Chapter III (1)

“Nae treasures nor pleasures
Could mak us happy long;
The heart’s aye the part aye
That makes us right or wrong.”
_Burns._

The birth of a daughter at length opened new feelings and hopes to the parents; and the thought “that Mr. Gilmer could no longer treat her as a child, and require her to study and read,” added not a little to the happiness that flashed in Charlotte’s eyes as she kissed her baby with rapture; and the quiet but deep satisfaction with which Mr. Gilmer contemplated his child, was partly founded in the expectation, “that Charlotte, in assuming the duties and feelings of a mother, would sink the giddiness of the girl in the steadiness of the woman.” But little did he know in supposing that youth and nature were thus to be cheated of their privileges by the assumption of the responsibilities of maturer age. That Charlotte loved her infant with the liveliest affection, is true; but it was rather the playful fondness of a child for its play-thing than the passionate love of a mother for her first born; and although she would delightedly fondle the infant for a few minutes, yet easily terrified by the cries of the little creature, drawn forth by the awkward handling of its inexperienced parent, she would quickly resign it to the soothing cares of its nurse, who, in fact, dreaded the sight of the young mother in the nursery. Once, indeed, after having been admonished and lectured by her husband on her new duties and responsibilities, she took it in her head, at the imminent risk of life and limb of her child, to wash and dress it herself, and which was most terrified and exhausted under the operation, mother or child, it would be difficult to say; and very soon she resumed her usual routine of life, only varied by occasional visits to her nursery. Mr. Gilmer, disappointed in the change he had hoped to see in her character and tastes, became more impatient and less yielding than before. Had he, in the indulgent spirit that should have accompanied his age and knowledge of the world, given way to the joyous spirits and excitable feelings natural to her youth, he would have won to himself a heart naturally warm and affectionate, at the same time that he quenched her ardent love of pleasure in satiety. But, too selfish to put that constraint on himself, he expected at once that calm indifference to society, in a girl of scarce eighteen, that was in himself the result of twenty-five years devotion to its frivolities, and his wife’s thirst for gaiety seemed to increase in proportion to the difficulties and objections he threw in the path of her enjoyment—and it was but natural that she should escape with delight, looks of grave displeasure, quick words of impatience, and selfish forgetfulness of her tastes at home, for the gaiety of brilliant throngs where she was followed, admired and flattered, and which she enjoyed the more, that the opportunities were rare and doubtful.

And thus time wore on, adding rather than diminishing the discontents of all parties. We have said before that the feelings subsisting between Mrs. Vivian and her son-in-law were any thing but kind and friendly; and they now rarely met without quick and biting sarcasms on her side, retorted by a cold and haughty disrespect on his. Age, too, was now adding its usual exactions to his natural selfishness of character, and that he might enjoy that luxurious indolence and tranquillity so necessary to his happiness, and withdraw his wife from the pleasure so opposite to his tastes, and, above all, that he might free himself from the interference and investigation of Mrs. Vivian, and separate Charlotte from her mother as much as possible, he resolved to purchase a place in the country. Regardless of the wishes of his wife, heedless of her remonstrance, the idea was no sooner conceived than executed, and however much Mrs. Gilmer disliked the removal, there was no resource but to submit. That she submitted with a good grace we cannot say, for Charlotte had now learned to _think_, (as what woman does not that makes an ill-assorted marriage?) although her mind had not expanded in the direction that her husband desired. She had become acquainted with her own claims, and in penetrating the heartlessness and hollowness of her husband’s character, had learned to mourn over the sacrifice of her youth and beauty with indignation and anguish. Resenting the steady pursuance of his own plans, to the utter exclusion of all consideration for her wishes, she in her turn became careless of his comforts and negligent of her duties. Who that passed that beautiful place, with its rich lawns, noble trees and magnificent views, would have suspected the discontented tempers and unsatisfied hearts that dwelt in that embowered paradise. Her child was a source of unmingled happiness to her as it grew in beauty and intelligence. But will the love of a child alone compensate for that want of companionship and sympathy that the heart asks for in vain where there is no equality of mind or years?

The society of her mother had been her greatest source of comfort during the last few years of her existence, as she turned to her for that indulgence and love of which she felt the want more and more; and which was poured forth upon her more fully in her hour of disappointment than even in her petted childhood by her doting parent. And now how gladly did she hail every little excuse the calls of life afforded her, the procuring a servant, the necessary purchases, &c., to drive to the city and spend as many hours as possible with that dear friend. And oh, how doubly happy was she on such occasions, if she were caught in a storm, or losing the boat, was compelled to remain a few days in that small house, which with its mean furniture she had once been so anxious to escape, but which was now to her the centre of all happiness, for there she found liberty, sympathy, love; and her mother acknowledged to herself that when she had so anxiously essayed to guard her child from every sorrow and trial of life, she had attempted a task not to be achieved upon earth. Cares and sorrows are the lot of earth’s children; but they fall comparatively lightly on those whose hearts are strengthened and sustained by an all-supporting and enduring love for those to whom fortune has connected their destiny.

And was Mr. Gilmer happier for the new mode of life he had adopted? No. Accustomed to the habits of a city, he was wanting in that personal activity necessary for the enjoyment of country pleasures, or keen interest in the agricultural improvement of his place. His literary pursuits, wanting the stimulus of congenial spirits, was degenerating into careless reading and sedentary habits, only diversified by light dozing; and, after spending the afternoon and evening hours in his library alone, there was a dreamy abstraction in his eye, that the keen vigilance of Mrs. Vivian having once detected, she knew immediately came neither from literary excitement nor intellectual meditation. Thus will the selfish pursuance of one’s own gratification, alone, fall back upon the head of him who essays to secure all for himself in yielding nothing to others.

A wasted youth and useless manhood must end in a neglected and unhonored age.

Should a few years bring forth a young and beauteous widow, society may look for the natural results of an unnatural youth, in that saddest of anomalies, _a gay widow_. And should she essay a second “Experiment of Living,” we fear that having been worldly when she should have been romantic, she will now be romantic when it would be more graceful, or at least more respectable, to be worldly, and the result will scarcely be less unfortunate and infinitely more ridiculous than the first.

F. E. F.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE PET RABBIT.

True were your words, heart-reader, Jacques Rousseau—
’Tis woman’s nature to be loving ever;
Though like the winds, the amorous winds that blow,
She to one object may be constant never.

The gentle Julia, fickle as she’s fair,
Still cannot triumph o’er the pleasing habit.
Live without love? As well without the air!
She scorns her husband, but—_adores her rabbit_.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE REPRIMAND.

BY EPES SARGENT.

In this utilitarian, leveling, democratic age, when candidates for the Presidency are expected to attend “mass clam-bakes,” at Seekonk, Squam, or some equally central and populous locality, it is quite delightful to meet with a good, old-fashioned, uncompromising aristocrat like Aunt Adeline. Possessing no discoverable attraction, personal, intellectual, or moral—masculine in her features, voice and manners—penurious in her habits—and violent in her prejudices—all these little foibles and defects are redeemed and dignified by her magnificent family pride. Her grandmother was niece to a lady, whose husband had a cousin, whose husband’s brother’s wife’s sister had been lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne. What a blessed privilege! What a cause for felicitation and delicious retrospection to the remotest posterity!

Amy Ammidon and her brother Harry had the never-to-be-sufficiently-appreciated good fortune to be the children of Aunt Adeline’s brother, and to partake consequently in the lustre of her ancestral glories. At the time of the incident, the particulars of which have been communicated to me, Mr. Ammidon, who had been a prosperous merchant, had met with reverses in business, which compelled him to circumscribe his expenditures. Harry was supposed to be traveling in Europe; and Aunt Adeline, much to the chagrin of all concerned, had undertaken to supply the void in the family, occasioned about a year before by the death of an affectionate mother and wife, by taking up her residence amongst them. Such were the circumstances of the little group early in the spring of 1842.

What a dear, artless, sunny-tempered creature was Amy! Vainly, vainly has the limner tried accurately to trace her face and figure. He deserves credit for what he has done. I can see a resemblance—a strong one, in the picture which the graver of Gimbrede has transferred to steel. But where is the ever-varying expression, the sparkling animation of lip and eye, too evanescent and too mutable to be daguerreotyped even by memory with fidelity? Art can do much, but it cannot do justice to such a Protean beauty as Amy.

Although born in the city—although the din of Broadway was the first noise that broke upon her infant slumbers—Amy was as much out of place in New York, with its reeking gutters, its eternal omnibuses and its “indignation processions,” as a pond lily would be in a tanner’s pit. The country, with its wealth of foliage, its fields and its wild flowers, was her delight. The anticipation of visiting it seemed to be alone sufficient to fill her heart with cheerfulness during the winter months. A little cottage, in Westchester county, to which the name of Glenwood had been given, and which had not been sacrificed in the general wreck of her father’s property, was her _beau ideal_ of Paradise. And a delicious spot it was—cool, sequestered, rich in its smooth lawns and ancient forests, and commanding a fine view of Long Island Sound, from which a fresh breeze was wafted in the hottest days of summer. I cannot imagine a more suitable place at which to introduce Amy to the friendly regards of my readers.

But before I proceed, let me express my regret that a rigid adherence to truth and candor will not permit me to conceal the fact that there was one trait of character in which Amy was lamentably and unaccountably deficient. Notwithstanding the lessons and the example of her respectable aunt—notwithstanding the hereditary _blood_ in her veins—notwithstanding the family tree and the family pictures, Amy had not one particle of that praiseworthy and truly disinterested pride which springs from the contemplation of the superiority of some remote ancestor over ourselves. She had not sense enough to see (poor thing!) why the circumstance of her great grandfather’s having been a bishop was a sufficient proof of her own orthodoxy and worth, or what her grandmother’s merit had to do with _hers_. Had she been in the habit of quoting poetry, she might have adopted the base-spirited sentiment expressed by Pope:

What can ennoble fools, or knaves, or cowards?

A great fallacy, and one which never failed to excite the vehement and proper indignation of Aunt Adeline! I am sorry that at the very outset I am compelled to tell these things of Amy, but, as they illustrate her conduct on an important occasion, they could not well be omitted.

It was a bright and beautiful afternoon in June. The air from the water was fresh and elastic. The bees about Glenwood were plying a brisk business among the clover, and the birds were singing as if their life depended on the amount of noise they could make. Amy stole in from the piazza that encircled the cottage, and, with her apron full of newly plucked flowers, sat down in the big leathern armchair in the library to arrange a nosegay. To one who could not sympathize with her admiration of their fragrance and beauty, her delight would have seemed almost childish, for she kissed them and laughed, and laughed and kissed them again, then put her forefinger to her mischievous lips, and whispered “hush!” as if warning herself against intrusion, then shrugged her ivory shoulders and laughed once more, as if congratulating herself upon the undisturbed enjoyment of some interdicted pleasure.

But Amy was mistaken in supposing that she was alone and unobserved, for at that moment Aunt Adeline, who had been watching her antics from behind a door, burst in upon her with an exclamation which made her start from her seat and drop the half-formed nosegay, and scatter the flowers upon the floor, while she stood trembling like a culprit, with one hand grasping her apron, and her left elbow instinctively resting on a couple of large volumes which concealed a whole wilderness of pressed flowers.

And what was Amy’s crime? Listen, and perhaps you may find out.

“So, Miss—so!” screamed Aunt Adeline, at the top of her voice, which, in its melody, resembled a Scotch bag-pipe more than a Dorian flute. And having uttered these monosyllables, she tossed herself into the vacated chair, as if preparing for a reprimand of some length. Then, pointing to the abandoned flowers, she sternly asked—“How came you by those flowers? Speak, minx!”

Amy continued silent; and Aunt Adeline renewed her interrogation with more severity. A little indignation began now to mingle with Amy’s grief, and she was on the point of astonishing her aunt with a spirited reply, when the latter exclaimed:

“You needn’t tell me where you got them, Miss. I know all about it. They were given to you by that plebeian clodhopper, Tom Greenleaf, the milk-man’s son. Yes, you mean-spirited thing, you. The milk-man’s son!”

It was even so. Mortifying to my feelings as it is to make any such admission in regard to a heroine of mine, I must confess that Aunt Adeline was right, and that the flowers were the gift (pah!) of an individual of thoroughly rustic extraction. Some twenty years since, old Greenleaf was the owner of a snug farm on the island of Manhattan; where he obtained a frugal subsistence by selling milk to the denizens of the city. It was even true, that occasionally, when the old man was confined at home by the rheumatism, Tom, who was then a mere lad, would mount the cart and go the rounds in his father’s stead. While engaged in this employment, it was his lot to meet Amy Ammidon, whose family he supplied with the snowy beverage enclosed in his large tin tubs. Amy was then as rosy-cheeked, black-eyed a little maiden as ever perpetrated unconscious damage in the hearts of venturous youths. Tom instinctively discovered her fondness for flowers, and the nosegays he used to bring her in consequence surpassed all computation. Years rolled on; and one fine summer day the old milk-man was overwhelmed with astonishment at discovering that his little thirty-acre farm was worth a hundred thousand dollars. He sold out, purchased a beautiful estate in Westchester, removed to it, and just as he was beginning to feel the _ennui_ of inert prosperity, he died, leaving Tom the sole heir of his safely invested property.

Tom showed himself a man, every inch of him, in the course he pursued. He had always had a taste for reading, and he now devoted himself with assiduity to the attainment of a fitting education. At the age of twenty-one he graduated at a respectable college, and then wisely chose the profession of a farmer. He had not been home many days, when in one of his walks he encountered his old friend Amy. Both were equally delighted at renewing the acquaintance; and one step led to another, until Tom had the audacity to send her the nosegay which had called down Aunt Adeline’s appropriate indignation.

“Hear me, Amy Ammidon,” continued she; “if you dare to disgrace your family by receiving the addresses of that son of a cauliflower—that low-born, low-bred cultivator of turnip-tops and radishes—that superintendent of hay-mows and pig-pens—that vulgar cow-boy—if you dare to sully the blood of an Ammidon by such a union, I will utterly disown you, and you shall never have the advantage of my society again.”

Strange to say, Amy’s eyes brightened at this menace, and I am afraid she was just on the point of exclaiming, “O, then, I will marry him, by all means;” but she checked herself, and said: “Can’t one receive a few flowers from a gentleman without risking the imputation of being engaged to him?”

“Gentleman, indeed! Tom Greenleaf a gentleman!”

“Yes, Miss Adeline Ammidon,” exclaimed Amy in a tone which transfixed her aunt with amazement, “as true a gentleman as any ancestor of yours or mine ever was! A gentleman not only in mind and manners, but what is better far, in heart—and therefore a perfect gentleman!”

“Oh dear! What a deal of spirit Miss Innocence can show when a word is said against the clodhopper! Why doesn’t she show as much indignation when Frank Phaeton and Harry Hawker, from both of whom she has had offers, are abused?”

“I shall be eighteen next January—heigho!”

“So, you mean by that to taunt me with your approaching freedom; but we will have you married before that time in a manner becoming your rank. Have you forgotten what I told you about Col. Mornington, a son of the Earl of Bellingham, being in the city from Canada? My friend, Mrs. Ogleby, has promised to give him a letter to me, and I am daily expecting a call. When he comes, I mean to invite him to pass a week at Glenwood, and if you are not a fool you can bring him to your feet.”

“Isn’t he very dissipated?”

“That is not of the slightest consequence, my dear, when you think of his splendid connections.”

“I am told he is utterly destitute of principle.”

“He will be a lord when his eldest brother dies. It is ridiculous to bring up such frivolous objections.”

While this conversation was going on, Greenleaf, who had been lying in wait for Amy near the porch, was attracted to the window by the loud, objurgatory tones of aunt Adeline’s voice, and, to his dismay, found that Amy was the victim of her anger. He was on the point of jumping into the room, and gagging the old woman, when his eye fell on a suspicious-looking flask near the window-sill, and he charitably concluded that the cordial it contained was at the bottom of the disturbance. How far this conjecture was correct I have never been able to ascertain. Tom was soon joined by Amy, who, with tears in her eyes, told him of her aunt’s violent behavior. The lovers sauntered away, arm in arm, and, as they reached the termination of a shady lane that opened upon the highway, they saw a carriage, containing a young man of foreign appearance, with long hair and moustaches, drive toward the cottage.

“That must be the Colonel Mornington, of whom Aunt Adeline spoke,” said Amy, stifling a sob.

“Shall I knock him down?” asked Tom, clenching his fists.

Before Amy could reply, the carriage was suddenly stopped, and the stranger, throwing open the door, jumped from it without waiting for the steps to be let down. Then, rushing toward Amy, he threw his arms about her neck, hugged and kissed her. So abrupt and rapid was the act, that Greenleaf was thoroughly confounded at the fellow’s impudence, and had no opportunity of interposing. He was making preparations to seize the coxcomb, however, and throw him over the hedge, when he was relieved by Amy’s exclaiming, “Brother Harry! Is it possible? I should never have dreamed it was you, with those frightful whiskers.”

“Yes, Amy, it is Harry himself. And you—how you have grown! When I last saw you, you were a chubby little girl, But, Amy, Amy, is that a tear on your cheek? What is the meaning of it?”

“Oh, nothing serious, I assure you. I am so glad—so very glad to see you, Harry! You intend to remain with us, do you not?”

“Nay, I must know the meaning of that tear. Father is well, is he not?”

“When I last heard from him, at Charleston, he was never better. We are all well—quite well.”

“Introduce me to your companion, Amy.”

Amy did as her brother requested; and the introduction was soon succeeded by a frank explanation of the position of the parties, and of Aunt Adeline’s ferocious opposition to the existence of their present relation.

“I will punish the old shrew,” exclaimed Harry. “I owe her an ancient grudge, for making me go in petticoats, when a boy, a year longer than was necessary. Let me see—she is daily expecting this Colonel Mornington, you say?”

“Yes; and she is studying, with more zest than ever, the family records, to enlighten him fully in regard to her pedigree.”

“Well, you must concur in a little plot, by which you can be relieved from her present system of annoyance, and I can gratify the long-deferred vengeance implanted by her opposition to my appearance in jacket and trowsers. It is nearly ten years since she saw me. Of course she will not recognize me with these hirsute appendages. I will appear as Col. Mornington. I will make love to you. You must prove fickle, and receive my attentions—and then leave the _dénouement_ to me.”

“Delightful! Do you approve of it, Thomas?”

“By all means. It will be a very harmless mode of revenging ourselves.”

An hour afterwards, as Aunt Adeline was peeping through the parlor blinds, she saw, as she supposed, the long expected carriage of Col. Mornington dash up before the door, and the colonel himself—the “dear, delightful colonel,” with a remarkably languid air, alight. Preceded by a servant, she hastened to receive him, and, as the door was thrown open, welcomed him to Glenwood with an antiquarian courtesy. The colonel’s manner of receiving her salutation was rather peculiar. Before replying to her greeting, or saying a word, he slowly drew from his pocket a leather case, from which he took an enormous opera glass. Then hunting, first in one pocket and then in another, for a handkerchief, he finally succeeded in finding one; and, in a manner which was not at all significant of haste, proceeded to wipe the glasses. Then leisurely returning the handkerchief to its place of deposit, he balanced himself in a sort of easy straddle, coolly put the opera-glass to his eyes, and took a long survey of Aunt Adeline’s physiognomy. As soon as he had finished his inspection he returned the glass to its case, and asked, in a drawling tone—“Are you Miss Am-Am-Amworth, or Amburgh, or Am—”

“Miss Ammidon, you probably mean,” said Aunt Adeline. “I am that person, and you, sir, I presume, are Colonel Mornington. You needn’t hunt for your letter of introduction. I have been expecting the honor of a visit, sir, for some days, and now bid you heartily welcome to Glenwood. Have the goodness to walk into the parlor. Your baggage shall be taken care of. I must insist on your making our cottage your home while you are in the village.”

“Thawideawquoitewavishesme,” said the colonel, but whether he was speaking in the Choctaw or Hindostanee tongue, Aunt Adeline could not guess.

Entering the parlor he encountered Amy, to whom he was at once introduced by Aunt Adeline. He again went through the process of inspection with the aid of an opera-glass, and Amy, in spite of her aunt’s frowns, burst into a fit of laughter and left the room.

“Extwardinarygwirl!” exclaimed the colonel, in the same unknown tongue. Then turning to Aunt Adeline, he abruptly asked for “bwandy and water.”

As soon as she could comprehend his wants, she recollected, much to her chagrin, that there was no brandy in the house; and informed the colonel of the fact, promising at the same time to send to the nearest grocery, which was a mile off, and obtain the desired article.

“No bwandy! No bwandy in the house!” exclaimed the noble visiter, staring at his dismayed hostess with an expression of utter consternation and despair depicted in his countenance.

Assuring him that the brandy should be procured with all possible expedition, Aunt Adeline hurried out of the room, and despatched all the servants in different directions, promising a reward to that one who would be the first to bring home a pint of brandy. No sooner had she disappeared than Amy re-entered the parlor; and when Aunt Adeline returned, which she did not venture to do until, after great exertions, the brandy had been obtained, she saw to her surprise her niece and the colonel sitting familiarly on the sofa, engaged, apparently, in affectionate dalliance.

“Now, colonel, if you will try some of this brandy,” said Aunt Adeline.

“Throw it away!” exclaimed the colonel, “here is something better than _eau de vie_!” and saying thus, he kissed Amy, first on either cheek, then on her lips, to all which she submitted with perfect resignation. Aunt Adeline flung up both arms in astonishment. “This is the quickest wooing,” thought she, “that I ever heard of!”

The colonel had not been two days in the family before it was regarded as settled that he and Amy were affianced. Aunt Adeline eagerly gave her consent, notwithstanding some little eccentricities in the young man’s conduct, of which she did not wholly approve. For instance, when she undertook to bore him with an explanation of her family tree, he laughed in her face, and told her that his mare Betsey could boast a better pedigree. This was touching the old woman on a tender point, but she suppressed the exhibition of her chagrin through a secret admiration of that superiority in blood, which could afford to sneer at her genealogy. Another circumstance was rather annoying, and some illiberal people might have considered the trait it displayed objectionable in a lover. The colonel, who had _apparently_ been indulging too freely in strong potations, on meeting Aunt Adeline alone on the stairs, was rude to the ancient vestal, and even attempted to throw his arms about her neck. To tell the truth, Aunt Adeline was a very little shocked at this ebullition, but when she recollected that the aggressor was the son of an earl, she forgave him with all her heart, and determined not to mention the occurrence to her niece.

These, however, were but trivial symptoms of depravity, compared with those which were soon developed. The colonel had not been engaged two days when he petrified the “old woman,” as he called her to her face, by applying to her for money. She could have endured any thing but this without faltering in her alliance. He might have been as tipsy and profligate as he pleased, and still she would have thought him an excellent match for Amy; but in money matters, Aunt Adeline was rigid and inexorable as death itself. Although in the receipt of a competent annuity, she had always contrived, from parsimonious motives, to live upon her friends and relatives; and it was rare indeed that a dollar found its way from her store. And now Colonel Mornington called upon her, peremptorily, for a hundred dollars, and would not listen to a refusal! It was like draining her of her life-blood, but there was no remedy. With a heavy heart, and with many a longing, lingering look at the money, she placed it in his hands. She had hoped that he would of his own accord offer to give her his acceptance for the sum; but the idea evidently did not occur to him, and she timidly hinted something about a receipt.

“A what!” exclaimed the colonel in a tone, and with a stare, which effectually prevented her from renewing the suggestion.

The very next day the colonel applied for another hundred dollars, ingenuously informing her that he had experienced heavy losses at the village nine-pin alley. Aunt Adeline at first peremptorily refused to give him the amount, but she was finally so worked upon by his taunts and menaces that she acceded to his exorbitant demands. The same scene was repeated the next day, and the next, and the next, until the colonel was her debtor to the amount of five hundred dollars, when she unequivocally declared that she would advance him no more money. The colonel left her presence, muttering mysterious threats.

Late that night, as Aunt Adeline, with a mind torn by unavailing regrets and painful conjectures as to the probabilities of her ever getting back her loan, was vainly trying to compose herself to sleep, she heard a slight noise at the handle of her chamber door, and, turning her eyes in the direction, saw to her horror the colonel enter with a dark lanthorn in his hand and two enormous pistols under his arms. Gently closing the door, he locked it, and stealthily advanced toward the toilet table, where he deposited one of the murderous weapons, and then cocking the other, approached the bed-side. Although Aunt Adeline was shaking with fright, she had sense enough to feign slumber, and the colonel, after examining her features and muttering, “it is lucky for the old girl she is asleep,” proceeded to search the various drawers and trunks in the room for plunder, having first abstracted a formidable bunch of keys from under the venerable spinster’s pillow. The most valuable articles he found were a bag filled with golden half eagles and a little casket of jewels. Thrusting these into the pockets of his dressing-gown, he replaced the keys where he had found them, took another look at Aunt Adeline, to assure himself that she was asleep, and glided quietly out of the room.

At the breakfast-table the next morning, when Aunt Adeline made her appearance, both her niece and the colonel professed to be very much shocked at her pale and altered features; and the latter pressed upon her some patent pills, in regard to the efficacy of which he told some wonderful stories. Had not Aunt Adeline been thoroughly convinced of his wish to poison her, she might have taken some. The poor woman’s troubles were by no means lessened on the reception of the following letter from her brother, which was handed to her while her coffee was cooling:

“Dear Adeline,—Far from having my indignation awakened by your
account of Amy’s attachment to young Greenleaf, I was heartily
glad to hear that she had fixed it on so worthy an object. I
have the most satisfactory assurances as to his worth, his
unexceptionable habits, and his ability to make my daughter
happy. What more shall we look for? You say he is a milk-man’s
son, and ask if I am willing to see my child wedded to a
clodhopper. Let me tell you, it is no small distinction in these
days, when whole states have set the example of repudiating
their debts (or, in plain, downright English, of _swindling
their creditors_,) to be descended from an honest man, let his
vocation have been what it might. At any rate, I am delighted at
Amy’s choice, and I most earnestly forbid your throwing any
obstacle in the way of its fulfillment. I remain your
affectionate brother, etc., etc.”

As Aunt Adeline lifted her eyes from the letter, she beheld Amy seated in the colonel’s lap, and playfully feeding him with a spoon, while at intervals she smoothed back his hair and kissed his forehead. The girl was evidently wildly enamored of a character who had shown himself a most eligible candidate for Sing Sing; and Aunt Adeline had the soothing reflection, that she herself had originated and encouraged the attachment. Requesting Amy to follow her to the library, she at once made known to her the fact of the colonel’s unworthiness, and related the occurrence of the night before. Amy professed her utter disbelief of the charges against her “own Arthur,” as she called him, and on her aunt’s offering to prove them, by calling in a magistrate, and having the colonel’s trunk searched, the infatuated girl exclaimed:

“Well, what if he is guilty? His father is an earl, and his aunt is the daughter-in-law of a duke, and happen what may I won’t give up my own Arthur.”

Aunt Adeline groaned in spirit as she replied—“Have you so soon forgotten that nice, respectable, amiable young man, Greenleaf, to whom you gave so much encouragement? I never believed you could be so fickle, Amy!”

“Greenleaf! Foh! Turnip-tops and cabbage-heads! Radishes and carrots! How can you condescend to mention his vulgar, vegetable name after what yourself have said about him to me, my dear aunt? Besides, how do you know that the milk-man’s son has not changed his mind by this time, seeing your hostility to his pretensions?”

Aunt Adeline had penetration enough to put a favorable construction upon this last interrogation, and, leaving her niece, she started off to pay a visit to Greenleaf. After an abundance of circumlocution, she ventured to sound him upon the subject of her niece. To her disappointment, she found him cold and impenetrable, and when she put him the question point-blank, whether he wished to marry Amy, the upstart replied that he had some young ladies in his eye, who, if they did not possess the personal charms of her niece, could boast of more illustrious ancestors, which, of course, rendered them far more eligible. Aunt Adeline could only groan. The weapons with which she was foiled were of her own forging.

Poor Aunt Adeline! After being tormented a couple of days longer, the joke was explained to her, the money and jewels were restored, and Colonel Mornington and Harry Ammidon were shown to be one and the same personage. In the first blush of her mortification and rage, she packed up her trunks, and removed to the city, where she bivouacked upon a niece, who was blessed with a houseful of small children. Soon after her departure, Greenleaf and Amy were married, and established in the new and tasteful structure built by the father and embellished by the son. Since that event, there has been but one ripple in the smooth stream of their felicity, and that was occasioned by the reception of a letter from Aunt Adeline, in which was the following passage:

“You know, Amy dear, that you were always my favorite niece, and I am sure you will be pleased to hear that I intend paying you a long visit next month. I am quite willing to forego the gayeties of New York, for the pleasure of passing a year or two with you and your charming husband. I hear you see a good deal of company, and are visited by many highly genteel people from the city. I always said that my darling Amy would make a creditable match. You may expect me early in October.”

Immediately on the arrival of this letter, there were a number of anxious consultations in regard to its contents. A proposition was brought forward by Harry Ammidon for blowing up the old woman with gunpowder, after a plan that had been communicated to him in Paris by one of the conspirators against Louis Philippe. This project being objected to, he suggested whether she couldn’t be put into a haunted room, and a ghost hired, for a small compensation, to torment her nightly. But the house being one of modern construction, and no well authenticated murder having been yet committed in it, this contrivance did not appear altogether feasible.

When I took leave of the family, which was on a pleasant afternoon last September, they were still plotting the means of averting the menaced visitation. Should any thing interesting transpire in this connection, perhaps I will give an account of it in a supplement to my present narrative.

* * * * *

THE LIFE VOYAGE—A BALLAD.

BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Once in the olden time there dwelt,
Beside the sounding sea,
A little maid—her garb was coarse,
Her spirit pure and free.

Her parents were an humble twain,
And poor, as poor could be;
Yet gaily sang the guileless child,
Beside the sounding sea.

The hut was bare, and scant the fare,
And hard her little bed;
But she was rich! A single gem
Its beauty round her shed.

She walked in light!—’twas all her wealth—
That pearl whose lustrous glow
Made her white forehead dazzling fair,
And pure as sunlit snow.

Her parents died! With tears, she cried,
“God will my father be!”
Then launched alone her shallop light,
And bravely put to sea.

The sail she set was virgin-white
As inmost lily leaf,
And angels whispered her from Heaven,
To loose it or to reef.

And ever on the dancing prow
One glorious brilliant burned,
By whose clear ray she read her way,
And every danger learned:

For she had hung her treasure there,
Her heaven-illumined pearl!
And so she steered her lonely bark,
That fair and guileless girl!

The wind was fresh, the sails were free,
High dashed the diamond spray,
And merrily leaping o’er the sea
The light skiff left the bay!

But soon false, evil spirits came,
And strove, with costly lure,
To bribe her maiden heart to shame,
And win her jewel pure:

They swarmed around the fragile boat,
They brought her diamonds rare,
To glisten on her graceful throat,
And bind her flowing hair!

They brought her gold from Afric-land;
And from the sea-king’s throne,
They pilfered gems to grace her hand
And clasp her virgin zone.

But still she shook the silken curl
Back from her beaming eyes,
And cried—“I bear my spotless pearl
Home, home to yonder skies!

“Now shame ye not your ocean gems
And Eastern gold to show?
Behold! how mine but burns them all!
God’s smile is in its glow!”

Fair blows the wind, the sail swells free,
High shoots the diamond spray,
And merrily o’er the murmuring sea
The light boat leaps away!

They swarmed around the fragile bark,
They strove, with costlier lure,
To bribe her maiden heart to shame,
And win her jewel pure.

“We bring thee rank—we bring thee power—
We bring thee pleasures free—
No empress, in her silk-hung bower,
May queen her realm like thee!

“Now yield us up the one, white pearl!
’Tis but a star, whose ray
Will fail thee, rash, devoted girl,
When tempests cloud thy way.”

But still she smiled a loftier smile,
And raised her frank, bright eyes,
And cried—“I bear my vestal star,
Home, home to yonder skies!”

The wind is fresh—the sail swells free—
High shoots the diamond spray!
And merrily o’er the moaning sea
The light boat leaps away!

Suddenly, stillness broods around,
A stillness as of death,
Above, below—no motion, sound!
Hardly a struggling breath!

Then wild and fierce the tempest came,
The dark wind-demons clashed,
Their weapons swift—the air was flame!
The waves in madness dashed!

They swarmed around the tossing boat—
“Wilt yield thy jewel _now_?
Look! look! already drenched in spray,
It trembles at the prow.

“Be _ours_ the gem! and safely launched
Upon a summer sea,
Where never cloud may frown in heaven,
Thy pinnance light shall be!”

But still she smiled a fearless smile,
And raised her trusting eyes,
And cried—“I bear my talisman,
Home, home to yonder skies!”

And safe through all that blinding storm
The true bark floated on,
And soft its pearl-illumined prow
Through all the tumult shone!

An angel, guided through the clouds,
By that most precious light,
Flew down the fairy helm to seize
And steer the boat aright.

Then died the storm upon the sea!
High dashed the diamond spray,
And merrily leaping, light and free,
The shallop sailed away!

And meekly, when, at eve, her bark
Its destined port had found,
She moored it by the mellow spark
Her jewel shed around!

Would’st know the name the maiden wore?
’Twas Innocence—like thine!
Would’st know the pearl she nobly bore?
’Twas Truth—a gem divine!

_Thou_ hast the jewel—keep it bright,
Undimmed by mortal fear,
And bathe each stain upon its light
With Grief’s repentant tear!

Still shrink from Falsehood’s fairest guise,
By Flattery unbeguiled!
Still let thy heart speak from thine eyes,
My pure and simple child!

* * * * *

HESTER ORMESBY.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

Aye, it is ever thus: in every heart
Some thirst unslaked has been a life-long pang,
Some deep desire in every soul has part,
Some want has pierced us all with serpent fang;
Oh, who from such a brimming cup has quaffed
That not _one_ drop was wanting to life’s draught?

“So Miss Ormesby is dead. Well, no one will miss her; these queer people are never of any use in the world.” Such was the cold and sneering comment made by a certain commonplace, precise, _pattern_ woman, upon the sudden death of one whose exaggerated sensibility had been her only fault, and who had expiated her folly by a life of sorrow and seclusion. Such is the judgment of the world: a crime may be forgiven, while a weakness receives no pardon.

Hester Ormesby had been one of those supernumeraries usually found in all large families. She was neither the eldest child, the pride of the household—nor the youngest, usually the pet: she was distinguished neither for great beauty nor precocious talent, and as she had been not only preceded in the world by four promising sisters, but also succeeded by several sturdy brothers, she certainly occupied a very insignificant position. The mother, who had early determined that the beauty of her girls should purchase for them a more elevated station in society, already saw in imagination her blooming roses transplanted to the hotbed of fashionable life, but for this new claimant on her maternal care, this humble little “_cinque-foil_,” a lowlier destiny must be anticipated. She could devise no better plan, in aid of the child’s future fortunes, than to bestow upon her the name of an eccentric old relative, whose moderate estate was entirely at her own disposal. This was accordingly done, and, notwithstanding the indisputable authority of Shakspeare on the subject of names, it was Hester Ormesby’s _name_ which decided the fate of her future life, since it was the means of placing her under such influences as could not fail to direct the flexile mind of childhood.

Miss Hester Templeton was a maiden lady who had long passed her grand climacteric, and who lived in that close retirement which is so peculiarly favorable to the growth of whims and oddities. At the age of twenty she had been betrothed, but her lover died on the very day fixed for their marriage; and the widowed bride, yielding to the violence of her overwhelming sorrow, determined to abjure the world forever. For years she never quitted the limits of her own apartment, and was generally looked upon as the victim of melancholy madness; until the death of her parents made it necessary for her to take some interest in the affairs of every-day life, when it was discovered that whatever might be her eccentricity, her intellect was perfectly unclouded. Acute and sensible in all worldly matters, quite competent to manage her pecuniary affairs, and gifted with a degree of shrewdness which enabled her to see through the fine-spun webs of cunning and deceit, there was yet one weak point in her character which showed how immedicable had been the early wound of her heart. Her memory of the dead was still religiously cherished, her vow of seclusion still bound her, and thirty years had passed since her foot had crossed the threshold of her own door. Living in a remote country village, which offered no temptation to either the speculator or the manufacturer, time had wrought few changes around her. The old homestead, in which she was born, was the spot in which she meant to die, and she would have thought it sacrilege to change the position of the cumbrous furniture, or even to displace a superannuated article by a more modern invention. Her own apartment was filled with memorials of her lost lover. His picture looked down upon her from the wall, his books lay on her table, and in an antique cabinet were preserved letters, love gifts, withered nosegays and all the melancholy remnants of by-gone affection, which, to the bereaved heart, are but as the dust and ashes of the dead.

To this lonely and isolated being, in whose character romance and morbid sensibility were so singularly combined with worldly prudence and sagacity, the acquisition of a new object of interest, in the person of her little namesake, formed an epoch in life. She was flattered by the compliment, and pleased with the importance which it gave her in her own opinion. She determined to adopt the child, and, as she found no difficulty in obtaining the consent of the parents, she scarcely waited for the lapse of actual infancy ere she look the little girl to her heart and home.

Few children would have been happy in such seclusion as that in which Miss Templeton lived; but Hester Ormesby possessed that quiet, gentle, loving nature which finds sources of content and fountains of affection everywhere. With the quick perception of a sensitive nature, the little girl had early discovered that she was not a favorite at home. She could not complain of unkindness, for Mrs. Ormesby considered herself a most exemplary mother, and prided herself upon the strict performance of every duty. She would not, for the world, have given a cake to one child without furnishing all the others with a similar dainty, but she was quite unaware of the fact that in voice, and look, and manner may be displayed as much of the injustice of favoritism as in the unequal distribution of bounties. There are no beings on earth to whom sympathy is so essential as to children. Those “little people,” as Dr. Johnson calls them, well know the difference between simple indulgence and actual interest in their concerns. The most expensive gifts, the most unlimited indulgence, is of less value to them than an earnest and affectionate attention to their petty interests, and the mother whose influence will linger longest in the minds of her world tried sons is she who has most frequently flung aside her work or her book, to share their infantine sports, or listen to their boyish schemes of happiness. This sympathy was denied to Hester. Her mother was proud of the four beautiful girls, who attracted the notice even of strangers, but the little sickly looking child, whose nervous timidity rendered her almost repulsive, was merely one to be well fed, and clad, and kept from bodily harm. The transition between this indifference and the affection with which Miss Templeton treated her, was delightful to the shy and sensitive child. In her father’s house she was perfectly insignificant, in her new home she was an object of the greatest importance; and though Miss Templeton’s quiet, old-fashioned mode of life offered few attractions to a healthy and spirited child, it was exactly the kind of existence best suited to the taste of a delicate one, like Hester, who possessed a precocity of feeling more dangerous, in all cases, than precocity of mind.

Miss Templeton had some excellent notions respecting education. Implicit obedience, deference, perfect truthfulness and active industry were, in her opinion, essential points; and as these requisites have become so obsolete as to have quite gone into disuse in modern systems of instruction, it may be judged how entirely the old lady had fallen behind the march of intellect. Her affection awakened some of the dormant energy of her character, and she applied herself diligently to the task of training and disciplining the mind of her young charge. In this, as in most other cases, usefulness brought its own blessing along with it, and, as the child increased in knowledge, the heart of the recluse seemed to expand to a wider circle of sympathies. It was, indeed, a pleasant thing to see the frost of so many winters melting away before the sunshine of childish happiness, and it may be questioned whether Miss Templeton or Hester derived the most benefit from this close connection between them.

But character in its earliest development is very chameleon-like, and takes its hue from the objects with which it is brought directly in contact. Miss Templeton educated Hester thoroughly and usefully; she imparted to her a stock of knowledge far beyond that acquired at the most of schools, she imbued her with noble principles and an accurate sense of duty, but she also endowed her, unconsciously and involuntarily it may be, with her own high-toned and romantic sentiments. Indeed, it was impossible for a sensitive child to live within the atmosphere of romance and not imbibe its spirit. The circumstances of Miss Templeton’s life, her unselfish devotion to the memory of the dead, her reverential love for him who had lain so many years within the tomb, her scrupulous adherence to a vow made in the first anguish of a wounded spirit, her quiet sufferance of a blighted heart during a long life, all were calculated to make a deep impression on the mind of a girl whose sensibilities were already morbidly acute. The unlimited range of her reading, too, tended to confirm such impressions. With that respect for every thing which bears the semblance of a printed volume, so characteristic of a bookworm, Miss Templeton had carefully preserved an extensive but very miscellaneous library. The poets and essayists of England’s golden age were ranged side by side with the controversial theologists—sermons were elbowed by cookery books—Sir Charles Grandison was a close neighbor to the grave Sherlock—while Clarissa Harlowe and Pamela were in curious juxtaposition with the excellent Jeremy Taylor and Richard Baxter. Novels and romances formed no small part of this heterogeneous collection, and Hester, who was a most inveterate reader, devoured every work of fiction which came in her way. To the present generation, who have become fastidious from literary indulgence, and who, since the days of Edgeworth and Scott, ask for _vraisemblance_ in the fiction over which they hang enraptured, the romances of a preceding age seem dull, prosy and unnatural. But at the time of which I speak, the great object of the novelist was to portray heroines, such as never could exist, and events such as never could have happened, while feelings refined to absolute mawkishness, and sentiments sublimated beyond the limits of human understanding, were expressed in parlance to which the language of common life was tame and trite. With such models placed before her in her favorite volumes, and the example of Miss Templeton to impress their truthfulness upon her ductile mind, it is not surprising that Hester Ormesby should have been thoroughly imbued with romance at an age when most girls are only thinking of their dolls.