CHAPTER II.
“Oh, it is pleasant for the good to die—to feel
Their last mild pulses throbbing, while the seal
Of death is placed upon the tranquil brow;
The soul in quiet looks within itself
And sees the heavens pictured faintly there.”
Those less innocent and pure minded than Phebe Gray, might have thought lightly both of her sister’s fault and its probable punishment, but to one brought up in the strict discipline of a Connecticut church, and with a deep reverence for all its exactions, any thing like contempt of them was little less than sacrilege; and to be reprimanded by the minister, a disgrace which would have broken poor Phebe’s heart, had she been called upon to endure it instead of her sister. When she reached her room the gentle girl knelt down in the midst of her tears and prayed earnestly, for in all her troubles and in all her tranquil joys, she had a Father to whom she could plead as a little child—a Father in heaven, though she had none on earth.
Phebe was yet kneeling, subdued and tranquilized, for prayer was the poetry of her existence, when the door was flung suddenly open, and Malina entered the chamber, her eyes flashing and her lips trembling with passionate feelings.
“Never!” she exclaimed, while the tears stood on her burning cheeks, “never, never!”
“What has happened—what have they done to you?” inquired her gentle sister, rising from her knees; “Oh Malina, do not look so angry, I scarcely know you with that face.”
“Angry, sister, who would not be angry, persecuted as I am, and all because I would not sit still and be insulted in open church, because I did not cringe in my seat and acknowledge that to hear a sermon from any man but Minister Brown was a deadly sin; but I will never listen to him again, never enter the old meeting-house while he preaches there—I will take a vow here—and this moment.”
As she spoke, the excited girl snatched the pocket Bible which her mother had replaced on the toilet, and was about to press her burning lips upon the cover, but Phebe sprung forward, laid her small hand on the book, and turned her pale earnest face on the excited features of her sister.
“Malina!” she said.
There was something solemn and sweet in the tones with which this little word was uttered—a look of awe and wonder in the large blue eyes which Phebe Gray lifted to her sister’s face, which would have checked the passions of a fiend—a flood of crimson rushed over Malina’s face, she laid the Bible down, covered her eyes with both hands, and shuddered amid her tears with a sense of the sacrilege which she had been tempted to commit. Phebe drew her gently to the bed, and when they were seated she placed an arm around her neck, and kissed the trembling fingers that covered her eyes.
“Don’t cry,” she said softly, repeating her kiss, “they have been harsh, perhaps, but it was intended for your good.”
Malina suddenly removed her hands—dashing the tears from her eyes with the action—while her lips and cheeks began to glow again.
“Phebe,” she said, sitting upright and grasping her sister’s hand, “Phebe, you will not believe it, but our mother has commanded me to kneel down before the minister and ask his pardon for what I have done.”
A look of indignation, almost the first that had ever visited the sweet features of Phebe Gray, was all the answer she could give.
“But you did not obey?” she said at last.
“Obey! sister, no, no; but I said things which made them both look aghast. They called me audacious, and so I was—they called me an unnatural child, and so I was—for I told my mother that she was a tyrant to her face. I told Minister Brown that I was not audacious enough to mock my Creator, by giving the homage which he alone should have to a weak fellow creature; and when they would have read me a chapter in the Bible, I told them the holy book was given as a blessing, not to be used as a punishment, with much more—but this I fear has made you angry with me already. Dear Phebe, don’t you turn against me with the rest, I am wretched enough without that.”
“But what did the minister say? surely he did not wish you to humble yourself so far?” inquired Phebe, thoughtfully.
“No, he begged my mother not to urge it, and even said that he had perhaps acted unwisely in reprimanding me from the pulpit. But mother still insisted. I do believe she is setting her cap at Parson Brown, and thinks if I kneel to him he will return the compliment by kneeling to her.” Here Malina broke off with a hysterical laugh, while a flash of mischievous humor shone through her tears.
Phebe smiled very faintly, and kissing her sister once more, murmured, “But there is One to whom we may kneel,” and sinking to her knees, Phebe Gray kept Malina’s hand and would have drawn her to the same position.
“I am not fit to pray,” exclaimed the passionate girl, struggling faintly to free her hand.
Phebe did not urge her, but scarcely were the first faint words of her own petition breathed through the chamber, when Malina was by her side, and when they went to rest that night the high spirited girl went to sleep with her head nestled on her sister’s bosom, half subdued by her pure and affectionate counsel.
Mrs. Gray had no sympathy for the faults of a warm and sensitive disposition. She scarcely knew what an impulse was; even her anger was systematical, and she exhibited it with a cold perseverance which only served to irritate and mortify her daughter. Like all girls, Malina was fond of dress, but months went by and Mrs. Gray seemed altogether unconscious of her wants. She had kept her resolution not to enter the old meeting-house again, and when Mrs. Gray brought home a new dress or shawl for Phebe, Malina was quietly told that as she never went to meeting her old dresses were quite good enough for school; indeed it is doubtful if she would have been permitted to remain at home but for the claim which her majority would give upon the property. Mrs. Gray was quite too politic for violent measures, so she contented herself with annoying negatives, and tormented her sensitive and high-tempered child by doing nothing, while she comforted her self-sanctity with a belief that it was all meek and Christian forbearance. It was not long before the gay, dashing Malina became one of the most shabbily dressed girls in the village. She wore her thin straw gipsy and roses through all the cold winter months—mended her gloves over and over again—concealed her summer dresses beneath a cloak when she came to school, and returned the jeers of her schoolmates with a sort of important pride which soon silenced them. When spring came she still remained obstinate in a determination never to visit the old meeting-house so long as Parson Brown preached there. A few kind words from her mother might have persuaded her, but those words were not spoken. Mrs. Gray only showed her sense of this contumacious conduct by heaping that finery on poor Phebe which should have been her sister’s, but which she was forbidden even to share with her. Well, the spring came round again, and Malina was still obstinate. She bleached her bonnet, brightened up the roses, and altered over the old muslin dress with an ingenuity which made her wardrobe quite respectable once more; but she was not happy in her disobedience, the habits of her childhood could not be shaken off so easily, and many a quiet Sabbath as she sat by her chamber window and watched Phebe gather a handful of snowdrops in the yard, spread her green parasol and go forth to “meeting” by her mother’s side, looking so chaste and beautiful in her white dress and new cottage bonnet, poor Malina would turn away with tears in her eyes and think of the old meeting-house, with a yearning wish to sit in the family pew once more, which made her petty chamber seem almost like a prison.
How long this state of things might have remained is uncertain, but that spring Minister Brown was taken ill. He had preached in that same pulpit thirty years, and had grown old in it. It was a melancholy service which the deacon read after announcing the state of their pastor to the congregation, for it was the first time in many years that Minister Brown had been absent from his people. It seemed all that solemn day as if the angel of death were mournfully brooding over the old meeting-house, and when the closing prayer was made, sobs deep and audible were heard in the congregation.
Another Sabbath came and our minister grew worse. After the solemn service was over, the deacon arose to appoint watchers for the suffering man. It is a solemn and beautiful practice, that of “appointing watchers” for the sick in our Connecticut churches. When the village is collected together in one vast family, it is both an affecting and pleasant sight to witness the young and kind-hearted rise, with blooming cheeks and modest looks, to offer themselves as nurses for the sick. Among the first who arose that Sabbath was Malina Gray, and her eyes were full of tears. The deacon was looking very sad when he cast his eyes over the congregation to mark who would rise. When he saw Malina standing there in her simple dress, and her beautiful face shaded by her last year’s bonnet, a moisture glistened in his eyes also, and he smiled kindly as her name was pronounced.
Malina went home with a full heart. When she thought of the minister ill and suffering, it smote her that she could ever have felt enmity toward him. He was a widower and childless, so all that week she lingered by his bed, prepared his medicines, smoothed the pillows beneath his fevered temples, and many a time, when no one was near, would the warm-hearted but wayward creature kneel down, cover his hand with tears, and beseech him to forget the harsh, rude language which she had used that night at her mother’s.
Our minister was trembling on the verge of another world, and he felt perhaps that Malina also had something to forgive, and at such times he would lay his thin hand on her hair, murmur thanks for all her kindness, would beg her to forget the past, and then he would dwell on the time when she would meet him in Heaven, and all this with a gentle sweetness that made poor Malina’s heart ache the more that she could ever have pained so good a man.
Still our minister grew worse, and the next Sabbath a student of divinity from New Haven, who had just taken orders, stood in his pulpit. It was a sorrowful day that—and as the clear solemn tones of the young divine filled the old meeting-house, their youthfulness and their sweet ringing melody made us feel like strangers in our house of worship. He was a handsome man, slight and pale, with hair sweeping aside from his white forehead like the wing of a raven, and those large sad eyes which take their color from the soul, and are changeable from the feelings that live there—one of those men who interest you almost painfully, you cannot understand why. He was indeed a man to awaken the heart to strange sympathies; but we felt without understanding this on the day when he first preached to us, for our hearts were heavy with thoughts of the dear old minister who lay almost within hearing on his death-bed, and we yearned to see his calm face and gray hairs in the place of this strange young man.
Mr. Mosier—for that was the name of our new minister—did not return to New Haven for many weeks, and all that time he spent by the sick-bed of our pastor. Malina Gray seldom left her post, and Phebe, the meek and gentle Phebe, was often there to comfort and assist. Flowers, the beautiful children of the soil, sometimes spring up brightest and sweetest on a grave; so human affection often takes deepest root beneath troubled shadows. Religion must have some strange and comprehensive power, which fills the soul with affection for all things; for those who love our heavenly Father most, cherish that love as a brave tree, around which a thousand earthly ties are lifted like green and clinging vines toward the blue skies. I have said Malina never left her station by the sick-bed; her cheek grew pale with watching, her bright eye dim, but yet she was always there, subdued to the meekness of a lamb by the dark and solemn shadows of death that fell everywhere around her. And he was her fellow watcher, and the strange fascination of his voice, the spell of those large eyes, tranquil, almost sad, and forever changing, settled upon the young girl’s heart, and it was the voice of a pure and high-souled Christian in prayer which first taught the gay and careless girl how well she could love. And she did love, happily, blindly; every impulse of her heart was full of gushing tenderness, and that soft repose which thrills the soul it sleeps in, blended while it made her happy. She was changed even in countenance; the glad healthy smile which had been the playmate of her lips from infancy, now half fled to her eyes. The color was not so deep upon her cheek, but it came and went like shadows on a flower, and her whole face looked calm and yet brighter, as if sunshine were striking up from the heart of a rose instead of falling upon its leaves. Her voice became more low and calm, but a richer tone was given to it, and the tread of her little feet became more noiseless as she glided around that sick chamber. Alas, alas, poor Malina Gray, the fountains of her young heart were troubled, never to rest again; the destiny of her womanhood was upon her.
One Sabbath morning the congregation came to our old meeting-house in a body, two and two; the young, the middle aged, and the old filing solemnly from the parsonage door along the road, and over the sward which sloped greenly down from our place of worship. Our minister came also, but he lay upon a bier, a velvet pall swept over him, and four pale men carried him through the door which we had seen him enter so often. They placed him in the broad aisle which his feet had trod for twenty years, and eyes that had scarcely known moisture for that duration of time were wet as they fell upon the coffin. Pale young faces looked down upon him from the galleries, old men veiled their foreheads with hands that had so often grasped his, and women sobbed aloud in the fullness of their grief. Prayer and solemn music, with the deep tones of the young student, swept over that bier, and swelled through the old building amid all these manifestations of sorrow. When the bier was lifted again, with slow and solemn footsteps the congregation followed their pastor for the last time, and to his grave.
There was a grave in our burial ground sunken almost level with the earth, covered with tall grass and marked by old and moss covered stones. It was the grave of our minister’s wife; she had died in her youth, he never married again, and so they brought the old man, true even to her ashes, and laid him by her side. The shadow of his grave fell upon hers, as if it were still his duty to cherish, and the dew that fell upon the rich grass which had sprung up from her ashes, slept within that shadow longer each morning than in any other place.
When Malina Gray left the funeral procession she went to the parsonage house. The ashes lay cold upon its hearth-stone, and a chill, desolate silence reigned through the building, for the old woman who had been housekeeper had not yet returned, and no living thing was there save a pet robin that stood mute upon his perch, and a large gray cat which walked slowly from room to room as if wondering at the silence that reigned there. A chill crept over Malina as the cat came with a soft purr and rubbed his coat against her ankle. She looked at the robin, there was no food to his cage, and his dejected manner probably arose from hunger. The back door opened upon an orchard, and a line of cherry-trees, red with fruit, ranged along the stone wall. The minister had always kept his orchard and the grass around the back door steps neat and green, but this year a growth of plantain leaves had started up amid the grass, and docks grew rife around the well curb, a few paces from the stepping stones. During his illness Malina had scarcely noticed these things, but now that the minister was dead and she had no hopes nor fears regarding him, they struck upon her heart with painful force. She went to the nearest tree, gathered some ripe cherries for the bird, and carried them into the house. The poor creature was half famished, and coming down from his perch, pecked at the ruby fruit with an eagerness that made the young girl smile through her tears.
“Poor fellow, he wants drink,” she murmured softly, and laying the cherries that filled her hand on a table, she took a glass and went out to get some water. How much more effective than a thousand lectures were the silence and the familiar objects that surrounded Malina. It seemed as if she had learned to think and feel for the first time in that desolated place. As she grasped the well-pole with her small hand and saw the deep round bucket rise up from the water, with the bright drops dashing over the moss-covered brim, she began to weep afresh, and her hands trembled so that she could hardly balance it on the curb. How many times had she seen the minister come from that door, rest that same bucket on the well-curb, and slant it down to meet her lips, when she was a little girl and had come with her mates from the close school-room, at “play-time,” to drink at the minister’s well. How often had he filled her apron with cherries, and allowed her to pick up the golden apples from that orchard; now she could almost see his new grave through the trees—and she had dared to speak unkindly, rudely to him. Malina was athirst and she remembered the grateful coolness of the water, but with all these memories swarming to her heart she could not touch her lips to that moss-rimmed bucket; the waters dripping over it seemed too pure for one who could speak as she had spoken to the dead. That which Mrs. Gray had struggled and waited for a whole year was accomplished in a few moments by less stern influences than human upbraiding. Never was a girl more penitent than Malina amid the silence of that funereal dwelling. The heart which can reproach itself needs no other accuser, and that which cannot, will remain hardened to the reproaches, however just, which come from another.
Malina filled her glass, and entering the house, gave the neglected robin some drink. The grateful bird began to flutter his wings, and plunging into the water, sent a shower of drops over his cage. Malina was so occupied with him that she did not observe when the door-yard gate fell to with a slight sound, and Mr. Mosier, the young clergyman, came slowly along the footpath leading to the front door; and when she did hear his step upon the threshold, her eyes drooped and she began to tremble as if there had been something to apprehend in his sudden presence.
Mr. Mosier approached the young girl, and addressed her in those calm low tones which her heart had learned to answer too thrillingly.
“It was kind to think of the bird,” he said almost smiling upon her, “our friend that is gone mentioned it but the day before he died; he gave it to you, Miss Gray, and that with many grateful thanks for all your kindness.”
Malina’s bosom heaved and she strove to conceal the tears that sprung to her eyes, by a quick motion of the heavy lashes that veiled them.
“He has left other tokens of his regard,” continued the young divine, kindly observing her. “A clergyman with his benevolent habits is not likely to become rich, but this quiet old house and the savings of his income are left behind and for you—he has no legal heirs.”
Malina lifted her large eyes to the minister’s face with a look of mute astonishment, and it was a moment before she comprehended him.
“Oh, no, no,” she said at last, bursting into tears, “he could not, I never deserved it. It was Phebe that he meant. It must have been Phebe.”
“You will find that I am correct,” said Mr. Mosier; “indeed I can hardly see how it should be otherwise, for never was there so faithful or so kind a nurse.”
Malina did not speak, but a rosy flood swelled over her neck and face, which glowed warmly beneath the concealment of her hands. These were the first words of commendation she had ever heard from that voice, and she was lost in the delicious pleasure they excited. At length she removed her tremulous hands and looked up, but instantly the silken lashes drooped over her eyes again, and she blushed and trembled beneath his gaze. Yet his look was tranquil and kind, only it was the tumult of her own feelings which made the young creature ashamed to meet it, feelings all pure and innocent, but full of timidity and misgiving.
“I must go home,” she said in confusion, moving toward the door. Mr. Mosier extended his hand. “We have performed a painful and yet pleasant duty together in this house,” he said; “the thanks of the departed are already yours, may I offer mine? It may be wrong to think so, but young and gentle women hovering near a sick bed seem to me angels of earth, consigning the sufferer to sister angels in heaven. Good night, my dear Miss Gray. To-morrow, by your kind mother’s invitation, I shall make my home at your house.”
Malina started, and a look of exquisite happiness beamed over her face.
“To-morrow!” she repeated, unconscious of the rich tones which joy gave to her voice.
“Yes, I shall stay here to-night,” he replied in the same tranquil tones, but a little more sadly. “The solemn scene through which we have passed unfits me for any thing but solitude. I never knew till now how beautiful and holy are the links which bind a minister to his people. It is sweet to think how completely our brother’s spirit was borne up to heaven on the hearts of those who had listened to him so many years.”
“He was indeed a good man, and we all loved him,” murmured Malina Gray.
“And such love would fill any life with sunshine; but God bless you, my dear Miss Gray, seek repose to-night, for your strength must be overtaxed with so much watching. I will see you in the morning, and our departed friend’s pet shall come with me.”
Malina longed to say how happy his visit would make her home, how full of delight she was, but some intuitive feeling checked her tongue, and murmuring a few indistinct words she turned away in a tumult of strange happiness.
When she reached home, Malina went directly to her chamber, took off her bonnet, and lying down on the bed, drew the curtains and fell into a pleasant half sleepy day dream, with her eyes fixed languidly on the folds of snowy muslin which fell around her and on the rose branches seen dimly through as they waved and rustled before the open sash. All at once she started, and turning her damask cheek upon the pillow, stole both hands up to her face as if some thought of which she was half ashamed had crept to her heart. It was no guilty thought, but Malina blushed when it broke upon her mind, that she might some day live in the old parsonage which had become her property, and that he who was now resting beneath its roof might share her home. She was dreaming on. The tinge of gold which fell over her bed drapery as the sun sunk behind Castle-rock had long since died away, and the chamber was filled with the misty and pleasant gloom of a summer twilight, and yet Malina lay dreaming on. Phebe came softly into the apartment, lifted the curtains, and stealing her arms around the recumbent girl, laid her own pure cheek against the rich damask of her sister’s.
“Poor Malina, you are tired out,” she murmured fondly, “but we are so glad to get you home once more. I only came to say this—now go to sleep again.” So Phebe kissed her cheek, let the curtains fall softly over the bed and went away—and still Malina dreamed on.
The next morning Mr. Mosier took up his abode at Mrs. Gray’s. Our minister had called the elders of his church around his death-bed, and besought them to let this young man fill his place in the pulpit, so he was to remain a few months, on trial, and then be installed as pastor in the old meeting-house.
Our young pastor, though never gay, was at all times filled with a degree of tranquil enjoyment that diffused itself over all things that surrounded him—his sadness was never gloomy, and when he seemed thoughtful, it was the quiet repose of a mind communing with its own treasures rather than an unsocial humor. He was musical as well as studious, and often, during those summer nights when Mrs. Gray’s family sat in the portico, would we assemble round the door of our dwelling to hear the notes of his flute, as they mingled in some sacred harmony with the soft clear voice of Phebe, or with the bolder and richer tones of her sister. At such times this music, softened by distance, and blended with the still more remote sound of the waterfall, seemed almost heavenly. We became well acquainted with the young minister, for though not exclusively of his congregation, he loved to ramble about the pine grove and the waterfall, where he was certain to find some of “us children” at play. Like all pure hearted men, he was fond of children, and loved to sit down in the shade and talk with us for hours together, when he would lead us to the gate, on his way home, and sometimes walk into the cottage for a glass of water and a few minutes’ chat with its inmates. Sometimes Phebe Gray and her sister accompanied him in these walks, and once or twice I remember to have seen him standing on the ledge near the falls at sunset, with Phebe leaning on his arm, while he seemed deeply occupied with her rather than the surrounding scenery. Once when they were together thus, he slightly bending toward her and speaking in a low earnest tone, while her eyes were fixed on the waters foaming beneath their feet, Malina, who had lingered behind to help me up the rocks—for I was often of their party—moved lightly toward them, holding up her finger to me with a look of good natured mischief, as if she intended to startle them with her sudden presence. I was a very little girl and knew that Malina was doing this to amuse me, so clapping a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing aloud, I stole on softly by her side till the folds of my pink dress almost mingled with the white muslin that Phebe wore. I have said that Mr. Mosier was talking low and earnestly—he was, in truth, so earnestly that our mischievous progress neither aroused him nor his companion. I was not aware that love could know a language save that which breathed in my mother’s voice, but there was something earnest and thrilling in the impassioned word which Mr. Mosier was pouring into the ear of Phebe Gray, which checked my childish playfulness, and made me turn wonderingly to Malina. She was standing as I had seen her last, with her finger still held up as if to check my mirth, but there was no look of gleeful mischief in her eyes nor a vestige of color in her face. She stood motionless, white, and like a thing of marble, save that her eyes were bright and filled with a look of such agony as made my young heart sink within me. At last Phebe spoke, and her voice was so faint and soft as she leaned gently toward her companion, that the words were lost in the rushing sound of the waterfall; their broken melody and the rose tinge that flooded her face and neck, were all the tokens by which their meaning could be guessed; but the young clergyman must have heard her more distinctly, for his face lighted up with an expression of happiness that made his usually quiet features brilliant almost beyond any thing human. His arm trembled as he drew the young girl to his bosom, and with murmuring words of tenderness pressed his lips to her forehead. Phebe neither shrunk from his embrace nor resisted his caress, but the crimson flood swelled more deeply over her neck, and when his arm was withdrawn from her waist, her little hand timidly sought his and nestled itself in the clasp of his fingers, as if it sought his protection from the very solitude which she believed had alone witnessed her modest confession, a confession which made her tremble and blush with a tumult of strange sensations—all pure as the sigh of an angel, but startling to a young creature who had been taught to think every warm impulse almost a sin against Heaven.
They stood together hand in hand, silent and happy. Malina remained motionless, distant scarcely two paces, and yet they were so absorbed in the delirium of their own thoughts that her presence was unnoticed. My hand was still in hers, but the fingers which clasped mine grew cold as ice, and when I looked anxiously into her face again, the lips which had kissed me so often appeared hard and colorless; her forehead was contracted as if from physical suffering, and she seemed rooted to the stone, never to move again. A moment, and I felt that a shiver ran through her frame down to the cold fingers that grasped mine. She turned and moved away mechanically and noiseless as a shadow, leading me down the rocks and gradually tightening her grasp on my hand till I could scarcely forbear calling out from pain; but my childish heart ached so from the intuitive sense which taught me how dreadful were the feelings of my poor companion, that I could not complain. She moved forward hurriedly and with rapid footsteps, which made my earnest effort to keep up with her almost impossible. We left the rocks and crossing the highway plunged into the pine-woods; she did not take the footpath, but all unmindfully forced a passage through the undergrowth, crushing the rich winter-green with her impetuous tread. A humble ground bird started up from a tuft of brake leaves directly in her path, and took wing with a cry of terror. Still she hurried on unconscious, without heeding the bird who fluttered around us, uttering cry upon cry with a plaintive melody which made the tears start to my young eyes; but her racked heart was deaf even to that, and her foot passed so near the pretty nest which lay in its green lawn filled with speckled eggs, that a fox-glove which bent beneath her tread dipped its crimson cup into the nest, where it lay to perish on the broken stem. Still she hurried me on through the thickest undergrowth, and where the grove was cut up into knolls and grassy hollows which even my venturous footsteps had never searched before, all the time her cold hand tightened its grasp till my fingers were locked as in a vice, and the pain became insupportable.
“Oh don’t, Miss Malina, you walk so very fast and hurt my hand so it almost kills me!” I exclaimed at last, looking piteously up into her pale face. “Indeed, indeed, I can’t go any further, I am tired, see how the bushes have torn my new frock,” I added, sobbing as much from want of breath as from grief.
She stopped the moment I spoke, and looked at me as if surprised that I was her companion. Not even the piteous expression of my face, with the tears streaming down it, and the tattered state of my dress, which was indeed sadly torn, could arouse her to a consciousness of our position; for more than a minute she stood looking earnestly in my face, but perfectly unconscious of what she gazed upon.
“Oh, Miss Malina, don’t look at me in that way!” I said, burying my face in her dress and weeping still more bitterly. “Take me back to the falls, Miss Phebe and the minister will think we are lost.”
Malina dropped my hand as I spoke, and sunk to the grass, trembling all over and utterly strengthless; after a moment she lifted her head, looked wildly around as if to be certain that no eye witnessed her grief, and then she gave way to a passionate burst of sorrow, which to my young perception seemed like madness; she wrung her hands, shrouded her tearful face in the long curls which fell over it one moment, and flung them back with both hands damp and disheveled the next; her lips trembled with the broken and sorrowful words that rushed over them, words that had no connection but were full of that passionate eloquence which grief gives to the voice. At length she ceased to tremble and sat motionless, bending forward with her hands locked over her face and veiled by the drooping tresses of her hair. Now and then a sob broke through her fingers, while tears would trickle over them and fall, one after another, like drops of rain, over my dress, for I had crept into her lap and with my arms about her neck was striving in my childish way to comfort her.
“Don’t cry so,” I entreated, kissing her hands and exerting my infant skill to put back the curls which drooped in wet and glossy volumes over her face, “I love you very much.” She unclasped her hands, and drawing me closer to her bosom, looked with a mild and touching sorrow into my eyes.
“Nobody loves me,” murmured the poor, sobbing girl, shaking her head mournfully, “nobody loves me.”
I could only answer with childish expressions of endearment, which made her beautiful eyes brim with tears, and she wept on calmly and in silence, for the passion of her grief had exhausted itself. At length she placed me on the turf, and gathering up her hair, strove to arrange it, but the tresses were too abundant, and had become so disordered, that when she was compelled to grasp it in both her hands, and knot it back from her face beneath the cottage bonnet, the plain look which it gave to her forehead, the pallor of her face, with the dint and sorrowful expression of those eyes, almost transformed her. She was altogether unlike the gay and frolicsome girl who had helped me climb the rocks but one hour before. Alas! how few moments are required to change the destiny of a heart!
[To be continued.
“L’AMOUR SANS AILES.”
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BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
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Love came one day to Lilla’s window
And restive round the casement flew,
She raised it just so far to hinder
His wings and all from coming through.
Love brought no perch on which to rest,
And Lilla had not one to give him;
And now the thought her soul distressed—
What should she do?—where should she leave him?
Love maddens to be thus half caught,
His struggle Lilla’s pain increases;
“He’ll fly—he’ll fly away!” she thought,
“Or beat himself and wings to pieces.
“His wings! why them I do not want,
The restless things make all this pother!”
Love tries to fly, but finds he can’t,
And nestles near her like a brother.
Plumeless, we call him Friendship now;
Love smiles at acting such a part—
But what cares he for lover’s vow
While thus perdu near Lilla’s heart?
SPECULATION: OR DYSPEPSIA CURED.
———
BY H. T. TUCKERMAN.
———
When the mind’s free the body’s delicate.
Lear.
The romantic traveler who enters Italy at Leghorn, cannot but feel disappointed. No antiquated repose broods, like a dream, over the scene; no architectural wonders arrest the eye. The quays present the same bustle and motley groups observable in every commercial town; and were it not for the galley slaves, whose fetters clank in the thoroughfares, and the admirable bronze group, by Pietro Tacco, around the statue of Ferdinand I., it would be difficult to point out any distinctive feature amid the commonplace associations of the spot. To a stranger’s eye, however, the principal street affords many objects of diversion. The variety of costume and physiognomy is striking in a place where pilgrims and merchants, Turks and Jews, burly friars and delicate invalids are promiscuously clustered; and one cannot long gaze from an adjacent balcony, without discovering some novel specimen of humanity. A more secluded and melancholy resort is the English burying-ground, where hours may be mused away in perusing the inscriptions that commemorate the death of those who breathed their last far from country and home. The cemeteries devoted to foreign sepulture, near some of the Italian cities, are quite impressive in their isolated beauty. There, in the language of a distant country, we read of the young artist suddenly cut off at the dawn of his career, and placed away with a fair monument to guard his memory, by his sorrowful associates, who long since have joined their distant kindred. Another stone marks the crushed hopes of children who brought their dying mother to this clime in the vain expectation to see her revive. Names, too, not unknown to fame, grace these snowy tablets—the last and affecting memorials of departed genius. Monte Nero is an agreeable retreat in the vicinity where the Italians make their villeggiatura, and the foreigners ride in the summer evenings, to inhale the cheering breeze from the sea. Leghorn was formerly subject to Genoa, and remained a comparatively unimportant place until Cosmo I. exchanged for it the Episcopal town of Sarzana. I had quite exhausted the few objects of interest around me, and my outward resources were reduced to hearing Madame Ungher in Lucrezia Borgia in the evening, and dining in the afternoon in the pleasant garden of a popular restaurant; when, one day as I was walking along a crowded street, my attention was arrested by a singular figure ensconced in the doorway of a fashionable inn. It was a lank, sharp-featured man, clad in linsey-woolsey, with a white felt hat on his head and an enormous twisted stick in his hand. He was looking about him with a shrewd gaze in which inquisitiveness and contempt were strangely mingled. The moment I came opposite to him, he drew a very large silver watch from his fob, and, after inspecting it for a moment with an impatient air, exclaimed,
“I say, stranger, what time do they dine in these parts?”
“At this house the dinner hour is about five.”
“Five! why I’m half starved and its only twelve. I can’t stand it later than two. I say, I guess you’re from the States?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you came here to be cured of dyspepsy?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, I’m glad of it, for it’s a plaguy waste of money. I just arrived from New Orleans, and there was a man on board who made the trip all on account of dyspepsy. I as good as told him he was a fool for his pains. I know a thing or two, I guess. You see that stick? Well, with that stick I’ve killed six alligators. There’s only one thing that’s a certain cure for dyspepsy.
“And what’s that?”
For a moment the stranger made no reply, but twisted his stick and gave a wily glance from his keen, gray eyes, with the air of a man who can keep his own counsel.
“You want to know what will cure dyspepsy?”
“Yes.”
“Well then—Speculation!”
After this announcement the huge stick was planted very sturdily, and the spectral figure drawn up to its utmost tension, as if challenging contradiction. Apparently satisfied with my tacit acceptance of the proposition, the man of alligators grew more complacent.
“I’ll tell you how I found out the secret. I was a schoolmaster in the State of Maine, and it was as much as I could do to make both ends meet. What with flogging the boys, leading the choir Sundays, living in a leaky school-house and drinking hard cider, I grew as thin as a rail, and had to call in a traveling doctor. After he had looked into me and my case; ‘Mister,’ says he, ‘there’s only one thing for you to do, you must speculate.’ I had a kind of notion what he meant, for all winter the folks had been talking about the eastern land speculation; so, says I, ‘Doctor, I haven’t got a cent to begin with.’ ‘So much the better,’ says he, ‘a man who has money is a fool to speculate; you’ve got nothing to lose, so begin right away.’ I sold my things all but one suit of clothes, and a neighbor gave me a lift in his wagon as far as Bangor. I took lodgings at the crack hotel, and by keeping my ears open at the table and in the bar-room, soon had all the slang of speculation by heart, and, having the gift of the gab, by the third day out-talked all the boarders about ‘lots,’ ‘water privileges,’ ‘sites’ and ‘deeds.’ One morning I found an old gentleman sitting in the parlor, looking very glum. ‘Ah,’ says I, ‘great bargain that of Jones, two hundred acres, including the main street as far as the railroad depot—that is, where they’re to be when Jonesville’s built.’ ‘Some people have all the luck,’ says the old gentleman. ‘There isn’t a better tract than mine in all Maine, but I can’t get an offer.’ ‘It’s because you don’t talk it up,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘you seem to understand the business. Here’s my bond, all you can get over three thousand dollars you may have.’ I set right to work, got the editors to mention the thing as a rare chance, whispered about in all corners that the land had been surveyed for a manufacturing town, and had a splendid map drawn, with a colored border, six meeting-houses, a lyceum, blocks of stores, hay-scales, a state prison and a rural cemetery—with Gerrytown in large letters at the bottom, and then hung it up in the hall. Before the week was out, I sold the land for cash to a company for twenty thousand dollars, gave the old gentleman his three thousand, and have been speculating ever since. I own two thirds of a granite quarry in New Hampshire, half of a coal mine in Pennsylvania, and a prairie in Illinois, besides lots of bank stock, half of a canal and a whole India rubber factory. I’ve been in New Orleans, buying cotton, and came here to see about the silk business, and mean to dip into the marble line a little. I’ve never had the dyspepsy since I began to speculate. It exercises all the organs and keeps a man going like a steamboat.”
Just then a bell was heard from within, and the stranger, thinking it the signal for dinner, precipitately withdrew.
THE SHEPHERD AND THE BROOK.
IMITATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.
———
BY WILLIAM FALCONER.
———
The Shepherd.
Whither speed you, brooklet fair,
Fringed with willows green,
Blue-gleaming clear as summer air,
Your rival banks between;
Singing to the listening trees
An endless melody,
Kissed by every amorous breeze?
Come tarry and reply.
The Brook.
I haste to turn the mill-wheel gay,
That glads the summer morn;
The mill must clatter night and day,
To grind the miller’s corn.
The Shepherd.
I envy you your joyous life—
With courage rare you race,
To meet the miller’s bonnie wife,
And glass her morning face.
The Brook.
Yes! when Aurora lights the scene
With charms, as fresh she laves
Her sunny hair and brow serene
In my dew-treasured waves,
To me her beauty she confides,
I smile her blush to greet,
And when her form my lymph divides,
It thrills with passionate heat.
The Shepherd.
If thus your gelid waters glow,
With love’s pervading flame,
To echo, murmuring as they flow,
Her soft and winning name;
How must my throbbing bosom burn,
Warmed by life’s fitful fever,
Still doomed, where’er my steps I turn,
To love her more than ever.
The Brook.
On the mill-wheel, with blustering toil,
I burst in pearly shower,
But when I view her bloomy smile,
Fresh at the matin hour,
A polished mirror, gleaming sweet,
I tremble into calm,
To woo, in love, her gentle feet,
My azure to embalm.
The Shepherd.
Are you, too, love-sick, leafy brook?
Yet why?—on you she smiles,
And pays you, with a grateful look,
Your pleasant summer toils;
She sports upon your crystal breast,
Pure as your mountain source—
Fond brook, do not her charms arrest
Your shady downward course?
The Brook.
Alas! ’tis with a world of pain,
I murmuring glide away,
A thousand turns I make, in vain,
’Neath many a birchen-spray;
But through the meadows I must glide—
Ah! were it in my power,
A blue-lake swan, loved by her side,
I’d spread, nor quit her bower.
The Shepherd.
Companion of my luckless love,
Farewell! But may, ere long,
Thy plaint, which saddens now the grove,
Be turned to merry song;
Flow on, my vows, and sigh declare,
Paint—paint in colors warm—
The bliss her shepherd hopes to share,
Where birds the greenwood charm.
HARRY CAVENDISH.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.
———