Chapter D: Appleton & Co. 200 Broadway

A gentleman of Marseilles, named Remonsat, shortly before his death, desired that his numerous family might be assembled about his bed. As he was now an old man, he had children who had been long married and who now had children of their own. There were sons and daughters who were married, and who had two daughters, and one son about nine years old, who was so much of a cripple as to be obliged to walk with a crutch. The old gentleman acknowledged the delight which his children had afforded him by their affection and attachment, and especially for the tender love which they bore to one another. “But,” continued he, “I have a secret to disclose, which will remove one of you from this circle. So long as I had any hopes of living I kept it from you, but I dare not violate your rights in the division of the property which I leave you. One of you is only an adopted child—the child of the nurse at whose breast my own child died. Shall I name that child?” “No, no,” said they with one accord, “let us all continue to be brothers and sisters.”

What a noble and beautiful example of disinterestedness! How often do we sigh for opportunities of doing good, whilst we neglect the openings of Providence in little things, which would frequently lead to the accomplishment of most important usefulness! Dr. Johnson used to say, “He who waits to do a great deal of good at once, will never do any.” How many of my readers do you think would have acted towards their brothers and sisters in the same way?

It is related by St. Jerome, that “the blessed apostle John, living at Ephesus to extreme old age, was with difficulty carried to church in the arms of his disciples, and being unable to make a long discourse, every time they assembled, was wont to say nothing but this: ‘Little children, love one another.’ At length, the disciples and brethren who attended, tired of hearing so often the same thing, said, ‘Sir, why do you always say this?’ Who then made this answer, worthy of himself: ‘Because it is the Lord’s command; and if that alone be done, it is sufficient.’”

THE GERALDINES.

A NARRATIVE OF PERSECUTION BY HENRY THE EIGHTH.

Among the many acts of severity practised against his nobles by Henry VIII, few are more remarkable than the terrible persecution suffered by Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare, and his unhappy family. This nobleman, whose second wife, Lady Elizabeth Grey, was a daughter of the Marquis of Dorset, and first cousin to the king, was for some time favored at court, and had been made Lord Deputy of Ireland; but the country being much disturbed, he was summoned to answer for this before the king in council, and proceeded to London, leaving his eldest son to administer the Irish affairs in his absence.

But on reaching the court, Fitzgerald was committed to the Tower; and his son, exasperated by a false report of his father’s being beheaded, broke into open rebellion. Succeeding for a short time, but afterwards reduced to difficulty, Thomas Fitzgerald received a promise of pardon; and confiding in this, he surrendered himself to Lord Leonard Grey, brother of his step-mother, the Countess of Kildare. His five uncles, who had taken part with him in the rebellion, also submitted, and the whole six were conveyed to London; but in spite of the remonstrances of Lord Leonard Grey, who declared his honor pledged for their safety, they were all hanged at Tyburn.

The Earl, worn down by these heavy sorrows, died in the Tower; an attainder was issued against him (after his death), and his lands and goods declared forfeited to the crown. Not content with this cruel injustice, the king sought by all means to get into his power the young heir of this unhappy house, Gerald Fitzgerald, then not more than twelve years old; but his evil designs were frustrated by the zeal and affection of the martyred earl’s foster-brother, a priest named Leverous, to whom the boy had been confided for education. When this good man received notice that the brother and uncles of his ward had been sent to England, he became fearful for the young Gerald’s safety; the child was then lying ill of the small-pox, but intrusting the care of his nursling to no arm less zealous than his own, he wrapped him up warmly, and as carefully as he could, and carried him by night to the house of his sister, where he was nursed in concealment till quite recovered. But, justly judging that the child would not be safe with any one known to be connected, however humbly, with his own family, the good priest removed him successively into the territories of two or three different Irish chieftains, by whom he was sheltered for nearly twelve months; after this he contrived to place the boy in the protection of his aunt, the Lady Eleanor, widow of a chieftain named Macarty Reagh. Now this lady had been long sought in marriage by O’Donnel, lord of Tyrconnel, whom she had hitherto refused; but hoping to secure an efficient protector for her nephew, she now consented to an immediate marriage, and taking Gerald with her to her new home in Donegal, she hoped he would here remain in safety.

The devoted Leverous had refused to leave his charge even in care so seemingly unexceptionable as this; and the king, having ordered a large reward to be offered for the boy, O’Donnel was soon discovered by this watchful guardian to be meditating the baseness of delivering the orphan into Henry’s hands. Seeking the Lady Eleanor, Leverous unfolded this intended villany, and causing Gerald to assume a sufficient disguise, his aunt gave him what money she could gather in haste, and shipped him at once with his tutor and another old servant of his father’s, in a vessel bound to St. Malo, in Brittany. The safety of the boy thus secured, she next sought her husband, and bidding him remember that her interest in this child had been the sole cause of her marriage with him, she declared that all future intercourse with a man who had so basely broken his promise, and that for so mercenary a motive, was impossible, and gathering her possessions together, she departed to her own country. Gerald meanwhile had been well received by the King of France; but Sir John Wallop, the English ambassador, having demanded him in the name of King Henry, the French king took time to consider; and Leverous, fearing the result, again bore his charge from the threatening danger, and took refuge with him in Flanders, in the house of a cottager, whose daughter waited upon Gerald with the utmost kindness. They had not been long here before it was perceived that their every step was dogged by an Irish servant of Sir John Wallop. The governor of Valenciennes, befriending the orphan, threw this man into prison; but he was liberated by the generous intercession of the youth whom he had sought to betray, and Gerald reached the Emperor’s court at Brussels without farther molestation.

He was here again demanded by the English ambassador, but the Emperor excused himself on the plea that Gerald’s youth sufficiently attested his innocence, and sent him privately to the Bishop of Liege, with a pension of one hundred crowns a month. Here he remained in comfort and safety for six months, when Cardinal Pole, his mother’s kinsman, invited him into Italy, and, allowing him an annuity, placed him first with the Bishop of Verona, and afterwards with the Duke of Mantua; but would not admit him to his own presence until he had first acquired the Italian language, an extraordinary condition, the Cardinal’s English parentage considered.

This accomplished, however, the Cardinal summoned his young kinsman to Rome, and had him instructed, under his own eye, in all the accomplishments then required to constitute the finished gentleman. At the age of nineteen, his generous patron permitted him to choose between continuing his studies or traveling for adventures, as was then the custom. Gerald chose the latter, and falling in with some knights of Rhodes, he joined them in the fierce wars they were then waging against “the Turks and miscreants.”

Returning to Rome laden with rich booty, “proud was the Cardinal to hear of his exploits,” and proud also we may be sure was another priest; for the faithful Leverous still clung to the fortunes of the child he had saved. Soon after this “fighting with Turks and miscreants,” the Cardinal having increased the pension of Gerald to £300 a year (a very large income in those days), permitted him to enter the service of Cosmo, Duke of Florence, with whom he remained three years as master of the horse; a very honorable appointment.

His exile at length terminated by the death of Henry. Gerald Fitzgerald proceeded to London, still accompanied by his attached Leverous. Appearing at King Edward’s court, he saw the daughter of Sir Anthony Brown at a ball, and afterwards marrying this lady, her family procured the restitution of a part of his estates from the king, who also knighted him. Under Mary he was restored to all the titles and honors of his house, all which, and the prosperity of his middle life, was witnessed by the happy Leverous, who died at a good old age under the roof of his grateful pupil, by whom he was ever honored as a father. The Earl himself lived till far into the reign of Elizabeth, closing his life peacefully in the year 1585.

FAITHFUL FIDO.

“What shall I do,” said a very little dog one day to his mother, “to show my gratitude to our good master? I cannot draw, or carry burthens for him like the horse; nor give him milk like the cow; nor lend him my covering for his clothing, like the sheep; nor produce him eggs like the poultry; nor catch rats and mice as well as the cat.

“I cannot divert him with singing like the linnets and canaries; nor can I defend him against robbers like the great dog Towzer. I should not be fit to be eaten, even if I were dead, as the hogs are. I am a poor insignificant creature, not worth the cost of keeping; I don’t see that I can do a single thing to entitle me to my master’s regard.” So saying the poor little dog hung down his head.

“My dear child,” replied his mother, “though your abilities are but small, your good will entitles you to regard. Love your master dearly, and show him that you love him, and you will not fail to please him.”

The little dog was comforted, and the next time he saw his master, ran to him, licked his feet, gamboled before him, and every now and then stopped, wagging his tail, and looking at him in the most affectionate manner. The master observed him.

“Ha! little Fido,” said he, “you are an honest, good-natured little fellow!”—and stooped down to pat his head. Poor Fido was ready to go out of his wits with joy.

Fido was now his master’s companion in his walks, playing and skipping round him, and amusing him by a thousand sportive tricks. He took care not to be troublesome by leaping on him with dirty paws, nor would he follow him into the parlor unless invited. He also attempted to make himself useful by a number of little services. He would drive away the sparrows, as they were stealing the chickens’ meat; and would run and bark with the utmost fury at the strange pigs, and other animals, which offered to come into the yard.

He kept the poultry and pigs from straying, and particularly from doing mischief in the garden. If his master pulled off his coat in the field to help his work-men, Fido always sat by it, and would not suffer either man or beast to touch it; for this faithful care of his master’s property, he was esteemed very much.

He was soon able to render a more important service. One hot day after dinner, his master was sleeping in a summer house, with Fido by his side; the building was old, and the watchful dog perceived the walls shake, and the pieces of mortar fall from the ceiling.

He saw the danger, and began barking, to awake his master; this was not sufficient, so he jumped up and bit his finger. The master upon this started up, and had just time to get out of the door, before the whole building fell.

Fido, who was behind, got hurt by some rubbish which fell upon him; on which his master had him taken care of, with the utmost tenderness, and ever after acknowledged the little animal as the preserver of his life. Thus his love and fidelity had their reward.

GENEROSITY REWARDED.

Mrs. Clifford being particularly satisfied with the attention that her three children, Alfred, Robert, and Helen, had for some time past paid to their lessons, and to the instructions of their masters, told them that she would treat them with a charming walk in the wood, on the opposite side of the river; and that if they would carry some bread or biscuit with them, she thought they would have no difficulty in finding a house where they might procure some milk. So instead of returning home to drink tea, she would spend the whole afternoon and evening in rambling about with them.

This was charming news for the young folks, who took care not to give her the trouble of waiting for them, for they were all three ready at least half an hour before the time she had appointed for their departure. The moment Mrs. Clifford joined them in the hall, away they all went, with joyful hearts and cheerful faces, through the field and down the long lane, which led to the ferry.

“This is very pleasant, mother,” said Alfred: “I think I should never be tired of walking in the fields and woods; yet, I must own, I do long for winter, that we may purchase the magic lantern we are to have. I think, with the money grandpapa has given each of us, and what we had before in our purses, we shall be able to have a very large one.”

“O dear!” exclaimed Helen, “how delightful it will be to see it as often as we please, and to show it to our friends; and, mother, do you know that Robert is to be the person to show it; for, he says, he can talk just like the man who came to our house last year?”

“So I can,” answered Robert, “and I wish it were bought, that you might hear what a long story I shall tell you about the sun and the moon; and the King of Prussia and his huzzars; and the cat and the cook! I would rather have a magic lantern, than any thing in the whole world!”

Chatting in this manner, and amusing themselves by looking at different objects as they passed along, they found themselves at the ferry before they expected it. The boat being just ready to put off, they stepped into it, and seated themselves with several others, who were going over to the other side of the river.

Their attention was very soon drawn to a poor woman, who, with an infant on her knee, and a little boy and girl by her side, whom she frequently kissed and pressed to her bosom, wept as if her heart would break. As soon as they landed, Mrs. Clifford, stopping the woman, kindly inquired into the cause of her distress; and was informed by her, that she had lately lost her husband, who having been long in a state of ill health and unable to work, had left her incumbered with several debts, which she had not the means of paying; and that though she labored very hard, and had discharged some of the small debts, a hard-hearted man, to whom she owed six dollars, declaring he would not wait a day longer, had that morning seized upon her furniture, and all her little property. He was determined, he said, to have his money before six o’clock, or to turn her and her children out to sleep in the high road, or where they thought fit.

She had been, she told Mrs. Clifford, to an uncle of her husband who lived at the market town, begging him to take pity upon her and her innocent children; “but madam,” added she, “he was deaf to my entreaties, and turned me from his door; and I am now going home to see all my things taken from me; and what will become of us this night, God alone can tell!”

Mrs. Clifford was extremely affected by this melancholy tale, and walked with the poor woman to her cottage, where they really found two ill-looking men taking down the bed, and packing up the furniture. The woman began to wring her hands and cry bitterly; and the children, though they did not understand what the men were going to do, clung to their mother and would not move from her side.

Alfred, Robert, and Helen, were however old enough to understand perfectly well the distress of the poor woman, and the misery and wretchedness to which she and her helpless children were exposed; and fortunately for her, their tender and compassionate hearts immediately prompted them to endeavor to relieve her. The pleasure they had promised themselves in purchasing a magic lantern, and in being in possession of such an amusement for the long evenings of the approaching winter, appeared to them very trifling, in comparison to the delight of snatching this poor family out of the hands of the unfeeling people they had to deal with; and leading their mamma into the little garden, they earnestly entreated her to take the three dollars their grandpapa had given them, as well as the contents of their purses, and employ the whole to relieve the poor woman; and farther, they begged her, in the most pressing manner, to make up the deficiency.

Mrs. Clifford was delighted with the idea, expressing the greatest satisfaction at the resolution they had taken. She assured them that she would make up the sum with the greatest pleasure, and that the proof they now gave of their feeling and humanity made them dearer to her than ever; adding, that she was certain twenty-four hours would not pass before they were rewarded for their goodness.

The men were immediately stopped, the debt was discharged, and the furniture replaced in proper order. The poor woman knew not how to express her joy and gratitude. She scarcely knew what she was doing, but, at length recollecting herself, she entreated Mrs. Clifford and her children to be seated, and accept of such refreshment as she had to offer them. Her little table was soon covered with a cloth as white as snow; and fresh milk, eggs, butter, and a nice brown loaf were set before them, of which they partook with great satisfaction.

They did not quit this little family till a late hour, and could talk of nothing on their way home but the pleasure they felt in the reflection of having left them so happy; of how they had been delighted, when they saw the two hard-hearted men walk out of the cottage, and how differently the poor woman and her children would pass the night, to what they might have expected. Alfred said, the good action they had done that afternoon, would be the pleasantest thing they could have to talk of in the winter evenings; and Robert was of opinion, that a visit now and then to the cottage would afford prettier stories for him to repeat, than any thing he could tell of the King of Prussia and his hussars. As for Helen, she declared that her heart was so light, and she felt herself so happy and joyful, that she could almost jump over the moon.

They retired to rest in this pleasant disposition; and they told their mamma, the next morning, that they had never been so happy in their lives; that they went to bed, thinking on the good they had done, and, after thanking God, who had given them the means of doing it, they had immediately fallen into a sweet sleep; that the moment they awoke, they had found themselves in the same happy humor, pleased with themselves, and with every body they saw. They were very well convinced that the magic lantern could never have procured them one quarter of the pleasure which they now felt, and which would be renewed every time they visited the poor woman at the cottage, and whenever they recollected her story.

“I told you, my children,” said Mrs Clifford, “that four-and-twenty hours would not pass before you would be rewarded; and you must now, I am certain, be well convinced, that the heart-felt pleasure arising from the reflection upon such an act of kindness and benevolence to a fellow-creature in distress, is the greatest and most solid reward that could possibly have been bestowed on you; far superior to, and more lasting than any satisfaction you could have procured by laying out your money in any other way.”

DANGER OF COQUETRY.

It is no less strange than true, that, however intimate friends of the same sex may be, there is ever a disposition to assume a certain air, as it were, of patronage on one or the other part; and without any serious intention of committing malicious injury, great mischief may ensue, from the foolish belief of one that he or she could (if they would) alter the fate of the other in peace or war, love or hate, business or idleness.

Christina Smith had, from her earliest youth, entertained a warm affection for her old playmate and schoolmate, Katharine Wing. Both were “lovely in their lives,” though very little resemblant in their separate attractions. Christina was slender, moderately tall, with regular features, but with a pallor of complexion, that, while it indicated great delicacy and sensibility, intimated also to the beholder of her charms, that she held them with but a slight tenure. Katharine, on the contrary, was ruddy-cheeked, plump, and looked altogether like one that could laugh the world to scorn—laugh at every body and every thing, and being possessed of excellent health, ought to have an imperturbable good temper. All this she, in reality, possessed, but in addition—as Nature has ordained that perfection shall never centre in an individual—she had a spirit of coquetry—innocent coquetry she imagined it to be—which cast a shadow over her otherwise fair character and accomplishments.

Christina was, as every young lady of eighteen imagines herself to be, in love and beloved. Alas! that time should tell us how cruelly deceived and deceiving we are! Her lover was a young Irishman, “ardent as the sun”—importunate with billet-doux, anxious for reunions—waiting with eager impatience for the happy time when, his diploma and his majority obtained, he might offer himself, body and soul, to his true love, who equally doted on him.

As a matter of course, Katharine was well advised of all this most momentous history—gave her opinion on every separate step of its progress—was understood to be the confidante of her friend as it advanced, and the bridesmaid when completed. Who would not have anticipated a hearty co-operation from the playmate of infancy, the companion of youth? Alas! the wild ambition of patronage is stronger than friendship, the spirit of coquetry is superior to love!

“The course of true love never does run smooth.”

So sayeth Shakspeare, and so have all found it who have indulged in the seducing, uncertain passion. A slight expostulation with the young man as to his habits, which were somewhat irregular—as the habits of students in this and in most countries generally are—produced a lovers’ quarrel, and they parted with strong protestations _of the lips_ that they should meet no more. No sooner had separation taken place, than cool reflection came to both. Each most bitterly regretted what had been said in haste, but neither was willing to be the first to say _peccavi_. In this emergency Christina bethought her to call on her dear friend, consult her, and derive what consolation she could from her advice and good wishes.

Accustomed to enter unhesitatingly into the house in which Katharine lived with her aunt, she passed up stairs to her boudoir without alarming any of the inmates or attendants, and sat down waiting for her approach. Half an hour had elapsed, when her attention was arrested by the noise of voices in earnest conversation on the stairs. Satisfied that one party was her quondam lover, she hastily concealed herself behind the curtain which veiled the balcony, and she had no sooner done so than she beheld her dear friend Kate and her beloved John enter. Entertaining a sincere esteem for, and having unlimited confidence in, her old companion, she at first believed that, having heard of the dispute between them, she had sent for her lover, and would eventually do so for herself, that she might interpose her kind offices between them. But what was her horror and dismay when she distinctly heard words of love on the one hand and of encouragement on the other, interchanged between them! Grieved to the heart, smitten as a “bruised reed” did she remain—motionless, though not tearless, behind that curtain—till after having become the involuntary witness of many endearments, sweet to the false-hearted, but bitter to her, her former lover took his leave.

Pale as death, yet calm and steady in her gait, did Christina emerge from behind the friendly shade, and appear before the astonished gaze of her whom she had always called _friend_. One short moment they stood with their eyes fixed on each other—the next, Katharine, stung by remorse, and bowed down by shame, was at the feet of her whom she had so cruelly deceived. “Forgive me, oh forgive me!” she most piteously exclaimed, “indeed I meant no harm by what I said to him and allowed him to protest to me—I merely meant to show you that I could wean the affections of any young man from yourself or any other, without the slightest intention of appropriating them to myself. I really believe that he yet sincerely loves you—allow me to be the happy instrument to bring about such a blessed result.”

“Never, no—no—never!” replied Christina. “You I can forgive—I thank God for it!—but I can never forget. How could I ever wed with one who had, by reason of a slight quarrel, declared his love to another, with vows and endearments, though unwittingly to him, in my very presence? It may not, cannot be—farewell, dear Kate! May you and he be happy! I pray God to bless you both—I bear to neither of you any ill-will—farewell!”

Crushed to the dust, deeply, though too late, repentant, Katharine long remained, till roused by the re-entrance of him for whom (in the thoughtless, but dangerous spirit of coquetry) she had sacrificed her dearest friend. Mutual criminations and recriminations took place, and they parted with a hearty dislike for each other.

Christina, in the following year, engaged another of her friends to be her bridesmaid, and now, with a young Kentuckian husband, resides in the far west, blessed with a cheerful home, and with “two young babes,” as she expressed herself in a letter to a female friend of ours, “so exquisitely beautiful, that all Kentucky cannot show the like—little angels in fact.”

Katharine still lives, changeable, discontented, coquettish, angry with herself, and at times repentant, yet without any real change. She is still beautiful, though an air of chagrin and peevishness has somewhat marred the expression of her formerly laughing visage. There is no apparent hope for her.

He, the fickle one, whom Christina so luckily avoided marrying, is now a worthless drunkard, degraded in his own opinion and in the opinion of others—utterly irreclaimable.

W. V. H.

PUSSY-HOOD.

Pussy with the large gray eyes,
In whose orb, a cunning lies
Deep as the blue in yonder skies;

Thou whose back outshines the sun,
Sable hairs all smoothed in one,
As if by loving hands ’twere done.

Wetting thy reluctant feet,
To gain a dainty piece of meat,
Knowing that stolen food is sweet.

Gazing with ensnaring glance,
On the pigeon’s swift advance,
Which by thy look thou dost entrance.

Oh, why pause with indecision,
When the young bird before thy vision
Beckons thee on to meals Elysian?

Hearest thou sounds beneath the floor?
Say, knowest thou those sounds of yore,
And mouse than pigeon lovest thou more?

Oh thou cat with many hairs,
And many lives, each life has snares,
Care[1] and dogs come unawares.

Bear thou many a sharpen’d claw,
Often dog, with strongest paw,
From thy clutch would fain withdraw.

Oh, those claws like pins shall steal,
Making wounds that will not heal—
Alas for those their power that feel.

And oh, those claws of thine oft dart
Into the most tender part,
For a treacherous thing thou art.

P.

[1] Care killed a cat.

HARRY AND HIS RABBITS.

NEW-YORK