They sat by the hearth-stone, broad and bright,Whose burning brands threw a cheerful lightOn the frosty calm of the winter's night.Her radiant features wore the gleamWhich childhood learns from an angel-dream,And her bright hair stirred in the flickering beam.Those tresses soft to his lips were pressed,Her head was leaned on his happy breast,And the throb of the bosom his soul expressed;And ever a gentle murmur cameFrom the clear, bright heart of the wavering flame,Like the faltering thrill of a worshiped name.He kissed her on the warm, white brow,And told her in fonder words, the vowHe whispered under the moonlit bough;And o'er them a steady radiance cameFrom the shining heart of the mounting flame,Like a love that burns through life the same.The maiden smiled through her joy-dimmed eyes,As he led her spirit to sunnier skies,Whose cloudless light on the future lies—And a moment paused the laughing flame,And it listened awhile, and then there cameA cheery burst from its sparkling frame.He visioned a home by pure love blest,Clasping their souls in a calmer rest,Like woodland birds in their leafy nest.There slept, foreshadowed, the bliss to be,When a tenderer life that home should see,In the wingless cherub that climbed his knee.And the flame went on with its flickering song,And beckoned and laughed to the lovers long,Who sat in its radiance, red and strong.Then broke and fell a glimmering brandTo the cold, dead ashes it fed and fanned,And its last gleam leaped like an infant's hand.A sudden dread to the maiden stole,For the gloom of a sorrow seemed to rollO'er the sunny landscape within her soul.But, hovering over its smouldering bed,Its ruddy pinions the flame outspread,And again through the chamber its glory shed;And ever its chorus seemed to beThe mingled voices of household glee,Like a gush of winds in a mountain tree.The night went on in its silent flow,While through the waving and wreathéd glowThey watched the years of the Future go.Their happy spirits learned the chimeOf its laughing voice and murmured rhyme—A joyous music for aftertime.They felt a flame as glorious start,Where, side by side, they dwelt apart,In the quiet homestead of the heart.
They sat by the hearth-stone, broad and bright,Whose burning brands threw a cheerful lightOn the frosty calm of the winter's night.
Her radiant features wore the gleamWhich childhood learns from an angel-dream,And her bright hair stirred in the flickering beam.
Those tresses soft to his lips were pressed,Her head was leaned on his happy breast,And the throb of the bosom his soul expressed;
And ever a gentle murmur cameFrom the clear, bright heart of the wavering flame,Like the faltering thrill of a worshiped name.
He kissed her on the warm, white brow,And told her in fonder words, the vowHe whispered under the moonlit bough;
And o'er them a steady radiance cameFrom the shining heart of the mounting flame,Like a love that burns through life the same.
The maiden smiled through her joy-dimmed eyes,As he led her spirit to sunnier skies,Whose cloudless light on the future lies—
And a moment paused the laughing flame,And it listened awhile, and then there cameA cheery burst from its sparkling frame.
He visioned a home by pure love blest,Clasping their souls in a calmer rest,Like woodland birds in their leafy nest.
There slept, foreshadowed, the bliss to be,When a tenderer life that home should see,In the wingless cherub that climbed his knee.
And the flame went on with its flickering song,And beckoned and laughed to the lovers long,Who sat in its radiance, red and strong.
Then broke and fell a glimmering brandTo the cold, dead ashes it fed and fanned,And its last gleam leaped like an infant's hand.
A sudden dread to the maiden stole,For the gloom of a sorrow seemed to rollO'er the sunny landscape within her soul.
But, hovering over its smouldering bed,Its ruddy pinions the flame outspread,And again through the chamber its glory shed;
And ever its chorus seemed to beThe mingled voices of household glee,Like a gush of winds in a mountain tree.
The night went on in its silent flow,While through the waving and wreathéd glowThey watched the years of the Future go.
Their happy spirits learned the chimeOf its laughing voice and murmured rhyme—A joyous music for aftertime.
They felt a flame as glorious start,Where, side by side, they dwelt apart,In the quiet homestead of the heart.
One of the happiest examples, in a small way, of the carrying-one's-self-in-a-hand-basket logic, is to be found in a London weekly paper called "The Popular Record of Modern Science; a Journal of Philosophy and General Information." This work has a vast circulation, and is respected by eminent men. Sometime in November, 1845, it copied from the "Columbian Magazine" of New York, a rather adventurous article of mine, called "Mesmeric Revelation." It had the impudence, also, to spoil the title by improving it to "The Last Conversation of a Somnambule"—a phrase that is nothing at all to the purpose, since the person who "converses" isnota somnambule. He is a sleep-waker—nota sleep-walker; but I presume that "The Record" thought it was only the difference of anl. What I chiefly complain of, however, is that the London editor prefaced my paper with these words:—"The following is an article communicated to the Columbian Magazine, a journal of respectability and influence in the United States, by Mr. Edgar A. Poe.It bears internal evidence of authenticity."!
There is no subject under heaven about which funnier ideas are, in general, entertained than about this subject of internal evidence. It is by "internal evidence," observe, that we decide upon the mind.
But to "The Record:"—On the issue of my "Valdemar Case," this journal copies it, as a matter of course, and (also as a matter of course) improves the title, as in the previous instance. But the editorial comments may as well be called profound. Here they are:
"The following narrative appears in a recent number ofThe American Magazine, a respectable periodical in the United States. It comes, it will be observed, from the narrator of the 'Last Conversation of a Somnambule,' published in The Record of the 29th of November. In extracting this case theMorning Postof Monday last, takes what it considers the safe side, by remarking—'For our own parts we do not believe it; and there are several statements made, more especially with regard to the disease of which the patient died, which at once prove the case to be either a fabrication, or the work of one little acquainted with consumption. The story, however, is wonderful, and we therefore give it.' The editor, however, does not point out the especial statements which are inconsistent with what we know of the progress of consumption, and as few scientific persons would be willing to take their pathology any more than their logic from theMorning Post, his caution, it is to be feared, will not have much weight. The reason assigned by the Post for publishing the account is quaint, and would apply equally to an adventure from Baron Munchausen:—'it is wonderful and we therefore give it.'...The above case is obviously one that cannot be received except on the strongest testimony, and it is equally clear that the testimony by which it is at present accompanied, is not of that character. The most favorable circumstances in support of it, consist in the fact that credence is understood to be given to it at New York, within a few miles of which city the affair took place, and where consequently the most ready means must be found for its authentication or disproval. The initials of the medical men and of the young medical student must be sufficient in the immediate locality, to establish their identity, especially as M. Valdemar was well known, and had been so long ill as to render it out of the question that there should be any difficulty in ascertaining the names of the physicians by whom he had been attended. In the same way the nurses and servants under whose cognizance the case must have come during the seven months which it occupied, are of course accessible to all sorts of inquiries. It will, therefore, appear that there must have been too many parties concerned to render prolonged deception practicable. The angry excitement and various rumors which have at length rendered a public statement necessary, are also sufficient to show thatsomethingextraordinary must have taken place. On the other hand there is no strong point for disbelief. The circumstances are, as the Post says, 'wonderful;' but so are all circumstances that come to our knowledge for the first time—and in Mesmerism every thing is new. An objection may be made that the article has rather a Magazinish air; Mr. Poe having evidently written with a view to effect, and so as to excite rather than to subdue the vague appetite for the mysterious and the horrible which such a case, under any circumstances, is sure to awaken—but apart from this there is nothing to deter a philosophic mind from further inquiries regarding it. It is a matter entirely for testimony. [So it is.] Under this view we shall take steps to procure from some of the most intelligent and influential citizens of New York all the evidence that can be had upon the subject. No steamer will leave England for America till the 3d of February, but within a few weeks of that time we doubt not it will be possible to lay before the readers of theRecordinformation which will enable them to come to a pretty accurate conclusion."
"The following narrative appears in a recent number ofThe American Magazine, a respectable periodical in the United States. It comes, it will be observed, from the narrator of the 'Last Conversation of a Somnambule,' published in The Record of the 29th of November. In extracting this case theMorning Postof Monday last, takes what it considers the safe side, by remarking—'For our own parts we do not believe it; and there are several statements made, more especially with regard to the disease of which the patient died, which at once prove the case to be either a fabrication, or the work of one little acquainted with consumption. The story, however, is wonderful, and we therefore give it.' The editor, however, does not point out the especial statements which are inconsistent with what we know of the progress of consumption, and as few scientific persons would be willing to take their pathology any more than their logic from theMorning Post, his caution, it is to be feared, will not have much weight. The reason assigned by the Post for publishing the account is quaint, and would apply equally to an adventure from Baron Munchausen:—'it is wonderful and we therefore give it.'...The above case is obviously one that cannot be received except on the strongest testimony, and it is equally clear that the testimony by which it is at present accompanied, is not of that character. The most favorable circumstances in support of it, consist in the fact that credence is understood to be given to it at New York, within a few miles of which city the affair took place, and where consequently the most ready means must be found for its authentication or disproval. The initials of the medical men and of the young medical student must be sufficient in the immediate locality, to establish their identity, especially as M. Valdemar was well known, and had been so long ill as to render it out of the question that there should be any difficulty in ascertaining the names of the physicians by whom he had been attended. In the same way the nurses and servants under whose cognizance the case must have come during the seven months which it occupied, are of course accessible to all sorts of inquiries. It will, therefore, appear that there must have been too many parties concerned to render prolonged deception practicable. The angry excitement and various rumors which have at length rendered a public statement necessary, are also sufficient to show thatsomethingextraordinary must have taken place. On the other hand there is no strong point for disbelief. The circumstances are, as the Post says, 'wonderful;' but so are all circumstances that come to our knowledge for the first time—and in Mesmerism every thing is new. An objection may be made that the article has rather a Magazinish air; Mr. Poe having evidently written with a view to effect, and so as to excite rather than to subdue the vague appetite for the mysterious and the horrible which such a case, under any circumstances, is sure to awaken—but apart from this there is nothing to deter a philosophic mind from further inquiries regarding it. It is a matter entirely for testimony. [So it is.] Under this view we shall take steps to procure from some of the most intelligent and influential citizens of New York all the evidence that can be had upon the subject. No steamer will leave England for America till the 3d of February, but within a few weeks of that time we doubt not it will be possible to lay before the readers of theRecordinformation which will enable them to come to a pretty accurate conclusion."
Yes; and no doubt they came to one accurate enough, in the end. But all this rigmarole is what people call testing a thing by "internal evidence." TheRecordinsists upon the truth of the story because of certain facts—because "the initials of the young menmustbe sufficient to establish their identity"—because "the nursesmustbe accessible to all sorts of inquiries"—and because the "angry excitement and various rumors which at length rendered a public statement necessary, are sufficient to show thatsomethingextraordinarymusthave taken place."
To be sure! The story is proved by these facts—the facts about the students, the nurses, the excitement, the credence given the tale at New York. And now all we have to do is to prove these facts. Ah!—theyare provedby the story.
As for theMorning Post, it evinces more weakness in its disbelief than theRecordin its credulity. What the former says about doubting on account of inaccuracy in the detail of the phthisical symptoms, is a merefetch, as the Cockneys have it, in order to make a very few little children believe that it, the Post, is not quite so stupid as a post proverbially is.It knows nearly as much about pathology as it does about English grammar—and I really hope it will not feel called upon to blush at the compliment. I represented the symptoms of M. Valdemar as "severe," to be sure. I put an extreme case; for it was necessary that I should leave on the reader's mind no doubt as to the certainty of death without the aid of the Mesmerist—but such symptomsmighthave appeared—the identical symptomshave appeared, and will be presented again and again. Had the Post been only half as honest as ignorant, it would have owned that it disbelieved for no reason more profound than that which influences all dunces in disbelieving—it would have owned that it doubted the thing merely because the thing was a "wonderful" thing, and had never yet been printed in a book.
Looking like Lethe, see! the lakeA conscious slumber seems to take,And would not for the world awake. "The Sleepers."Poe.
There is a lake whose lilies lieLike maidens in the lap of death,So pale, so cold, so motionlessIts Stygian breast they press;They breathe, and toward the purple skyThe pallid perfumes of their breathAscend in spiral shapes, for thereNo wind disturbs the voiceless air—No murmur breaks the oblivious moodOf that tenebrean solitude—No Djinn, no Ghoul, no Afrit lavesHis giant limbs within its wavesBeneath the wan Saturnian lightThat swoons in the omnipresent night;But only funeral forms arise,With arms uplifted to the skies,And gaze, with blank, cavernous eyesIn whose dull glare no Future lies,—The shadows of the dead—the DeadOf whom no mortal soul hath read,No record come, in prose or rhyme,Down from the dim Primeval Time!A moment gazing—they are gone—Without a sob—without a groan—Without a sigh—without a moan—And the lake again is left alone—Left to that undisturbed reposeWhich in an ebon vapor flowsAmong the cypresses that standA stone-cast from the sombre strand—Among the trees whose shadows wake,But not to life, within the lake,That stand, like statues of the Past,And will, while that ebony lake shall last.But when the more than Stygian nightDescends with slow and owl-like flight,Silent as Death (who comes—we know—Unheard, unknown of all below;)Above that dark and desolate wave,The reflex of the eternal grave—Gigantic birds with flaming eyesSweep upward, onward through the skies,Or stalk, without a wish to fly,Where the reposing lilies lie;While, stirring neither twig nor grass,Among the trees, in silence, passTitanic animals whose raceExisted, but has left no traceOf name, or size, or shape, or hue—Whom ancient Adam never knew.At midnight, still without a sound,Approaching through the black Profound,Shadows, in shrouds of pallid hue,Come slowly, slowly, two by two,In double line, with funeral march,Through groves of cypress, yew and larch,Descending in those waves that part,Then close, above each silent heart;While, in the distance, far ahead,The shadows of the Earlier DeadArise, with speculating eyes,Forgetful of their destinies,And gaze, and gaze, and gaze againUpon the long funereal train,Undreaming their Descendants comeTo make that ebony lake their home—To vanish, and become at lastA parcel of the awful Past—The hideous, unremembered PastWhich Time, in utter scorn, has castBehind him, as with unblenched eye,He travels toward Eternity—That Lethe, in whose sunless waveEven he, himself, must find a grave!
There is a lake whose lilies lieLike maidens in the lap of death,So pale, so cold, so motionlessIts Stygian breast they press;They breathe, and toward the purple skyThe pallid perfumes of their breathAscend in spiral shapes, for thereNo wind disturbs the voiceless air—No murmur breaks the oblivious moodOf that tenebrean solitude—No Djinn, no Ghoul, no Afrit lavesHis giant limbs within its wavesBeneath the wan Saturnian lightThat swoons in the omnipresent night;But only funeral forms arise,With arms uplifted to the skies,And gaze, with blank, cavernous eyesIn whose dull glare no Future lies,—The shadows of the dead—the DeadOf whom no mortal soul hath read,No record come, in prose or rhyme,Down from the dim Primeval Time!A moment gazing—they are gone—Without a sob—without a groan—Without a sigh—without a moan—And the lake again is left alone—Left to that undisturbed reposeWhich in an ebon vapor flowsAmong the cypresses that standA stone-cast from the sombre strand—Among the trees whose shadows wake,But not to life, within the lake,That stand, like statues of the Past,And will, while that ebony lake shall last.
But when the more than Stygian nightDescends with slow and owl-like flight,Silent as Death (who comes—we know—Unheard, unknown of all below;)Above that dark and desolate wave,The reflex of the eternal grave—Gigantic birds with flaming eyesSweep upward, onward through the skies,Or stalk, without a wish to fly,Where the reposing lilies lie;While, stirring neither twig nor grass,Among the trees, in silence, passTitanic animals whose raceExisted, but has left no traceOf name, or size, or shape, or hue—Whom ancient Adam never knew.
At midnight, still without a sound,Approaching through the black Profound,Shadows, in shrouds of pallid hue,Come slowly, slowly, two by two,In double line, with funeral march,Through groves of cypress, yew and larch,Descending in those waves that part,Then close, above each silent heart;While, in the distance, far ahead,The shadows of the Earlier DeadArise, with speculating eyes,Forgetful of their destinies,And gaze, and gaze, and gaze againUpon the long funereal train,Undreaming their Descendants comeTo make that ebony lake their home—To vanish, and become at lastA parcel of the awful Past—The hideous, unremembered PastWhich Time, in utter scorn, has castBehind him, as with unblenched eye,He travels toward Eternity—That Lethe, in whose sunless waveEven he, himself, must find a grave!
The gates were unbarred—the home of the blestFreely opened to welcome Miss C——;But hearing the chorus that "Heaven is Rest,"She turned from the angels to flee,Saying, "Rest is no Heaven to me!"
The gates were unbarred—the home of the blestFreely opened to welcome Miss C——;But hearing the chorus that "Heaven is Rest,"She turned from the angels to flee,Saying, "Rest is no Heaven to me!"
"You are in want of an efficient person to assist you in taking charge of your domestic affairs, Enna," said a maiden aunt of mine to me one evening. I pulled my little sewing-table toward me with a slight degree of impatience, and began very earnestly to examine the contents of my work-box, that I might not express aloud my weariness of my aunt's favorite subject. I had been in want of just such an article as an "efficient person" ever since I had taken charge of my father'sménage; and after undergoing almost martyrdom with slip-shod, thriftless, good-for-nothing "help," as we Americans, with such delicate consideration, term our serving maids, I had come to the conclusion that indifferent "help" was an unavoidable evil, and that the best must be made of the poor, miserable instruments of assistance vouchsafed unto the race of tried, vexed housekeepers.
"I have just thought," continued my aunt, "of a very excellent person that will suit you in every way. Lizzie Hall, the one I was thinking of, has never been accustomed to living out. Her father is a farmer in our place, but having made a second marriage, and with a young family coming up around him, Lizzie very properly wishes to do something for herself. I remember having heard her express such a desire; and I have no doubt I could persuade her to come to you. She is not very young—about eight-and-twenty, or thereabouts."
I listened to my Aunt Lina's talk with, it must be confessed, indifference, mingled with a little sullenness, and quieted my impatience by inward ejaculations—a vast deal of good do those inward conversations produce, such mollifiers of the temper are they. "So, so," said I to myself, "my Aunt Lina's paragon is a 'lady-help.' Of all kinds 'of help' the very one I have endeavored most to avoid; it is such a nondescript kind of creature that lady-help;" and as I soliloquized, recollections of specimens of the kind I had been afflicted with, came in sad array before my memory—maids with slip-shod French kid slippers, that had never been large enough for their feet—love-locks on either side of their cheeks, twirled up during the day in brown curl-papers—faded lawn dresses, with dangling flounces and tattered edging; then such sentimental entreaties that I should not make them answer the door-bell if Ike, the black boy, might happen to be away on some errand, or expose them to the rude gaze of the multitude in the market-house; and I groaned in spirit as I thought what a troublesome creature the "lady-help" was to manage. During this sympathizing colloquy with myself, my aunt went on expatiating most eloquently on the merits of herprotégé, Lizzie Hall. Some pause occurring—for want of breath, I really believe, on my aunt's side—good-breeding seemed to require a remark from me, and I faltered out some objection as to the accommodations a city household afforded for a person of Lizzie Hall's condition.
"Of course," said my aunt, "she will not wish to sit at the same table with the black servants you may happen to have; but Lizzie will not cause you any trouble on the score of accommodations, I'll answer for it, Enna; she is too sensible a person not to fully understand the difference between town and country habits—and if you say so, I will engage her for you when I return to Rockland."
My father, who had been dozing over his paper, gradually aroused himself as this conversation progressed, and as my aunt made the last proposition, he entered into it most cordially, and begged she would endeavor to procure the young woman, and send her by the earliest opportunity. I remained quiet—for I could not say any thing heartily, seeing nothing but vexation and annoyance in the whole affair for me. The young woman was evidently a favorite with my Aunt Lina; and should she not prove a very useful or agreeable maid to me, I would receive but little sympathy from my immediate family. My father is as ignorant as a child of what we poor housekeepers require in a domestic; and my Aunt Lina, though kind-hearted and well-wishing, is in equally as blissful a state. A very indifferent servant, who happened to please her fancy, she would magnify into a very excellent one; then, being rather opinionative and "set," as maiden ladies are apt to be when they pass the fatal threshold of forty, I despaired of ever convincing her to the contrary. "However," said I to myself, "I will not anticipate trouble."
I had just recovered from a dangerous fit of illness, through which my kind, well-meaning aunt had patiently nursed me. At the first news of my sickness she had, unsummoned, left her comfortable home in Rockland, in mid-winter, and had crossed the mountains to watch beside the feverish pillow of her motherless niece. Careful and kind was her nursing; and even the physicians owned that to her patient watchfulness I owed my life. How grateful was I; and with what looks of love did I gaze on her trim, spinster figure, as she moved earnestly and pains-taking around my chamber; but, alas! the kitchen told a different story when I was well enough to make my appearance there. Biddy, a raw, bewildered-looking Irish girl, with huge red arms andstamping feet, had quite lost her confused, stupid expression of countenance, and was most eloquent in telling me, with all the volubility of our sex, of the "quare ways of the ould maid."
"Sure, and if the ould sowl could only have had a husband and a parcel of childthers to mind, she wouldn't have been half so stiff and concated," exclaimed Biddy.
Even poor little roguish Ike, with mischief enough in his composition to derange a dozen well-ordered houses, looked wise and quiet when my prim, demure aunt came in sight. Complaints met me on all sides, however, for my Aunt Lina was quite as dissatisfied as the rest.
"I found them all wrong, my dear," she said, "no order, no regulation, every thing at sixes and sevens; and as for the woman Biddy, she is quite, quite incorrigible. I showed her a new way of preparing her clothes for the wash, by which she could save a deal of labor; but all in vain, she persisted most obstinately to follow the old troublesome way. Then she confuses her work altogether in such a manner that I never can tell at which stage of labor she has arrived; and when I put them allen traine, and leave them a few instants, I find on my return every thing as tangled as ever. Method is the soul of housekeeping, Enna. You will never succeed without order. I fear you are too easy and indulgent; although I have never kept a house, I know exactly how it should be done. A place for every thing—every thing in its place, as your grandpapa used to say. If you insist upon your servants doing every thing at a certain hour, and in a certain way, your affairs will go on like clock-work."
I could not but assent to all these truisms—for I felt conscience-stricken. I knew I had always depended in all my housekeeping emergencies too much on my "talent for improvising," as Kate Wilson merrily entitles my readiness in a domestic tangle and stand-still. I had been in the habit of letting things go on as easily as possible, scrupulously avoiding domestic tempests, because they deranged my nervous system; and if I found a servant would not do a thing in my way, I would let her accomplish it in her own manner, and at her own time—so that it was done, that was all I required. I felt almost disheartened as the remarks of my precise aunt proved to me how remiss I had been, and resolved in a very humble mood to reform. Bat when Aunt Lina continued her conversations about the mismanagement before my father, then I felt the "old Adam" stir within me. There she surely was wrong. I could not bear he should have his eyes opened; he had always fancied me a little queen in my domestic arrangements—why should he think differently—what good did it do? If he found his dinner nicely cooked and served, his tea and toast snugly arranged in the library, in the evening, when he returned wearied from his office, with his dressing-gown and slippers most temptingly spread out; then awakened in the morning in a clean, well-ordered bed-room, with Ike at his elbow to wait his orders, and a warm, cozy breakfast to strengthen him ere he started out on his daily labors—if all this was carefully and quietly provided for him, what need of his knowing how it was done, or what straits I might be driven to sometimes, from my own thoughtlessness or forgetfulness to accomplish these comforts for him. I had always scrupulously avoided talking of my household affairs before him; but when Aunt Lina discoursed so eloquently and learnedly in his presence, slipping in once in a while such high-sounding words as "domestic economy," "well-ordered household," "proper distribution of time and labor," &c., &c., he began to prick up his ears, and fancy his thrifty little daughter Enna was not quite so excellent in her management as he had blindly dreamed. Poor man! his former ignorance had surely been bliss, for his unfortunate knowledge only made him look vexed and full of care whenever he entered the house. He even noted the door-handles, as to their brightness, rated poor Ike about the table appointments, and pointed out when and how work should be done—told how he managed in his business, and how we should manage in ours. I was almost distraught with annoyance; and, kind as my aunt had been, I wished for the time of her departure silently, but as earnestly as did my servants. Heaven pardon me for my inhospitality and ingratitude.
"Now, Lina," said my father, the morning she left, "don't forget the woman you were speaking of. Enna needs some experienced person to keep things in order. We shall have to break up housekeeping if affairs go on in this disordered state. I do not know how we have stood it thus long."
I opened my eyes but said not a word. Three months before and my father had been the happiest, free-from-care man in the city; now the little insight he had gained into domestic affairs—the peep behind the curtain given him by my mistaken maiden aunt, had served to embitter his existence, surrounding his path with those nettles of life, household trifles, vulgar cares and petty annoyances. I almost echoed Biddy's ejaculation as the carriage drove from the door with my aunt and her numberless boxes, each one arranged on a new, orderly, time-saving plan.
"Sure, and it's glad I am, that the ould craythur is fairly off—for divil a bit of comfort did she give the laste of us with her time-saving orderly ways. And it's not an owld maid ye must ever be, darlint Miss Enna, or ye'll favor the troublesome aunty with her tabby notions."
Ike shouted with glee, and turned somersets all the way through the hall into the back entry, regardless of all I could say; and the merriment and light heartedness that pervaded the whole house was most cheering. Biddy stamped and put her work in a greater confusion than ever; and Ike dusted the blinds from the top to the bottom in a "wholesale way," as he called it, and cleaned the knives on the wrong side of the Bath-brick to his heart's content. Every one, even the dumb animals, seemed conscious of Aunt Lina's departure. My little pet kitten, Norah, resumed her place by the side of the heater in the library, starting once in a while in her dreams and springing up as though she heard therustle of Aunt Lina's gown, or the sharp, clear notes of her voice—but coiled herself down with a consoling "pur," as she saw only "little me" laughing at her fears—and my little darling spaniel Flirt laid in my lap, nestled on the foot of my bed, and romped all over the house to his perfect satisfaction. I should have been as happy as the rest also, if it had not been for the anticipation that weighed down on me, of the expected pattern-card—my lady-help.
Soon after my aunt's return home I received a letter from her, announcing with great gratification her success. The letter was filled with a longpreachmenton household management, which my father read very seriously, pronouncing his sister Lina a most excellent, sensible woman, possessing more mind and judgment than did most of her sex. My aunt wound up her letter, saying—
"But you will have little order and regulation about your house so long as you keep that thriftless Biddy in it. Take my advice and tramp her off bag and baggage before Lizzie comes, for, from my account of her, Lizzie is not very favorably disposed toward her."
Here was a pretty state of affairs to be sure, not very agreeable to a young housekeeper who had hitherto been her own mistress—my new maid was to dictate to me even my own domestic arrangements. My father was earnest in wishing to dispose of Biddy—but on that point, though quiet, I was resolute in opposition. Poor warm-hearted Biddy, with all her stupid thriftless ways, I could not find in my heart to turn away, and as my chambermaid wanted to go to her relations in the "back states," as she called the great West, I proposed to Biddy to take her place, so soon as the new woman should make her appearance.
"If she's like the aunty of ye," said Biddy when we concluded this arrangement and were talking of the expected new comer, "I'll wish her all the bad luck in the world, for it's hot wather she'll kape us in all the time with her painstakings."
Not in a very pleasant frame of mind I awaited the arrival of my new domestic. Poor girl, there was no one to welcome her when she at last came, and she stepped into the kitchen without one kind feeling advancing to greet her. Biddy's warm Irish heart was completely closed against her, and Ike, the saucy rogue, pursed up his thick lips in a most comical manner when she appeared. But how my heart smote me when I first looked at the pale, care-worn, sad-looking creature. She was not pretty—her face bore the marks of early care and trial. She might have been well-favored in girlhood, but if so, those good looks had completely vanished. Her eyes were dim, her cheek hollow, and her brow was marked with lines stamped by endurance; her whole person thin and spare, with hard, toil-worn hands, and large feet, showed that labor and sorrow had been her constant companions. And how unjust had been our hasty judgment of her—for so far from proving to be the troublesome, fault-finding, airs-taking, lady-help I had fearfully anticipated, I found her amiable, yielding and patiently industrious. She had no regular set ways about her, but worked unceasingly from morning till night in every department in the house. Not a week passed before I heard Biddy, with her Irish enthusiasm, calling on Heaven to bless the "darlint." She was always ready to excuse Biddy's thriftlessness and Ike's mischief, helping them on in their duties constantly. Good Lizzie Hall! every one in the house loved her. Yes, indeed, my dear housekeeping reader, all doubtful as you look, I had at last obtained that paragon, so seldom met with—a good, efficient servant. Lizzie lived with me many years, and when I parted with her, as I had to at last, I felt certain, I had had my share of good "help"—that her place would never be supplied.
Lizzie grew very fond of me, and ere she had lived with us many months told me her whole history. Poor girl, without beauty, without mental attractions, of an humble station, and slender abilities, her life-woof had in it the glittering thread of romance—humble romance, but romance still it was. Lizzie's father was a farmer, owning a small farm in the part of the country where my Aunt Lina resided. His first wife, Lizzie's mother, was an heiress according to her station, bringing her husband on her marriage some hundreds of dollars, which enabled him to purchase his little farm, and stock it. They labored morning, noon, and night, unceasingly. Lizzie's mother was a thrifty, careful body; but, unfortunately, she had more industry than constitution; and when Lizzie was seventeen, her mother was fast sinking into the grave, a worn-out creature, borne down by hard labor and sickness. Nine children had she, and of them Lizzie was the eldest and only girl. What sorrow for a dying mother! Before her mother's last sickness, Lizzie was "wooed and won" by the best match in the place. James Foster, her lover, was a young farmer, an orphan, but well off in life. He owned a handsome, well-stocked farm, and was a good-looking, excellent young man. Both father and mother cheerfully gave their consent, but insisted that their engagement should last a year or so, until Lizzie might be older. As Mrs. Hall felt death approaching, she looked around on the little family she was to leave motherless behind her; and with moving, heart-rending entreaties, besought of Lizzie not to leave them.
"Stay with your father, my child," she urged; "James, if he loves you, will wait for you. Don't marry until the boys are all old enough to be out of trouble. Think, Lizzie, of the misery a step-mother might cause with your brother Jack's impetuous temper, and Sam's hopeless, despairing disposition—each one would be hard for a step-mother to guide. Be a mother to them, my girl; down on your knees, and to make your mother's heart easy, promise before God that you will guide them, and watch over them as long as you are needed. Stay with your father, and Heaven will bless you, as does your dying mother."
Willingly did the almost heart-broken girl give the required promise—and James Foster loved her all the better for it. She wept bitter, heart-aching tearsover her dear mother's grave, but turned steadily to the hard path traced out before her; but she was young and beloved, and a bright star beamed before her—the star of love—to gild her toilsome path; and a mother's smile seemed blended with its bright rays. A year or two rolled around—years of hard labor, which made Lizzie, who toiled untiringly, as her mother had done, old before her time. She was noted, however, all over the village for a thrifty, industrious, excellent girl. James Foster was a pattern for lovers; every spare moment he gave to her. What few amusements she had time to enjoy he procured for her; and as the village people said, they went as steadily together as old married people.
Lizzie's father was a narrow-minded, selfish man, caring very little for any one's comfort but his own, and at times was exceedingly cross and testy. Unfortunately, he took great interest in politics, and was quite an oracle in the village bar-room. He was bigoted and "set" in his opinions, considering all who differed from him as enemies to their country, and called them rascals and hypocrites freely. His wife had been dead about two years, when a presidential election came on. James Foster, unluckily, had been brought up with different political opinions from Mr. Hall; but, being very quiet and retiring in his disposition, he never had rendered himself obnoxious. Of course, Mr. Hall took great interest in the approaching election. He became very ambitious of his township giving a large vote on the side to which he belonged—and he used every means to obtain votes. Elated with fancied success, he swore one day in the tavern bar-room, that he would make James Foster abandon his party, and vote to please him. Some, who knew Foster's quiet but resolute disposition, bantered and teased Hall, which wrought him to such a pitch of excitement that, on meeting James Foster a little while after in front of the tavern, he made the demand of him. Foster at first treated it as a jest; then, when he found Hall was in earnest, decidedly, but civilly, refused; and in such a manner as to put at rest all further conversation. Enraged, Hall instantly turned, swearing to the laughing politicians that surrounded the tavern steps, and who had witnessed his discomfiture, that he would punish Foster's impudent obstinacy. Accordingly, full of ill, revengeful feelings, he returned home, and forbade his daughter ever permitting Foster to step over the threshold of the door—commanding her instantly to break the engagement. She used every entreaty, expostulated, temporized—all was of no avail; indeed, her entreaties seemed but to heighten her father's anger; and at last, with a fearful oath, he declared, if she did not break the engagement with the purse-proud, hypocritical rascal, she should leave his house instantly. She looked on the terrified children, the youngest only five years old, and who clung weeping to her knees, as her father threatened to turn her out of doors, never to see them again; and she thought of her mother's last words—her decision was made; and with a heavy heart she performed the self-sacrifice.
"Don't say you will never marry me, Lizzie," urged her lover; "I can wait ten years for you, darling."
But Lizzie was conscientious; her father had expressly stipulated there should be no "half-way work—no putting off;" all hope must be given up, she never could be his—and forever she bid him farewell. James tried to argue with and persuade her father; but the selfish, obstinate old man would listen to nothing from him. Poor James, finding both immovable, at last sold off his farm, and all his property, and moved away into a distant state; he could not, he said, live near Lizzie, and feel that she never would be his wife. Men are so soon despairing in love affairs, while women hope on, even to death. Poor Lizzie, how her heart sunk when the sight of her lover was denied to her; and she felt even more wretched than she did at the moment of her mother's death. Nothing now remained to her in life but the performance of stern, rigid duty. Two or three years passed by, and one by one her charges departed from her. One brother was placed with a farmer, and the others were apprenticed to good trades. The little white-headed Willie, who at his mother's death was a tiny, roly-poly prattler, only two years old, was becoming a slender, tall youth. Lizzie felt proud as she looked at her crowd of tall boys, when once or twice a year they would assemble at home; and on a Sunday's afternoon, at twilight, on her way to the evening meeting, she would steal down into the quiet church-yard, and kneeling beside her mother's grave, ask, with streaming eyes, if she had not done well. Such moments were fraught with bitter anguish; but a heavenly peace would descend on her, and she said her trials, after the agony was over, seemed lighter to bear.
"But I was blessed in one thing, dear Miss Enna," she would exclaim, "not one of those darling boys was taken from me, and all bid fair to turn out well. God surely smiled on the motherless, and gave me strength to perform my labor of love."
At last there moved to the village a woman of the name of Pierce; she opened a little milliner's shop, and soon made herself busy with the affairs of others, as well as her own, becoming quite a considerable person amongst the villagers. She was a widow with two or three children—a girl or two, and a boy—little things. She was a stout, healthy, good-looking woman, "rising forty," with a clear, shrill voice, and good, bright black eyes in her head. She soon steadied these bonnie eyes at the widower, Lizzie's father, and not in vain; for after hailing him industriously, as he passed the door of her shop, with questions about the weather, or the crops, he at last managed to stop without the hailing; and after a short courtship brought her and her children to his own home. How Lizzie rejoiced that her brothers were now all out of the way. Her last pet, Willie, had, a few months previous to the new marriage, been sent to a printer in the neighboring city. She never thought of herself, but commenced with redoubled industry to assist in taking care of the new family. But her constant industry and thrifty habits were a silent reproach to the step-mother, I fancy, for she leftno stone unturned to rid herself of the troublesome grown up daughter. She tried every means, threw out hints, until at last Lizzie perceived her drift. Even her father seemed restrained and annoyed by her presence; and when she proposed to him that she should do something now for herself, in the way of support, he made no opposition; on the contrary, seemed relieved, saying the times were hard, and he had always had an expensive family. At this time my dear Aunt Lina obtained her for me. Blessed Aunt Lina! how we all loved her for this good act; even Biddy said,
"Well, the owld toad wasn't so bad, afther all. She had some good in her, for she sent the angel to our door—good luck to her forever."
And what parted Lizzie from us? Ah, there is the romance of my story—the darling little bit of sentiment so dear to my woman's heart. Lizzie lived with me five years. In the meantime her father had died; the thriftless wife had broken his heart by her extravagant habits, and Lizzie and her brothers never received a penny of their mother's little fortune. One evening, my father, on handing me the letters and papers, said, "Amongst those, Enna, you will find a letter for Lizzie, which has come from the far West, clear beyond St. Louis—what relations has she there?"
I could not tell him, but gave the letter to Ike, now grown into quite a dandy waiter, to take to her. I did not feel much curiosity about the letter, thinking it might be from some cousin of hers; but when I retired to bed that evening, she came into my room, and throwing herself down on the soft rug beside my bed, by the dim light of my night-lamp, told me all her happiness. The letter was from James Foster—he still loved her as dearly as ever. He had heard by chance of her father's death, and her situation, and said if she was ready to marry him, he was still waiting. He wrote of his handsome farm he had cleared with his own hands, and the beautiful wild country he lived in, telling her he hoped her future life would be free from all care. All this, and even more, dear reader, he told her—in plain, homely words, it is true; but love's language is always sweet, be it in courtly tongue or homely phrase.
And James Foster came for her; and in our house was she married. My father presented the soft mull dress to the bride, which Kate Wilson and I made, and assisted in dressing her, and stood as her bride-maids. Aunt Lina, Biddy, the stamping, good-hearted Biddy, and dandy Ike, were all there, rejoicing in her happiness. Her husband was a stout, strong, hard-featured, but kind-hearted man, and looked upon his poor, care-worn, slender Lizzie as if she were an angel. We all liked him; and her whole troop of brothers, who were present at the ceremony, greeted him with hearty words of friendship. Three he persuaded to accompany them out to the "new home"—the farmer, the shoemaker, and the little white-headed Willie, Lizzie's pet—declaring all the time that his house and heart, like the wide western valley where he lived, was large enough to hold them all. They all went out one after another; and when I last heard from Lizzie, she was very happy, surrounded by all her brothers; and she told me of a little darling girl, whom she had named after her dear Miss Enna. My father and I often talk during the winter evenings, when sitting very cozily together in the warm library, of taking a summer's jaunt to Lizzie's western home. I wish we could, that I might see my lady-help as mistress of her own household; and what is still better, a happy wife, mother, and sister.
How would I be remembered?—not forever,As those of yore.Not as the warrior, whose bright glories quiverO'er fields of gore;Nor e'en as they whose song down life's dark riverIs heard no more.No! in my veins a gentler stream is flowingIn silent bliss.No! in my breast a woman's heart is glowing,It asks not this.I would not, as down life's dark vale I'm goingMy true path miss.I do not hope to lay a wreath undyingOn glory's shrine,Where coronets from mighty brows are lyingIn dazzling shine:Only let love, among the tomb-stones sighing,Weep over mine.Oh! when the green grass softly waves above meIn some low glen,Say, will the hearts that now so truly love meThink of me then;And, with fond tones that never more can move me,Call me again?Say, when the fond smiles in our happy homeTheir soft light shed,When round the hearth at quiet eve they come,And mine has fled,Will any gentle voice then ask for room—Room for the dead?Oh! will they say, as rosy day is dying,And shadows fall,"Come, let us speak of her now lowly lying,She loved us all!"And will a gentle tear-drop, then replying,From some eye fall?Give me, oh! give me not the echo ringingFrom trump of fame;Be mine, be mine the pearls from fond eyes springing,This, would I claim.Oh! may I think such memorieswillbe clingingAround my name. GRETTA.
How would I be remembered?—not forever,As those of yore.Not as the warrior, whose bright glories quiverO'er fields of gore;Nor e'en as they whose song down life's dark riverIs heard no more.
No! in my veins a gentler stream is flowingIn silent bliss.No! in my breast a woman's heart is glowing,It asks not this.I would not, as down life's dark vale I'm goingMy true path miss.
I do not hope to lay a wreath undyingOn glory's shrine,Where coronets from mighty brows are lyingIn dazzling shine:Only let love, among the tomb-stones sighing,Weep over mine.
Oh! when the green grass softly waves above meIn some low glen,Say, will the hearts that now so truly love meThink of me then;And, with fond tones that never more can move me,Call me again?
Say, when the fond smiles in our happy homeTheir soft light shed,When round the hearth at quiet eve they come,And mine has fled,Will any gentle voice then ask for room—Room for the dead?
Oh! will they say, as rosy day is dying,And shadows fall,"Come, let us speak of her now lowly lying,She loved us all!"And will a gentle tear-drop, then replying,From some eye fall?
Give me, oh! give me not the echo ringingFrom trump of fame;Be mine, be mine the pearls from fond eyes springing,This, would I claim.Oh! may I think such memorieswillbe clingingAround my name. GRETTA.