poor who died—Beside the gourmand with his food opprest,Mothers hugged starving infants to the breast.
Oh, not for this came winter, not for thisRolled out the storm clouds from the northern zone,There was a hope that gay luxurious blissWould not be happy in itself alone:There was a hope that wealth might stoop to kissLips paler with cold sorrow than its own—There was a hope that severed things might blend,And man, the selfish, soften to the friend.
The old man was but young, but thankless heartsThey say are "sharper than the adder's tooth,"And ere the Spring came, by inhuman artsThe marble forehead was no longer smooth;Cold blasts of scorn repaid him his deserts,Bitter forebodings grew too often sooth,At twenty years, they say, who knew him then,He had grown sadder than old withered men.
Spring lay upon the garden—from his handShowered the blossoms and the springing buds,The songsters sang tales of a summer land,And a new music lived upon the floods:And o'er the scene there waved a magic wand,And watched the spirit of the fields and woods,Laying in golden promise on the earthBeauties that mocked him in their very birth.
The buds of spring grew withered in his grasp,The thorns lay hid beneath the rose's leaf,Leaving a poison deeper than the asp,Long as the memory of corroding grief.Rude hands tore off the petals, to unclaspToo soon the fullness of a lot so brief—There was ingratitude in bud and flower,And rude unkindness in man's thankless power.
And all the summer long the rays he gave,To cheer the weary sons of sweat and toil,Flashed back with blistering brightness from the wave,And burned like molten lava from the soil.And vainly oft the giver came to craveA shelter from the burning heat the while,Beneath the bending vines the welcome fled,And yellow harvest seldom crowned his head.
They knew not, as he pressed the table seat,That he alone had spread the groaning board,They cared not that the master came to eatWhere one small blessing glittered from his hoard;They knew not, cared not, how the angel's feetHave trodden in the steps of good restored—The furrows deepened on the old man's brow,And sadly humankind had sped the plough.
Autumn grew brown upon the teeming zone,Lo! here at last he should forget his painAmid the mellow fruits around them thrown,With garners brimful of the golden grain,Men should look smiling to the giver's throne,And gentle peace sit on the loaded wain—There was a discord when the year began,That jarred the wider as the circle ran.
The wheat-sheaf grew into the curse of life,And from the stalk the burning pain distilled—The orchard mast with the dark bane was rife,Pouring out poison as the master willed.The purple wine-grape reddened into strife,And in its shadow man by man was killed—Poison, dark poison, rankled in the cup,Pressed to his lips foredoomed to drink it up.
So should the blessing of the fields and woodsBe moulded into curses? think it not!Cold and unfeeling man's ingratitude,Who to the season gave back such a lot,To drink the cup gemmed with a poison flood,And bitter with the felon's loathsome blot;Oh deeply on our bosoms rests the stainThat never years shall wash away again.
The wail of autumn winds was on the air,That played with forest trunks as little things;The demons of the storm, each from his lair,Shot forth and hissed upon the tempest wings;Rent from the old man's head the scanty hair,Sung on the north wind as the cordage sings:Little they spared him in their giant course,The whirling winds that owed him all their force.
Again 't is winter, to the sons of menCome forth the snow and wind and driving sleet—Again the storm-cloud lowers o'er the glen.Again the branches shiver at our feet.Faint and uncovered, over moor and fen,The weary man has come his doom to meet,The storms of winter beat upon his head,The record of his failing time is read.
Chill to his heart strikes in the northern blast,Ending the season as the year began;December hastens to his final rest,Friendless by the dark cruelty of man.E'en now, while to his death-couch he is prest,A wail rings round his head so pale and wan,And withered flowers are ready for his bier,That mock the dying with his past career.
His course has been with manhood, and his endIs fitting for a type of humankind,Around whose heavy head the laggard friendThe veil of useless pity comes to bind.The dirge of his departure shall ascendFrom those who scarce recalled his life to mind,The tide of life above his grave rolls on,And few remember he is dead and gone.
December passes, in the opening skyOf the new year's first morning breaks a star,The record he has left us here shall lieBeside us when his form is borne afar.Bending above his last farewell, I sighThat he has left us, ingrate as we are,And turning to the New Year, I beholdA new-born spirit throned upon the old.