Chapter II: Part 2

Mary soon reached Miss Clayton’s door in the upper part of Chesnut street, near Ninth. It was one of the most imposing mansions in the street. Miss Clayton lived there with her old father—the two alone! For several years after freeing herself from Leslie, she lived in hopes of marriage, but in vain. The men were afraid of her. Her mortification when she found Leslie restored to perfect health, knew no bounds. She had a secret hope that he would yet re-address her; but from that period she never received more than a cold and civil bow from him. She could have poisoned herself with vexation. But as years passed away, and she saw that he still remained unmarried, she consoled herself with the idea that she was the cause—and that he could never love any one as he had loved her. This devoted bachelorism was Clara’s only and greatest consolation. It was a healing balm to her wounded spirit. So he married not, she felt she could forgive herself for her folly in not marrying him. It is true, she watched his course to forty with some anxiety, lest he might yet marry; but when he had passed that climax, she gave herself no farther uneasiness, and rested in the conscious assurance of his eternal celibacy. This idea was the rainbow that spanned her darkened skies—the sweet in her bitter cup of life. But, alas! she was soon to see the rainbow disappear, and her horizon become dark with storms! Alas! she was to drink the remainder of the cup with additional bitterness mingled with its dregs.

She was seated in her usual sitting room when Mary arrived. Her hair was drawn back above her ears and tied untidily with a dirty yellow ribbon; she wore a loose wrapper, and her stocking feet were thrust into red slippers. Her fingers were loaded with rings, and ear drops hung from her ears. Her complexion was something coarser for the wear and tear of time, and had very plain traces of being now indebted to white paint and rouge, for whatever pretensions it claimed. Her forehead was crossed by horizontal impatient wrinkles, and a deep frown was cut between her eyebrows. She was thin about the breast and shoulders, and very slender in the waist, more so than in her youthful prime. The general expression of her face was querulous and sour—precisely such an expression as she might have been expected to wear. As Mary was shown in she looked up with a sharp, impatient gesture.

“So, Miss, you have come for the amount of your bill!”

“Yes, m’m, if you please.”

“Don’t _mem_ me as if I was fifty, Miss.”

“No, m’m.”

“Did I not forbid your saying _marm_ to me—what is the amount of the bill?”

“You have it, m’—— I mean Miss.”

“That is better. Ah, yes, here it is, $17 19, What did your mistress say about the 19 cents?”

“That she would take it off.”

“Very well; here is seventeen dollars. Receipt it.” Mary took a pen from an inkstand on the table and acknowledged the payment.

“Humph, you write too pretty a hand for an apprentice girl,” said Miss Clayton, glancing contemptuously at Mary’s beautiful chirography. “I dare say you can dance too?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Mary slightly smiling.

“And sing and play,” more contemptuously still.

“Yes, Miss.”

“Humph. Read Byron, Moore, Scott, doubtless, and perhaps the French poets?” she continued with a contemptuous smile of incredulity.

“Yes, Miss.”

“Yes, Miss. I suppose if I should ask you if you read French and sung Italian, you would reply with your parrot phrase, ‘yes, Miss.’”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Upon my word! Ha, ha, ha! here’s a linen-draper’s apprentice for you! I suppose you look to marry some nobleman at the least, with all them accomplishments, if you can! What package is that beneath your arm, my pretty minx,” for Miss Clayton had conceived a sudden and unaccountable (save that her youth and beauty were the cause,) dislike for Mary. And without waiting for a reply she snatched it from her.

“_For_ Major Leslie Pierpoint,
No. 27, South Sixth St.”

“You are sent with this to Major Pierpoint’s, are you?” she asked sharply and with a suspicious look at the young and guileless girl.

“Yes m’m,” answered Mary quietly.

Miss Clayton let her eyes rest on the superscription for a few moments, and then lifted them steadily to the face of the maiden.

“You had best return directly to your shop with the amount of your mistress’ bill, lest you lose it on the way. I will dispatch my footman with this package to his lodgings.”

“I thank you, but I am ordered to take it there myself,” said Mary firmly.

“Indeed; but it would not be prudent for so young a person as you to go to a bachelor’s rooms alone. I will send it for you. Do you know Major Pierpoint?”

“No, m’m,” answered Mary with embarrassment.

“Have you never seen him?”

“He was in the shop last evening,” answered Mary evasively.

“Did he speak to you?”

“If you please I will take the package and go,” said Mary, half angry at this singular inquisition upon her affairs.

“Take it, trollop,” said Miss Clayton, flinging it towards her, “and tell your mistress when she has occasion to send any one to me again, she will oblige me by sending some civil person.”

Mary stared with surprise, at a loss to account for the lady’s humor, and gladly took her departure.

The heavy tocsin of the State House had struck the last stroke of twelve, as Mary timidly pulled the bell at Major Pierpoint’s handsome residence. It was opened by Cato.

“Massa says de young woman will please walk up and wait,” said Cato, as Mary offered to leave the bundle in his hand. Mary hesitated an instant, and then, trembling, (she could not tell why,) she followed him to the library. The door was opened, and Cato ushered her in with one of his best bows. Leslie pretended to be very busily engaged in a book as she entered, though he had been walking his room, or watching through the blinds with ill-concealed impatience till he heard the street door bell. He permitted Cato to leave the room, and Mary to advance half way to the table, before he gave signs of her presence. He then suddenly rose up and turned round.

“Ah, Miss Lee,” he said, with tender respect, “you have brought the gloves.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mary, without lifting her eyes.

“Sit down, if you please, while I examine the package.”

Mary quietly took a seat, and Major Pierpoint began to look over the parcels. But evidently his thoughts were not with this pursuit. His fingers trembled—he shockingly rent several pairs of gloves; put six of the handkerchiefs, one after another, into his pocket; blew his nose on a pair of silk hose, and at length sprung from the table in the most admirable confusion of mind in which a bachelor, at such a moment, could well be. After thrice striding the room to gather courage, he approached the surprised, embarrassed, yet not _unexpecting_ Mary. No woman of any sense, or feeling, or mind, could be blind at such a time. He approached and seated himself beside her.

“Miss Lee——”

Mary trembled and remained silent. The Major gazed upon her tell-tale face, and then furtively sought her hand. She withdrew it instinctively, and half rose.

“Nay, my dear Miss Lee! pardon me! I meant no injury to your delicacy. Pray be seated!” and he took her hand and gently drew her to the chair which she had left. “I beg you to listen to me one moment. I have conceived for you a deep and respectful passion. Your beauty, grace and intelligence have made an impression upon my heart no time can ever efface. It is true you are young and full of life and beauty—I have passed half the allotted life of man. But the disparity is in years only. My heart is as young as your own, my feelings as buoyant, my hopes as bright. I have sought to meet you to-day to make a confession of the sentiments with which you have inspired me, to tell you how intimately my happiness is involved in your existence, to throw myself upon your generosity. You are an orphan, alas! and a cold, unpitying world is before you! Your loveliness and helplessness claim protection. Permit me to fill that delightful position near you while life lasts. I offer you my heart, my hand, my fortune, and promise to devote my life to the promotion of your happiness.”

The Major, after ending his eloquent appeal, gazed upon her downcast face several moments in silence. She made no reply! He still continued to hold her hand. Slowly he lifted it to his lips. There was no resistance. He again sought her eyes. Tears were silently gushing from them, and rolling in sparkling globules down her lovely cheeks.

“Good God, Miss Lee, have I offended you?”

“No, sir,” said Mary, lifting her eyes, the lashes dewy with tears, and sweetly smiling.

“Why these tears, then?”

“I do not know, indeed, unless it be that they flow from gratitude,” she answered, looking into his face with a radiant smile, like sunshine in an April shower.

The Major’s eyes filled also, and the next moment he pressed the happy girl to his heart.

* * * * *

Yes, Mary Lee became Major Leslie’s wife through _gratitude_. They were married, for he well knew gratitude would grow to love, and a brief time proved that he judged rightly. One month from the day on which he confessed his passion he led to the altar his charming bride. They were married publicly in church.

“Ah, Major, so you—don’t know her—some milliner’s apprentice, eh?” laughingly said a gentleman present, after the ceremony was over.

Clara Clayton, hearing that Leslie Pierpoint was to be married, went to the church, disguised in a strange bonnet and long green veil—but Leslie recognised her by her taper waist, and felt that his triumph and (if such a feeling really existed in his breast) his revenge were complete. Yes, Clara Clayton witnessed the ceremony, and when she saw it and recognised the bride’s face as she turned from the altar, she could scarcely suppress a shriek of mingled anger and disappointed malice. She went home and died the same year, the victim of her own selfishness.

Leslie Pierpoint and his beautiful lady are now travelling in Europe. Mary makes him an excellent wife, proving to be as good as she is beautiful.

* * * * *

THE CHRISTIAN’S DREAM OF THE FUTURE.

BY ROBERT MORRIS.

How brief our earthly span! Youth, Manhood, Age—
We creep—we walk—we totter off life’s stage,
A thin, weak voice—a fuller, stronger tone,
A peevish, child-like cry, and then a groan!
How quick yon star shoots down the illumined sky—
’Tis gone! And yet we see not where on high,
Its bright lamp shone! ’Tis thus with feeble man—
He twinkles here a moment, and, is gone!
On rolls the world! Each evanescent year
Bears on its current to some distant sphere,
Myriads of mortal forms—vain things of time,
Youth in its hour of hope—and Manhood’s prime—
Beauty, and all its fading hues of clay,
The tints that _are_ not, but were yesterday!
The eyes whose light enkindled many a flame—
The lips that breathed in love some cherished name—
The fair slight hand—the cheek so like the rose,
The form where Grace herself had sought repose—
The music voice—the shadowy locks and all
That touched the heart—or glittered in the ball;
These all have been—but Death has claimed them now—
The look of scorn—the proud and lofty brow—
Vice, with its heartless sneer, and Wealth and Pride,
Lifeless and still, now slumber side by side!

And is there then no grace to mortals given,—
No hope to brighten here and lead to Heaven?
No faith to lift the soul from worldly ties,
And point the way to Joy and Paradise!

Look to thy heart, vain mortal, question there,
Of life and death—of glory and despair—
Ask, if within a spirit may not dwell—
A viewless tenant of thy bosom’s cell—
Whose thin small voice, in accents soft and sweet,
May oft be heard to warn thy erring feet—
“Beware—avoid—beyond is Heaven’s high road,
Where knees are bent, and souls commune with God—
There, where the meek of heart, the pure and mild,
Walk hand in hand with Virtue’s dove-eyed child—
There, where the widow gives her liberal mite,
And points the orphan in the way aright—
There, where soft Feeling sheds the heart-wrung tear,
And bends in sorrow o’er the sinner’s bier—
Where patient Grief leans on her thin white hand,
And smiling, dreams of the unshadowed land—
Look—mortal look—the pathway is not bright—
But mark, it closes in a world of light—
The clouds that hang above its troubled way,
Melt in the distance into perfect day!

Such is the Christian’s Future! There are seen
Eternal sunshine—vales of softest green,
Grottos, savannahs, deep and flowery glades,
Clear sparkling streams and rainbow-lit cascades,
Thick shadowy woods, where many a voice of song
Gladdens the hours, as fast they flit along;
No care to mar their brightness, and no gloom
To whisper “onward, onward to the tomb”—
Bright Youth and Hope, by Grace and Beauty’s side,
No look of scorn—no air of worm-like pride,
No voice of woe, to pain the spirit ear—
No orphan’s cry—no widow’s heart-wrung tear—
No secret fear, to chill the hour of bliss,
No hollow heart—no false or Judas kiss—
No wan Disease, to steal the rose away!
And write at Beauty’s door, “Decay, Decay”—
Oh! no—the Future, Virtue’s happy clime—
The land beyond the grave, untouched by time,
Where the worn soul throws off its mortal clay—
And, god-like, springs to Heaven’s eternal day—
The realm of bliss—where, with a joy half wild,
The mother clasps and cherishes her child—
The widow claims her long lost son—the maid
Her plighted lover, years to her a shade—
Where friends embrace, and souls again unite,
Fond faces greet, and gladden on the sight—
The buried sire once more his idol boy
Clasps to his breast with more than human joy—
And well remembered voices—looks of love—
Kind words that sweeten every lip above;
Where, as we downward gaze, and distant far,
The world appears a faint and feeble star,
Where Life and Bliss their arms together twine,
And Nature’s charms are added, Heaven, to thine—
Where “moth nor rust,” nor chance nor change may come,
Forever wandering and forever home;
Joys brightening in our footsteps as we pass,
And Hope before us with his magic glass—
Each sound and song, each object, every thought,
With some new pleasure, some fresh feeling fraught—
Where one pure Spirit animates the whole,
One thrill excites the universal soul!

’Tis these, and joys like these, the Future brings,
When ’midst her depths we soar on Virtue’s wings—
When from the Past the light of hope we borrow,
And throw its brightness o’er the coming morrow,—
When, as we wander through life’s devious way,
The realm beyond this mere domain of clay
Shall, like some beacon on a rocky strand,
Win the strained gaze and nerve the feeble hand—
Shall point where danger lies, and where at last
Our bark may ride in safety from the blast!

Such is the Christian’s dream of time to come,
The land of light and love—the happy home—
Where the worn spirit, freed from earthly ties,
Above the things of dust and time shall rise,
And mount on angel pinions to the skies!

* * * * *

THE ROWSEVILLERS.—No. I.

O’DONNELL’S PRIZE.

“To be plain with you,” said the barber, shaking his head, “I
can scarce believe what you say.” _Gil Blas._

When I was in the dragoons, we were quartered, for a while, not far from Rowseville, and it was my lot to receive a general invitation to the dinners of the club. A jollier set of fellows never drew cork or emptied a decanter—heaven be merciful to them for their sins! They always had the best a-going; could tell north from south side Madeira,—and tossed off their bumpers, hour in and hour out, as easily as an old spinster drinks her tea. As for their president, Captain Humphreys, he was a paragon of a good fellow. Short, square, deep chested, and muscular as Hercules, he was just the man to keep a set of such spirits in order; and, I verily believe, if any of the youngsters had ventured to dispute his will, he would have tossed them over the marquee as easily as I could hurl a racket ball. He had spent most of his life at sea, having seen service in every latitude. He could tell a good story, and danced a jig to perfection. He was, moreover, something of a _gourmand_; always presided over our culinary rites; and made the best chowder of any man in the States, or, for that matter, as the old cook said, “in the ’varsal world.”

There is nothing like fishing, and a table on the green sward, to give one an appetite; and it would have done your heart good to have seen us on the day I first dined with the club—but especially to have beheld Humphrey’s jovial face, when he announced the opening toast. And then such a time as followed. Sherry, Port, Madeira, Jamaica and Cogniac!—why they chased each other from the table faster than the witches did old Tam O’Shanter, in the road by Ayr. Some of the youngsters soon began to grow noisy; and even one or two of their seniors winked a good deal unnecessarily; but Humphreys, and a set of the older stagers at the head of the table, kept it up, without drawing a rein, until I began to think they could fag down even Bacchus himself. And all this time their jests would have made a hermit die with laughter! Yet Humphreys never suffered his youngsters to indulge beyond a certain point, and he had a story to account for this circumspection which made my ribs sore for a week after hearing it.

“Silence, you addle-heads,” he thundered, as soon as he saw they were getting beyond their depths—“can’t one of you sing at a time, without keeping up such an infernal clatter of Dutch, French, English and Congo songs? You remind me of a set of chaps I had the honor to dine with in Boston—no, not the honor, for they all drank to excess—and a man in that state” (and here the worthy speaker, by way of corollary, tossed off a bumper) “is a shock to my moral feelings. Keep in soundings if you can’t sail safely out of them; but, for heaven’s sake, don’t disgrace our table with a set of indecent inebriates.

“But, to come back to my story—you must know that the Governor’s Guards, in Boston, are a gay set of youngsters, and, at their annual dinner at the State House, they make the corks fly as I’ve seen only grape shot showering from a battery. Well—no disrespect to the cloth—their dinner is always opened and closed by a parson; and a good rule it is; for when the governor sees that his youngsters are getting heady, he has but to give a nod—the benediction is pronounced, and they are forced to break up. When I was there, however, his excellency postponed the dismissal rather too long, so that when he gave the signal to the parson, there wasn’t a chap, at the lower end of the table, who could carry his wine to his mouth without spilling half of the liquid. A blessed sight it was to see them then—as proper a set of youngsters, in general, as you’d wish to look upon—shouting, laughing, singing, standing in chairs, waving their glasses on high, and altogether cutting a figure not the most pleasant for a moral man like me to behold. They saw the parson get up and they heard him begin to speak, but they were too far gone to distinguish either his person or his words.

“‘Hilloo, Bill,’ said one to his neighbor, ‘is that a new toast? What does he say?’

“‘Can’t—make—it out,’ hiccuped Bill, with drunken gravity, ‘but I guess—it’s—it’s—something con—found—ed fine. Let’s give the old cock three cheers,’ and the whole set sprang to their feet and huzzaed ’til the very roof above us seemed to tremble with the din. The poor parson hesitated, stopped, and looked in bewilderment at his excellency—who could only keep himself from laughing, so inexpressibly ludicrous was the whole scene, by hanging his head down and cramming his handkerchief into his mouth. As for the rest of us, there was no resisting it—we laid back in our chairs and laughed until the tears ran out of our eyes,—while the ladies in the gallery, the dear creatures, almost burst their boddice strings.

“His excellency explained all to the parson the next day, and made a thousand apologies—but the good man never could be got again to ask a benediction over the Governor’s Guards.”

“I suppose you tell that for the morals of your table, eh!” said one of the party.

“Exactly,” answered the president, laughing, “and I never saw one yet whom it didn’t cure of excess at table, except a fellow who used to say it was hereditary in him, by the mother’s side, to have the cholic, and that brandy was the only cure. That chap was a character: I’ve a story I’ll tell you about him some of these days.”

“Why not now?” asked a dozen in a breath.

“Well, I suppose if I must I must,—but first pass us the bottle, and let us drink to his memory—he died, poor fellow, in Florida, where many a brave man has laid his bones. Here’s to Tim O’Donnell.”

A silence of a few moments having elapsed, during which all eyes were turned on the president, that personage, after hemming twice, thus began.

“Never was a handsomer fellow than Tim O’Donnell, lieutenant in the ——. Tall, well shaped, with the eye of a young eagle, and a pair of jet black whiskers, that were worth, to a fortune-hunter, fifty thousand dollars, Tim was the perfect picture of a soldier—and, to use his own phrase, ‘a divil of a chap among the girls.’ He made more conquests in a week than I would in a year; and, as you may see,” and here he stroked his chin complacently, “there are few fellows as good looking as I am. But Tim was after money, and used to flirt with the dear creatures only to keep his hand in for an heiress, when one should present. At length he was introduced to a lovely creature at a ball,—blue eyes, auburn hair, the shape of a goddess, and lips that would make your mouth water, even if you were as dry as old mahogany—and, for a while, he scarcely knew whether he was standing on his head or on his feet. He even paid court, so much was he smitten, to a long, scraggy, hatchet-shouldered spinster of an aunt, who attended his charmer as a sort of _chaperon_. The next day he was somewhat cooled down—at least he determined to check his raptures until he inquired after the fortunes of Miss Wheeler, for so his charmer was called. He left me for this purpose about noon, and in an hour rushed into my room perfectly insane with joy.

“‘Och—give me your hand—shower the blessings on my head,’ he exclaimed, dancing round the room, ‘sure and I’m in heaven the day—ouch, ullabaloo, was there iver such luck?—ten thousand acres, the dear sowl, and a rint roll as long as a rigiment’s line: I’m a made man—hurrah!’ and throwing his cap up he caught it again, and then capered around the room, even carrying his antics so far as to leap over sundry chairs. I was nearly dying with laughter—and as yet I was totally ignorant of the cause of this joy.

“‘What do you mean?’ said I, ‘you haven’t told me what all this congratulation is to be about.’

“Never did I see a fellow look more astonished than Tim. He stopped still, stared at me incredulously, and then gave vent to his wonder.

“‘Blood and ages, and is the man drunk? Don’t ye know it’s all about Miss Araminta Wheeler, and the immense fortune she’s to bring me? The only living child—all the rest dead of scarlet fever, praise to the saints! and her owld father expected to kick the bucket everyday. Ouch, ullaloo-o-o, ain’t I the happy man? It’s marry the girl I will, this blessed week.’

“‘But will the ‘owld father’ consent—eh! Tim?’

“‘Divil a bit do I care whether he consents or not, if the daughter says ‘yes’—oh! such a jewel of a woman,—and what an iligant pattern the young O’Donnells will be!’

“‘Suppose the father guards her too well to permit an elopement? That dragon of an aunt looks as if she was kept to play the duenna.’

“‘Arrah, my lad,’ said Tim, with a knowing wink, ‘I’ll soon fix that, or my name isn’t Timothy O’Donnell, of Ballywhangle, of the county of Clare, standing six feet two in my stockings. Can’t I pretend to make love to the owld hag when the niece isn’t by? Oh! trust me for _brushing the dew_ into her eyes.’

“I saw no more of Tim for nearly a week, except occasional glimpses caught of him at balls and concerts, where he was in attendance on his charmer and a spectral looking spinster, whom I recognised as the aunt. As I wanted to give him a fair field—keep the bottle lively—I did not approach them; so I had no opportunity of judging his success, until one morning he burst into my room vociferating that he had got a note from his charmer, in answer to one he had sent the day before, in which she consented to elope with him that very night. He called on me to ask me to get a post-chaise; for, in order to avoid the publication of banns, they would have to be united in another state. Tim was in such raptures that he couldn’t attend to any matter-o’-fact business, so I promised all he asked, and he left me, singing as he went, ‘Come, haste to the wedding,’ and cutting all sorts of extravagant antics.

“Midnight was the hour fixed on for the _affaire_, and, punctual to the minute, Tim’s post-chaise drew up a few rods from his charmer’s door, while the gallant lieutenant himself, springing out, made all haste to the rendezvous. The night was black as pitch—you could have cut the darkness out in slices—and a wild wind blew over the fields, roaring away down in the woods, like a gale in the rigging of a line-of-battle ship. Tim could scarcely pick his way along through the garden, but at length, after sundry tacks, he gained the front of the house,—yet not a sign of a living being could he see. He began to fear that his charmer’s heart had failed her, but at that instant he perceived a dark moving object just ahead of him, and hurrying forward, he soon recognised his future bride, muffled and cloaked for the journey.

“‘Shure, and ye’re as welcome as the birds in spring,’ said Tim, catching her in his arms, ‘and it’s mighty proud I am to see ye, my darlin.’

“The trembling bride clung closer to Tim as he spoke, and murmured something in reply, but what it was, the whistle of the wind prevented him from hearing distinctly. Tim knew there was no time to lose, however, so, without waiting for a repetition of the words, he bore his prize off, and never stopped till he had placed her in the chaise, stowed her maid opposite, and was himself seated by her side.

“‘And now,’ said he, as the post-boy put up the steps, ‘don’t spare the horse-flesh—do ye hear, ye blackguard?’

“The boy nodded, and, the next instant, they were thrashing along as fast as four posters could carry them.

“If Tim had been in raptures before, he was now fairly mad with his success. Up to the last moment, he had been tormented with a fear lest something should occur by which this rich prize should slip through his fingers; but now his charmer was actually beside him, and they were being whirled over the ground at a rate which would soon defy pursuit. ‘Was ever fellow in such good luck?’ thought Tim. Thousands of acres, an only daughter, and she as clean in her run as a Baltimore clipper. How he cursed the presence of the maid, which prevented him from being as tender as he thought the occasion demanded. However, he could take his charmer’s hand, without shocking her modesty, and he went through pretty quick, all the variations of which squeezing is liable. He would have stolen his arm around the bride’s waist, but the envious cloak prevented this. Tim could scarcely endure the probation. On they rattled, all this while, with the tempest roaring at their heels, and, as the night without grew stormier, the agitation of the bride increased, she almost sobbed, and clung closer and closer every minute to Tim. It made his heart, as he said, ‘leap into his mouth intirely,’ to feel her arms around his neck in the extremity of her fright.

“‘Whist, darlin,’ he said, ‘don’t be alarmed—it’s only a little bit of a storm, to keep our bloody pursuers from hearing us. Before mornin we’ll be in York, and then the praist will make you my own. Speak, and tell me, ye’re not frightened? Shure, and ain’t I by your side, mavourneen?’

“The answer of the bride was delivered in such a low and tremulous voice, and interrupted by so many sobbings, that Tim, though he listened his best, couldn’t for the life of him make out more than a word here and there. However, he thought he distinguished enough to fill him with more rapture than ever, and, forgetting all about the maid, he drew his bride still closer to his bosom, and, nestling her head on his shoulder, poured forth his vows in torrents of eloquence. The Lord only knows what he said—Irishmen are proverbial for hyperbole.

“‘And is it that I wont love ye intirely, my princess?’ said Tim, by way of a grand wind up. ‘Shure, and I’ll worship ye as the heathens do the sun, and so will my five brothers, and the tenantry on my estate—though it’s more than I know,’ muttered Tim to himself, ‘where to find them—and won’t I be proud to shew ye off to my friends as the handsomest and sweetest woman in the rigiment? There, now, be aisy, my jewel—your father won’t catch us. Oh! isn’t it iligantly I’ve outwitted him, and that owld hag of an aunt, your namesake?’

“‘Old hag of an aunt,’ screamed the bride, starting back from Tim’s shoulder as if an adder had stung her, ‘why—who—do you take _me_ for?’

“‘For Miss Araminta Wheeler, and divil a one else—shure, and I have not offended ye, my darlin, by that same thrifle of a remark?’ and he drew his bride again toward him.

“‘Murder—off—help—oh! you vile, deceiving, wicked monster,’ shrieked the bride, pushing away Tim with both her hands, ‘you’ve ruined me forever. And to call me a hag—oh! oh!’ and she went off almost into hysterics.

“‘Blood and ages—who have we here indeed?’ thundered Tim, all at once recognizing the now shrill tones of his companion, and kicking open the coach door, he saw, for the first time, by the faint light of the chaise-lamps, the face of the speaker, ‘it’s the aunt herself—the owld serpent take her! A pretty mess I’m in, running off with ye, ye apology for a skeleton, instead of with the niece. Pray, madam,’ and he bowed sarcastically, ‘was it ye I honored with my proposal?’

“‘Didn’t you send me a note—a—asking me to elope?’ hysterically sobbed the aunt. ‘Oh! you vile wretch.’

“‘Ou—u—h! I see it all,’ whistled Tim. ‘The dumb baste of a messenger gave it to ye instead of to the other.’

“‘You said before, too,’ sobbed the aunt, ‘that you a—a—dored me.’

“‘The Lord forgive my sins,’ muttered Tim betwixt his teeth. ‘But may-be,’ he said coaxingly, as a new thought struck him, ‘ye’re the heiress after all.’

“Tim got no answer but a new burst of hysteric tears, mingled with ejaculations, among which he could distinguish a whole dictionary of reproaches.

“‘I’m thinking,’ said Tim, after awhile, ‘ye’d better be getting home as soon as convanient. This is a bit of a mistake,’ and then, in an under tone he groaned, ‘oh! but it’s ruined I am with the chaise hire intirely.’

“The horses’ heads were soon turned, and just as morning dawned, the runaways drove up to the lane leading to Mr. Wheeler’s residence, where the bride expectant alighted, and Tim, cursing his blunder, kept on to his quarters. What became of the aunt, I never cared to inquire. As for Tim, he had sense enough to know that the game was up for him in that quarter. Though he strove to keep his elopement a secret, the joke soon leaked out, and he was the banter of the whole regiment. An order to repair to Florida was hailed as a God-send, as it saved him from the quizzing of his mess, which to this day has for a standing toast, O’Donnell’s Prize.”

Many a burst of laughter interrupted the President during the recital of this story, which loses half of its effect when deprived of his inimitable mimicry of the conversations.

We adjourned, at a late hour, for the stars were already twinkling in the sky when we turned our horses’ heads homewards. The cool evening breeze, and the exhilaration of a rapid pace, kept up the flow of our spirits until we parted for the night—though we did not separate until we had drunk a parting cup at the house of that most hospitable of hosts, Deacon Green.

The next meeting of the club found me again amongst them. But the incidents of the second dinner must be reserved for another paper.

H. P.

* * * * *

A FOREST SCENE.

BY MRS. R. S. NICHOLS.

I wandered out in summer time,
One pleasant afternoon,
Amid the green and cooling woods—
The leafy woods of June;
As through its temple’s shadowy aisles
In mournfulness I walked,
I listened to the breezy trees
As friend with friend they talked!

And gazing upwards in my face,
Each meek wood-flower drew back,
Nor did a single blade of grass
Impede my onward track;
And ever on my listening ear
There came a lulling sound,
As of a multitude in prayer—
Methought ’twas holy ground!

I rested on a mossy bank,
And cast my eyes above;
The lithe green branches arch’d o’erhead,
And twined their arms in love;
And nought was seen of the blue sky
Save islets here and there,
Which seemed like some fair summer lakes
That smiled in upper air!

A twilight, rich and tender light,
Came stealing from the skies,
And, oh! ’twas like the light that rests
In a young mother’s eyes!
I saw the gentle flowrets wave
Their urns, still filled with dew,
And by my side the dark-fringed fir—
The “tree of Heaven,” grew!

Oh! all was fair and beautiful,
In these bright forest bowers,
A region of perpetual green—
A paradise of flowers!
Though all was very beautiful,
So free from woe and sin,
I turned from the bright world without,
To darker worlds within:

I closed my eyes, and pressed my hand
Upon my burning brow,
And many were the busy thoughts
That crowded round me now!
For, oh! the memories of years,
With all their clouds o’ercast,
Rose up from that vast charnel-house,
The dim, sepulchral past!

And like a train of spectres wan
They passed in my review,
And each faint shadow as it came,
Still pale and paler grew!
On, onward yet, they came—a throng
Of white and ghastly things,
As if stern Memory had stirred
Oblivion’s darkest springs!

And still the tears fell thick and fast,
For nought could then control
The passion and the agony
That swept across my soul!
Oh! many light and careless words
Were ringing on the air,
And thoughtless things I said or did—
All seemed embodied there!

And mingling with accusing sins,
Faint-shadowed forms swept by,
And glanced upon me as they passed,
With mild, yet grieving eye!
At length a sweet, reproachful face
Looked in upon my dream,
It spake—and, oh! the tones were those
Of some sweet, mournful stream!

And words came flowing from its lips,
That bade me cease to weep,
So that the dead within their graves
In peacefulness might sleep!
I started from this heavy trance,
The breeze came sweeping by,
It had no knowledge of my grief,
Yet gave me sigh for sigh;

And there where I had madly wept,
Unheeding sky and earth,
With all their light and loveliness—
Their gladness and their mirth,
I knelt me down and humbly asked
My sins might be forgiven,
And that the incense of my heart
Might float with peace to heaven!

• • • • • • •

I turned me from that forest scene,
And Hope her radiance shed
About a heart that ceased to mourn
The pale, rejoicing dead!

* * * * *

WAWHILLOWA.

A LEGEND OF THE QUONNECTICUT.

BY D. M. ELWOOD.

Whoever has once stood upon the summit of Mount Holyoke, will never forget the rich scene spread out before him. For miles—as far as the eye can reach on every side—may be seen Nature in her most imposing forms. Vales clad in their rich vesture of green, watered by the limpid streams, cool, pure, and refreshing; gently sloping hills, crowned with fields of waving grain, and spotted here and there with the fleecy herds; and yet farther on, rising peak upon peak, and summit upon summit, the “huge pillars” which “prop the heavens” rear their craggy heads on high, bidding defiance to storm and tempest, and scarcely trembling even at the peals of “living thunder” which “leap” from crag to crag. Occasionally, peering above the tall trees that surround them, the spires of numerous churches point out the villages, and form agreeable pictures on which the delighted eye may rest. Sweeping the very base of Holyoke the broad Connecticut rolls its calm tide along, and winding away into the distance far to the south, may be traced on a clear day, circling its way through the verdant meadows almost to its very mouth. Directly across the river from Holyoke, Mount Tom rises in sullen majesty, as if disdaining to hold fellowship with the humble yet beautiful objects around. Northampton—with its snow-white dwellings, its spires and turrets, its hill—the sides of which are occupied with delightful mansions—and its top surmounted with a lovely grove, forms a panorama, the beauty of which must be seen to be realized. Between it and the river is a broad valley, chequered with fields of various colors, spotted with trees, and giving rich promise of the harvest. Nearly at the foot of the mountain—a little to the northward, rising not far above the surface of the river—is a small and fertile island, of a diamond form, like an emerald set in silver. This island we will call Hockanum, a name given to it years and years ago. Still further north, on a broad peninsula formed by a bend of the river, stands the town of Hadley, with the history of which is associated many a thrilling tradition. One of these it will be our object now to present to the reader.

The town of Hadley was settled in the year 1659, by emigrants from the Colony of Connecticut, who removed on account of differences in religious opinions. The principal man of these emigrants was Mr. John Webster, accompanied by the Rev. John Russell, formerly minister of Wethersfield. Although Whites and Indians were mingled in close contact here, it is believed that there was no disturbance of any kind until after the breaking out of King Philip’s war in 1675. A perfectly amicable disposition was manifested on either side, and danger and fear of the aborigines were scarcely entertained.

At the southern extremity of the beautiful street on which the town is principally built, close upon the bank of the majestic Connecticut, or as it was formerly, and perhaps more properly called, the _Quonnecticut_, stood, at the period of our tale, the residence of the Rev. John Russell—mentioned above as one of the first settlers of the town. A few rods lower down, and on the opposite side of the street, lived Mr. Webster, his friend and companion in emigration. William, the oldest son of Mr. Russell, was a young man about twenty-three years of age, of a bold and fearless disposition, with a heart generally open and confiding. Yet there was enough of cautiousness in his disposition, to render him capable of keeping secret his designs, and of acting silently yet effectually. He was finely formed, and remarkably well gifted by nature. There was, indeed, but one trait that marred the general harmony of his natural constitution, and that was, at times, a slight want of amiability, a haughtiness of spirit that could not brook restraint or opposition. As it was, he was the pride of his father’s family, and the object of admiration to the blooming maidens round. But there was one whom he esteemed far above all others—the daughter of his father’s friend. Eliza Webster was one of those beings whom one would love without exactly knowing why. Not really beautiful—indeed, rather ordinary looking than otherwise—it was impossible for any sensible young man to enjoy her society for any length of time, without finding himself fast yielding to the impression which he could not prevent her from making on his heart. Always lively and cheerful, with a rich fund of humor, and a shrewd and penetrating mind, she determined to enjoy, and to make the most of life, and to render all about her as happy as herself. She was the simple and unaffected, the true child of nature, and yet nature’s adorer. Never was she happier than when rambling along the course of the river on whose banks she had always lived, or climbing the craggy heights which towered at a short distance below.

On the little island of Hockanum lived an old man who had formerly been a chief at Nonotuck, now Northampton. His name was Shaomet. He subsisted on the fish he drew from the clear waters, and the deer and other game which he found in the fastnesses of Holyoke. The solace of his declining years was his daughter, Tahattawa, a sprightly lass of eighteen summers. Her step was light as that of the young fawn, and her merry laugh rang out upon the clear air, and danced like music over the broad bosom of the river.

With this girl, Eliza Webster had formed an intimate attachment. Often had Tahattawa paddled her across in her light canoe to the little island on which was her home. For hours had they sat under the shade of its green trees, and laughed and conversed together, instructing each other the while in many of the little arts with which each was familiar.

Now, Tahattawa had a lover—a young warrior belonging to the fort which the whites had allowed the natives to build within a few rods of the most populous street of Nonotuck. Eliza had often met him at the tent of Shaomet, and frequently accompanied him and Tahattawa in his fishing excursions down the river. The thought of danger to herself never entered her mind; she reposed perfect confidence in the integrity of her friends—even though their skins were tawny; and the youth appeared to be almost as fond of the society of his pale-faced friend as he was of that of Tahattawa herself.

One fine morning in the month of May, 1676, a deer was seen swimming swiftly down the Quonnecticut. William Russell snatched his rifle, and, springing into a light canoe, started in pursuit. At length, as they neared the little island of Hockanum, the huntsman had gained so far on his game that he was just raising his gun to his shoulder to fire upon him, when suddenly the deer sprang more than a foot clear of the water—and the sharp crack of a rifle came ringing on the ear.

A canoe immediately shot out from a small cove on the shore of the island, and a young Indian, paddling up to the deer, seized him by the horns and lifted him into the boat. By this time William had come up. Whether the Indian had seen him in chase of the deer before he fired or not, he certainly laid claim to it as his own. The other was no less strenuous in asserting his own right to the game; and, drawing up his canoe along side of the Indian, was about to place it in his own boat. The other also seized it, and declared he would not surrender it but with life.

The fiery spirit of young Russell now began to chafe, and the flash of his eyes told plainly that he would not tamely brook such a wrong. The blood rose to his face, and his heart beat quick and violently with anger. He stood for a moment hesitating what course to pursue. Give up the deer he would not—yet he shuddered at what might be the consequences of an open rupture, at a time when Philip was in arms, and the name of that mighty chieftain was inspiring many of the Indians with courage, and striking terror to the hearts of the whites.

Wawhillowa—for it was he, the lover of Tahattawa—with an air which seemed to challenge his antagonist to its removal, placed his foot on the game, and rising to his full height regarded the other with a look of calm defiance. Not a muscle moved, but his teeth were firmly clenched, and the heavy frown that slowly settled on his brow, told of the storm that was gathering within his breast.

We know not what might have been the result of this controversy—for there was equal resolution and courage, and perhaps strength on both sides—had it not been for a third person. At the instant that William grasped his rifle, and the other his tomahawk, Shaomet, the old man of the island, sprang between them and called on both to desist from their useless strife. He had watched the whole proceeding from the door of his tent, and, fearful of a dispute, had launched his canoe and approached them without their perceiving him, so absorbed were both the young men in the feelings of the moment. They seemed at first somewhat angry at his interference; but when Wawhillowa remembered that Shaomet was the father of his intended bride; and William, that he had often manifested his friendship for Eliza, their resentment towards the old man instantly began to cool.

Their animosity towards each other, however, was not at all diminished. They stood over the game like two young lions; and each of them, perhaps, exercising about as much reason. The old man quietly proceeded to skin the deer, and to cut it into equal parts. This was quickly done. He then tried to induce them to accept each a part. It would have been, perhaps, a difficult matter to decide which was the rightful owner of the game—but each of the two opponents was resolved to have it all or none—William threw into the river the half which Shaomet had placed in his canoe, while the young Indian dropped his tomahawk and hastily paddled towards the island. The old chief having secured the game in his own boat, slowly followed him, and the Englishman sullenly worked his way up the current, muttering revenge.

It was the morning of the 12th of June, 1676. Day had hardly dawned. The bright star of morning had not yet melted away; but the dark clouds that had obscured the sky broke in pieces, and rolled away in huge masses far into the distance, disclosing the bright full moon—her radiance not yet dimmed by the presence of the king of brightness. Under cover of the night a powerful body of Indians had advanced near to the town of Hadley, and at the southern extremity of the street on which it was—and still is—principally built, had proceeded to dispose among the thick trees and underwood, a strong band of faithful warriors as an ambuscade. There they lay, still and motionless as the trees that concealed them. There was many a stout heart beating eagerly for the fray that would soon cease to beat for ever. Many a strong arm firmly grasped the rifle or the tomahawk, soon itself to be in the grasp of an all-powerful foe. Many a fiery eye rolled round in its socket which was soon to be covered with the film of death.

How calmly and soundly slept the inhabitants of that village, even whilst the chafed savage was prowling for his prey. All, unsuspecting, their slumbers were deep and unbroken, while the hungry lions about them were awaiting, impatiently, the moment of attack. How often while we sleep are our destinies decided for us! Wealth—fame—happiness—the rewards of toil—the requiters of virtue—good and evil—little circumstances and great—are all hovering above and about us, while we are unconscious of their presence. Life and death may hang upon a single hair, while we cannot raise a hand or bend a thought to avert or secure either.

The eastern sky had just begun to be tinged with red, and a few straggling rays of the sun, still far below the horizon, were dancing in fairy shapes towards the zenith, when the work of death and of cruelty began. Stealthily and silently the savages crept on. Yet let us not call them _savages_: they were but redressing their wrongs—but avenging the life blood of their race; and though blood was that morning poured out like water; and though the tomahawk and scalping knife were the instruments of death, and the sleeping and the helpless were the victims;—yet their destroyers were but doing with their enemies as they did with each other: they were not doing violence to their own natures: they were even exercising far more _humanity_ than those who, with the Gospel of Peace in their hand, and the light of civilization around them, had sapped the very foundations of the Red Man’s race. Swiftly the work went on. A stifled groan—a scream of anguish occasionally broke the stillness of the hour. Save that, all was wrapped in deep, dread, ominous silence. At length, by accident, a rifle was discharged. On that little circumstance hung the life of hundreds. The sound echoes through the long street—a window is raised—a door is opened—the alarm is given—and armed men pour forth, and prepare to resist the foe.

All was confusion and dismay. Rifles were fired—loaded, and discharged again. Tomahawks gleamed—swords flashed—occasionally a small piece of ordnance rolled its infant thunder over the plain, and the smoke and din of the contest rose up together to the heavens. Men ran hither and thither. Some commanded, and none obeyed.

Suddenly, “a man of venerable aspect” appeared among the scattered and nearly discomfited inhabitants. He collected them in a body, and, assuming the command, arrayed them in the best manner for defence. He seemed experienced and skilful in the art of war. And now the tide was changed; the Indians in their turn were routed and fled in confusion. In vain the chiefs attempted to rally them. A sudden panic seized the savages; and they, precipitately, fled. After the danger was over, all eyes were looking for the man who had so wonderfully assisted them, but in vain—he had gone, none knew whither. Many conjectures were formed as to who the stranger could be; some supposed it was the guardian angel of the town—but no; it was Goffe, _the Regicide_!

His seemingly miraculous appearance at that time may be easily accounted for. Goffe and Whalley, two of the Judges of Charles the First, were then both secreted in the house of the Rev. Mr. Russell. Seeing the inhabitants in danger, Goffe determined to hazard his life for those who had so generously afforded him refuge at the risk of their own.