PART II.
In a few days after the interview of Puck and Paudeen in the hut of the forester, there was great excitement at the court of Fairyland. The fashionable milliners and dress-makers never had seen such a time—orders from the aristocracy poured in upon them by scores, and their doors were beset by fashionable carriages, and little fairy footmen caparisoned in long coats with many capes, and broad, red bands fastened with shining buckles round their hats. The great artistes who were at the head of these establishments saw themselves amassing fortunes from the sudden influx of fashionable custom. But the poor little fairy seamstresses, who sat up all night, sometimes without time to eat or sleep, from sunset to sunset, so that all these splendid dresses might be finished in time—they did not fare so well. They grew pale and sick, and sat swaying and swinging about as they worked, until one might have thought them the ghosts of fairy workers, come back for a ghostly midnight frolic in their old haunts. It was melancholy enough, truly; but then nobody knew any thing about it. The rich ladies, when their splendid robes came home, did not stop to think that good, earnest, faithful fairy hearts had embroidered the roses that adorned the skirts from their own cheeks, and spangled them with the broken fragments of their youth's faded dreams. If they had—
Well, and if they had?
That is not at all to the purport of my story; and so I will proceed to let the reader into the secret of all this flutter and fluster. A great prince had made his appearance at the court of Paterflor, and had created almost as great an excitement in Fairyland as a new prima donna with bright eyes and a sfogato voice among mere mortals. Nobody knew exactly who he was, but he came from a great way off, and had a name as long as a province, and, beside being incalculably wealthy, it was universally voted (ladies vote in Fairyland) that he was the very handsomest love of a fairy knight that ever jingled spurs, or sighed at the feet of beauty. He had come to court evidently with the "highest recommendations" to the king, such as would have procured him immediate access into the first "circles," even in Philadelphia, where society lives behind barred doors, and goes about armed cap-a-pie against encroachment or intrusion. He had been at once received at the royal table, and a splendid suite of apartments had been assigned him in the palace itself. Such extraordinary attentions from the imperial family, of course, made the stranger a favorite and a welcome guest wherever he appeared; and there was not a lady at court who would not have given her eyes—if it would not have spoiled her beauty—for a smile from his magnificent mouth.
It was discovered, however, at a very early stage of the proceedings, that the chief object of the prince's admiration was the lady Dewbell, who, proud as she was, could not help feeling flattered by the evident and special devotion of one for whom the whole of her sex were dying. Sir Timothy Lawn, who, from pique or melancholy, or from some unknown cause, had left the court the very day after the arrival of the new prince, was not entirely forgotten, but was laid away carefully on a back shelf of her heart; and the lady Dewbell never had been so beautiful, so fascinating, so joyous and irresistible. Courts are as fickle as coquettes; and before the month had passed, in a series of brilliant fêtes and entertainments, at all of which the prince and princess were the reigning toast, it was regarded as a settled thing that there would, ere the maple leaves grew red in the dying gaze of the year, be a royal marriage in Fairyland.
But while to all around the beautiful Dewbell was ever the same careless, saucy and happy creature as ever, in her heart she nursed a bitter sorrow. After many and severe struggles, she was forced at last to make to herself the humiliating acknowledgment that she deeply and truly loved Sir Timothy Lawn, that noble and chivalric spirit, whom her unworthy trifling had driven—so her frightened heart interpreted it—in disgust from her. Compelled in common courtesy to receive the devoted attentions of the stranger prince, and to hear every day and every hour repeated the earnest solicitations of her father that she should school herself to regard the stranger as her future husband, her little fairy heart was quite broken with its ceaseless struggles. Her pride and self-will were entirely vanquished, and she felt herself truly the most miserable of fairy maidens. Suicide is of course a thing strictly prohibited among immortals; but had it been otherwise, I sadly fear that one of the lady Dewbell's spider-web silk hose would some morning have been found without a garter, and she herself hanging like a beauteous exhalation among the elm-leaves in the morning sunshine. Oh, had Sir Timothy been there then, he would have found, instead of his imperious and tantalizing coquette, the tenderest and truest of disconsolate maidens, ready to melt into his arms between the delicious pause of a sigh and a kiss. "Naughty, cruel Sir Timothy! Horrid creature! to take all my nonsense for real earnest, and to go away and leave me to be persecuted to death!" exclaimed the lady Dewbell, with an uncontrollable burst of tears, as she threw herself, her toilet half finished, and her hair all strewn over her face and shoulders, upon her little praying cushion. "What will become of poor Bell!"
"What ails my daughter?" said the sweet, soft voice of the queen mother, as she knelt tenderly over her child, and pressed her head to her bosom. "Tell your sorrows to your mother."
"Oh, mother, I am the most wretched fairy that ever existed. I don't want to marry that odious, red-haired stranger; and my father has made me promise that the wedding shall take place on Halloween—and I—I have consented. But I love Sir Timothy; and I wont marry any body but him," sobbed the poor creature, convulsively, as she cast herself upon the floor, and looked up to her mother, terrified and half frantic.
"But, dearest, you know you laughed at poor Sir Timothy's vows—and he is so sensitive."
"Oh, yes, I know I did, but I'll never do so any more. If Sir Timothy will only come back and forgive me, and marry me, just this once, I will never, never offend him again as long as I live—never, never, never! Do, mamma, do make him come back!"
"Poor child! I will certainly do all I can. But you have promised to be married on Halloween."
"Oh, yes, but that is a good fortnight off, and you can bring Sir Timothy back before then, you know, and he can kill this horrid stranger, and then every body will be so happy!" and the face of the volatile creature began already to re-clothe itself in smiles.
"I fear you are mistaken, love," said her mother, solemnly, and shaking her head in an impressive manner, she added, "do not deceive yourself with such fallacies, my daughter; your princely word is passed, your father's royal honor is pledged, and you must be married on Halloween."
The lady Dewbell, sobbing hysterically, again looked up. She was alone; at the same moment the cat-and-baby face of Puck glanced by the window, and a wild, mischievous laugh melted away into a song, of which the lady only caught the two last lines:
"He rideth fast, and he rideth well,
But his heart still clings to the pretty Bell."
"Oh, bless thee, dear Puck!" sighed the haply wondering lady, rising and leaning from the window. "May thy sweet prophecy come true!"
PART III.
'T is Halloween midnight. Through the tall windows of the venerable church streamed in the broad moonlight, in bright silver floods, that lost themselves in the profound recesses of the distant aisles, or fell like many-colored snow-flakes upon the marble floor. Entering without sound, came up the middle aisle the royal wedding-procession. First walked the father, the royal Paterflor, looking stern and determined, yet, it must be confessed, a little roguish about the crowsfeet. Upon his arm leaned his pale and stricken daughter, the once proud, joyous and imperious Princess Dewbell. She was pale as a lily's cup, and drooping as its stem. She never raised her head from her bosom, and her eyes, once sparkling like fountains of light, were hidden beneath their willowy lids. Next comes the "red-haired prince," as the lady Dewbell had scornfully denominated him, (his head was a little inclined to flame, dear reader, between you and me,) respectfully conducting the ever sweet and placid Queen Woodbine; and after them a troop of merry and gayly-dressed fairies, both ladies and gentlemen, but very demure and solemn; while Puck, in the united capacity of Hymen and Grand Usher, was dodging about with his flaming torch, now in front, now in rear, now here, now there, and every where imparting an air of grotesqueness to the whole affair.
At the altar the party stopped, and ranging themselves in the approved order for such occasions, the priest—a grave and reverend bullfrog, whose surplice was scrupulously neat and tidy—proceeded with the ceremony. When he came to the question, "dost thou, my daughter, freely and voluntarily bestow thy hand and thy affections upon this man, Paudeen O'Rafferty, commonly called Pat?"
The pale and shrinking lady raised her head and opened her great ox-like eyes; the bridegroom looked sheepish and hung his head; King Paterflor seemed suddenly troubled with a severe fit of coughing, and the priest could scarcely forbear a chuckle.
"Father, dear father, what is the meaning of this cruel joke?" exclaimed the poor lady Dewbell, running to her father and catching hold of his arm. But the old king's cough was still very troublesome. She then appealed to the priest, but he seemed deaf, and only made a grum kind of noise in his throat, that sounded a good deal like "Pat O'Rafferty."
"Who, then, are you, sir?" demanded she, at last, of the groom, turning suddenly and imperiously upon him her piercing gaze.
"So plaze yer ladyship, I am Paudeen O'Rafferty, the son of the forester—at yer ladyship's sarvice."
The fairy princess was about to faint, in the most approved manner, and had already selected a convenient cushion upon which to fall, when a tall and noble form crossed the moon-ray, and Sir Timothy Lawn stood before her.
"Beloved princess," said he, kneeling, and respectfully taking her hand, "I hope my presence is not disagreeable to the queen of my heart, for whose love I have so long pined. Speak to me frankly, sweet lady Dewbell, tell me, can you love me? Will you permit me to call you mine forever?"
The lady Dewbell changed her intention respecting the cushion upon which she had intended to faint, and, somehow, found herself before she was half conscious of it, in her lover's arms. An explanation ensued; the prince Paudeen gave up his post of honor to Sir Timothy; the ceremony was concluded on the spot; and as the gay and joyous party left the church, Puck was seen sitting at the organ accompanying himself in a sort of wild yet sweet chant, of which the lady Dewbell easily distinguished—
"Oh, a merry tale will the gossips tell,
Of the happy mishap of the proud lady Bell."
A NIGHT THOUGHT.
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Long have I gazed upon all lovely things,
Until my soul was melted into song,
Melted with love till from its thousand springs
The stream of adoration, swift and strong,
Swept in its ardor, drowning brain and tongue,
Till what I most would say was borne away unsung.
The brook is silent when it mirrors most
Whate'er is grand or beautiful above;
The billow which would woo the flowery coast
Dies in the first expression of its love;
And could the bard consign to living breath
Feelings too deep for thought, the utterance were death!
The starless heavens at noon are a delight;
The clouds a wonder in their varying play,
And beautiful when from their mountainous height
The lightning's hand illumes the wall of day:—
The noisy storm bursts down—and passing brings
The rainbow poised in air on unsubstantial wings.
But most I love the melancholy night—
When with fixed gaze I single out a star
A feeling floods me with a tender light—
A sense of an existence from afar,
A life in other spheres of love and bliss,
Communion of true souls—a loneliness in this!
There is a sadness in the midnight sky—
An answering fullness in the heart and brain,
Which tells the spirit's vain attempt to fly
And occupy those distant worlds again.
At such an hour Death's were a loving trust,
If life could then depart in its contempt of dust.
It may be that this deep and longing sense
Is but the prophecy of life to come;
It may be that the soul in going hence
May find in some bright star its promised home;
And that the Eden lost forever here
Smiles welcome to me now from yon suspended sphere.
There is a wisdom in the light of stars,
A wordless lore which summons me away—
This ignorance belongs to earth which bars
The spirit in these darkened walls of clay,
And stifles all the soul's aspiring breath;—
True knowledge only dawns within the gales of Death.
Imprisoned thus, why fear we then to meet
The angel who shall ope the dungeon-door,
And break these galling fetters from our feet,
To lead us up from Time's benighted shore?
Is it for love of this dark cell of dust,
Which, tenantless, awakes but horror and disgust?
Long have I mused upon all lovely things;
But thou, oh Death! art lovelier than all;
Thou sheddest from thy recompensing wings
A glory which is hidden by the pall—
The excess of radiance falling from thy plume
Throws from the gates of Time a shadow on the tomb.
THE BARD.
BY S. ANNA LEWIS.
Why should my anxious heart repine
That Wealth and Power can ne'er be mine,
And Love has flown—
That Friendship changes as the breeze?
Mine is a joy unknown to these;
In Song's bright zone,
To sit by Helicon serene,
And hear the waves of Hippocrene
Lave Phœbus' throne.
Here deathless lyres the strains prolong,
That gush from living founts of song,
Without a cross;
Here spirits never feel the weight
Of Wrong, or Envy, or of Hate,
Or earthly loss;
The pomp of Pelf—the pride of Birth—
The gilded trappings of this earth
Return to dross.
Oh, ye! who would forget the ills
Of earth, and all the bosom fills
With agony!
Come dwell with me in Fancy's dream,
Beside this lovely fabled stream
Of minstrelsy;
And let its draughts celestial roll
Into the deep wells of thy soul
Eternally.
God always sets along the way
Of weary souls some beacon ray
Of light divine;
And only when my spirit's wings
Are weary in the quest of springs
Of Song, I pine;
If I could always heavenward fly,
And never earthward turn mine eye,
Bliss would be mine.