Chapter VI (3)

Thus the day lingered on; and the time came for parting. They said but little, for there were no bright prospects to cheer them on: a few words of encouragement faintly spoken, for their hearts whispered that they were vain; a few broken words of hope, uttered in so sad a tone that they seemed a mockery; a stifled 'God bless you, Kate!' as he pressed her to his heart; a 'Good by, Ned,' half sobbed, and they parted, and Kate hurried to her own room; and hiding her face in her hands wept the bitterest tears that she had ever shed in her life. But the agony was over; they had parted; and now she told her father that they had met; and why; and that they were to meet no more until he could vindicate himself. The old man heard her out, contrary to her expectations, without an expression of anger, and merely said, that 'it was very well, as it was; that she did right to see him no more;' and that was all.

IMPROMPTU.

WRITTEN ON RECEIVING A ROSE-BUD FROM A LADY.

METHINKS thy gift to wandering bard,
Who weaves for thee this careless strain,
Will prove an amulet to guard
From outward ill and inward pain.

Oh, precious is the bud to me!
On thy fair bosom once it lay;
For richest pearl in Indian sea,
I would not barter it away.

Thy touch hath made it, leaf and stem,
A priceless and a hallowed thing,
Meet for Titania's diadem,
While dancing in the fairy ring.

When faded its voluptuous hue,
A _life_ will linger in the flower,
That needeth not sustaining dew,
Or golden sunshine's nursing power.

By day and in the hush of night,
Grief's shadow from my brow to chase,
Its leaves will summon back to sight
Thy graceful form and classic face.

Thanks for the gift! its leaflet fair
Of thy young heart is emblem sweet;
Place in this bosom may it share,
When lifeless in my winding-sheet!

To the bard's dreamy, gorgeous land
In spirit may we often fly,
And wander, shadowy hand in hand,
Through rose-wreathed halls of fantasy.

What nonsense have I written down?
I am not self-possessed to-day;
On brow the world hath taught to frown,
The light of song should never play.

Can witch Imagination warm
A heart whose passion-streams are dry?
Mere man of parchment and of form,
And slave of wrangling fools, am I.

Should maid, then, blest like thee, require
From me the tributary rhyme?
The peerless child of laurel'd sire
Will share his fame in after time.

Thou needest not the praise of one
From whom life's romance is receding,
Who haunts a land without a sun.
The barren realm of special pleading.

Farewell! I leave thee with regret,
To struggle in the war of life;
I would not for a world, forget
Thy words of----Hush! I have a wife:

And two sweet children, one a boy
Who wears the dark hair of his mother,
And, full of innocence and joy,
A radiant little girl the other.

_New-York, June 25, 1843._

WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

CÀ ET LÀ.

BY THE FLANEUR.

HERE A LITTLE AND THERE A LITTLE.

Now Samson went down to Gaza,
To buy up his goods for the season:
Quoth Madame: 'Don't make a stay, Sir,
And come back with some foolish reason.'

OLD AMERICAN BALLAD.

THOU knowest, DIEDRICH, that it has long been settled that Noah landed in America, and that Mount Ararat is in the State of New-York. I am inclined to believe, from this undoubtedly genuine ballad, which I discovered in the lining of an old trunk in the garret of the principal inn at Ramapo, that the Jews resided here at a much later period of their history; but that has nothing to do with us at present. All that I wished to prove by the ballad is, that the great wielder of jaw-bones was hen-pecked. So was Cicero.[B] So was Mr. Liner. Mr. Liner was, beside, pullet-pecked. Miss Catharine pecked him. Not that Miss Catharine was by any means ill-natured; for I have seen her only 'grin a ghastly' when she met a rival belle better dressed; but she made her poor father keep his eyes open night after night, by pinching himself, and by wondering at her astonishing strength of limb, '_effera vis crurum_,' as he delighted to call it. And when the old gentleman would hint to his daughter that he thought it high time to depart, she would meet his suggestion by a decided negative: 'Oh no! not yet, pa!' pronounced with that sweet asperity and bitter mellifluousness of manner, which we often notice in people whose toes have been trodden upon by a distinguished stranger, who apologizes. Metaphysically speaking, her tone was a cross between a smile and a snarl.

[B] 'AN ille mihi liber cui mulier imperat? cui leges imponit,
præscribit, jubet,' etc.

In the summer Miss Liner visited at the watering-places--Saratoga, Sharon, Rockaway--and returned fully impressed with the truth of a late traveller's remark: 'The social intercourse of American watering-places may be defined as follows: the gentlemen spit and the ladies spat.' She herself came home with no less than five quarrels on her hands, which she was heroical enough not to regret, when the five foes gave parties and left her out.

The first year or two of this kind of life was very pleasant; but as winter after winter rolled on its balls, and summer after summer found her haunting the same places, and she found herself still remaining Liner, a sigh, soft yet spiteful, escaped from her 'heaving breast.'

(_Nota._--All breasts 'heave' in romances, as if they were Irishmen employed in coal-yards.)

'Why,' whispered she, softly, 'can I not find some one on whom I may lavish the treasures of affection that I have been hoarding for so many years?'

'There,' hissed she, spitefully, 'is that Henrietta Hoogeboom, not half so stylish as I am, and a miserable waltzer, and yet she is engaged!'

One young man, a foreigner from Tobolsk, encouraged by her bravos at his performances, did propose; but was indignantly refused. Old Mrs. Liner, who was a little à la Malaprop, said, crimson with rage, that she 'wouldn't make use of him as a foot-pad.' Had the youth from Tobolsk asked a few years later, he would have been accepted. A man can carry off any single woman, if he only chooses the right time. Drowning men are said to catch at straws. It may be so. We have never witnessed a drown, and cannot say: but spinsters about sinking into the vast profound of old-maidism do catch at straw men. This we can assert.

No good parti offered. Attention too began to be scanty. The world of beaux, empty-stomach'd as empty-hearted, rushed to her balls to enjoy the suppers, and to dance with newer belles. They were smiling but unsatisfactory. Now and then some eager débutant would claim her hand for a waltz, and lead her off in triumph, amid the sneers of the experienced. Pardon us, good friends, if we again recur to the romance, the _analyses_ of which we have been giving you:

'THE ball room was bright and beautiful. Two thousand candles
shone in the lofty rooms; two hundred belles flashed as they
sidled in the waltz and simpered in the cotillion. The 'middle
ages' line the walls; capped, sitting bolt upright, wide
awake, smiling, but looking out like highwaymen for rich young
men. Tarpenny descends from the dressing-room, and trembles.
It is his fourth party. Simple-minded youth! He feels the
arduous nature of his undertaking. He gives his hair the last
adorning touch, the _coup de grâce_; with hands glued to
sides, he enters, fixes his eye upon the hostess, and rushes
headlong at her. Politeness urges her to advance to meet him;
self-preservation prompts her to avoid. Convulsively forward
jerks his hand, eager for a shake; two taper fingers only,
cautiously advanced, are feebly placed within his grasp. His
friendly force betrays him; he shakes the air; loses his
balance; hops upon one foot. While on the hop, his rosy face
meets a cognizant female eye. He bows upon one leg, totters
still, and half falls against a man of muslin. He jumps away,
muttering an indistinct '_Pardon!_' With a hot, painful
sensation in the face, he takes refuge behind a door, to emerge
again when coolness brings relief, and the nose no longer
glistens. He looks about him, and gallantly resolves to dance.
Miss Liner meets his inquiring eye. When a little boy he had
seen beaux about her. It was years ago. She is a belle. There
can be no doubt about it. How lucky that she is not engaged! He
sees distinction close at hand, and hurries to the hostess. She
presents him. He stammers out the question. Miss Liner grumbles
a 'Yes.' He leads her off in triumph. Short-sighted mortal!'

MRS. LINER began to ask, 'Why don't the men come forrard?' and old Liner was heard to mutter: 'Quousque tandem _Caty Liner_ abutêre patientiâ nostrâ?'

Another year, and the last faint _spark_ expired.

'Why is it Mrs. Liner,' quoth the father, as he was tying his night-cap strings, 'that our daughter cannot get a husband? I know very well that Erasmus says, in speaking of women, _Nulla bona, Nullus beau_; but we, thank God! are rich, and I am sure we all have tried hard enough. There was Shuffleshank, for instance. Did not we run after him at balls, plays, concerts, until I got the pleurisy, and you a bilious attack? And Catharine, poor soul! did she not dance after him until she wore herself down to a skeleton? and all for nothing? Something must be done, Mrs. Liner. Gad! I have a plan----' A rattling, reverberating snore completed Mr. Liner's paragraph; and soon the married noses, blended in harsh discord, pealed a lullaby through the bed-curtains. As to Miss Catharine, she looked upon the first part of the proverb, '_L'homme propose_,' as an absurd and cruel fiction, invented by a tantalizing wretch. And when her cousin, Miss Frizzle--who like the Scythian in Elian was all face, and poor and ill-natured to boot--when Frederica Frizzle, whose physiognomical and moral qualifications were forcibly described by one of her friends as

'Nose carnation,
Temper darnation!'

when Miss Frizzle, I say, engaged herself to her first offer, a nice musical young man, with the slightest possible moustache, then Catharine waxed gloomy, and her snowy _batiste_ was bedewed with tears. As the poet hath it:

'Through fingers tiny
Streamed the briny.'

We have now come to the beginning of our story. Miss Liner sits weeping upon the sofa, regretting Shuffleshank and her first offer from Tobolsk. It remains for us to see what was Mr. Liner's plan.

NO'TH-EAST BY EAST.