"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
For weary years my feet had wanderedOn many a fair but distant shore;By Lima's crumbling walls I'd ponderedAnd gazed upon the Andes hoar.The ocean's wild and restless billow,That rears its crested head on high,For years had been my couch and pillow,Until its sameness pained my eye.The playmates of my joyous childhood,With whom I laughed the hours away,And wandered through the tangled wildwoodTill close of sultry summer day;My aged, gray, and feeble mother,Whom most I longed to see again,My sisters, and my only brother,Were o'er the wild and faithless main.At length the lagging days were numbered,That bound me to a foreign shore,And glorious hopes that long had slumberedAgain their gilded plumage wore;Fond voices in my ear were singingThe songs I loved in boyhood's day,As in my hammoc slowly swingingI mused the still night-hours away.And sylvan scenes then came before me,The bright green fields I loved so well,EreSorrowthrew his shadow o'er me,The streamlet, mountain, wood and dell;The lonely grave-yard, sad and dreary,Which in the night I passed with dread,Where, with their sleepless vigils weary,The white stones watch above the dead;Were spread like pictured chart around me,Where Fancy turned my gazing eye,Till slumber with his fetters bound me,And dimmed each star in memory's sky.Then came bright dreams—but all were routedWhen morning lit the ocean blue,And I, awaking, gayly shouted,"My last, last night in famedPeru!""FarewellPeru! thy shores are fading,As swift we plough the furrowed main,And clouds with drooping wings are shadingThe towering Andes, wood and plain.The passing breeze, thus idly singing,A sweeter, dearer voice hath found,And hope within my heart is springing,Our white-winged bark isHomeward Bound!"'Twas night—at length my feet were nearingThe home from which they long had strayed;No star was in the sky appearing,My boyhood's scenes were wrapped in shade.I paused beside the grave-yard dreary,And entered through its creaking gate,To find if yet my mother, wearyOf this cold world, had shared the fateOf those who in their graves were sleeping,But could not find her grass-grown bed,Though many a stranger stone was keepingIts patient watch above the dead.Butherswas not among them gleaming,And so I turned with joy away,For many a night had I been dreamingThat there she pale and faded lay!
For weary years my feet had wanderedOn many a fair but distant shore;By Lima's crumbling walls I'd ponderedAnd gazed upon the Andes hoar.The ocean's wild and restless billow,That rears its crested head on high,For years had been my couch and pillow,Until its sameness pained my eye.
The playmates of my joyous childhood,With whom I laughed the hours away,And wandered through the tangled wildwoodTill close of sultry summer day;My aged, gray, and feeble mother,Whom most I longed to see again,My sisters, and my only brother,Were o'er the wild and faithless main.
At length the lagging days were numbered,That bound me to a foreign shore,And glorious hopes that long had slumberedAgain their gilded plumage wore;Fond voices in my ear were singingThe songs I loved in boyhood's day,As in my hammoc slowly swingingI mused the still night-hours away.
And sylvan scenes then came before me,The bright green fields I loved so well,EreSorrowthrew his shadow o'er me,The streamlet, mountain, wood and dell;The lonely grave-yard, sad and dreary,Which in the night I passed with dread,Where, with their sleepless vigils weary,The white stones watch above the dead;
Were spread like pictured chart around me,Where Fancy turned my gazing eye,Till slumber with his fetters bound me,And dimmed each star in memory's sky.Then came bright dreams—but all were routedWhen morning lit the ocean blue,And I, awaking, gayly shouted,"My last, last night in famedPeru!"
"FarewellPeru! thy shores are fading,As swift we plough the furrowed main,And clouds with drooping wings are shadingThe towering Andes, wood and plain.The passing breeze, thus idly singing,A sweeter, dearer voice hath found,And hope within my heart is springing,Our white-winged bark isHomeward Bound!"
'Twas night—at length my feet were nearingThe home from which they long had strayed;No star was in the sky appearing,My boyhood's scenes were wrapped in shade.I paused beside the grave-yard dreary,And entered through its creaking gate,To find if yet my mother, wearyOf this cold world, had shared the fate
Of those who in their graves were sleeping,But could not find her grass-grown bed,Though many a stranger stone was keepingIts patient watch above the dead.Butherswas not among them gleaming,And so I turned with joy away,For many a night had I been dreamingThat there she pale and faded lay!
"I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest;—most excellent humor."
"I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest;—most excellent humor."
Some years ago, ere yet I had reaped the harvest of "oats" somewhat wildly sown, I resided in one of our principal western cities, and, like most juveniles within sight of the threshold of their majority, harbored a decided predilection for the stage. Not a coach and four, as is sometimes understood by that expression, but that still more lumbering vehicle, the theatre, which hurries down the rough road of life a load of passengers quite as promiscuous and impatient. The odor of the summer-fields gave me less delight than that which exhaled from the foot-lights; and the wild forest-scenes were less enchanting than those transitory views which honest John Leslie nightly presented to the audience, too often "few" if not "fit." There is something, too, in the off-hand, taking-luck-as-it-comes sort of life among actors, which to me was especially attractive; and I was not long in making the acquaintance of many. But the memory of one among the number lingers with me still, with more mingled feelings of pain and pleasure than that of any other. Poor Penn—, I will not write his name in full, lest, should he be living, it might meet his eye and give his good-natured heart a moment's discomfort. To him more than any other my nature warmed, as did his to me, until we were cemented in friendship. What pleasant rambles of summer-afternoons, after rehearsal; what delightful nights when the play was done, what songs, recitations and professional anecdotes were ours, no one but ourselves can know. The character he most loved to play was Crack, in the "Turnpike Gate." Poor Penn—! I can see him yet—"Some gentleman has left his beer—another one will drink it!" How admirably he made that point! But that is gone by, and he may ere this have made his last point and final exit. After six months of the closest intimacy, I suddenly missed my hitherto daily companion, and all inquiries at his boarding-house and the theatre proved fruitless. For days I frequented our old haunts, but in vain; he had vanished, leaving no trace to tell of the course he had taken. I seemed altogether forsaken—utterly lost—and felt as if I looked like a pump without a handle—a cart with but one wheel—a shovel without the tongs—or the second volume of a novel, which, because somebody has carried off the first, is of no interest to any one. At last a week went by, and I sauntered down to the ferry, and stepping aboard the boat suffered myself to be conveyed to the opposite shore. On the bank stood the United States barracks, and gathered about were groups of soldiers, looking as listless and unwarlike as if they had just joined the "peace-league." But their present quiet was only like that of a summer sea, which would bear unharmed the slightest shallop that ever maiden put from shore, but when battling tempests rise can hurl whole navies into wreck. Suddenly catching a glimpse of a figure at a distance which reminded me of my friend, I eagerly addressed one of the soldiers, and pointing out the object of my curiosity, inquired who he was.
"That's our sergeant," replied the man.
"Oh!" I ejaculated in my disappointment, feeling assured that a week would not have raised Penn— to that honor, and I sat down on the green bank and watched the steamboats as they passed up and down between me and the city. And as I gazed, many a sad reflection and strange conjecture passed and re-passed along the silent current of my mind. How alone I felt! Even the groups of soldiers standing about were but as so many stacks of muskets. My eyes wandered listlessly from object to object, and rested at last on a pair of boots at my side, such as had been moving about me for the last half hour, and they, that is my eyes, not the boots, naturally, but slowly, followed up the military stripe on the side of the pantaloons, then took a squirrel leap to the Uncle Sam buttons on the breast of the coat, and passed leisurely from one to another upward, until they lit at last full in the owner's face! That quizzical look—that Roman nose! There was no mistaking Penn—, Sergeant Penn—, of the United States Army! My surprise may easily be imagined. However, a few minutes explained all.
Alas! for poor humanity,Its weakness and its vanity,Its sorrow and insanity,Alas!
Alas! for poor humanity,Its weakness and its vanity,Its sorrow and insanity,Alas!
My friend in an evil hour had been led astray—had imbibed one "cobbler" too many for his leather; and like most men in similar circumstances, grew profoundly patriotic, and in a glorious burst of enthusiasm, enlisted! His fine figure, with a dash of the theatrical air, promoted him at once to the dignity of sergeant; and never did soldier wear his honors "thrust upon him" with a better grace than did Poor Penn—. Whether in his sober moments he regretted the rash act, I do not know; he was too proud to acknowledge it if he did. Taking me by the arm, he conducted the way to the barracks, and with an air of indescribable importance, exhibited and explained the whole internal arrangements. On the first floor, which was paved with brick, there was an immense fire-place, built in the very centre of the great room, and steaming and bubbling over the firehung a big kettle, capable of holding at least thirty gallons. Over it, or rather beside it, stood the soldier-cook, stirring the contents, which was bean-soup, with an iron ladle. In the room above were long rows of bunks, stacks of muskets, with other warlike implements and equipage. A number of men were lounging on the berths, some reading, some boasting, and others telling long yarns. There was one stout, moon-faced gentleman laying on his broad back "spouting" Shakspeare. This individual, to whom I was introduced, turned out to be Sergeant Smith, another son of Thespis, who had left the boards for a more permanent engagement, not with the enemy, for those were days of peace, but with that stern old manager, Uncle Sam. Sergeant Smith was, perhaps, the most important person in his own estimation, on the banks, not even excepting the captain. There can be no doubt but that the stage suffered a great loss when he left it, for, indeed, he told us so himself. In a little while the call sounded, the roll was called, and all hands turned in to dinner. Penn— had provided me a seat by his side; and, for the first time in my life, I sat down to soldier fare. There was a square block of bread at the side of each pewter plate, a tin cup of cold water, and very soon a ladle-full of the steaming bean-soup was dealt round to each. It was a plain but a substantial dinner. Poor Penn—, as he helped me to an extra ladle of soup, observed, with the most solemn face imaginable, that the man who hadn't dined with soldiers "didn't know beans;" an expression more apt than elegant. During the space of three months I made weekly visits to the barracks, and was gratified to find that my friend Penn—, in spite of his formidable rival, Sergeant Smith, was fast rising in the confidence of the commanding officer and the estimation of the men. Smith, too, was judicious enough to hide any jealousy he might have felt, and like a true soldier, imitated his superior, and treated Penn— with marked distinction.
Such having been the state of affairs for so long a time, my surprise and indignation may easily be imagined, when upon calling, as usual, to see my friend, Sergeant Smith, with a most pompous air, informed me that he was not acquainted with the person for whom I inquired.
"Not acquainted with Penn—?" cried I, with the most unbounded astonishment.
"No, sir," proudly replied the imperturbable sergeant, assuming the strictest military attitude, looking like a very stiff figure-head, seeming as if it would crack his eyelids to wink.
"Not acq—"
"No, sir," cried he, with great determination, before I could finish the word. "Do you suppose an officer of the United States army, an unimpeached soldier, capable of being acquainted with adeserter?"
"Adeserter!" echoed I; "Penn— a deserter!" and the truth flashed across my brain, writing that terrible word in letters of fire, as did the hand on the walls of Belshazzar. The next moment, by permission of the guard, who knew me, I passed down into the long damp basement of the barracks, where the offenders were imprisoned. At the farther end, among a number of fellow-culprits, my eager eye soon discovered the object of its search. He was sitting with folded arms, perched on a carpenter's bench, and with the most wo-begone countenance imaginable, whistling a favorite air, and beating time against the side of the bench with his long, pendulous legs. I can hear the tune yet, "Nix my Dolly;" and who that has ever seen "Jack Shepherd" has forgotten it?
"Hallo!" cried I, "Penn—, how is this?"
He looked at me a moment with surprise, and after exclaiming, "How are you, my boy?" gave the bench a salutary kick, and whistled more vigorously than ever "Nix my Dolly;" and having gone through the stave, he turned to me and exclaimed,
"Look you, my boy, be chaste as snow, you shall not escape calumny—and to this complexion you may come at last." Again he took sight at the blank stone wall, whistled, and beat time.
"But, come," said I, "how did you get here?"
"Get here?" echoed he, "the easiest way in the world! Sergeant Penn— crossed the river on a three hours' leave of absence—took a glass too many—stayed over the time, and his friend, Sergeant Smith, feeling anxious for Penn—'s welfare, went after him and had him arrested as a deserter—and here he is! 'Nix my Dolly,'" etc. etc.; and he settled again into his musical reverie.
"Well, what will be the upshot of it?" said I.
"Thedown-shotof me, maybe!"—Nix my Doll—"at least, I shall be shipped off with these fine fellows to the west; and if the court-martial happen to sit on my case after dinner, I may get off withmerelyhaving my head shaved, and being drummed out!" Poor Penn—, at the thought of this, kicked the bench furiously, and whistled with all the vigor he could muster.
"When do you go?" asked I, eagerly.
"Next Sunday," he replied, and added, "Look here, my boy, let me bid you good-by now, for the last time"—and he pressed my hand warmly—"for the last time, I say, for it would unman me to see you on that day, and Penn— would fain be himself, proud and unshaken even in his disgrace. There—there—go, my dear boy, let this be the last visit of your life to the barracks. God bless you!" and after giving his hand a hearty grasp, I turned hurriedly away, to hide my feeling. In passing the door I gave a hasty glance back, and saw Penn— sitting as before, his arms folded, his heels beating the bench, but so slowly, that their strokes seemed like the dying vibrations of a pendulum; and the whistle was so low that it was scarcely audible. With a heavy heart I passed away, much preferring to acknowledge the acquaintance of a "deserter" like Poor Penn— than to continue that of the unimpeachable Sergeant Smith. Another week brought around the day of my friend's departure, and I found it impossible to resist the temptation to take a farewell look at my old companion. Accordingly I crossed the river, and taking my station behind a large treeon the bank of the river, so that I could see Penn— without letting him see me, I awaited with melancholy patience the moment when the deserters should be led out. The steamboat was puffing and groaning at the wharf, and in a few moments the heavy door of the guard-room swung open; there was a sudden clanking of irons, and soon I saw prisoner after prisoner emerge, dragging long heavy chains, which were attached to their ankles. I counted them as they came out—counted a dozen—but yet no Penn—; counted eighteen—nineteen—but the twentieth, and last, proved to be him. No language can describe the solemn majesty with which he brought up the rear of that dishonored line. No chain clanked as he stepped to tell of his disgrace; and the spectators, instead of suspecting him as being a culprit, may easily have imagined him to be one of the sergeants who had the rest in charge. This, to me, was a matter of much surprise, and turning to an old soldier at my side, I inquired,
"What does this mean, isn't Penn— one of them?"
"Of course he is," was the reply.
"But why doesn't he wear a chain like the rest?"
"Wear a chain," said the soldier, "you don't know Penn—, Sergeant Penn— that was. He wear a chain! Why, bless your heart, he carries as heavy a chain as any of them, but he's got it twisted around his leg, under his pantaloons, clear above his knee! He's too proud to drag it—he'd die first!"
Poor Penn—! I could have embraced him for that touch of pride; and felt assured that whatever the penalty might be which he was doomed to suffer, that he had "a heart for any fate!" What that fate was I have had no means of knowing, for I have never since heard of poor Penn—.
Bring me the juice of the honey fruit,The large translucent, amber-hued,Rare grapes of southern isles, to suitThe luxury that fills my mood.And bring me only such as grewWhere rarest maidens tent the bowers,And only fed by rain and dewWhich first had bathed a bank of flowers.They must have hung on spicy treesIn airs of far enchanted vales,And all night heard the ecstasiesOf noble-throated nightingales:So that the virtues which belongTo flowers may therein tasted be—And that which hath been thrilled with songMay give a thrill of song to me.For I would wake that string for theeWhich hath too long in silence hung,And sweeter than all else should beThe song which in thy praise is sung.
Bring me the juice of the honey fruit,The large translucent, amber-hued,Rare grapes of southern isles, to suitThe luxury that fills my mood.
And bring me only such as grewWhere rarest maidens tent the bowers,And only fed by rain and dewWhich first had bathed a bank of flowers.
They must have hung on spicy treesIn airs of far enchanted vales,And all night heard the ecstasiesOf noble-throated nightingales:
So that the virtues which belongTo flowers may therein tasted be—And that which hath been thrilled with songMay give a thrill of song to me.
For I would wake that string for theeWhich hath too long in silence hung,And sweeter than all else should beThe song which in thy praise is sung.
Far in the ocean of the NightThere lyeth an Enchanted Isle,Within a veil of mellow light,That blesseth like affection's smile.It tingeth with a rosy hueAll objects in that country fair,Like summer twilight, when the dewIs trembling in the fragrant air.And there is music evermore,That seemeth sleeping on the breeze.Like sound of sweet bells from the shoreLingering along the summer seas.And there are rivers, bowers, and groves,And fountains fringed with blossomed weeds,And all sweet birds that sing their loves'Mid stately flowers or tasseled reeds.All that is beautiful of earth,All that is valued, all that's dear,All that is pure of mortal birth,Lives in immortal beauty here.All tender buds that ever grewFor us on Hope's ephemeral tree,All loves, all joys, that e'er we knew,Bloom in that country gloriously.There is no parting there, no change,No death, no fading, no decay;No hand is cold, no voice is strange,No eye is dark—or turned away.To us, who daily toil and weep,How welcome is Night's starry smile,When in the fairy barge of SleepWe visit the Enchanted Isle.All holy hearts that worship Truth,Though bleak their daily pathway seems,Find treasure and immortal youthIn that fair isle of happy dreams.But, if the soul have dwelt with sin,It landeth on that isle no more,Though it would give its life to winOne glimpse but of the pleasant shore.Their joys, which have been thrown away,Or stained with guilt, can bloom no more,And o'er the night their vessels strayWhere pale shades weep, and surges roar.
Far in the ocean of the NightThere lyeth an Enchanted Isle,Within a veil of mellow light,That blesseth like affection's smile.
It tingeth with a rosy hueAll objects in that country fair,Like summer twilight, when the dewIs trembling in the fragrant air.
And there is music evermore,That seemeth sleeping on the breeze.Like sound of sweet bells from the shoreLingering along the summer seas.
And there are rivers, bowers, and groves,And fountains fringed with blossomed weeds,And all sweet birds that sing their loves'Mid stately flowers or tasseled reeds.
All that is beautiful of earth,All that is valued, all that's dear,All that is pure of mortal birth,Lives in immortal beauty here.
All tender buds that ever grewFor us on Hope's ephemeral tree,All loves, all joys, that e'er we knew,Bloom in that country gloriously.
There is no parting there, no change,No death, no fading, no decay;No hand is cold, no voice is strange,No eye is dark—or turned away.
To us, who daily toil and weep,How welcome is Night's starry smile,When in the fairy barge of SleepWe visit the Enchanted Isle.
All holy hearts that worship Truth,Though bleak their daily pathway seems,Find treasure and immortal youthIn that fair isle of happy dreams.
But, if the soul have dwelt with sin,It landeth on that isle no more,Though it would give its life to winOne glimpse but of the pleasant shore.
Their joys, which have been thrown away,Or stained with guilt, can bloom no more,And o'er the night their vessels strayWhere pale shades weep, and surges roar.
I had a vision in that solemn hour,Last of the year sublime,Whose wave sweeps downward, with its dying powerRippling the shores of Time!On the lone margin of that hoary seaMy spirit stood alone,Watching the gleams of phantom HistoryWhich through the darkness shone:Then, when the bell of midnight, ghostly handsTolled for the dead year's doom,I saw the spirits of Earth's ancient landsStand up amid the gloom!The crownéd deities, whose reign beganIn the forgotten Past,When first the glad world gave to sovereign ManHer empires green and vast!First queenlyAsia, from the fallen thronesOf twice three thousand years,Came with the wo a grieving goddess ownsWho longs for mortal tears:The dust of ruin to her mantle clung,And dimmed her crown of gold,While the majestic sorrows of her tongueFrom Tyre to Indus rolled:"Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of wo,Whose only glory streamsFrom its lost childhood, like the artic glowWhich sunless Winter dreams!In the red desert moulders Babylon,And the wild serpent's hissEchoes in Petra's palaces of stoneAnd waste Persepolis!Gone are the deities who ruled enshrinedIn Elephanta's caves,And Brahma's wailings fill the odorous windThat stirs Amboyna's waves!The ancient gods amid their temples fall,And shapes of some near doom,Trembling and waving on the Future's wall,More fearful make my gloom!"Then from her seat, amid the palms emboweredThat shade the Lion-land,SwartAfricain dusky aspect towered—The fetters on her hand!Backward she saw, from out her drear eclipse,The mighty Theban years,And the deep anguish of her mournful lipsInterpreted her tears."Wo for my children, whom your gyves have boundThrough centuries of toil;The bitter wailings of whose bondage soundFrom many a stranger-soil!Leave me but free, though the eternal sandBe all my kingdom now—Though the rude splendors of barbaric landBut mock my crownless brow!"There was a sound, like sudden trumpets blown,A ringing, as of arms,WhenEuroperose, a stately Amazon,Stern in her mailéd charms.She brooded long beneath the weary barsThat chafed her soul of flame,And like a seer, who reads the awful stars,Her words prophetic came:"I hear new sounds along the ancient shore,Whose dull old monotoneOf tides, that broke on many a system hoar,Wailed through the ages lone!I see a gleaming, like the crimson mornBeneath a stormy sky,And warning throes, my bosom long has borne,Proclaim the struggle nigh!"The spirit of a hundred races mountsTo glorious life in one;New prophet-wands unseal the hidden fountsThat leap to meet the sun!And thunder-voices, answering Freedom's prayer,In far-off echoes fail,As some loud trumpet, startling all the air,Peals down an Alpine vale!"O radiant-browed, the latest born of Time!How waned thy sisters oldBefore the splendors of thine eye sublime,And mien, erect and bold!Pure, as the winds of thine own forests are,Thy brow beamed lofty cheer,And Day's bright oriflamme, the Morning Star,Flashed on thy lifted spear."I bear no weight," so rang thy jubilant tones,"Of memories weird and vast—No crushing heritage of iron thrones,Bequeathed by some dead Past;But mighty hopes, that learned to tower and soar,From my own hills of snow—Whose prophecies in wave and woodland roar,When the free tempests blow!"Like spectral lamps, that burn before a tomb,The ancient lights expire;I wave a torch, that floods the lessening gloomWith everlasting fire!Crowned with my constellated stars, I standBeside the foaming sea,And from the Future, with a victor's handClaim empire for the Free!"
I had a vision in that solemn hour,Last of the year sublime,Whose wave sweeps downward, with its dying powerRippling the shores of Time!On the lone margin of that hoary seaMy spirit stood alone,Watching the gleams of phantom HistoryWhich through the darkness shone:
Then, when the bell of midnight, ghostly handsTolled for the dead year's doom,I saw the spirits of Earth's ancient landsStand up amid the gloom!The crownéd deities, whose reign beganIn the forgotten Past,When first the glad world gave to sovereign ManHer empires green and vast!
First queenlyAsia, from the fallen thronesOf twice three thousand years,Came with the wo a grieving goddess ownsWho longs for mortal tears:The dust of ruin to her mantle clung,And dimmed her crown of gold,While the majestic sorrows of her tongueFrom Tyre to Indus rolled:
"Mourn with me, sisters, in my realm of wo,Whose only glory streamsFrom its lost childhood, like the artic glowWhich sunless Winter dreams!In the red desert moulders Babylon,And the wild serpent's hissEchoes in Petra's palaces of stoneAnd waste Persepolis!
Gone are the deities who ruled enshrinedIn Elephanta's caves,And Brahma's wailings fill the odorous windThat stirs Amboyna's waves!The ancient gods amid their temples fall,And shapes of some near doom,Trembling and waving on the Future's wall,More fearful make my gloom!"
Then from her seat, amid the palms emboweredThat shade the Lion-land,SwartAfricain dusky aspect towered—The fetters on her hand!Backward she saw, from out her drear eclipse,The mighty Theban years,And the deep anguish of her mournful lipsInterpreted her tears.
"Wo for my children, whom your gyves have boundThrough centuries of toil;The bitter wailings of whose bondage soundFrom many a stranger-soil!Leave me but free, though the eternal sandBe all my kingdom now—Though the rude splendors of barbaric landBut mock my crownless brow!"
There was a sound, like sudden trumpets blown,A ringing, as of arms,WhenEuroperose, a stately Amazon,Stern in her mailéd charms.She brooded long beneath the weary barsThat chafed her soul of flame,And like a seer, who reads the awful stars,Her words prophetic came:
"I hear new sounds along the ancient shore,Whose dull old monotoneOf tides, that broke on many a system hoar,Wailed through the ages lone!I see a gleaming, like the crimson mornBeneath a stormy sky,And warning throes, my bosom long has borne,Proclaim the struggle nigh!
"The spirit of a hundred races mountsTo glorious life in one;New prophet-wands unseal the hidden fountsThat leap to meet the sun!And thunder-voices, answering Freedom's prayer,In far-off echoes fail,As some loud trumpet, startling all the air,Peals down an Alpine vale!"
O radiant-browed, the latest born of Time!How waned thy sisters oldBefore the splendors of thine eye sublime,And mien, erect and bold!Pure, as the winds of thine own forests are,Thy brow beamed lofty cheer,And Day's bright oriflamme, the Morning Star,Flashed on thy lifted spear.
"I bear no weight," so rang thy jubilant tones,"Of memories weird and vast—No crushing heritage of iron thrones,Bequeathed by some dead Past;But mighty hopes, that learned to tower and soar,From my own hills of snow—Whose prophecies in wave and woodland roar,When the free tempests blow!
"Like spectral lamps, that burn before a tomb,The ancient lights expire;I wave a torch, that floods the lessening gloomWith everlasting fire!Crowned with my constellated stars, I standBeside the foaming sea,And from the Future, with a victor's handClaim empire for the Free!"
What unlucky star it was that presided over the destiny of my cousin Jehoiakim Johnson I am not astrologer enough to divine. Certain only am I that it could have been neither Saturn, Mercury, Mars, nor Venus; for he was far from being either wise, witty, warlike, or beautiful.
Cowper says every one falls "just in the niche he was ordained to fill." Cowper was mistaken in one instance, for Cousin Jehoiakim had no niche to fall into, but went wandering about the world, (our world,) without any thing apparently to do, or any where apparently to stay: And just the moment you wished him safe in Botany Bay, just that very moment was he standing before you with his—but never mind a description of his face and person.Allcannot be handsome; folks unfortunately do not make themselves—and precisely the moment you became indifferent as to his presence, or if—averyrare thing—you wished it, that very instant he was no where to be found.
"Our world" was situated in good old New England, around and about Boston; and we, "our folks," were of the better class of farmers, and lived within a day's ride of the city.
Never in my life have I been happier than in that free, green country, with the broad, bright sky above me, and the clear, heaven-wide air around me; and bird and beast frolicking in freedom and gladness near and about me. I loved them all, and all their various noises, even to the unearthly scream of our bright, proud peacock. I shut my eyes and see them still; the world of gay-plumaged birds, with their sweet, wild songs, the little white-faced lambs, the wee,roly-polypigs, the verdant ducks, the soft, yellow goslins, and the dignified old cows stalking about. Well do I remember each of their kind old faces. There was the spotted heifer, with an up-turned nose, and eyes with corners pointing toward the stars. If ever a cow is admitted into heaven for goodness, it will surely be Daisy. Then there was the black Alderny, and the—but leaving beefrevenons à nos moutons—Cousin Jehoiakim. Still the place of all others to enjoy life, life unconstrained by city forms, life free, free as heaven's wind, is on a New England farm. My heart bounds within me as I look back at the dear old homestead. Just there it lies in the bend of the time-worn road that winds its interminable length through dark elms—the gothic ivy-clad elms—and through black giant pines, and the bright-leaved, sugar-giving maple, and golden fields, hedged in by ragged fences, formed of the roots and stumps of leviathan trees.
You see that picket-gate? open it, and a path bordered on each side by currant bushes, and gooseberry bushes, and the tall cyranga, and the purple lilac, will lead you through an arbor of fine Isabella's and Catawba's to the dear old homestead, now in possession of Brother Dick and little Fanny, his better half.
I could describe every nook of that darling old house, and every thing surrounding it, from its old-fashioned chimneys—wherein the domestic swallows have sung their little ones to sleep each successive summer, time out of mind—to the unseemly nail that projected its Judas-point from one of the crosspieces of that same little gate, and which always contrived to give a triangular tear to my flying robes every time they fluttered through that dear little gate. Just imagine the happy moments I spent under the great old willow by the well, darning those same triangular rents. Still has all this nothing to do with Cousin Jehoiakim Johnson. You have probably seen folks that were often in your way; now, he was never any where else. Always in the way, and always ungraceful. He was not ungraceful for lack of desire to please: bless his kind, officious heart! Oh, no! Was there a cup of coffee to be handed, and were there a half dozen waiters ready to hand it, he was sure to thrust forth at least ten huge digits, and if he chanced to get it in his grasp, wo to the coffee! and wo to the snow-white damask table-cloth! or worse, wo to one's "best Sunday-go-to-meetin'" silk dress. Nature uses strange materials in concocting some of her children—most uncouth was the fabric of which she constructed Jehoiakim Johnson.
Poor fellow! he is dead now—peace to his soul. Do you know I fancy it lies hid in the breast of my dog Jehu—the most ungainly, the best-natured creature alive. My baby rides his back, and pulls his ears. I never heard him growl. Oh! he is a jewel of a dog.
Poor Cousin Jehoiakim! Among his otherplaisanterieshe came near losing for me a noble husband. Patience, and I will relate how it came to pass.
Sister Anna and myself—that sister of mine, by the way, was a complete witch; all dimples and fun, with blue eyes that darted here and there, dancing in her head for very gladness; with a mouth on which the bright red rose sat like a queen on her throne. Her words I can liken to nothing but to so many little silver bells, ringing out into the clear air in joy and sweetness. And never have I heard thosemusical bells jingle one harsh or unharmonious sound. She is married now—poor thing—and the mother of three "little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, mischief-making monkeys."
Notwithstanding her exceeding loveliness, Cousin Jehoiakim preferred me, and actually offered me his great broad hand, as you shall see. She was a perfect Hebe, while my style of beauty was more of the—though to confess the "righty-dighty" truth, as little folks say, my beauty was of that order which took the keenest of eyes to discover. There were a pair, however, dark, and full of soul, that dwelt with as much delight on me as though I were Venus herself.
Oh! those were dear, darling eyes, and were in the possession of the best, yes, the very best specimen of Nature's modeling that New England contained; Nature wrought him from the finest of her clay, after her divinest image, and his parents named him Edgar Elliott.
Sister Anna and myself had been making our usual Christmas visit to Aunt Charity, or Aunt "Charty," as we used to call her, in good old Yankee language. Aunt Charity dwelt in Boston; and was the wife of a very excellent man, in very excellent circumstances; and the mother of seven dear, excellent boys, of whom Cousin Jehoiakim Johnson wasnotone.
How delightfully flew our days on this particular Christmas visit. I felt myself in a new world. A world of brighter flowers, and brighter sunshine; for, although I was eighteen, never until then had I been any thing but a wild, thoughtless, giddy child. And then?—the truth is a new star had burst upon my horoscope, bright and beautiful, that so bewildered my eyes to look upon, I was forced to awake my heart from its long sleep, to supply the place of eyes. Steadfast it gazed into that bright star's heaven-lighted depths, until I recognized it as my guiding star—my Destiny!
Oh, Love! thou angel! thou devil! thou blissful madness, thou wise folly! Thou that comest clad in rainbow garments, with words more full of hope than was the first arch that spanned high heaven, stouter hearts than mine have been compelled to own thee master. Prouder hearts than mine have listened to the witcheries of thy satin-smooth tongue until they forgot their pride. More ice-cold ones than mine have been consumed in the immortal fire thou buildest—the heart thine altar, Love, thou monarch of the universe!
Every thing has an end—a consolation oftentimes—rhapsody, as well as love, and so had that happy Christmas-time, when we were so merry, when I first saw that master-piece of nature—my Destiny—Edgar Elliott.
Anna and myself had been home but three weeks—three dreary years of weeks, Anna said—when we received a letter containing the joyful intelligence that Edgar Elliott, his aristocratic sister Jane, his unaristocratic sister little Fanny, and Herbert Allen—a young lieutenant, by the way, and, by the way, the red-hot flame of my harem-scarem sister—would all four honor Dough-nut Hall, the name we had playfully given our old homestead, with a speedy and long visit.
Joy and hope danced in our hearts when, clear and sunny, the promised day at length had come, the snow five and a half feet deep—the greatest depth of snow within the memory of the "oldest inhabitant"—the mercury full ten degrees below zero. I had just changed my dress for the fifth time, and sister Anna was offering me this consolation, "I must say, Clara, that that is the most unbecoming dress you have, you look like a perfect scare-crow," when the sound of sleigh-bells coming up the avenue, sent my heart up in my throat, and myself quicker than lightning down to the "hall-door," there to welcome—not my darling Edgar and his proud, beautiful sister, and Anna's Adonis lieutenant, and Brother Dick's pretty little Fanny—no, none of these, oh, no! who but my long-visaged, good-for-nothing cousin Jehoiakim Johnson.
"Fiddle-de-dee!" exclaimed a voice at my elbow; and my disappointed sister skipped, with chattering teeth, back into the house.
The stage drove off, after depositing cousin Jehoiakim and a Noah's-ark of a trunk.
"Wall, Cousin Clarry!" exclaimed he, springing toward me with one of his own peculiar bear-like bounds. "How du you du? I guess you didn't expect me this time, no how."
"I can't say that I did," said I; "but do come in, this air is enough to freeze one."
"Wall, here I am again," said he, rubbing his great hands together before the blazing hickory. "But if thatwasn'ta tarnel cold drive; and if this isn't a nation good fire, then I don't know. But how are uncle and aunt, and Cousin Anna, and Dick, and little Harry?"
"All quite well. Where have you been since you left here, cousin?"
"Why I went right to Cousin Hezekiah's; but I did not stay there quite two months, because little Prudence caught the brain fever, and I was obliged to keep so still that it was very unpleasant. I went from there to Cousin Ebenezer's. Wall, I stayed to Cousin Eb's four months or so; then I went to stay a couple of months with Cousin Pildash and Axy, (Achsa.) So this morning I came from Uncle Abimelech's. I only stayed there a few weeks, because—But, Cousin Clarry, du look! if there isn't a sleigh-load of folks coming."
Ididlook, and saw coming through the great open gate, and up the avenue, a sleigh, all covered with gold and brown, glittering in the sun's setting rays. I saw the long, white manes of the ponies, and the heavy plumes of my beautiful friend, Jane, streaming far in the wind; and then I saw little Fanny's bright, happy face, and the fierce moustache of Anna's lieutenant; and then I saw a pair of dark, earnest eyes, full of devotion, gazing into mine as though at the shrine of their soul's ideal. Never shall I forget the look they wore, so inexpressibly full of affection was it.
What a pity stars should set. What a pity thateyes, once overflowing with the light of wildest, truest love, should grow cold and dim. A pity, too, that love cannot always be love—that it should find its grave so often in hate, or indifference, or in sober friendship. Still that it does not always, let us bless Love, and think that the fault lies in us, and not in Love, that we are grown so like the clay of which our bodies are made, that Love, the spirit, cannot find an abiding-place within us; and, as years come over us, we are content more and more to harden our hearts, and bask, like butterflies, in the external sunshine of this beautiful world, until the world within—the world of thought and feeling—is a weary one, gladdened only with a few flowers of transcendent sweetness and brightness—rewards of merit from this work-day, lesson-learning earth.
Meantime were those warm eyes looking love upon me; and meantime, from out a world of buffalo-robes and furs, were our merry friends emerging; and then a fervent pressure of a soft, warm hand sent the bright blood burning to my very temples. Then came numerous other shakes of the hand, and question sounded upon question, and laugh pealed upon laugh; a gayer, merrier, madder party never met together. Sister Anna, and Brother Dick's little love of a Fanny, were a host of mirth in themselves. The accession of so many merry faces seemed to act on the uncouth spirits of my Cousin Jehoiakim like so much exhilarating gas; for scarcely were we housed, when he suddenly caught me up in his windmill arms, and twirling me around as though I had been a feather, exclaimed, "Bless us! Cousin Clarry, I have scarcely had a chance to say how du you du, and to tell you how glad I am to be here once more. Arn't you tickled to death to see me?"
Indignant and breathless, I sprang from him, saying, "Really, Cousin Jehoiakim, I should be much more delighted to see you if you would be kind enough to manifest a less rude way of expressing your joy."
"Oh! beg pardon, Cousin Clarry. I forgot you had grown up into a young woman; another word for touch-me-not—ha! ha! ha! I guess you are all dressed up, tu; you look like a daisy, anyhow."
With that he threw himself back in a perfect roar of ha! ha's! and he! he's! My eyes glanced around to see the effect produced on my friends by mygauchecousin. The great blue eyes of the aristocratic Jane opened themselves wider and more wide, while the merry black ones of little Fanny seemed to enjoy the sport. The lieutenant's moustache curled itself a little more decidedly, as he surveyed Jehoiakim Johnson; looking upon him, probably, as on some savage monster. I thought I perceived a darker shade in Edgar's eyes. It soon passed over, and we all became quiet and chatty. The twilight deepened around us, meantime, and the shadows formed by the blazing hearth grew more and more opaque, and more and more fitful, lengthening themselves over carpet, chairs, and sofas, to the very farthest corner of the room, darting all manner of fantastic forms upon Sister Anna and her handsome lieutenant, as they sat over by the window, in earnest conversation. Yes, Sister Anna, for once wert thou earnest. Upon our group on the sofa, before the hearth, fell also those strange fire-light shadows. Sweet little Fanny! how like a little fairy didst thou look in that flickering fire-light; thy graceful form, half reclining, thrown carelessly on the sofa; thy long, curling hair flowing in dark clouds over thy snow-white dress, and nearly hiding thy happy, child-like face, and bright eyes, that glanced out on Brother Dick, who, entranced, was devoutly bending over thee, gazing on thy sunny face—what he could see of it. Sweet little Fanny! And thy proud, beautiful sister, Jane—sitting beside me, and near thee; well did that gleaming light reveal her noble outline of face and form contrasting so finely with thine. Nor did those wayward shadows spare our dear mother, but daguerreotyped all manner of merry-andrews on her sober satin dress, as she sat over on a lounge, quietly talking with my dear, sweet Edgar, who employed his leisure moments in throwing sundry loving glances over at me. Nor did these weird shadows spare our Cousin Jehoiakim Johnson in the great old-fashioned arm-chair, where he had flung himself, seemingly wrapped in meditation most profound. They frolicked over his broad, square shoulders like the Liliputs upon Gulliver, dancing all sorts of fantastic dances, pulling at his ears, and tweaking his substantial nose, when a snore of most immense magnitude broke on our quiet ears. Then another and another, each louder than the last. Ah! Cousin Jehoiakim, most profound was thy meditation.
Now I am not going to weary your patience by telling you how just then our "help" entered, one bearing a tray-full of tall sperm candles, another an immense waiter, crowned with the thick-gilt, untarnished china, that had been handed down in our family by four successive generations—we had begged our dear mother to let the tea, the tea only, be handed around as it was done in Boston; she in an evil hour consenting. Nor how Cousin Jehoiakim, aroused from his meditation by the glare of light, starting up, cast his eyes upon Mercy, the stout serving maiden, and bearer of that same precious porcelain—for which my dear mother's reverence was as great, every whit, as that of Charles Lamb's for old China; and how the next moment the waiter was in the hands of my six feet seven and a-half cousin, with "Du let me help you, young woman!" and how the next instant the six feet seven and a-half formed a horizontal line with the floor, instead of a perpendicular one; and how the glittering fragments of gold and white glistened from under every chair, and from the hearth, and out from among the ashes, like unto so many evil eyes glaring upon him for his stupidity and carelessness; and how little Fanny unwound from one foot of the prostrate six feet seven and a-half several yards of snow-white muslin—the innocent cause of the disaster; and how, light as a bird, she sprung, merrily laughing, from the room, with the fluttering fragments of her cobweb dress gathered in an impromptu drapery around her graceful little form.
No; I will not fatigue you with the history of that unlucky adventure; nor how, but a short time after, when we had taken tea from less costly China, andhad fallen into a witty, merry uttering of each other's thoughts, we were interrupted by screams the most—but never mind what kind, seeing I have said you shall not be fatigued with a description of what was nothing but an immense kettle of boiling lard flowing quietly and river-like over the long length of the before so spotless kitchen floor, with many a cluster of dough-nut islands interspersed, by way of relieving the said river of monotony. Our dear mother was famed for miles around for the profusion and superiority of her dough-nuts, hence our soubriquet—"Dough-nut Hall." And, seeing that Mercy was only scalded half to death, the guilty culprit, who insisted that the kettle was "too heavy for a woman to lift," escaping unhurt, that is bodily—his remorse of conscience being truly pitiable. No; none of all this, with long, ugly sentences, shall you have; no, nor a detail of his many daily, hourly, and almost momently, misadventures; how once, when we were sitting in Miss Elliott's room, in he bolted with, "Bless my soul! what a lot of industrious women-folk! 'How doth the busy bee;'" that new and elegant little poem was, word for word, recited. Little Fanny he found making a bead purse for Brother Dick, and examining her box with every conceivable shade of bead duly assorted, and separated from each other by innumerable partitions. No matter what he said about them, only the beads were spilled, and the purse could not be finished; and then were Miss Jane's delicate brushes passed through his wondering red hair before a saving hand could arrest them; then was Miss Jane's beautiful inlaid dressing-box broken irreparably; and then—but I will tell you what I will relate you—all about our sleigh-ride and country ball. Yes! that you must know; not because it is worth telling, but because I should like you to hear it—all about how I nearly lost my darling. But to commence.
Rumors were afloat of this said ball, the countriest kind of a country ball, to take place in Squire Brown's barn, the largest, best built barn for miles around. Our city friends entered into the spirit exactly, and determined on going. "Cousin Jehoiakim? Oh, he need know nothing about it," said Sister Anna; "or we can easily deceive him as to the day, without telling him very much of a lie." Ah! Sister Anna. The important day arrived. In one great bandbox reposed various satins, laces, and ribbons too numerous to mention; the owners thereof were standing cloaked, hooded, and muffed, ready to start. The distance was ten miles. We had cast lots for the sleighs, and had agreed on exclusiveness, though not exactly the exclusiveness that Sister Anna wickedly proposed, viz., that each brother should take his respective sisters in due decorum. The new "cutter" of my brother's was drawn by himself; and he had already started with his little Fanny by his side. The proud, beautiful Jane—I really believe I had forgotten to mention that, while Cousin Jehoiakim was upsetting chairs, and spilling pitchers of water, and breaking glasses, and treading on people's toes, and the cat's tail, a distant cousin of ours arrived—rather a guess cousin than Cousin Jehoiakim; tall as the last named, to be sure, but bearing about the same resemblance to him as a vigorous, graceful young willow does to an overgrown mullen stalk. This new cousin—by cognomen Clarence Spencer—the family name our own, by the way—proud and beautiful as the haughty Jane herself—had seen fit to fall most gracefully in love with her. These two, therefore, were just started on their way to the ball, in Clarence's own incomparable turn-out. Lieutenant Allen had drawn the Elliott's beautiful gold and brown sleigh. He was holding the impatient ponies, and Sister Anna was arranging the cushions when Cousin Jehoiakim hove in sight. Sister Anna sprung like a doe to the front seat, threw the heavy buffalo-robes about, making them and the great bandbox fill up the back seat, and seating herself by the lieutenant—all this quicker than lightning—and giving the ponies a touch of the whip, on they dashed to the imminent peril of their necks as well as her own. A saucy toss of the head was all she vouchsafed me. All, then, were on their way save Edgar and myself, who were expecting a quiet, loving talk in the comfortable old-fashioned "pung," with a gig top, that papa used in his frequent drives to Boston.
"Wall, now, Cousin Clarry, I reckon you thought I didn't snuff what was going on."
Poor fellow! he lookedsogood-natured, truly my heart smote me.
"There is another cutter in the barn, cousin," replied I, "and you can take your pick of the horses."
"You are very kind, Cousin Clarry, but there ain't no occasion of calling any more of the poor dumb critters out into the cold. I guess you can make room for me; I will ride on top until we catch up to some of the two-seated sleighs."
Time was too precious to waste in words, and as Cousin Jehoiakim good naturedly persisted that he should be very comfortable on the top, on the top he seated himself. I saw that Edgar did not like the arrangement, but he was too polite, or too proud to interfere. "Let us overtake the others," said he. A bright smile passed over his face. I saw he meditated some mischief. I knew it could not be very mischievous mischief, for a kinder, nobler heart never beat more warmly in any human breast. Forward dashed the horses, throwing the white, sparkling snow before and around them into the bright sunshine. Faster and faster sped the spirited horses, until we passed, first—yes, it was no illusion, his lips were actually pressing her little rosy mouth. Then, Lieutenant Allen, you are not the first man that has done the like; it is a way they all have, ever since Adam gave Mother Eve her first love-kiss. What man would not part with some years of his life for the privilege of pressing to his own a pretty little soft mouth?
Ah, Sister Anna! the question was actually popped; and on that memorable day of the ball, thy giddy heart was actually caged. We came so noiselessly and swift through the soft snow that we actually took thee by surprise. Thy blushes were beautiful; but on we sped, and our next tableaux presented Cousin Clarence gazing most intensely and earnestly into the great deep-blue eyes of the beautiful JaneElliott, as though he were pouring forth a question from his soul to hers. Her delicate hand lay in his, and her stately, graceful head inclined gently toward him. They were so earnestly occupied, he in talking, and she in listening, that they did not see us until we had passed them; and after we passed them we were not long in overtaking Dick and his little Fanny. Bless the lovers! Her curly-headed little head started, quick as lightning, from its warm resting place, though not so quick but that my practiced eye saw it take leave of Brother Dick's manly shoulder. Her fun-loving spirit could not resist the ludicrous appearance of Cousin Jehoiakim, perched upon the top of our pung like some immense bird of prey. Brother Dick joined in her pealing, merry laughter, and the old woods rang again. The stump of a tree grew at the road-side, near an immense snow-bank. Edgar, as though he had been on the look-out for such a fine opportunity, speedily and dexterously ran one runner of our pung over the stump, and over went the pung. By a skillful movement he righted it instantly. The friendly side preserved me from the snow; but Cousin Jehoiakim—alas! for gravity on a gig-top. In this deep bank of snow, his heels high in air, stood my inverted cousin. As soon as I could speak from convulsive laughter, I implored Edgar to go back to my cousin's assistance.
"As you please," said he. Now you must know that I was the only one that treated Cousin Jehoiakim kindly. Sister Anna and Brother Dick made a complete butt of him; the rest did not treat him at all, except to an occasional shrug of the shoulder from Anna's lieutenant, or a gay laugh from little Fanny. And, forsooth, because I was civil to him, and talked to him, and excused his awkwardness, why Edgar saw fit, in his wisdom, to be jealous of him. Was there ever any thing more absurd? Yes, since time out of mind have men, the wisest and the best of them, been just so absurd; and unto all eternity will they, the wisest and best of them, be just so absurd again.
By the time we had reached again the spot, the others had come up, and were engaged in disentombing the imbedded unfortunate.
"That was a cold bed, any how," said he, shaking himself from head to foot like a huge Newfoundland dog, and smiling upon us with his imperturbable good-nature; "but why, in the name of all that is good, did you not help a feller out sooner? If it had been feathers instead of snow, I should surely have been suffocated."
"Thank your stars for your safe deliverance," said the laughing Fanny.
"What were you thinking of, cousin?" said Anna, in a choking voice.
"I could think of nothing but the ten commandments; and I wondered what sinful iniquity my grandfather had been guilty of, that I should be visited in such an awful manner for his transgressions. But where on earth is my hat? I have looked in the hole, and all about for it."
"Look on your neck, Hoiky; you are wearing it for a stock," said my brother.
"By gracious! so I am."
I brushed the snow from his shoulders and hair, and assisted his long neck from its cumbrous stock, and pinning on the crown-piece, the hat was quite wearable again.
"Mr. Johnson will ride much more comfortably in one of the double-seated sleighs," said Edgar.
"Most certainly, Mr. Elliott," replied Cousin Jehoiakim, "you know I begged you to let me out the first sleigh we met. I reckon youdidlet me out to some purpose at last. By jimminy! but that was a cool dip. Wall, Cousin Anny, what do you say to my riding along with you, though I had a leetle rather sit alongside of Clarry, yet if you've no objections I havn't none."
So now was my turn to pay back my sister by as provoking a toss of the head as she gave me. Our ride the rest of the way was pleasant. Edgar's eyes grew warm and loving. Among the other interesting things we talked of, Edgar poured into my greedy ears the wonders and beauty of the almost new doctrine of the transcendentalists. He described the home he was going to give me, and called me his little wife, and said—but dear me, I am not going to tell you all he said. His passionate words and the love in his soul-full eyes lay deep in my heart as we stopped before Squire Brown's.
Then came the dressing, and then it was we found that Cousin Jehoiakim had contrived to crush the great bandbox on the seat beside him. The beautiful lace dress Miss Elliott was to have worn over a satin was torn and spoiled, also Anna's and my wreaths, also things too numerous to mention. When we told of the disaster, Brother Dick said that Anna and I looked much prettier in our own uncovered hair than with an artificial flower-garden upon our heads—that the elegant white satin of Miss Jane needed no lace to make it more beautiful—adding, in an undertone, that he would give more to see a woman dressed in the simple white muslin his little Fanny wore than for all the laces and satins that could be bought.
When we entered the ball-room we found Cousin Jehoiakim already dancing with a red-haired young lady, in a blue gauze dress. Seeing us, and wishing to astonish us, he attempted a quadruple pigeon-wing, which unfortunately entangled his great feet in the blue gauze dress, and ended in his own subversion and the dismemberment of the thin gauze. The young lady was obliged to retire for the night, while Cousin Jehoiakim slowly picked himself up. He was so much abashed I had to console him by asking him to dance with me. I really pitied the poor fellow, he could get no one but me to dance with him, still he tried so hard to make himself agreeable, and was so determinedly good-natured that it was not his fault that he could not be a second Apollo.
I was Edgar's partner for a reel.
"You seem to take very great interest in the well-doing of that odious cousin of yours," said he.
"Poor fellow! why should I not?" replied I.
"Because he is awkward and disagreeable," said he, half laughing at his own reason.
"He is as the Lord made him," replied I, in a tone of affected humility.
"But the Lord did not make you to dance with him and lavish so much attention upon him; you will oblige me very much, Clara, by not dancing any more with him and making yourself so ridiculous."
Now there was not very much in those words to take offence at, and I should, like a submissive woman that was about to be a wife, have promised obedience, but, unfortunately, being a daughter of Eve I inherited somewhat of her pride and vanity. In a different tone of voice Edgar might have said even those words without offending either pride or vanity, but his voice was cold, and his eyes were colder, and I, driving my heart away from my lips and eyes, replied—"I trust Mr. Elliott does not flatter himself he hasyetthe entire control of my actions."
"Just as you please."
The reel was finished, and he was off. I repented as soon as the words passed my lips—the first angry words I had spoken to him. But then, thought I, sitting down on a bench by myself, why is he so foolishly provoking and unreasonably jealous of my poor cousin. He to be so unkind, he who had ever been the noblest and most loving of sons, the kindest and truest of brothers. For a moment my heart misgave me at the thought of becoming his for life, it was only a moment. I saw through the dim vista of years a vision of peace and love.
Cousin Jehoiakim came and sat down beside me. "Ah! Cousin Clarry," said he, abruptly taking my hand and holding it, "you are good and kind to me, how happy I shall be when you are my own little wife, when the time comes to give you my hand as I already have my heart."
Cousin Jehoiakim sentimental! I looked up—Edgar's cold blue eyes were fastened upon me. I hastily drew my hand from my cousin, and sprung toward the glooming Edgar.
"Is it not near time to go, dear Edgar?" exclaimed I, grasping his hand in my own.
"Mr. Johnson can see you home. I have engaged to go with a friend of mine back to Boston."
"Edgar!"—but he was gone.
You may depend I didnotride home withMr. Johnson, but begged a seat with my sister, leaving my cousin the "pung" with the gig-top all to himself. Whether he encountered any more stumps or pit-falls I cannot say. He and the pung came safely home, as did the rest of us.
"Mother," exclaimed I, "I do wish you would contrive some means to get rid of my odious Cousin Jehoiakim, he is the torment of my life."
"Mamma," chimed in Anna, while a smile twinkled in the corner of her eye, "Cousin Jehoiakim has ruined my beautiful French wreath, and has broken my Chinese pagoda, and my exquisite Chinese mandarins, and soiled my Book of Beauty, and has broken my new set of chess-men that Uncle Eb. brought from the East Indies, and has—dear mother, can you not think of some means of sending him to Uncle Abiram's, or to Halifax?"
"Yes, mother," said Brother Dick, with a laugh, "Hoiky has been here mischiefizing long enough; do invent some means of packing him off. We have been victimized long enough. He has broken every fishing-rod I have, and has lost my hooks, and he has lamed my beautiful pony Cæsar, and ruined my gun, and yesterday, in shooting game, he shot my dog Neptune, that I have been offered fifty dollars for, and would not have taken one hundred."
"Wife," said our dear papa, coming into the room, "it is of no use, I can be patient no longer, youmustdevise some method of letting Nephew Jehoiakim understand we do not wish his presence any longer. Poor fellow! I would not for the world be unkind to him. I will give him an annual stipend that will support him liberally during his life, willingly, gladly, but I cannot have him here any longer. He is utterly incorrigible."
"What has he done now?" asked our dear mamma.
"He left the bars down that led into my largest, best field of wheat, and half the cattle in the country have been devouring it. They have ruined at least a couple of hundred dollars worth. The money is not what I care so much for, but it was the best wheat-field for miles around, and I had a pride in having it yield more than any field of my neighbors. I have borne with him day after day, hoping he might do better. Poor fellow! he is sorry enough always for his mistakes. The other day he left the garden-gate open, and the cows got in and eat all my cabbages and other vegetables; then he leaves the barn-door open, and the hogs go in and the calves come out."
"We will see," said our dear mamma.
The next morning at the breakfast-table said our dear mother—
"You will have a delightful day to ride in, dear nephew."
Cousin Jehoiakim opened wide his eyes, inquiringly.
"Richard, my son, I hope you did not forget to tell Mr. Grimes to let the stage stop here this morning. It will be very inconvenient for your cousin to be obliged to stay another day. I packed your trunk this morning early, dear nephew, just after you left your room, knowing how you disliked the trouble."
Still wider opened my cousin's eyes.
"Harry, my son," said mamma to my little brother, "those cakes and dough-nuts are for your cousin to take with him for his lunch."
"Mayn't I have a piece of pie then?"
"Go and get what you want of Mercy, my dear. I put some runs of yarn in your trunk, dear nephew, you may give them with my love to sister Abigal, and tell her the wool is from white Kitty. She will remember the sheep. Give my love to brother Abiram with this letter."
Still wider opened Cousin Jehoiakim's eyes.
"You will find also in your trunk a dozen and a half of new linen shirts that I have taken the liberty of putting there instead of your old ones."
"Thank you, dear aunt, you are very kind. Ireally am very sorry to leave you all. I have enjoyed myself very much here; but Aunt Abigail will feel hurt if I do not pay her a visit. I shall come again as soon as I can, so do not cry your eyes out, Cousin Clarry."
The stage came and Cousin Jehoiakim went.
And the way I lured back my flown bird would make quite an interesting sentimental little story of itself. Bless his bright eyes! they are shining on me now, full of mischief at this sketch I am giving you, beloved reader. Butdidn'twe have a nice wedding time? There was Anna and her brave lieutenant, Brother Dick and his bright little Fanny, the beautiful, majestic Jane, and my beautiful, majestic Cousin Clarence, and my darling, good Edgar, and, dear reader, your very humble servant.