Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Books and writing materials were now scattered carelessly upon a table beside her—but they did not claim her interest. She seemed in an unusually nervous, restless mood. At times her eyes would wander around the apartment with a strangely dissatisfied look, (for every thing before her wore an appearance of splendor very agreeable to the gaze of the beholder,) then she would bury her face in her hands, while something glittering and dewy—something greatly resembling _a tear-drop_, would trickle slowly through those slender fingers. Could it, indeed, be a tear-drop? What cause for sorrow had Florence Hastings, the young and accomplished heiress? Florence was an orphan. At the early age of ten years she had lost both the tender father, and the sweet mother who had watched over her steps in infancy, and since that period she had felt too deeply that there was no one to whom she could look for the true love and sympathy for which her spirit pined. Her uncle and guardian, absorbed in the duties of an extensive mercantile establishment, troubled himself little about his niece. He was well assured that her own goodly inheritance amply supplied all her desires—and the morning salutation with which he honored Florence as she took her accustomed seat beside him at the breakfast table, and the gracious smile of approbation when he beheld her at evening bending over her studies in the parlor, were generally sufficient to relieve his mind of all scruples concerning the duties of personal intercourse. On this point, however, no one who knew Mr. Hastings would have rested any blame upon him. He was to all a man of few words—naturally cold and calm in manner. His wife resembled him greatly in every respect—being of a quiet, placid temperament, which no emotion was ever observed to ruffle—pursuing the tenor of her way by rule rather than by impulse. So in this case, at least, it was plainly evident that “Love’s delight” had not consisted in “joining contrasts.” Casual observers might have said that a similar description would apply to Mr. Hastings’ niece—but in doing so they wronged her. Florence was, indeed, reserved, and apparently cold, but it was from habit and education—not by inheritance. Once she had been a sunny, glad-souled child, whose bounding footstep and merry laugh resounded gayly through a home where she was tenderly loved and cherished—but she was sensitive, too, beyond her years; and when the light of that pleasant hearth was forever extinguished, and she sat in affliction and desolation of spirit by the fireside of those who till then had been strangers to her, the chilling atmosphere of her new home effectually checked the return of that animation of manner, which, from the fortunate inability of childhood to retain a lasting remembrance of sorrow, might have been expected. So the gleeful laughter of the once happy-hearted little Florence was hushed, and her joyous, springing step exchanged for a slower and more measured tread. It was a mournful thing for one so young and gentle and loving in spirit as Florence, to be obliged to repress all exhibition of the sweet, frank impulses of her nature, and live on with no voice to whisper words of encouragement and affection. Yet the orphan succeeded in moulding her manner in accordance with her new and strange existence. A weary task it was, and oftentimes did her rebellious soul

“Beat the bars
With burning wing and passionate song,
And pour to the benignant stars
The earnest story of its wrong.”

But the “benignant stars” alone looked down upon these struggles; no human ear ever caught the moan of that fettered and wounded spirit. Mrs. Hastings never dreamed, nor is it to be supposed she would have _cared_, that the quiet and apparently passionless child who came with such seeming carelessness to receive her customary good-night kiss, would have clung to her fondly, and returned the caress with impassioned earnestness, had it been impressed upon her brow with the slightest token of feeling.

Till Florence had attained her fourteenth year her education had been superintended by a governess who came daily to her uncle’s dwelling, and with whom, being devoted to books and study, she had made rapid progress. But for many reasons which I have not space here to enumerate, it was at length thought advisable to send her to a celebrated seminary located in the neighborhood of her residence. About the same period, Mr. Hastings’ family received an addition, by the arrival of a niece of his wife’s, who had also been consigned to his guardianship. Ida Hamilton was about a year the senior of Florence, and a bright, frank, gay-spirited creature, who had passed her life hitherto under none but genial auspices. She was exactly what Florence would have been had her soul always dwelt in the kindly atmosphere of affection. At the school which they attended together, Ida was called “the Sunbeam,” and Florence “the Iceberg;” and the society of the former was courted by all, while the latter was uncared for, though none dared to think her neglected, for they said she was cold and proud—

“Proud of her pride,
And proud of the power to riches allied;”

and when in the hour of recreation she sat apart from all, apparently absorbed in a book, and paying little heed to what passed around her, what token had they for suspecting that it was the indifference of a heart only too proud to seek for sympathy where she believed she would meet with no return. Ida Hamilton had been an orphan from infancy; but the place of her parents had been supplied by near and kind relatives, who had petted and cherished her as their own. Her first grief had been her separation from these relatives, when by the ill health of one of its members the family circle was broken up, and a residence in the South of Europe advised by the physicians. Ida was, meanwhile, left to the care of her guardian, Mr. Hastings; and deeply as she at first mourned the departure of her beloved friends, hope painted in glowing colors her reunion with them at some future day, and so by degrees the young girl became reconciled to the change. For awhile she felt, indeed, a restraint upon her happy spirit, for the constraint and formality which seemed the governing powers of her aunt’s domestic circle formed a vivid contrast with that free-hearted and universal cordiality of feeling to which she had been accustomed. But it was scarcely to be supposed that she would long be daunted at the unpromising aspect of things around her. Confiding, affectionate and yielding to those who loved her, Ida was “as careless as the summer rill that sings itself along” with those who had no claim upon her heart, and possessed withal of a certain independence of manner which rendered all caviling out of the question. If Mrs. Hastings felt any surprise when her niece gradually cast aside the awe with which her presence had at first inspired her, as usual, she gave no manifestation of it. But the servants, well-trained as they were, looked exclamation points at one another when, while engaged in active duties, they heard Miss Ida’s lively sallies to their master and mistress, and _talked_ their astonishment when, while in their own distinct quarters, they caught the sound of her voice as it rang out dear and free in laughter, or warbled silvery and sweet, wild snatches of some favorite song.

It may be supposed that with such pleasant companionship the life of Florence Hastings had become more joyous. But it was not so. Though for more than three years Ida Hamilton and Florence had been domesticated beneath the same roof, upon the morning on which my sketch begins (the ever memorable Fourteenth of February, 1850,) they were to all appearance scarcely better acquainted than upon the day of Ida’s introduction to Mr. Hasting’s dwelling. Bending daily, as they had done, over the same studies, they had never sought one another’s sympathy; and when they left school, it could scarcely be expected that the bond of union would be more closely cemented. Mutually calculated though they were to become warm-hearted friends, beyond the common civilities of life, no intercourse had subsisted between them. Ida never jested with Florence, or strove to provoke a smile by the thousand little witcheries that she sometimes practiced upon others—not excepting her stately uncle and aunt, and at intervals even in this case with success. Florence often wished that she had but possessed a sister like Ida; her heart throbbed with a deep, irrepressible yearning whenever that little, soft hand by chance touched hers; but she had learned too perfectly the art of keeping her feelings in check to betray them now, even “by faintest flutter of a pulse, by lightest change of cheek, or eyelid’s fall.”

As I have said, Florence was but just recovering from a lengthened and dangerous illness, from the effects of which she was still weak. During that illness she had been constantly attended by Mrs. Hastings; and while deeply grateful for her care, she had, though unobserved, moments of irritability when the immobile features of her aunt were an absolute annoyance. And it was enhanced by the striking contrast of Ida’s bright face, who daily paid a ceremonious visit to the sick-room—Ida, who was never cold to any one but her! Then she would wish that Ida Hamilton would not come near her at all—she was never so wretched as after the reception of her unconscious visiter; and yet when Ida delayed her coming an hour later than usual, she was restless and uneasy! And these spells of feverish excitability greatly retarded her recovery. It was the return of one of them upon the present occasion, by which the tears that filled her eyes may be explained.

Among the various manuscripts lying upon the little table before her, and bearing the signature of Florence Hastings, was the following, characteristic of her present emotions, and upon the surface of which the ink was still moist. She had evidently penned it but a few seconds previously.

This world is fair, with sunshine and with flowers,
That fragrance to its happy wanderers bring;
And while with listless step I roam life’s bowers,
Fain would I pluck the blossoms where they spring;
Ah! must I check the wish and pass them by—
Must sunless ever be _my_ spirit’s sky?

And yet they deem me reckless of the love
Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain
At the strange picture of a mind above
All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;
Oh! can they think my proud, high heart would _show_
The wish for blessings it may never know?

Watchful and wary of each look and word,
Lest they, earth’s joyous ones, should chance to learn
The feelings that within so oft are stirred,
That such emotions in my bosom burn,
Yet here unseen, unheard, I must give way,
And for awhile to anguish yield the sway.

_Alone!_ What weary thoughts at that word throng,
Vainly some refuge from their weight I crave,
Yet it shall be the burthen of my song
Until I rest within the quiet grave;
No brighter hope hath my sad spirit known—
And I must still live on unloved—alone!

They call me cold and reckless of the love
Of kindred spirits, while they gaze with pain
At the strange picture of a mind above
All thoughts of waking warm affection’s strain;
How can they dream my proud, high heart would show
The wish for blessings it may never know!

Florence was suddenly aroused from her melancholy reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching the door of her chamber. In another instant there was a low knock—and hastily dashing aside her tears, and assuming, as if by magic, her wonted exterior, she bade the intruder enter. It proved to be a servant, who placed a small package in her hand, saying, as she did so, “A Valentine for you, Miss Florence.” The latter started with pleasurable surprise; who in all the wide world could have taken the trouble to write _her_ a valentine? But the query was answered by a single glance at the superscription. It was strangely familiar—it was Ida Hamilton’s! Just as she broke the seal the servant withdrew, saying that she had been requested to call in half an hour for a reply.

When the package was unclosed, the following verses met the gaze of the astonished and delighted Florence. They were entitled “A Supplication to Florence.”

Hearest thou my spirit chanting
At the portals of thy heart?
’Tis to cross that threshold panting—
Pining—bid it not depart.

List not to its prayer unheeding,
Entrance though it seeks to win—
When it rises softly pleading,
Prithee, prithee take me in!

From a world of care and sadness,
From its shadows and its sin,
For Love’s sake, with love and gladness,
Prithee, prithee take me in!

Ah! within that mansion holy,
May its nobler life begin?
Turn not from its pleadings lowly,
Prithee, prithee take me in!

Accompanying this playful but deeply earnest little strain—_doubly_ earnest, as coming from Ida to Florence—was an explanatory letter. Ida Hamilton wrote thus:

“It must, doubtless, seem very bewildering to you, Florence,
that I should have taken the liberty of addressing a Valentine
to one between whom and myself there has not hitherto existed an
intimacy sufficiently familiar to warrant the presumption. But
when, in excuse for my boldness, I plead my sincere wish for a
nearer intimacy, my earnest desire to call you by the holy and
tender name of _friend_—you will forgive me, will you not,
_dear_ Florence?

“For the past three years, dearest Florence, your image has
haunted and troubled me—haunted me, because, from the moment of
our first meeting, I have felt my heart irresistibly drawn
toward you—troubled me, because the belief of others, and their
oft-repeated assurance that you were totally destitute of warmth
of character, could not consequently be aught but a source of
pain. For this I must also crave your forgiveness, for I know
now that in having for a time given credence to such assertions,
I did you a grievous wrong.

“For the last few months I have watched you closely, Florence,
though you little dreamed yourself the object of my scrutiny. I
have ascertained that you are not the statue-like being you have
been represented, and, indeed, appear—that you are in reality

‘Not cold, but pure—not proud, but taught to know
That the heart’s treasure is a holy thing.’

“You are not aware that once, when you imagined yourself quite
unobserved, I beheld you bending tearfully over the miniature of
that dear parent whom God so early recalled to his heavenly
mansions—that I saw you press your lips to it wildly and
passionately; and though you spoke but the simple word “Mother!”
the tone in which that word was uttered, was the revelation that
I sought. And from that moment I found it easy to realize how
the chilling atmosphere of my aunt’s domicil had operated upon
your gentle heart, while I felt that had _I_ been transplanted
to my present abode at an earlier and more impressible age, I,
too, should have learned to wear a mask similar to that which
concealed your ardent and sensitive spirit. And the discovery
that brought such joy to my soul, gave new life to its former
yearnings for your friendship. But toward myself you had never
evinced the slightest token of preference—wearing in my
presence the exterior which deceived all others; and I could not
offer advances which I feared might be intrusive and unwelcome.
So I strove to content myself with a silent interest in all your
motions, and never until your recent illness allowed myself to
imagine that the affection of a faulty, wayward heart like mine,
would prove to you an acceptable gift. The occasion to which I
refer was during one of my visits to your sick chamber, when, as
I rose to leave you, you clasped my hand for the first time with
a pressure, while as I spoke formally enough, my pleasure at
seeing you recovering so rapidly, a faint color suffused your
cheek. It faded instantly, however, and your wonted
self-possession returned; but not before my heart had
experienced a thrill of delight at the hope, delusive though it
may have been, of winning your regard at some future day. It is
that hope which has given me courage for my present
proceeding—it has emboldened me to ask whether we may not
become friends—become _dear_ friends, Florence?

“In conclusion, I would say to you that I have to-day received a
letter from a distant relative, who lives at the South, urgently
pressing me to come and reside with her till the friends of my
early youth return from abroad. She writes to me in a spirit of
genial, heart-breathed kindness, very welcome to my thirsting
soul—and her letter is different, indeed, from the
precisely-worded epistle in which my aunt invited me to become a
member of _her_ household. It rests with you, Florence, to tell
me whether I shall go or stay. My present abode has never been a
congenial one; but _your_ friendship would cast a heart-glow
around it, and render me perfectly content to remain where I am.

“I await with impatience your answer. If it should prove that I
have had but a pleasant vision, too bright and sweet ever to be
realized, be at least frank with me, Florence, as I have been
with you.

“IDA.”

Florence Hastings closed that precious letter, upon which, as she read, her tears had fallen thick and fast. To her it was the first of those moments in life

“When such sensations in the soul assemble
As make it pleasure to the eyes to weep.”

And with scarce an instant’s delay, she traced the following reply.

“Do not leave me, Ida. Heaven bless you for your generous
avowal—for your sweet offer of affection! Oh! if you could but
imagine how intensely happy it has made me! I have always loved
_you_, though I scarcely dared confess it even to myself, for I
never dreamed that I could be an object of interest to any one.
My life has hitherto been _so_ sad, and dark, and desolate; and
my proud efforts to conceal from view the yearning for sympathy
and appreciation that possessed my soul, have given me an apathy
of manner which could not but prove repelling to those with whom
chance brought me in contact. _You_ alone have read me
aright—you alone know that I am not what I seem; that
discipline and not nature, is shadowed forth in my outward
demeanor.

“Come, then, to me, darling, and let me reveal myself to you
_more_ fully. Let me fold you to my bosom, and then, while I
confess how precious to my soul is the promise of your true and
earnest friendship, you will forget that to _you_ at least I
have ever seemed

“THE ICEBERG.”

Florence had just finished her answer when the servant came for it, and this time her voice trembled perceptibly, as she repeated to the messenger her desire to see Miss Hamilton as soon as she had perused it.

Five minutes elapsed; Florence, meanwhile, impatiently pacing the apartment, her usually colorless cheek deeply flushed, and her dark eyes glowing with an excitement that was destined speedily to end in happiness the most perfect she had known since early childhood. At length there was a light, hurrying tread upon the stair; nearer and nearer it drew—and in another instant the door of Florence’s apartment was hastily unclosed, and Ida Hamilton stood before her! There was a quick burst of tears on the part of each; then Florence Hastings sprung forward and clasped her newly found friend to her heart, returning her caresses with impassioned fondness, and in tones that thrilled to the inmost soul of her companion, murmuring, “Ida—my own Ida! Darling, darling Ida!”

The Iceberg was irremediably _thawed_.

* * * * *

There is a cosy family party assembled in the well-lighted parlors of Mr. Gordon’s dwelling, in —— street. It is the anniversary of his wedding-day. Upon the festival of St. Valentine, exactly nine-and-forty years ago, (for Mr. Gordon has passed the allotted “three score and ten,”) as his wife, he brought to his then humble abode a lovely and sunny-souled maiden of eighteen, now metamorphosed into the gray-haired matron by his side, who has proved his genial partner through all life’s joys and sorrows—the still blithe and sweet-voiced Grandma Gordon. From time immemorial, the members of Mr. Gordon’s family, from far and near, have gathered together upon this especial occasion. His own immediate household had consisted originally of five sons and as many daughters; and though some of these now rested beneath the sod, in their place had arisen a numerous flock of grandchildren—and a prouder boast still, he had lived to pet, and I had almost said _spoil_, no less than two bright-eyed and most wonderful _great_-grandchildren—to wit, Master Benjamin Franklin Gordon, or little Bennie, as everybody calls him, a promising young gentleman of some three or four summers, and Helen Gordon Bond, a most precocious young lady, who is now gliding rapidly onward toward her second birthday. Both these important juveniles are present upon this particular occasion. Grandfather Gordon, himself a silvery-haired, benevolent-featured old man, (in appearance precisely such a grandsire as the genius of a Waldmuller would have delighted to immortalize upon canvas,) was seated in a capacious and well-cushioned arm-chair by the fire. Occupying with becoming dignity the post of honor upon his knee is little Helen, while Bennie Gordon has perched himself upon one arm of his grandfather’s chair, and is teasing him for the information whether the little toy-watch he holds in his hand—his first assumption of manliness—is wound up or wound _down_.

It will be, perhaps, proper to introduce the reader to a portion of the assembled family group. Yonder, upon the sofa, sit the two elder sons of Mr. Gordon, busily engaged in a discussion upon the merits of last year’s Art-Union exhibition. Alfred, the senior, is the _genuine_ grandfather of little Bennie.

That lady, who is just about leaving her station at the piano, is the parent of little Helen. She is a sweet, fair creature, so childlike in appearance, that it is difficult to recognize her as a wife and mother. She has just been singing, “Be kind to the loved ones,” with a grace and feeling that touched all hearts.

Next we behold a group of some half a dozen little girls, huddled together in a corner, in most sociable proximity to one another. Katie Wilmot, at present the “leading member,” a rosy, chatty little curly-pate, is detailing most eloquently her experience of Santa Claus’s last donation visit, while the others are patiently waiting their turn to relate how lavishly he supplied their stockings.

Those two maidens of “sweet sixteen,” or thereabouts, seated upon the ottoman, with their arms very lovingly entwined round one another, are Mabel Wilmot and Fanny Gordon, light-hearted school-girls and affectionate cousins—inseparable companions whenever a happy chance throws them together. But, alas! their opportunities of intercourse have as yet been “few and far between,” for Mabel’s home is in the country, many miles distant. The cousins have recently, however, laid their plans for removing this obstacle to their intimacy. They talk of becoming voluntary old maids, and of coaxing grandfather to build for their sole occupation an “Old Maid’s Hall.” Mabel has repeatedly declared her determination never to be such a goose as to get married; while Fanny, in one of her frequent letters to Mabel, has written, “Is it not a glorious thing to be an old maid? And what further recommendation can a lady need in the eyes of society if it is known that she is _an old maid_!” It may be well if their plans are eventually put into execution, for rumor says, though Mabel Wilmot disclaims the assertion with a most indignant toss of her glossy ringlets, that a certain Mr. Merritt, the high-souled, noble-looking, and wealthy rector of B——, has lately, for the first time, been suspected of _interested motives_ in his intercourse with a member of his flock; while the bright eyes and witching smile of Fanny Gordon seem to argue for the future a prospectus of hearts beguiled, one of which may eventually cause the overthrow of the projected building.

A youth of nineteen or so, who is at present busily engaged entertaining several younger cousins, is Mr. Harry Gordon, a theological student, with whom social qualities and professional abilities, will always be happily blended. He is amusing his juvenile companions with a game of his own invention—a sort of play upon names, of which the following may be taken as examples:

What well known scriptural name might a mother use in requesting her son to escort home two young lady visiters?—Jeroboam. (“Jerry, bow ’em!”)

If an old gentleman told his son to crowd into an already well-filled omnibus, the name of what conspicuous personage present would form the command?—Benjamin. (“Ben, jam in!”)

The names of what popular authors of Great Britain might a person, while gazing at a large bonfire, with propriety repeat?—Dickens, Howitt, Burns. (“Dickens! how it burns!”)

The second of these was received with especial applause—not forgetting to mention the brilliant sparkle of Grandfather Gordon’s eyes at this original mode of bringing his pet, Bennie, into notice; while the third particularly attracted the laughter and approval of a group around the centre-table, consisting of Mrs. Gordon, the mother of Harry, Amy Carter, her niece, and Mrs. Clinton, her sister. Amy is an orphan, and has been so from infancy. But the tenderness of her grand-parents, with whom she has always resided, has shielded her from the evils of orphanage. She is a blithe, happy-hearted girl of seventeen, the very soul of mirth and music. She is grandma’s especial darling; and the dear old lady never gazes into that lovely, sunny face, never hears that sweet voice warbling its merry carols, but she thinks of her own bright youth, and says, with complacent fondness of her treasured grandchild, “She is just what _I_ was at her age.” It is Grandfather Gordon’s firmly expressed opinion that Amy, more than any other member of their household, resembles his wife as he first knew her. Cousin Harry calls his favorite Amy the Household Witch, because she has managed to wind herself so closely about the hearts of all her relatives, that every eye invariably brightens as her light footstep is heard approaching. But this evening Amy seems for once herself to have been bewitched, for she has found an absorbing object of interest in a spirited volume now lying open before her, entitled, “Greenwood Leaves,” by Grace Greenwood. Amy Carter has long felt an appreciation of the authoress, and to-night is not the first time that, with all the fervor of a young, warm, generous heart, she has wished her God speed in her journeys through Authorland. Mrs. Clinton, who sits close beside her, with one of Amy’s hands resting lovingly in hers, appears to be equally interested in a splendidly bound and illustrated volume of Mrs. Osgood’s poems. She has just finished reading to her sister, Mrs. Gordon, a brief essay upon the productions of her favorite poetess, cut and preserved from a popular newspaper, and from which the ensuing is an extract.

“The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables, but a spontaneous gushing forth of thoughts, fancies, and feelings, which fall naturally into harmonious measures; and so perfectly is the sense echoed in the sound, that it seems as if many of her compositions might be intelligibly written in the characters of music. In all her poems we find occasion to admire the author as well as the works. Her spontaneous and instinctive effusions appear in a higher degree than any others in our literature, to combine the rarest and highest capacities in art with the sincerest and deepest sentiments, and the noblest aspirations. They would convince us, if the beauty of her life were otherwise unknown, that Mrs. Osgood is one of the loveliest characters in the histories of literature or society.”

And it was pleasant to see what a beautiful glow of sympathy and enthusiasm illumined the countenance of the reader as she concluded that most happy and fitting tribute to genius.

Mrs. Clinton is the youngest child of Grandfather Gordon. When only eighteen, she became the wife of one to whom she was devotedly attached, and two years afterward bent wildly over the death-couch of her idolized husband. Ten years have passed since then, and time has softened the sorrow which at first seemed too grievous for human endurance. Though now past her thirtieth birth-day, Mrs. Clinton looks much younger. You would scarcely suppose her more than two-and-twenty; and though not what the world calls a beautiful woman, it would be difficult to deny that there is something striking and noble in her appearance. She is somewhat above the medium height, with a form of faultless symmetry, and a step and carriage, though stately, yet eminently graceful. The contour of her head is certainly superb, and its effect upon the observer greatly enhanced by the arrangement of her abundant soft, brown hair, which is always wound about it simply, and with a grace the more perfect, because, while perfectly natural, it is unconsciously artistic. But her features are decidedly irregular and unimpressive; and it is only when those large, gray eyes are lighted, as upon the present occasion, from within, when some inner chord is touched, and the usually pale cheek is flushed and animated with the fire of feeling, that you are ready to accord to her the power of fascination. But once meet that peculiarly soulful look, and it will reflect itself continually, and haunt you forever after. You will probably gaze frequently again upon the same immobile features, but expressionless they will seem never more. By those to whom she deigns to reveal herself, Mrs. Clinton is worshiped as the personification of all that is lovely and lovable and intellectual. And there are many also who have caught accidental glimpses of that beautiful, noble, and impassioned spirit, and who would give worlds for the slightest token that the deep interest with which she inspires them is returned. Mrs. Clinton has had many offers of marriage; she has turned coldly yet tearfully from the homage of many a true and manly, ay, and gifted heart; for though she has long since laid aside the weeds of widowhood, her _soul_ is still arrayed in mourning-garb for the husband of her bright, fresh youth. She is one of those beings, few and rare, indeed, with whom, having once passionately loved and survived the object of their attachment, no compensation, however heart-offered, could induce one moment’s oblivion of the past, or the most remote thought of yielding to another that place in their holiest affections which has been occupied by the departed. Though shut out from a sphere of usefulness which she might truly have called her own, the years of Mrs. Clinton’s widowhood had not been inactive. As she recovered from the effects of that well-nigh overwhelming affliction, her little niece, Amy, was approaching the most interesting stage of childhood. Her beautiful, bright face, and the daily revealings of a mind unusually intelligent, together with the sweet orphan’s naturally winning and bewitching ways, won more and more upon the heart of her aunt. And so, when Amy Carter was nine years old, Mrs. Clinton begged that her niece might be altogether withdrawn from school, and that she might herself be allowed to superintend the little girl’s education. So from that time Amy dwelt beneath the spiritual dominion of her aunt; and never was pupil more docile, or preceptress kinder or more fondly beloved. And Amy’s devotion to Mrs. Clinton is still as ardent and enthusiastic as in the days of her childhood. Wherever the latter has stationed herself, you may be sure that the former is not very many paces distant. Mrs. Clinton sometimes laughingly, but lovingly, styles Amy her shadow; and her eyes are often suffused with happy tears at some unobtrusive mark of the young girl’s earnest affection.

But upon the foregoing imperfect daguerreotypes, gentle reader, I have already lingered longer than my time admits; for, after all, my principal object in asking you to bear me company within the precincts of this pleasant household, was, that we might inspect some of the Valentines in yonder daintily-wrought basket resting upon the table, beside which fair Amy Carter is seated.

(As a particular secret, dear reader, I will whisper to you that the authorship of most of these little friendly missives is ascribed to Mrs. Clinton.)

The first Valentine within our reach is addressed to Harry Gordon.

When on your downy couch you lie,
And thoughtful heave the pensive sigh,
Or muse on conquests—Cupid’s bow
Oft bent by thee—
Ere slumber comes—just then bestow
One thought on me.

And if your fancy can but paint
A modest maid, not _quite_ a saint,
In stature small, in visage fair,
Mild and discreet,
’Tis she would free your mind from care
With whispers sweet.

Upon the reception of which, it may be as well to mention, our anticipated doctor of divinity had laid his hand most impressively upon his heart, in token of his appreciating divination of a passion so divine.

Next we have a Valentine upon the tiniest of all tiny sheets of gilt-edged note-paper. It is inscribed to little Helen Bond.

Little Helen—list awhile,
And I’ll strive to wake a smile
On thy pure and dimpled cheek,
As I tell thee of a freak
That thy dainty spirit played,
Dreaming not ’twould be betrayed.
Little one—when thou to-day,
Cradled in sweet slumber lay,
To a very distant goal,
Lo! thy truant spirit stole.
To my study, love, it came;
And I hope thou wilt not blame,
That with eager, wild delight,
Greeted I a guest so bright!
With a sweetly joyous shout,
First it gayly skipped about,
Chanting forth a song of glee,
That awhile it might be free!
Then it nestled at my side,
Welcomed there with love and pride,
When it touched my silent lute,
Asking why its chords were mute?
And with eyes upraised to mine,
Pleaded for a Valentine!

Little Helen—not in vain
Did thy spirit seek the strain;
Not in vain, love, did it stray
From its native haunts away;
For I roused my lyre again,
Singing to a soft refrain
Prayers and wishes, warm and fond,
For thy Future—Helen Bond!
And such prayers are and will be
Gushing from my soul for thee
Every day and every hour,
Rare and lovely little flower!
Long may they who guard thy bloom
Live thy life-path to illume;
And may hearts as true respond
E’er to thine, sweet Helen Bond!
Where thy fairy feet fall lightly
Ever may _their_ eyes beam brightly,
And those voices meet thine own,
Cherishing its faintest tone.
So will Love and Happiness,
Spirits bright, that reign to bless,
O’er thee wave their magic wand,
Darling little Helen Bond!

Here are two Valentines written upon the same sheet of paper—not for economy’s sake, gentle reader, but to convey an idea that the parties addressed are as they profess to be—one in spirit. The first is inscribed to Mabel Wilmot, and the following is its language.

Mable, dear Mable! pray beware,
Or else you’ll fall into a snare;
Laid down, I’m very much afraid
For you—a volunteer—old-maid!

_He_ waits but till you’re free from school,
To take you ’neath his lordly rule;
For then he hopes to hear you say,
You’ll “love and honor and obey!”

’Tis naught to you, though wealth and _merit_
Beyond a doubt he does inherit;
You’re bound to live and die a maid,
Demure, respectable and staid.

So, Mable, darling, _do_ beware
Of that gay sportsman’s cunning snare,
And as your hand and heart’s his mark.
Just bid your heart _emit the spark_!

Upon the opposite page are traced the ensuing lines to Fanny Gordon.

Sweet Fanny! deep within my “heart of hearts,”
A true and holy sentiment hath birth,
Which there must ever dwell till life departs—
Respect and reverence for thy modest worth!
Like the dear violet, blooming in the shade,
Scarce daring e’en to court the sun’s soft rays,
Shrinking and trembling when by chance betrayed
To the wild ardor of some earnest gaze.
Thus art _thou_, Fanny! and thus will the light
Of thy fair spirit burst from its disguise
With sudden glory, and the vision bright
Shall thrill all hearts with love and glad surprise;
And startled souls shall _thy_ bright soul allure
To kneel and worship at a shrine so pure!

You should have seen, dear reader, with what exuberance of glee Katie Wilmot received _her_ Valentine, which is the one we are now about to unfold. You should have caught the sound of her merry, ringing laughter, and the gayly triumphant tone in which, holding her newly-gained treasure to view, she exclaimed, “Sister Mabel—Cousin Fanny, can you guess who this is for? Ah, you can’t guess—you wouldn’t dream of such a thing? It’s for me—for _me_!” Then you should have witnessed how joyously the little fairy clapped her tiny hands together, and the impromptu polka which she accomplished round the apartment after the following all-important little missive was read to her.

TO KATIE.

Within my heart, you darling elf!
I’ve caged your little frolic self,
There will I hold you tight and fast—
And so you see you’re caught at last;
While this resolve I’ve made sincerely,
To kiss and pet and love you dearly;
You need not struggle to get free,
You’re snugly locked—Love has the key;
And once within his power, you know,
He never lets a prisoner go!

You saucy witch! you need not pout,
And vow you’ll surely raise a route,
Unless within one minute more,
I summon Love to ope the door!

Now plead not with that coaxing smile,
Just to be free _a little while_;
You waste your cunning, for in vain
You strive to break Love’s silken chain.
Whene’er he plays the jailor’s part
He’s “up to” every dainty art,
And though you think he’ll let you off,
When well you know you’ll laugh and scoff
The moment when, on loosened pinions,
You wing away from his dominions;
From that wild dream you’ll soon awaken,
To learn you’re wofully mistaken;
Love never yet betrayed a trust,
So, for your comfort, stay you must!

Ah! by this time I see you’ve found
You’re really safely caught and bound;
So, having tamed you down in season,
I’m sure you soon will list to reason,
And cease for liberty to pine,
My true heart’s captive Valentine!

Yes, Katie Wilmot was _very_ proud of that; and she might have been heard from time to time, through the evening, repeating with peculiar satisfaction what seemed to be her two favorite lines,

While this resolve I’ve made sincerely
To kiss and pet and love you dearly!

These three appropriate little verses, addressed to Amy Carter, next demand our attention.

The “Household Witch,” _thy_ winning name,
Because o’er all around thee,
To weave Love’s magic spell the aim,
Which true as Truth has found thee!

Then as through future years thy smiles
Illume this favored dwelling,
All shadows by thy frolic wiles
And witchery dispelling.

By wile and smile in every niche,
All needless gloom suppressing,
Remaining yet the Household Witch,
Still prove—_the Household Blessing_!

Dear Amy Carter! The ardent, impulsive kiss which your lips imprinted upon that well-known handwriting, told how precious was this pleasant tribute; that you recognized and blessed the traces of your childhood’s loving friend, of your girlhood’s guardian angel!

One more poetical heart-effusion and our recording space is filled even to overflowing. It is inscribed to Mrs. Clinton.

Though I turn, I fly not,
I cannot depart;
I would try, but try not,
To release my heart;
And my hopes are dying,
While on dreams relying,
I am spelled by art.

Thus the bright snake coiling
’Neath the forest tree,
Wins the bird beguiling
To come down and see.
Like that bird the lover,
Round his fate will hover,
Till the blow is over,
And he sinks—like me!

Ah, Mrs. Clinton! when you read that token of a never-fading attachment, your sorrowing spirit murmured in tones of subdued melancholy, “For years he has followed me, and though I have never encouraged his attentions, it has seemed as if I could not be forgotten—as though he could not bear to give me up. Yet I can never be grateful for his love, I must only regret that it has been bestowed upon me. I can make him no return—for still with me

“Affection sheds its holiest light
Upon my husband’s tomb!”

And so with “tears, radiant emanations,” welling from the innermost depths of your soul, and glistening in your eyes, with intuitive delicacy, you placed that avowal of disappointed affection in your portfolio, deeming it there so safe from observation that not even Amy, your darling, would ever catch a glimpse of it. But, unfortunately, on the way to your own apartment, it escaped from its hiding-place, and was picked up upon the stair by one of your little nieces, who transferred it to the general Valentine-receptacle in the parlor. By and by you will doubtless ask yourself with regretful wonder, how it came there.

But the day is already too far spent to admit of a longer sojourn with the Gordons. And it is solely the fault of the recorder, gentle reader, if you are not able to bid them adieu with the firm conviction that theirs is one of those “homes of America” to whom Miss Bremer referred when she said so sweetly, “wherever there is a good husband and father, a true wife and mother, dutiful children, the spirit of freedom and peace and love, and that beautiful feeling of noble minds which makes them confer happiness on their fellow-creatures according to their gifts and wishes, there also would I fain be myself, to see, to enjoy, to shed tears of delight that paradise still is to be found on this poor earth.”

* * * * *

THE VALLEY OF SHADOW.

BY HENRY B. HIRST.

WHEN daylight ends, where night begins,
(May Jesus save us from our sins!)
There lies a narrow, shadowy vale—
(Mark me, I but repeat a tale
Which once, I know not how, or when,
Came mystically within my ken:)
A dark, sepulchral, silent vale,
Lying beyond the ultimate pale
Of distant Time—beyond the din
Of human tongues—by which the Djin,
And Ghoul, and Afreet, hating light,
Come in the noiselessness of night
To chant unearthly notes and bars
To the unquiet, pensive stars—
To carol many a carping tune
In mockery of the mourning moon—
By which the jackal and the lynx
Make curious queries to the Sphynx,
Who never drops her stony eyes
From contemplation of the skies
To heed the rout, whose awful howls
Alarm the fiery-visioned owls,
That, at the decadence of day,
Flit round and round in search of prey.

Without a stream, without a tree,
The vale has been and still will be—
Though obelisks with many a trace
Of many an immemorial race,
With many a mighty pyramid
In which lost histories lie hid,
Rudely engraved on silent stone,
For countless centuries unknown,
Point, here, and there, and yon, to where
God and his angels dwell in air;—
And thistles rise and grow and bloom,
And cypresses, those trees of gloom,
Frown everywhere along the pale
Which is the entrance to the vale;—
But nothing—nothing _moves_ within:
_There_ is no tumult and no din:—
Shut out by hills that scarcely show
A rift of sky to those below,
The dwellers in this lonely spot
Rest even by memory forgot:—
Recumbent, in a sunless rest
They lie, with hands across their breast,
So motionless of hand or head
That he who gazed would deem them dead,
Or sleeping, when their toil was done,
Until the rising of the sun.
They have no mind, thus left alone;
Strike them; you will not hear a groan;
An icy torpor fills their veins;
They have no mortal cares, or pains,
Or sense, as we have; theirs is life,
If sleep be life, with nothing rife
Which we who love the setting sun
And crimson sky and crystal run,
And all things else that God has made—
We, who would moulder in the shade,
Can contemplate or understand
Like these inhabitants of the land,
These rigid and insensible blocks
Of clay, as cold of heart as rocks:
Still, so the legend sings, whose tune
Dropped, dew-like, from the tearful moon,
When sky and earth shall pass away,
When space becomes eternal day
The Dwellers of the Vale will rise
Beyond what once have been the skies,
Radiant, before immortal eyes,
To live and love in Paradise!

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE GAME OF DRAUGHTS.

[WITH A STEEL ENGRAVING.]

BY C. F. ASHMEAD.

There is a game,
A frivolous and foolish play,
Wherewith we while away the day.
BYRON’S MAZEPPA.

THE Lady Arabella H—— was the reigning belle and beauty of a court not excelled, in the long annals of its previous history, for accomplished and fascinating women. Many stars, of no little magnitude, sparkled in the regal diadem of female loveliness, but she outshone them all. In the graces of her person, in wit, in accomplishments, she appeared without a competitor—not to say without a rival. Her own sex reluctantly yielded the palm to her indisputable pretensions, and the other proudly crowned her with its leaves. She was the Venus of the day.

Countless suitors knelt at her feet—from the gay nobleman to the grave statesman—for in the versatility of her attractions lay some charm for all. But the lady was strangely cold to the accents of love. One gallant after another retired with his suit rejected, and despair in his heart: and it might have been believed that the exquisite temple of her form enshrined a soul callous to the passion it was so peculiarly fitted to inspire.

* * * * *

A brilliant ball was in progress. It was graced by the presence of royalty, and the arrangements and decorations were worthy of the distinguished visiters. Beauty and fashion, and taste, conspired to lend a magic to the festive scene. Conspicuous among the admired of her sex shone the graceful figure of Lady Arabella H. Her loveliness on this evening surpassed itself: and there was a languishing tenderness in her eyes that bespoke a softer mood than her wont, and lent hope once more to her despairing suitors. With renewed energy, these crowded around her to seek her smiles, while new aspirants for her gracious favor added the meed of their respective homage. One gallant alone remained aloof from the idol of universal worship. This was the young Lord R—, remarkable for his handsome person, his general accomplishments, and more than all, his noble soul. It was but recently that he had appeared at court after an absence abroad. On his first return, he had seemed to share in the fascination caused by the charms of the Lady Arabella. But by degrees, he had shunned her society: and on this evening, he evidently avoided passing within the charmed circle of her blandishments. His very glances appeared schooled to prevent their resting on her, as he stood dejectedly within the door, with his eyes cast upon the ground.

“What aileth thee, my lord, that thou holdest thyself to-night beyond the attraction of yonder dazzling orb?” inquired Sir Charles G—, advancing close beside him.

“I may not approach without being singed by its fire, from which I have already suffered more than enough for my happiness.”

“By my troth, then, the star is resolved to approach thee: for lo! the lady nears us now, and takes her station not far from thy side, attended by some of her satellites.”

Lord R. did not trust himself with a single glance to ascertain the correctness of the assertion: but turned his face toward the ante-room.

“Thou art too diffident of thyself,” continued Sir Charles. “Attack the peace of the haughty belle even as she hath thine, and she will surrender her hand at thy discretion.”

“You flatter, my friend. How dare I to entertain hope, when so many have been rejected by her with less than indifference? Nay, there remains no alternative for my happiness save to shun her altogether.”

A stifled sigh here arrested the attention of the speakers, and the fair being who was the subject of their remarks passed within the door-way in which they stood. She leaned on the arm of a young nobleman who regarded her with looks of anxiety. A sudden indisposition had that instant seized her, and she was retiring to seek her recovery apart from the crowd.

“Leave me here alone,” said she to her companion, when they had reached the recess of a window in the ante-room. “It is but a slight faintness, and I shall be myself again presently.”

The gallant obeyed, and the lady occupied the ante-room in solitude.

Giving way to a burst of tears, she murmured, “Alas! he whom alone I love of all that seek my hand hath declared that he will in future shun me altogether; and yet the very declaration implies that he is not indifferent to me. Untoward fate! how hast thou permitted a misapprehension so cruel?——”

A succession of sobs interrupted her voice, and her soliloquy sunk into inaudible words. But her unhappy train of thought continued, and she remained for a considerable time with her emotion deepening rather than diminishing.

At length, by an effort, she recovered in some measure her self-possession. The surprise her absence from the dancers would occasion now suggested itself to her mind, and she had arisen for the purpose of rejoining them, when two persons entered the ante-room.

The projection of the window hid her from their observation: and it was fortunate for her that this was the case; for, on recognizing in one of the intruders the graceful figure and handsome countenance of Lord R., her former emotion returned with increased violence. Smothering her sensations to prevent her attracting their attention, until the effort almost choked her, she sank back again upon her seat, where the damask window-curtains afforded her an effectual screen from discovery.

Entirely unconscious of her presence, the two gallants drew a small side-table near the window, and sat down to a game of draughts.

The gentleman who accompanied Lord R. was the same with whom he had recently been conversing, and he had, with the charitable design of diverting his friend’s melancholy mood, suggested a trial against himself of the noted skill of Lord R. at the game in question—he being himself also a scientific and accomplished player.

They went through five or six successive games, and Lord R. was every time the winner.

As they played, the Lady Arabella, whose situation gave her an opportunity of viewing the board, though, as has been said, it was such as to prevent her being herself observed, gradually became interested in the moves, enlisting all her sympathies on the side of the successful combatant.

“Conquered completely,” said Sir Charles at length, pushing back the board and rising from the table. “You are more than a match for me, and yet I have ever been counted no mean player.”

“I have never met any one able to beat me since the first dozen games I played as a tyro,” replied Lord R., as he followed the example of the other in leaving the table, and linking his arm within that of his friend, they made their exit from the apartment.

It was not until some little time after their departure that our heroine arose from the seat she occupied. But when she did so, it would have seemed, from her countenance, that some bright and sanguine idea had struck her, possessing the power to dispel her previous desponding state of mind.

When she again appeared in the ball-room, Lord R. had quitted the scene. But her hope, whatever it was, evidently extended beyond the present into the future: and the reader, who is acquainted with her sentiments, may augur, from the beaming smiles which throughout the remainder of the evening she shed around her—too bright to be the result of aught else than heartfelt confidence and joy—that she had discovered some delicate mode of communicating her preference for him whose love for her, the words she had so lately heard from his own lips, left her no room to doubt.

* * * * *