Chapter VII: Part 7

“I’m not as charitable as you are. People show us, in unguarded moments, the true features of their character. Judging from the glance we had to-night, I should pronounce the individual who got into such a pet for a trifle, to be no lady, notwithstanding she was well dressed and seemed to be in good company. A true lady is one who thinks of others more than of herself, when she is in society; and—one who does this is never thrown off of her guard—never speaks unkindly to others—never insults those who happen, by accident, to step upon a corner of her dress.”

The subject of this conversation was a Mrs. Lindley. The remarks her conduct elicited from the companion of the young lady who had, by stepping upon her dress, caused her to lose her temper, were rather severe. But few of her intimate friends, had they heard them, could possibly have believed that she was meant, for they only knew her as a lady of polished and amiable manners. But Mrs. Lindley had her weaknesses. She was naturally of a hasty temper, though her regard for the good opinion of others caused her to keep it under control while in society, and her reason prompted her to put a check upon it, under all circumstances. Still, occasions would come when she would forget herself.

On the occasion of her attending the concert at the Musical Fund Hall, she wore a new and elegant dress. The fabric was very delicate, as was also the color. In descending the stairs, at the close of the concert, she felt herself suddenly drawn back, and on turning around quickly, saw that a young woman, a stranger, had stepped upon this dress. Her first thought was, that it was both torn and soiled, and the exclamation, “Gracious, girl!” dropped from her lips as an expression of surprise at the carelessness of the strangers. The annoyance she felt prevented her from accepting the apology that was instantly offered, and caused her to reject it in the ungracious manner we have seen. But a few minutes only elapsed before a better state of mind came, and then she was deeply mortified at her unlady-like conduct, and would have given almost anything could she have recalled the hasty words that had fallen from her lips.

“It will be a lesson to me,” she said to herself, as she sat brooding over the incident, after her return home that evening. “I am too apt to speak from the impulse of the moment, and too prone to speak unkindly on slight provocation.”

On the next day, Mrs. Lindley received a letter from a very particular friend in New York, in which was mentioned the fact that a highly accomplished young lady, belonging to one of the best families in the city, was then on a visit to Philadelphia.

“Miss Herbert,” said the letter, “is a sweet girl, and I number her among my choicest friends. I have frequently spoken to her of you, and she has expressed a wish to make your acquaintance. She will remain at Jones’s Hotel for a week. Will you not call upon her, and show her some attentions, for my sake? I know you will like her very much; she is the favorite of every one. Among all my friends here, I know of no one to whom I am more attached. She is so kind, so gentle, so unselfish, so wise for one of her age. Make her acquaintance, by all means.”

“For your sake, if for no other, I will do so,” said Mrs. Lindley, as she closed the letter. “And as Miss Herbert is only going to spend a few days in Philadelphia, I will call upon her at once.”

And so Mrs. Lindley dressed herself that very morning, and called at Jones’s, to see her friend’s particular friend. She found her quite a young lady, simple in her style of dressing, slightly reserved at first, yet easy in her manners. Five minutes had passed before Mrs. Lindley was entirely at home with her.

“When did you arrive in our city?” inquired Mrs. Lindley, soon after they met.

“I came on day before yesterday,” was replied.

“Will your stay be short?”

“I shall leave in a few days, for the South, where I intend spending the winter.”

“My friend, Mrs. D—— is, I suppose, very well?”

“Oh, yes! I never saw her look better in my life She speaks of you very often, and promises herself great pleasure from your contemplated visit to New York.”

“Not more than I do myself. She is a lovely-minded woman.”

“She is, truly, and the favorite of every circle wherein she moves.”

“There is something familiar in your face, Miss Herbert,” said Mrs. Lindley, during a slight pause in the conversation, looking earnestly at the young lady as she spoke. “It seems as if we must have met before.”

“And your face made the same impression upon me,” returned Miss Herbert, smiling.

“This is a little singular, is it not?” remarked Mrs. Lindley. “We never met before, and yet both recognize something familiar.”

“At first thought it seems so. But it is a fact, that we rarely, if ever, see a new face which has not in it something familiar.”

“True. But the likeness belongs to a class, and generally has in itself a peculiarity essentially its own, that marks its individuality. Not such a likeness do I see in your face. It seems to me as if we must have met before.”

“And I cannot get away from the same impression, in regard to you,” said Miss Herbert.

“It is a little singular,” returned Mrs. Lindley, sinking for a few moments into a musing state.

“Have you been out much since you arrived in the city?” she inquired, as she came out of this slight abstraction of mind.

“I have been around a good deal, for the short time I have been here. Last night I attended the concert at your fine Musical Fund Hall. For musical purposes, it is one of the best rooms I have ever been in.”

“Were you pleased with the concert?” inquired Mrs. Lindley—her thoughts reverting, as she spoke, to the unpleasant incident we have mentioned, and a vague, yet deeply mortifying suspicion, stealing through her mind. Her eyes, which were upon the face of Miss Herbert, drooped, and a slight flush warmed her cheeks.

“Very much pleased with the concert,” replied the young lady, “but not quite so well pleased with some of the people who were there.”

“Ah! What displeased you in the people?”

“I should have spoken rather in the singular number,” said Miss Herbert, smiling. “At the close of the concert, and while descending the steps, I was so unfortunate as to tread upon the dress of a lady, who became offended thereat, and spoke to me, I thought, with extreme rudeness. I felt hurt at the moment, but soon got over it.”

Mrs. Lindley tried to look calmly at the young lady, while she spoke, and to assume an expression of countenance different from her real feelings. But the effort was not entirely successful. Miss Herbert saw that there was a change, and, for a few moments, wondered at its meaning. Then the truth flashed upon her mind, and she understood why the face of Mrs. Lindley was so familiar. She had met her before, and she remembered where!

To both, this was a painful and an embarrassing discovery. But each felt that self-possession, and a seeming unconsciousness of the mortifying fact was of all things necessary. As quickly as Mrs. Lindley was sure that she could command her voice, she said—

“I am sorry that any one should have so far forgotten what was due from a lady as to utter an unkind word to a stranger, in a public assembly, and on so slight a provocation. But you must try and forgive the indignity.”

“That I have already done,” said Miss Herbert, making every effort in her power to seem unconcerned. “I know that the very best people may sometimes, in a moment of weakness, be thrown off of their guard, and say or do things entirely at variance with their real character, and for which, afterward, they feel the sincerest regret.”

“It is best always,” replied Mrs. Lindley, whose feelings no one need envy, “to judge thus kindly of others, even under marked provocation. But I cannot so readily excuse the person who, from so slight a cause, could be led into a gross violation of one of the commonest proprieties of life. Ah, me! How watchful we should all be, for we cannot tell at what moment we may be thrown off of our guard, and say or do something that will cost us unavailing regret.”

This was as much as Mrs. Lindley felt that she dared say upon the subject; and, as Miss Herbert’s reply did not lead to its continuance, the theme of conversation took another direction.

During the young lady’s stay in Philadelphia, Mrs. Lindley paid her every attention; but never in her presence did she feel at ease, for she had an instinctive assurance that she was known to Miss Herbert, as the person who had offered her, on slight provocation, a most gross indignity.

For all the kindness and attention of Mrs. Lindley to Miss Herbert, during her brief stay in Philadelphia, the latter could not forget the night of the concert. Reason the matter as she would, she could not force from her mind the natural conclusion that, when off their guard, people spoke as they felt. The anger of Mrs. Lindley’s voice, her impatient and insulting language, and particularly the expression of her face, were constantly presenting themselves to her mind.

“She may be a woman of many excellent qualities,” she said to herself, as she mused upon the unpleasant incident connected with their first meeting; “but I would not choose her as an intimate friend.”

On her return from the South, Miss Herbert passed through Philadelphia without calling upon Mrs. Lindley. She thought of doing so, and even debated the matter seriously, but the repugnance she felt prevented a renewal of the acquaintance. Reason with herself as she would, afterward, she found it impossible to think well of Mrs. Lindley, and though she has been in Philadelphia frequently since, has not visited her. Yet, for all this, Mrs. Lindley is a woman of excellent qualities, and much beloved among all her friends. In a moment of weakness she was thrown off of her guard, and betrayed into the utterance of unkind words; and that single phase of her character, presented to the eyes of a stranger, made an unfavorable impression that could not afterward be effaced.

* * * * *

MARIE.

BY CAROLINE F. ORNE.

When we bore thee to thy grave, Marie,
The flowers were springing fair,
And violets, like azure gems,
Were scattered every where.
The blossoms of the trees, Marie,
In perfumed showers fell fast,
The incense of their dying breath
Each light breeze floated past.

For the sweet spring-tide had come, Marie,
When we laid thee to thy rest,
With the lily and forget-me-not,
And the rose-bud on thy breast.
These were thy favorite flowers, beloved,
And our tears fell on them, then,
For we thought that nevermore with thee
Should we gather them again.

Soft clouds were in the sky, Marie,
Soft summer-clouds were they,
They wept a few bright drops for thee,
So early passed away.
They floated swiftly by, beloved,
Half sunshine, and half tears,
Like the checkered light and shade of life,
In thine own vanished years.

The ever-wandering winds, Marie,
That went and came at will,
Brought whispered tones of love from thee,
As thou wert with us still.
And I almost saw thy seraph form
Hovering above us there,
And felt thy spirit-wing, beloved,
Fanning the viewless air.

We stood around thy grave, Marie,
Where thy gentle form was laid;
It is a pleasant place of rest
Beneath the greenwood shade;
The wind-flower blooms there earliest,
When the earth wakes from her sleep,
But the spring will come and go, beloved,
Nor break thy slumber deep.

Our tears fall fast for thee, Marie,
Young mother and young wife,
But not thine infant’s pleading tones
Could call thee back to life;
The soft smile lingered on thy lip,
Lending its quiet grace,
And the dark fringe of thy snowy lids
Shadowed thy pale, calm face.

We knew ’twas but thy form, Marie,
We placed beneath the mould,
We knew thy spirit laid it off
As a garment’s cumbrous fold.
But beautiful to us, beloved,
Had thy spirit’s dwelling been,
And ’twas hard to see the cold, cold grave
So darkly close it in.

Thou art nearer to us now, Marie,
Thy vision is more clear,
Thou speakest with a seraph’s voice
In that celestial sphere.
Oh, pray the Lord of Life, beloved,
That unto us be given,
To cheer the darkness of our path,
Some glimpses of thy heaven.

* * * * *

LOVE, DUTY AND HOPE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

“Learn by a mortal yearning to ascend—
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
For this the passion to excess was driven—
That self might be annulled: her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.”

“What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering.
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.”
—WORDSWORTH.

There is a romance and interest in the simple unadorned recital of any woman’s life, no matter how confined may have been her sphere of action. When I look around a circle of elderly ladies, whose countenances, so quiet and calm, tell the victory they have gained over “the weary strife of frail humanity.” I think, ye were once young and full of hope, love and enthusiasm, and ye have passed through scenes of romance unconsciously. Each wrinkle, each line on their aged faces seem glorified to me, for they are records of woman’s trials—evidences of the earnest struggle of each fond, enduring woman’s heart.

Years, many and trying have passed since I was a child. The days of my girlhood I recall with but little pleasure, for the recollection is associated with remembrances of dependence, loneliness, and ill-health. My parents died while I was yet quite young. Of my father I have no recollection—of my mother a faint memory, which may be but fancy after all. A girl always imagines she recollects her mother, and with the fancied memory she blends all that is lovely and beautiful.

My relatives were kind-hearted, but plain matter-of-fact people. They were mostly well to do in the world, but they had families of their own to forward in life, and the poor weakly girl was but a burthen to them. As I grew larger and stronger in health, they all agreed that something must be done to make me independent when I should grow to woman’s estate. Very properly they argued “she may never marry, and although a woman, she must have some means of support to free her from the humbling feeling of dependence.” My weakly constitution had made me shy and reserved. A mother’s watchful, fearful love would have overcome this tendency, but I shrank from the abrupt kindnesses of my plain, homely friends, and in secret, with a sort of “sorrowing luxury” pined for the gentle hand of a mother to smooth the pillow for my constant aching brow, and listen to, and soothe my childish complainings. I loved to be alone, and fortunately I early imbibed a love for reading. In books I forgot the sensation of loneliness that weighed down my young spirits. The bustling, busy natures of those amongst whom the death of my parents had thrown me, caused them to look upon this very natural tendency of mine as something quite remarkable. They thought I must surely be uncommonly clever, uncommonly intelligent to display, thus early, a love for books; their own memories told a different story—study and reading had been irksome to their restless minds—minds which found food enough in every-day worldly pursuits. My vocation was decided upon—I was fond of study, therefore I would surely make a good teacher, and to fit me for this trying office, they all resolved that I should have an excellent education, cost what it might. As I grew older, I fully appreciated their judicious kindness, and prayed Heaven might bless such single-hearted people—for although I had not received from my homely, matter-of-fact relatives, the gentle caresses, and persuasive, patient endurance of parents, for which I pined in childhood, yet they freely gave of their store to me, and provided me with the resources, which in womanhood fortified my mind, and enabled me to bear with sore trials.

An old established prosperous school was selected, where, under the supervision of a highly accomplished and superior mind, my early days were passed. I improved rapidly. Each session at its conclusion gave a most satisfactory report of my progress; and when I reached the age of fifteen I had obtained such a position as to entitle me to a vacant subordinate teachership in the school, the duties of which were but light, and left me sufficient time to pursue the higher branches of study. My position as half-teacher, half-pupil, caused a slight barrier to be raised between my fellow scholars and myself, but amongst them I had many dear friends, who disregarded this fancied difference, and loved me as one of themselves. My most intimate school-girl friend was Clara Neale. So different were we in every respect, that even as a girl I used to wonder at our intimacy. She was beautiful, rich, and surrounded by a troop of loving and admiring friends. I poor, not absolutely ugly, yet plain, and almost if not quite alone in the school world. How I worshiped her beauty—I was always strangely affected and influenced by personal appearance. Beauty, particularly in a woman, attracted me—it was a weakness, but still I acknowledge its power. The blue of Clara’s eyes was so deep, so dark—I can see their melting, bewitching softness of expression even now, though many, many years have passed away, and those eyes are closed in death.

Her hair was of the purest shade of chestnut brown; and many an hour have I hung over her as if under the influence of a beautiful dream, listening to her sweetly modulated voice reading some impassioned tale; her graceful form thrown carelessly in a lovely attitude, and every movement beaming with beauty. She was my idol, I confess, but the idol also of many. My enthusiastic love pleased her, for I was cold to others, being as in childhood, quiet and reserved, and seldom giving evidence of any emotion. In the school I ranked high as a scholar, and on account of my incessant, ambitious application, received from my principals more credit for superiority of mind, than I fear I really deserved; which, although it caused me to be an object of envy to many, yet by girls possessing the associations and independence of position which Clara did, I was regarded with respect and admiration. Therefore did my romantic love flatter her. She was my first infatuation. I clothed her with every virtue under the sun—I endowed her with every mental gift in my fancy. As I look upon the ideal being created by my girlish fascination, I can scarcely refrain from smiling, though in sadness. Beautiful, she truly was, “as a poet’s or a painter’s dream”—but she was little else. Clever enough, but not superior. She was romantic, easily influenced, and gentle—but I loved her passionately, and I love her memory now, even though she caused me great suffering.

My vacations were generally spent at the school, for it was situated in a very healthy section of country, and there were always many of the boarding scholars that different circumstances compelled to remain. But the summer of my sixteenth year, my health gave evidences of failing. The preceding winter had been a trying one, both out of doors and in—bleak and stormy had been the weather—the studies had likewise been arduous and severe for me. The class of younger girls, my charges, had been uncommonly large, consequently my duties increased, which caused me to take from my sleeping hours the time necessary for accomplishing my other studies. I felt that my reputation as the leading scholar in the establishment was all I had to depend upon, therefore I could not permit any thing to deprive me of that which I knew was my only capital. But, ah! how wretchedly I felt at the close of the session; all the old pining sadness of my childhood returned to me—I sickened for a tender mother’s gentle soothings, a father’s looks of anxious pride—but these were not for me, poor lone hearted girl, and “the future rose only as a wall of darkness before me.” No longer did my heart beat with pride when the principal prizes were unanimously awarded to me; and the directors of the school looked compassionately on me, as they marked my thin form, hollow cheeks, and dim eyes. A change of scene was necessary, so all said, and I received from a distant relative an invitation to spend the weeks of my vacation in his family. Passively I accepted the kind offer, for so despondent was I, that all places seemed alike to me; but I little expected the happiness that awaited me. They were relatives I had never met with before; the husband was kind, intelligent, and pleasant—the wife was still handsome, though no longer young—in my eyes a great virtue—had known and loved my mother, and was gentle and affectionate. They had many children, all married, and young grandchildren shouted merrily through the house. It was a beautiful country place where they lived, high mountains surrounded them, and thick forests, such as I had never seen but in pictures and dreams. The glow of health soon bloomed once more upon my cheeks; the dark cloud of the Future was no longer regarded by me, for the bright sunny light of the Present, blinded me to its shadows and I again rejoiced in life.

When my visit was about half over, a ward of my cousin’s came to pay them a visit. Does not my reader see already that I am approaching the history of my second infatuation? How my heart beats even now, old as I am, when I recall the image of Walter Grey. He was also beautiful, or my heart would never have been enchained. A miniature of him lies beside me as I write, and I fancy I am a girl again, as I look in those liquid dark eyes and dwell on the lovely lines of the countenance—massive and rich are the dark clusters of the wavy hair; beautiful is the face, and deeply, devotedly, did I love the original.

The last weeks of my sojourn in that blessed region floated as on dream-wings. Walter was my constant companion. We wandered through the forests—by the gushing, dancing, Undine streams, and he imagined, while listening to my girlish rhapsodies, that I was the realization of an intellectual perfection he had created in his fancy. We parted in the fall, promising to meet again. My cousin’s family had become much attached to me, and they insisted on parting, that every vacation should be spent with them. Gladly I consented, and with a heart beating as it never before had beat, with feelings of rapture and hope, I returned to school. Clara was my confidante, and yet I had nothing to confide, as she with more worldly wisdom said. She looked disappointed when I told her Walter had made no offer, and my sensitive spirit felt shocked that she should think it a necessary attendant upon our intercourse. He had talked of love, but not particularly of loving me. We had roamed together by the banks of the mountain streamlets, watching the moon-beams glistening on the tiny white-crested wavelets, listening to the chiming of their ringing foam bells, as they sprang aloft to kiss the overhanging branches of the osier willows that hung as in “love-sick langor” o’er the banks of the faëry waters. Hand clapped in hand, we had talked of nature, of spiritual love and beauty—earthly every day matters were unthought of by us, we were dreamers, and happy in our visions.

A winter vacation came, and again I visited my cousin’s beautiful home—again met with Walter. I saw those magnificent forests clothed in snow—a glittering mantle enveloped all nature; but still the dancing streamlet leaped, dashing and sparkling along its mountain path, unbound by the icy chains that held captive other streams; it seemed as an emblem of my own joyous nature. I was so happy. Another summer came, and I revisited the lovely place; but that summer I had indeed much to confide to Clara. Walter and I were betrothed, with the willing, joyful consent of my relatives. We were to be married at some future time, when he should have accomplished his studies. Two or three years might elapse, but then we could meet frequently at my cousin’s, and we could write, oh! such eloquent letters to each other. I yielded myself up heart and soul to this infatuation, with an earnestness that surprised me, for I had been so accustomed to control my feelings from childhood, that I was almost ignorant of the depth of feeling I possessed.

Walter was wealthy, and every one congratulated me on my good fortune. Little I cared for his worldly goods, and with all the romance of a young disinterested spirit, I sighed that he was not poor—but he rejoiced over his wealth for my sake, he said, and longed with impatience to release me from what he deemed degrading thraldom. He implored that I should no more return to Penley-Hill—that I should remain with my cousins—they united their entreaties, but I refused; no, until our marriage, I preferred my residence at the school. I represented to him that it was not disagreeable to me, my pursuits were intellectual, and it was better for me to continue my studies. This was the only cause for dispute between us, and I felt more pained than I was willing to confess when I discovered that he rather looked down on my position in life; but his love, freely and fervently expressed, for my own self, soothed my wounded feelings, and we again parted—I for Penley-Hill, he for the gay metropolis, where he was to commence the study of a profession, which would occupy two years—two long years—at the expiration of which we were to be married.

That winter was a long one to me, for Clara had left the school at the close of the preceding session—her education completed, she was to make her debut that season in society. But her letters and Walter’s, cheered the hours which would have otherwise hung heavily. I was exceedingly anxious they should meet, and looked forward with delight to Walter’s residence in the city where Clara’s parent’s resided. They did meet—in the same circle of fashionable, wealthy families did they mingle, and I was charmed at the rapturous description my friend and my lover gave me of each other. How could they fail being pleased, one with the other I said, and I pressed their letters with transport to my bosom. That either should prove false, never entered my mind, and long, long was it before I opened my eyes with fearful certainty to the truth fatal to my happiness. The constrained, short letters I received from both, I attributed to every cause but the right one. Clara was so occupied in a whirl of dissipation I thought, as to be unable to write differently. Walter was hurried in his studies, I said self-consolingly; he was vainly endeavoring to shorten by intense application the tedious two years probation.

The winter’s vacation I spent at Penley—for Walter wrote that his studies would detain him in the city. The next vacation was indeed passed at my cousin’s mountain-home—but in such wretchedness that my heart aches as I recall that sad time. The lovely place had lost all beauty in my eyes. Long before the spring flowers had drooped, I became convinced of my friend’s perfidy—my lover’s infidelity; and I was nearer death than life when my tender relatives bore me from Penley to their home, vainly endeavoring to soothe and comfort my outraged spirits. Long and severe was the illness which held me helpless as an infant to my bed. Those who still loved me watched with painful anxiety, scarcely hoping for my recovery, for they felt that returning health would only restore me to a miserable, forsaken existence. But I did recover, and quietly and calmly resolved to bend to the burden imposed upon me. But a greater trial came. My dangerous illness had awakened feelings of remorse in both Clara and Walter. She wrote wild, self-reproaching letters, begging my forgiveness, and yielding up all claim to Walter; whilst he renewed his protestations of love, imploring me to pardon his wandering; but the same spirit which made me return to Penley the preceding summer, caused me to reject firmly these weak overtures. But I wrote with earnest affection to both, communicating my firm determination. They both sought to see me, but I steadily refused all interviews, and assured them if they really wished my future quiet and rest, they must love each other as I had loved them, but not harass my wounded heart by useless scenes and letters. Some of my friends commended my course, others attributed it to a natural coldness of disposition, and felt a sympathy for the two who had so deeply injured me; but I was alike deaf to commendation or censure. I acted as my heart and spirit impelled me, and felt a cold indifference to the remarks or opinions of any one.

I heard from Walter and Clara no more for years. Before the two years necessary for the completion of his studies had passed around, they were married; but I was far distant at the time, and did not hear of it until some months after. After my health was established my devoted application to my duties was the remark of every one, and I soon rose in the school to one of the head teacherships. I gave myself up heart and spirit to my business, and it was regarded as a wonder that I so young, should display such endurance and strength. They knew not how I suffered in secret—they knew not of the moments when my overtaxed heart could bear up no longer—when I trembled before the wailings of my inner spirit. I felt that I had

“Poured out my soul’s full tide
Of hope and trust,
Prayer, tear, devotedness;
’Twas but to write with the heart’s fiery rain,
Wild words on dust.”

The habit of self-control which I had early acquired, enabled me, however, to struggle against such feelings of sorrowful, hopeless despondency, and I would rouse myself, seeking constant, unceasing occupation in my daily duties, that I might strengthen my fainting spirit.

Amongst my pupils was one whose situation had always endeared her to me. Lucy Hill was a delicate, weakly orphan girl. She reminded me of myself in my early days; but, unlike me, though dependent, it was on an affectionate, wealthy uncle, who, being unmarried, had no one to care for but her. He watched anxiously every breath, and anticipated every wish of this idolized niece. A fall in her infancy had increased a debility natural to her, and the fear of personal deformity at last became realized. As she passed the age of early childhood, her physicians thought that to place her at Penley-Hill would be of benefit to her, bodily as well as mentally; and she had resided there for three or four years, as half pupil, half boarder. She loved me as she would have loved an elder sister; and I taught her, nursed her, and after my great sorrow, tried to forget my own griefs in the interest I felt for her. Symptoms of the disease which had swept off her family displaying themselves in her, a milder climate than her bleak northern home was deemed necessary—and her uncle resolved to take her to the South of Europe. She insisted upon my accompanying her—urged how necessary I was to her health and happiness. Her uncle joined his entreaties, and even the principals of Penley urged me to accept the offer, though at the same time, with kind, flattering words, assured me that on my return they would gladly again receive me in their establishment, from which they said they could illy spare me. But in truth they feared that I, as well as poor Lucy, needed the change of scene and climate. Though quiet and resigned, my health was gradually sinking under the burden pride imposed upon my suffering spirit, and my friends began to tremble for my life.

I accepted the munificent offers Lucy and her uncle made to me. Money was of no consequence to him compared to the gratification of that loved girl; and we set sail for Europe. A year and more passed delightfully to me. Lucy’s health seemed, indeed, benefited by the change. We traveled leisurely through the classic scenes of Europe—lingering where we wished, and roaming where fancy led us; and I almost forgot—yes, quite forgot—my sorrows in the intellectual gratification I was enjoying. But a new cause of annoyance sprung up; Mr. Hill became, to my surprise, my lover, and Lucy added her entreaties to his. I shrank from the idea of marrying. No, I had loved once, I never could again—and I would never marry without love. Mr. Hill was much older than I—many years my senior, but pleasant, intelligent and gentlemanly. He knew of my unfortunate connection with Walter, and was one of those who had looked with respect upon the course I had pursued; this sympathy and respect had deepened into love. I liked him—respected him—had even a warm friendship for him—but marry him! oh, no—that I could never do; and when he found that his offers pained me, he and Lucy, with kind consideration, desisted from their entreaties. But I could see in his countenance and manner that great was the struggle he endured; and I had resolved upon returning home, when an alarming change took place in Lucy, which forbade my leaving her. A few weeks of violent, intense suffering to her ensued, which ended in her death. On her death-bed I yielded to her request—I became the wife of her uncle. She dreaded to leave him alone in life, and her parting breath was calmed with the certainty that I was, indeed, her aunt, by the ceremony which was performed sadly, at her bed-side a few hours previous to her death.

We remained abroad many years, and I was quietly happy. I at last fancied I loved my husband; not as I had loved Walter, it is true; but the many excellent qualities which my husband possessed, won upon me. His kindness, his attention to my unexpressed wishes, could not but be appreciated—and I valued him as he deserved to be valued. We had troubles in our married life, however; our three lovely children were laid, one after another, beside dear Lucy, in the beautiful Neapolitan burial-place; and when, after ten years of quiet, calm happiness, my husband died, he left me a childless widow. We had returned to our native country a year or so before his death, and he had taken great pleasure the last few months of his existence, in beautifying in every possible manner, our country residence, which was my favorite abode. One could scarcely imagine a more lovely spot; nature had been lavish in its bounties, and my husband added every thing that wealth could purchase to adorn its exterior and interior. It reminded me of the beautiful villa belonging to the Italian, Paul Jovius; and I wish for his glowing words, that, like him, I could paint with rapture “the gardens bathed by the waters of the lake—the shade and freshness of the woods—the green slopes, sparkling fountains—the deep silence and calm of solitude.”

My husband, in adorning this place, followed out with loving precision, the classic description given of the Italian eulogist’s beautiful residence. Like the villa of Jovius, “a statue was raised in the gardens to Nature. In the hall stood a fine statue of Apollo and the Muses around, with their attributes. The library was guarded by a Mercury, and there was an apartment, adorned with Doric columns, and with pictures of the most pleasing subjects dedicated to the Graces.”

The loss of such a husband could not but be deeply felt by me, and though young, wealthy, and more comely than I had been in youth, I shut myself up from society, long after the period of mourning had elapsed. I became resigned at last, and in intellectual pursuits was tranquilly happy. Being surrounded by images of beauty—the works of masters glowing on my walls—exquisite and costly pieces of sculpture around me—my library almost a fairy spot—my days passing in luxurious quiet—the recollection of past sorrow became subdued and softened, and I breathed with calm tranquillity the delicious atmosphere of the present.

One summer, some four or five years after my husband’s death, I ventured to visit the mountain region where my dear cousins had resided. They were dead—kind creatures—but their youngest child, a married daughter, of whom I was fond, resided there with a lovely family of children. They were such romping, blessed little ones, I envied her the possession of these darlings. One lovely child, which bore the name of my mother and hers—Mary—I quietly resolved to adopt and coax away from her parents, when she should become sufficiently fond of me. The days passed delightfully to me, although that lovely place was connected with the most bitter recollections of my past life. Again I roamed through the deep forests—along the mountain paths, and traced the course of the stream as it dashed over its rocky bed as I had in girlish days with Walter, and at last found myself recalling his beautiful face to my memory. One day, on my return from my ramblings, I was told that he—Walter—the long parted one—had arrived. He was, like myself, alone in life—a childless widower. Clara was dead. How my heart sprung—and then sunk; recollections of bitter agony came with his presence—and I was chilled. We met—and days did we spend together. I knew that the meeting and intercourse had been planned by my kindly meaning friends; they thought we would renew our love—how little they knew of woman’s heart. Again we visited our old haunts; again Walter addressed words of passionate love to me, and for a while I fancied the influence of the old dream hung over me. I returned abruptly to my home, and spent weeks in its quiet, calm seclusion; severely and earnestly questioning my heart, my first conclusion remained; the recollection of past love was mingled too deeply with the remembrance of those bitter moments of heart-breaking agony, when I had dared, in my sufficiency, to question the justice of Providence. Walter’s desertion had taught me to still and calm my feelings—to coldly reason on heart-throbbings; now he was the sufferer by the lesson—and again we parted, never more to meet. I was firm—he said, heartless—and it may be I was; if so, his early faithlessness had caused that heartlessness.

Life passed quietly around. I succeeded in persuading the little Mary to love me as she loved her mother—and her merry voice and light footstep cheered my residence. I saw her married to one she loved; and my former quiet, solitary home has rung with the joyous laughter of her children, who troop around me daily. I have known great sorrow, but also much happiness, and have contributed to lighten the griefs of many. I am now old, but I am surrounded with dear, loving friends; and when I would sigh over the past, I look on these happy faces around me, and raise my heart in grateful thoughts to the Power that guided me through a painful childhood—a bitter womanhood—and led me at last to the quiet waters of peaceful prosperity, where I may lay down my spirit to rest.

* * * * *

DO I LOVE THEE?

BY RICHARD COE, JR.

Do I love thee? Ask the flower
If it love the pearly tear
That, at evening’s quiet hour,
Falleth soft and clear,
Its gentle form to bless?
If, perchance, it answer “yes!”
Answer thee sincerely—
Then I love with earnestness,
Then I love thee dearly!

Do I love thee? Ask the child,
If it love its mother dear?
If it love her accents mild?
Love her fond, sincere,
Tender and warm caress?
If, perchance, it answer “yes!”
Answer thee sincerely—
Then I love with earnestness,
Then I love thee dearly!

Do I love thee? Ay! I love thee
Better far than words can tell;
All around and all above me
Lives a charméd spell,
My spirit sad to bless!
Then I fondly answer “yes!”
Answer thee sincerely—
That I love with earnestness,
That I love thee dearly!

* * * * *

ODE TO SHELLEY.

BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

Why art thou dead? Upon the hills once more
The golden mist of waning Autumn lies;
The slow-pulsed billows wash along the shore,
And phantom isles are floating in the skies.
They wait for thee: a spirit in the sand
Hushes, expectant, for thy lingering tread;
The light wind pants to lift thy trembling hair;
Inward, the silent land
Lies with its mournful woods—why art thou dead,
When Earth demands that thou shalt call her fair?

Why art thou dead? O, glorious Child of Song,
Whose brother-spirit ever dwells with mine,
Feeling, twin-doomed, the burning hate of Wrong,
And Beauty’s worship, deathless and divine!
Thou art afar—wilt thou not soon return,
To tell me that which thou hast never told?
To grasp my throbbing hand, and by the shore
Or dewy mountain-fern,
Pour out thy heart as to a friend of old,
Tearful with twilight sorrow? Nevermore.

Why art thou dead? My years are full of pain—
The pain sublime of thought that has no word;
And Truth and Beauty sing within my brain
Diviner songs than men have ever heard.
Wert thou but here, thine eye might read the strife—
The solemn burthen of immortal song—
And hear the music, that can find no lyre;
For thou hast known a life,
Lonely, amid the Poets’ mountain-throng—
Whose cloudy snows concealed eternal fire!

I could have told thee all the sylvan joy
Of trackless woods; the meadows, far apart,
Within whose fragrant grass, a lonely boy,
I thought of God; the trumpet at my heart,
When on bleak mountains roared the midnight storm
And I was bathed in lightning, broad and grand:—
Oh, more than all, with low and sacred breath
And forehead flushing warm,
I would have led thee through the summer land
Of my young love, and past my dreams of Death!

In thee, immortal Brother! had I found
That voice of Earth for which my spirit pines;
The awful speech of Rome’s sepulchral ground,
The dusky hymn of Vallambrosa’s pines!
From thee the noise of ocean would have taken
A grand defiance round the moveless shores,
And vocal grown the mountain’s silent head.
Canst thou not still awaken
Beneath the funeral cypress? Earth implores
Thy presence for her son—why art thou dead?

I do but rave—for it is better thus:
Were once thy starry heart revealed to mine,
In the twin-life which would encircle us,
My soul would melt, my voice be lost in thine!
Better to mask the agony of thought
Which through weak human lips would make its way,
’Neath lone endurance, such as men must learn:
The Poet’s soul is fraught
With mightiest speech, when loneliest the day;
And fires are brightest, that in midnight burn.

* * * * *

MARION’S SONG IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.

BY FRANCIS S. OSGOOD.

Away with you, ye musty tomes!
I’ll read no more this morning!
The wildwood rose unlessoned grows—
I’m off—your sermons scorning!

I found a problem, yester eve,
In wondering where the brook led,
More pleasant far for me to solve
Than any one in Euclid.

I heard a bird sing, sweet and low,
A truer lay than Tasso—
A lay of love—ah! let me go,
And fly from Learning’s lasso!

I saw a golden missal, too,
’Twas writ in ancient ages,
And stars—immortal words of light—
Illumined all its pages!

The hand of God unclasped the book,
And oped its leaves of glory;
I read, with awed and reverent look,
Creation’s wondrous story.

I will not waste these summer hours,
The gift that He has given;
I’ll find philosophy in flowers,
Astronomy in heaven!

Yon morning-glory shuts its leaves,
A worm creeps out from under;
Ye volumes, take the hint she gives,
And let the book-worm wander!

I’ll scan no more old Virgil’s verse,
I’d rather scan the heavens;
I’ll leave the puzzling Rule-of-Three
At sixes and at sevens;

The only sum I’ll cipher out
Shall be the “_summum bonum_;”
My only _lines_—shall fish for trout,
Till Virgil wouldn’t own ’em!

A costly cover has my book,
Rich blue, where light is winding;
How poor, beside its beauty, look
Your calf and cotton binding.

Away! the balmy air—the birds—
Can teach me music better
Than all your hard, high-sounding words,
That still my fancy fetter.

The waves will tell me how to play
That waltz of Weber’s rightly;
And I shall learn, from every spray,
To dance, with grace and lightly.

Hush! hark! I heard a far-off bird,
I’ll read no more this morning;
The jasmine glows—the woodbine blows!
I’m off—your sermons scorning!

* * * * *

ALL ABOUT “WHAT’S IN A NAME.”

BY CAROLINE C——.

’Tis folly to think of life’s troubles, yet they have the most
inconvenient faculty of forcing themselves on the minds of men!
_An. Phi._

Proprietor of the visual organs now scanning this page, which the publisher, with the still but potent voice of print, proclaimeth henceforth and forever mine, _do_ you love music? rejoice you in the melody of singing voices? If you reply in the affirmative, then most heartily do I wish that you occupied my place at this present moment; for over the way—oh, most uncomfortable proximity!—there is a “Hall,” where regularly meet a number of _vocalists_, whose chief object in life, for all I can discover, seems to be to ascertain to a certainty the exact power of their individual lungs—perhaps a secondary intent may be to edify this usually calm neighborhood; in case this latter should be at all an influential motive, I hereby proclaim that I, being the neighbor most concerned, am fully satisfied, and far from following the pernicious example of the world-renowned Oliver, I will not cry for “more,” on the contrary, I would much rather stoop to compromise; and if they will but cessate, I will henceforth and forever maintain a most unbreakable silence on all musical subjects, though in doing so, you can hardly conceive what a _sacrifice_ I would be making.

Oh, could you but hear them shout “I _will_ praise the Lord!” perhaps if you are a good Christian you might put up with the nuisance, after having given utterance to only a _partial_ sigh; but possessing as _I_ do so small a share of the Christian graces, I can only say in answer, though with all reverence, “if you call _this_ praise, beseech you, expedite your glorifyings, and have done.”

Perhaps I owe an apology, at least a reason, for opening this chapter in such an exceedingly unamiable style: here it is then. I came into my “_sanctum_” with the express purpose of thinking of one I would fain tell you all about, but with thoughts so distracted as mine are at present, I fear I shall hardly do justice to any body in giving them utterance to night, and yet I feel constrained so to do; remember, in mercy, how I have been outraged by the explosion in yonder “Hall,” and so proceed.

My heroine lived and _lives_ in this most beautiful of all villages in the Empire State, which, as perhaps you know, is _footed_ by the most charming of lakes imaginable, and is, though a “sleeping beauty,” (the village I mean,) when taken all together quite perfect in its way.

To avoid being convicted of speaking of _any body in particular_, I shall treat of this lady as though she were one of the has beens; perhaps afterward I may tell you what she _is_.

Well, then, in her _young_ days she _was_ a maiden very much like other maidens, (American, of course,) pretty, graceful, intelligent, and interesting. No one ever thought her a great beauty, but the expression of her countenance was decidedly good. She was very fair, indeed, _so_ fair that her face seemed pale, in contrast with the glossy black hair which was not usually arranged with very great regard for effect. Her eyes also were black—not the detestable, twinkling, beady, black orb, nor the very opposite, dull, heavy black; but a soft, spiritual eye, filled with mild, cheerful light, quite pleasing to behold; and yet I have seen them glowing actually with what might be called the _fire of determination_, which was quite astonishing to see in one most every body took to be the most placid, and amiable, and soft-hearted creature in the world.

In a crowd of brilliants, or of ordinary fashionable people even, this little lady would have been in her earlier days hopelessly lost to all observation. It was amid the fire-side circle she was calculated pre-eminently to shine. In her own home, among familiar friends, what an affectionate child she was; the arms of her spirit seemed to be continually out-stretched, seeking and asking for love and kindness and sympathy; it was a craving of her nature, a necessity to her happiness, that all should love and esteem her.

A pale-faced, quiet girl, whom, because of her goodness and gentleness, every body liked—there, you have her. You have seen hundreds such, but in all your promiscuous travels, I will guaranty, not many of you have met with one of whom you have such a tale to tell as I am going to unfold.

In order that I may continue this story with any degree of satisfaction to you, patient(?) bearer with my many digressions, or with any comfort or propriety to myself, it is absolutely necessary that I should give this amiable and loveable maiden “a name,” as I have already given her a “local habitation.” I have not delayed doing this for so long without reason, so far from that, it is with inexpressible reluctance that I proclaim to you the cognomen of _this_ friend of mine. I have tried to get up a little interest in her on your part before mentioning her title, the world is so cold-hearted, and possesses so little power of _appreciation_, that I fear me it will imagine no manner of interest could attach itself to the owner of _such_ a name.

Poor dear, (do not look at me so earnestly, my tongue falters while I speak,) poor, dear Delleparetta Hogg, all honor to thee for bearing the burden of _such_ a nomenclature so meekly and so well! Let me tell you all about her, (for really I am coming to the point,) and you will see what other burdens she bore nobly, beside that odious appendage to her identity.

Her childhood passed much in the manner of the childhood of other people. From the time when she was a little wee thing till she was twelve years old, Delleparetta, or Delle, as we used to call her, went with all the rest of the village children to the village-school; she played with us, and rode, and walked, and went nutting with us, and was in all respects as we, only a great deal better, and more obliging, till, as I have said, she approached _’teen hood_. Then “trouble came down upon” the young child.

One day the sun, which had always shone so cheerfully upon her, went behind a dark and hateful cloud, and an evil genius passing by her home, stamped upon the door the cross of poverty. From that day there was a sad change in little Delle; her voice became more hushed than ever in its tone, she rarely came to join us in our merry-makings—and there spread a thoughtful, sad expression over the face of the gentle child, which told she had heard unpleasant changes in the aforetime harmony of her life.