SENSIBILITY.
"Still in tears!" said Margarette Claremont, as she entered the parlor after a walk. "Which is it now, my dear Alice, Werther or Madam de Stael's Corinna?"
"Neither," answered Alice. Margarette looked over her shoulder, and saw that the book her cousin held was a volume of Kotzebue's plays, and that "Self-Immolation" was the one that engrossed her attention.
"How prodigal you are of your tears, dear cousin!" said Margarette,—"and how you waste your sensibilities on these high-wrought, and ultra-sentimental fictions! Will not your health be impaired, and your mind enervated by such excess of indulgence?"
"I fear no such results," said Alice,—"and should blush at the obduracy of my heart, should it fail of being moved when reading works in which such deep feeling is portrayed."
"Weep as much for legitimate sorrow as you will, Alice—even when portrayed in fictitious narrative, but do not expend your sympathies on scenes such as never did, and never will occur in the world." Alice made no reply, as Margarette turned and ran up stairs, but the thought of her heart was—"I am thankful I am not a stoic! thankful that my feelings are not congealed."
Alice Lansdale and Margarette Claremont were both orphan nieces of the wealthy bachelor Mr. Claremont, with whom they resided. The former was the daughter of his only sister. Her parents died when she was quite young, and consigned her, destitute of property, to the care of her uncle, with whom she had now resided several years. Margarette was the daughter of his only brother. She had been an orphan but few months, during which period she had been domesticated in the family of Mr. Claremont, to whom had been committed the guardianship of herself, and her ample fortune.
"Have you nearly got through with your play, Alice?" said Margarette, as she re-entered the parlor. Alice made no answer, as she sat with her head leaning on one hand, her book spread on the table before her,—while the other hand held a handkerchief that was ever and anon applied to her eyes. Margarette advanced, and leaned on the back of her chair.
"How much longer are you going to read, Alice?" asked Margarette.
"Why can't you be quiet, and leave me undisturbed?" said Alice.
"Because I have something to tell you," answered Margarette.
"About goody Mason's lame finger, I suppose," said Alice.
"No—about two elegant looking young men I saw in the street an hour since,"—said Margarette.
"Who were they?" enquired Alice, without raising her eyes from her book.
"I do not know,—but from your description, I conjectured them to be your cousin Hubert and the Black Prince, as you call him."
"Why did not you tell me this before?" said Alice, springing on her feet. "They will be here immediately; cousin Hubert at least,—and here I am, looking like a fright, with eyes as red as a toper's! Why could you not have told me when you first came in?"
"I had been talking with Susan Hall, and forgot it," said Margarette. "And after all, perhaps it is not them."
"O, I know it is!—they were expected very soon. But tell me how the one you took to be the Black Prince looked, and I shall know at once if it was him."
"Tall—yet hardly as tall as his companion—with black hair, black eyes, and an acre of black whiskers; and—pardon me—a dash of impudence in his expression—at least I thought so, as I passed him."
"O, it must be him," said Alice, "though if it be, the latter part of your description is only your own imagination. But why do I linger here, when I must try to make myself look decent to see them? for cousin Hubert, at least, will come,"—and she left the room with a sigh.
Scarcely half an hour had passed ere Alice was summoned, according to her expectations, to meet her cousin, and Mr. Gordon, the Black Prince.
The young men made a long call,—for Alice had much to ask them of what they had seen and learned, during their absence; and they had much that was interesting to communicate. They had scarcely closed the door behind them, after taking leave, ere Alice exclaimed—
"Is he not a divine creature, cousin Margarette?"
"Which of them?" asked Margarette.
"Which! you stupid creature!—as if you knew not which I meant!—But which of them do you like best?"
"I was most pleased with your cousin's conversation," Margarette replied.
"Why?" asked Alice. "I am sure Gordon converses elegantly."
"He has words enough at command," said Margarette,—"but a scarcity of ideas; and those he has are not weighty. While listening to him I could not help thinking it was like dressing a little four-penny doll, in a large robe of silver tissue. Mr. Montague's conversation was really entertaining and instructive."
"I expected you to be severe, of course," said Alice, "yet I think you can find no fault with his manners."
"He is quite at his ease, and appears a gentleman, certainly," said Margarette, "yet his manners did not please me. There was too much show—he was too easy—has too much manner; and, if I may judge from one interview, he is not at all wanting in self-complacency."
"Cousin Hubert's quiet way suited your singular taste better, I dare say," said Alice.
"It certainly did—for he did not appear to be thinking of himself. His manners to-day were truly polished and refined; and if they arise from his heart, as I hope they did, I should judge very favorably of the man."
"I suppose you think him best looking, too!" said Alice—"best dressed and all!"
"In person they are both elegant young men," said Margarette, "but Mr. Montague's dress certainly suited me best,—as I doubt whether to be comfortable is not his first object in the choice of his apparel. As for Mr. Gordon, he must make dress a study. You see, Alice, as I had nothing to do but look and listen, I could learn a good deal of them in the hour and a half that they were here."
"Well, as you studied them, do let me know what you think of their faces."
"I have told you enough for once," said Margarette, "wait for the remainder till I see them again—perhaps I may change my opinion."
"No, no," said Alice,—"let me have it now—When you change your opinion, you can let me know it.—What of their faces?"
"Mr. Gordon, then," said Margarette, "knows that he is handsome,—and he has studied the exterior of his head so much, that I should fear he has somewhat neglected the interior."
"And what of cousin Hubert's?"
"I think his head very fine—very classical. His face is decidedly intellectual—his eyes uncommonly good."
"And what of his mouth and teeth?" said Alice.
"Peculiarly handsome," said Margarette. "And now, as you can possibly have no more questions to ask, pray let me know your opinion."
"You must have known that a long time. Cousin Hubert is—I can't say what he is—but just what I approve; and as for Gordon, he is the divinest creature alive!"
While this conversation was going on in Mr. Claremont's parlor, one not dissimilar was carried on in the street betwixt the gentlemen, Montague and Gordon.
"Who is this new cousin of yours, Montague?" asked Gordon.
"I cannot claim her as a relation," said Montague. "She is cousin to my cousin only, and a perfect stranger to me."
"N'importe," said Gordon. "But what do you think of her?"
"I have not had time to form an opinion," said Montague.
"You received some kind of impression, necessarily," said Gordon. "No one can be almost alone with a stranger for an hour or more, and not form some idea of what the character may be."
"She is certainly very silent and reserved," said Montague. "Her countenance denotes intellect,—but she appears cold, and has a loftiness that is repelling.—I fear she may prove wanting in that sensibility, of which cousin Alice has so abundant a share."
"O, she is a block of marble—a bank of snow—a statue of ice," said Gordon. "There would be infinite amusement in trying whether the marble would yield! the snow melt! the ice thaw!—She is a new variety of the species. I have seen nothing like her!"
"You admire her," said Montague. "I do exceedingly," said Gordon.
"Your taste has much changed," observed Montague. "It is but a short time since you were in raptures about my cousin, and they appear to be exceedingly unlike."
"True,—and Miss Claremont therefore excites the deeper interest. She will require some labor, some ingenuity to make her dissolve. Alice, pardon me, is always melted."
"Alice has strong sensibilities," said Montague, "and is as unsophisticated as a child. She hides none of her feelings."
"Did you notice Miss Claremont's smile," asked Gordon.
"I did, and confess it was very beautiful. Her whole face smiled, and seemed to beam with delight. But it was so evanescent, I scarcely caught it, ere it was gone."
"A slight shade of sadness was the prevailing cast of her countenance," said Gordon.
"She has recently lost a most excellent father," said Montague. "You noticed she was in mourning."
"Could an unfeeling heart lodge beneath that smile?" asked Gordon.
"The source of the smile might be the head—not the heart," answered Montague.
"I will never believe it—at least not till I try whether she has a heart or not," said Gordon.
"Very well," said Montague. "I told you in the beginning, I had not had time to form an opinion."
Between the two young men who held this conversation, there was as strong a contrast as could be between a noble-minded, well-educated, well-principled young man, and an exquisite of the first water. Gordon was quite free from all gross irregularities, but he had no principle of action; no motive beyond present gratification. The Bible was Montague's counsellor and guide; and he was endeavoring so to live on earth, as to live forever in Heaven. The young men had been much together in boyhood, and afterwards at the university; and though the difference in their characters grew broader, and more strongly marked every day, yet their intimacy in some degree continued. Montague was interested in the welfare of his early associate; and Gordon, though often angry at the warnings, exhortations, and reproofs of his friend, could not endure the idea of relinquishing his friendship. He really had a kind of affection for Montague; and he felt that it gave him additional consequence to be permitted to call such a man friend. Some months previous to the period now spoken of, Montague had been called on business to a distant part of the country; and Gordon, having nothing to do, offered to accompany him, and they had now just returned, after an absence of half a year. Montague had his fortune to make; Gordon inherited one from his father.
One morning about a week after his return, Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, where he was a frequent visiter. He was not quite as cheerful and conversable as usual, and after trying a long time to draw him out, Alice said—
"You are depressed this morning, Hubert. What is the matter?"
"I have just witnessed a scene of distress, that I cannot get out of my mind," said Montague.
"What was that?" asked Alice.
"It was an Irish family that occupy a hovel about half a mile from hence. The family consists of the father, Patrick Delanty, his wife and six children, the eldest a daughter, not more than thirteen years of age. They have been but few weeks in town, and are wretchedly poor. The wife is ill of a raging fever, and the two youngest children of measles, from which the others are but just recovered. Delanty is obliged to be out at day-labor, to keep his family from starvation; so that all the care and labor of nursing the sick, and looking after the other children, devolve on the eldest daughter, and a boy, two or three years younger.— Such poverty—such squalid and complicated misery, I have never before witnessed."
"Poor creatures!" said Alice. "But why will they leave their native land, and come here among strangers, where no one cares for them, to endure such misery?"
"To get rid of greater misery at home, cousin Alice!" said Montague.
"O, they are much to be pitied, poor creatures!"—said Alice; "but there are such hordes of them, that it is impossible to afford them effectual relief."
Montague said no more, as he found that the sympathetic cord in his cousin's heart was not touched. He just cast his eyes on Margarette, who was sitting, busily at work, in a recess at the opposite end of the room, to see if her compassion was awakened: but she was diligently plying her needle,—and but for the motion of her hand, he thought she looked exceedingly as if she were made of stone! "Heartless! unfeeling!" he thought, and almost murmured, as he arose and precipitately took leave.
The day next but one, Montague was again at Mr. Claremont's. Neither of the young ladies mentioned the Delantys; for Alice was wholly engrossed in a new novel,—and Montague concluded that Margarette had not even heard that there were any such people. But his own heart was too full of them, not to speak of their situation.
"Cousin Alice," said he, "you are so compassionate that I wonder you do not ask after the welfare of the poor Irish family."
"O, poor creatures! how are they? I have thought of them several times since you were here, and wished they had stayed in their own country, among their own friends, that they might be properly looked after. Have you seen them since you were here last, cousin Hubert?"
"Yes—yesterday, and again this morning."
"And how are they?"
"The children are somewhat better, but the mother still very ill. The family, however, together, are more comfortable than when I first saw them. Some young lady has kindly visited them, and not only in some measure relieved their pressing necessities, but given judicious and salutary advice to the daughter about the management of their affairs. When they described her to me, I felt a hope that it was you, cousin Alice."
"O no, Hubert, I could not go—such a scene of suffering would have shaken me all to pieces. Really I do not think I could bear it! But how did they describe the young lady?"
"As neither tall nor short, with a beautiful face, and a 'raal Irish heart'—kind as an angel!" said Hubert,—and he glanced his eyes toward Margarette, to ascertain if there were any look of consciousness in the expression of her face; but she was looking over the morning paper, and at that moment exclaimed—
"Dunlap and Miss Reed are married, Alice."
"How could I, even for a moment, suspect it might be her?" thought Montague. "She cares no more for them than if they were reptiles!"
"Who could it be, cousin Hubert?" asked Alice. "Did you not ask them if they knew her name?"
"I did—but they knew nothing of her but her kindness, of which they could not say enough. She even made the bed, with her own hands, and put fresh linen upon it, which she brought with her for the purpose, for the sick mother, who told me of it with tears of gratitude in her eyes."
"Well indeed she might!" cried Alice. "Think of what an office for a young lady!—such a combination of disease and filthiness! If I hear of any young lady in town, sick of a fever, I shall at once know who was Mrs. Delanty's nurse."
"May Heaven preserve her health," said Montague with fervor. "Persons of less active kindness could much better be spared; and the community would suffer little loss, were they laid on a bed of sickness."
"Very true," said Alice. "Yet there are very few, who can with propriety be called young ladies, who are capable of rendering such services. One might be ready to relieve suffering if it existed under less disgusting circumstances; but for a delicate female to encounter such dirt, and disease, and poverty at once, is too much!"
"Firm principle, a truly feeling heart, and a self-denying spirit, could alone enable a delicate woman to do it," said Montague,—"and these could!" He looked around to ascertain whether Margarette had really left the room, and then added—"And pardon me, my dearest cousin, if I suggest to you, that would you strive to conquer that extreme sensibility, which makes you shrink from scenes of suffering, and constrain yourself to witness and relieve distress, in your own person, you would render yourself, at once, far more happy and useful, if not more interesting. Active benevolence is one great secret of happiness." At this moment Mr. Claremont entered the room; the conversation turned to other subjects, and Montague soon took leave.
Mr. Gordon had not kept himself aloof from Mr. Claremont's, during this period; on the contrary, he had called frequently—as frequently as he dared, and reconnoitred to the best of his ability to ascertain the vulnerable part of Margarette's character, while he had brought all his small arms into successive requisition. His first and most natural effort was by flattery,—by which it is said all women may be subdued; and perhaps they may, and all men too, provided it be of the right kind, and administered in the right manner. But here Mr. Gordon completely failed. He was too gross; his colors were too glaring; there was no soft shading away,—nothing to touch the heart, through the medium of a refined taste; and Gordon found, though he knew not why, that he excited disgust instead of pleasure. He wondered that what he had ever found so efficacious with other young ladies—what would have caused the cheek of Alice to glow, and her eye to sparkle, was so powerless here. "I said she was a new variety of the species," thought he, "and I must try again." And he did try again—first by doing her silent homage,—breathing near her ear the deep-drawn sigh, and casting upon her the look of warm admiration and deep interest. But he soon closed his pantomime, as Margarette heeded not, even if she heard his sighs; and his impassioned glances were completely thrown away, as they rarely met her eye,—and when they did, seemed not to be understood. The next attempt was to aid in gratifying her in her favorite recreations, and in the indulgence of her taste. "Was Miss Claremont fond of prints?" "Particularly so." "He was very happy! He had a choice collection—and would fetch over his portfolio for her examination." "Was there any book in his library that Miss Claremont would like to read? He had the most approved editions of all modern authors, and it would afford him great pleasure if Miss Claremont would make a selection from among them, of any thing new to her." "He was very obliging—but her uncle's library was large, and well selected, affording sufficient intellectual nourishment for years—beside that he purchased every new work of merit." "Miss Claremont was an equestrian. He had a palfrey that would rival Margaret of Cranstoun's, which was entirely at her service." "He was exceedingly kind—but Mr. Claremont had one that was at once so spirited and gentle, that on his back she felt entirely at ease." Poor Gordon knew not what next to do. He had racked his invention to render himself agreeable and necessary—not only in the ways above enumerated—but by being always observing, and ready to perform any little personal service that might be requisite, such as handing a glass of lemonade, fetching a fan, picking up a stray glove, or placing a chair in a more desirable situation. He had actually labored hard, and had not advanced one step; and the only gratification that attended his exertions, was the obvious uneasiness of Alice, who pined under the loss of his attentions. A half suppressed sigh often struck on his ear; and a tear, as he thought, filled her eye, as she witnessed his marked devotion to Margarette. But for this sweet incense to his vanity, and his own boasting to Montague, that he was resolved not to be defeated, he would have relinquished so hopeless a pursuit. But pride and vanity impelled him onward; and although he could devise no new mode of attack, he determined to watch opportunities, and avail himself of any circumstance that might occur in favor of his design. As the heart of Mr. Gordon was a thing entirely out of the question, except as it occasionally fluttered with gratified vanity, or was momentarily depressed with mortification at want of success, his head was entirely free to devise plans in the best manner his abilities would allow, and watch opportunities with the most perfect coolness.
Mr. Montague had by degrees become interested in watching the result of Gordon's various modes of attack; and notwithstanding he had been rather displeased with the apparent coldness of Margarette's character, he felt gratified that she did not yield to the arts of Gordon. Not that he was in the least jealous of his friend's general success with women; nor that he had any personal wishes relative to Margarette; but he did wish to see one woman who was not to be won by mere external graces and accomplishments, and the little arts and blandishments that are usually so successful. His interest in Gordon's progress, led him to notice Margarette more particularly than he would, perhaps, otherwise have done. Gradually, and unconsciously, he was taking her up as a study; and the more he observed her, the more interesting did the study become. "She is a perfect enigma!" thought he. "I can never decide whether the variations in her countenance have their origin in the head or the heart. Her smile is the brightest—the most joyous—the most beautiful I ever beheld! and yet there is something in it that leads me to fear that it is like the brilliancy of the diamond—cold, while it dazzles! She seems not easily moved; and yet, while silently engaged in her work, I have seen her color fluctuate, while others have been discussing an interesting subject. She knows, at least, how to appreciate true greatness, for I have seen her eyes speak volumes when a magnanimous action has been mentioned before her. And, at any rate, I admire the firmness with which she repels that small artillery that is so generally successful, when levelled against her sex!"
One evening quite a circle of friends collected at Mr. Claremont's, among whom were both Montague and Gordon. Gordon secured a seat between Alice and Margarette, while Montague stood apart from them, listening to the general conversation, but now and then casting a glance at the trio, in which he took so much interest. The conversation at length fell on reading. Some expressed a preference for one class of reading, some for another; but a large majority of the company decided that biography was the most instructive, interesting, and entertaining. This resulted in a discussion of whose biography was most valuable, when a gentleman remarked, "that the life of Lord Nelson was the most interesting work he had ever read."
"Is it the book or the man, you so much admire?" asked one of the company.
"O, both—but the man particularly. His heroism charmed me."
"O do not name him," said Mr. Claremont. "I sicken with disgust when I read the fulsome panegyrics bestowed on him; and the numberless monuments raised to his memory in Great Britain."
"He was a most noble creature!" said Gordon, in a rather low tone to Margarette. She cast on him a look of the most withering coldness, not unmingled with contempt, but made no reply, as she listened to learn what further her uncle would say.
"No wonder they are proud of him, and raise monuments to his memory," said the gentleman who had first spoken of Nelson. "He secured more honor to the British navy than any hero from the reign of Elizabeth to the present time."
"Talk not of his heroism, or the glory he acquired for Britain," said Mr. Claremont. "Devoured by ambition, did he fight for the good of his country? or to attain individual honor? Was he not continually whining and complaining that his services were not sufficiently requited? Depend on it, he would not have thought the crown of England an unreasonable reward! And in his character as a hero, lies all the honor he can claim. As a private man, he was despicable. Though he could conquer the enemies of his country, he resigned himself without resistance to the dominion of the basest passions, and was guilty of that, which in unrefined New England, would have caused him to be hooted from society. Perfidious! hypocritical! base!—his character was stained with vices of the deepest dye,—and my astonishment can only be exceeded by my indignation, when in English publications I see him spoken of, and that by pious persons—Madam More, for one—as the "immortal Nelson!"—a being to be looked up to with admiration!"
"You are warm, Mr. Claremont," observed one of his friends.
"Perhaps I am, sir; and on this subject I wish others were as warm as myself. To eulogize such men as Lord Nelson, and hold them up to youth as fit objects for admiration and imitation, is laying the axe at the root of all morality. It is not, indeed, going softly to work, like a Rousseau, or Voltaire, to undermine the foundation of their virtue, but demolishes the whole fabric at once, by telling them, that if capable of performing a few brilliant actions, such a halo will shine around them, as will entirely conceal from the eyes of every beholder their want of sincerity, truth, fidelity, or moral honor. Wo to my country, when the public sentiment shall be so far corrupted, as to think that heroism, and what is known by the name of glory, can compensate for the want of true, consistent, undying virtue!"
Montague chanced to be looking at Margarette when Mr. Claremont began to speak, and the look she gave Mr. Gordon fixed his attention upon her, though he heard not the remark that called it forth. He watched her countenance with deep interest, as it gradually lighted up to a glow of admiring approbation, strangely intermingled with a shade of sadness. "I will have her opinion on this subject from her own lips," thought he; and placing himself near her, he said—
"What is your opinion of Lord Nelson, Miss Claremont?"
"O, exactly the same as my uncle's," said Margarette. "And how could it be otherwise? when I have so often heard my dear father express sentiments exactly similar. He very carefully taught me, never to let any external glory, any meretricious glare, blind me to real defects, or to the want of intrinsic and solid excellence." Her eye, as she finished speaking, sparkled through a tear, which was not unobserved by either Montague or Gordon.
"There is, then, a fountain of feeling within," thought Montague, as he still looked upon her—"A fountain of deep, pure, noble feeling!"
"By Jupiter, there is a tear!" thought Gordon—"and Montague has had the good fortune to call it forth. Who would have thought, that to talk of Lord Nelson, was the way to touch her heart? I would have given a thousand dollars, rather than he should have had this triumph!"
One morning Montague called at Mr. Claremont's, but found that both the young ladies were out. Mr. Claremont, however, was in the parlor, and he and Montague had passed a very pleasant half hour, ere Alice and Margarette came in. Margarette bade Montague 'good morning'—but Alice just nodded at him, and hastened to her uncle, and seating herself on his knee, exclaimed—
"Dear uncle, I am so glad you are in! I want to ask a great favor of you."
"What is that, my dear?" said Mr. Claremont.
"I am half afraid to tell," said Alice, "you will think me so extravagant. But, dear uncle, Margarette and I have seen the two most beautiful pearl necklaces at Wendall's, you ever beheld!"
"And you want them?"
"O, I do, most sadly," said Alice.
"And do you, Margarette?"
"I think not, sir," said Margarette—while Alice at the same moment cried—
"O, Margarette can have whatever she wants, she is so rich!—not a poor beggar like your own Alice, dependent on the bounty of another for every thing"—and bursting into tears, she hid her face on her uncle's shoulder.
| "Sweet sensibility, O, la! I heard a little lamb cry, bah!" |
said Mr. Claremont. "Come, Alice, don't cry about it, but tell me the price of the necklaces."
"How can I," said the sobbing Alice, "when you make such cruel sport of my feelings? Indeed, uncle, it is cruel!"
"I never make sport of your feelings, my dear, when there is any thing that ought to awaken them," said Mr. Claremont. "But come, tell me the price of the pearl necklaces."
"They are fifty dollars apiece."
"Whew!" said Mr. Claremont. "And so I must spend a hundred dollars to adorn the necks of my nieces?"
"O, Margarette can buy her own, you know uncle, and so you will have to give away but fifty."
"I hold Miss Claremont's purse-strings, you know," said Mr. Claremont, "and I shall serve you both alike. Margarette's, as well as yours, must be the gift of her uncle."
"I do not wish for one, my dear sir," said Margarette, but Mr. Claremont heeded her not, and opening his pocket book, gave them fifty dollars each. Alice loaded her uncle with kisses and thanks, while it was with evident reluctance that Margarette took hers in her hand. But as some ladies at that instant entered the room, without saying more, she put it in her purse. As soon as the visiters had withdrawn Alice went to her chamber, and Margarette seized the opportunity of being alone with Mr. Claremont, to restore to him the fifty dollars.
"My dear sir," said she, "I cannot accept this money, and should have declined it at the moment, only I could not explain before strangers. You will relieve me greatly by taking it again."
"By no means, my dear—I should be much pleased that you and Alice should have necklaces alike."
"But I do not want a necklace, sir, and should feel very badly to spend fifty dollars on a useless ornament."
"Then purchase something else with it, Margarette."
"I am in want of nothing, sir, and had much rather restore it to you."
"Can you find no use for it, my dear?" asked Mr. Claremont.
"O yes, sir—I could find enough to do with this, and ten times more. But perhaps you would think it injudiciously expended."
"What should you do with it, Margarette?" asked Mr. Claremont.
"Give every cent of it away, sir," Margarette replied.
"Very well," said Mr. Claremont. "It is yours, my dear, to throw at the birds, if you please. I can depend on your judgment and principles, that it will not go to indulge idleness or vice."
"O, I thank you most sincerely, my dear uncle," said Margarette with warmth—"in behalf of those who are suffering from want. It will give me great delight to be your almoner."
There was a very narrow lane ran past the foot of Mr. Claremont's garden, in which stood a little hut, occupied by a poor, but pious old man, who earned a scanty livelihood by gardening. He was known all ever the town by the title of Commodore, merely because in his youth he had commanded a fishing-smack. Montague had one evening walked some way out of town; and on his return, intending to pass an hour at Mr. Claremont's, he passed through this lane as the shortest way to his house. In passing the Commodore's domicil, which stood on the lower side of the lane, he cast his eyes in at the window, which had neither shutter nor curtain, and by a glimmering fire-light saw the old man sitting in his arm chair by the fire, while a female sat on a low stool beside him, who seemed to be doing something to his foot, which lay across her lap. Montague halted an instant, for there was something about the female figure, although enveloped in a large shawl and hood, that reminded him of Margarette. But her back was toward him, and the fire-light was so dim, that he remained in doubt whether or not it was she. "If it is her," thought he, as he walked on—"If it is her, performing such an office for the poor old Commodore, it may, after all, be her who visits the Delantys." As he came out of the lane, he met an acquaintance, with whom he conversed a minute or two, and then proceeded to Mr. Claremont's.
On entering the parlor, he found the little domestic circle complete. Mr. Claremont was engaged in a volume of Brewster's Encyclopedia; Alice with Malvina, over which she was shedding a torrent of tears,—and Margarette with her knitting work. "It was not her, after all," thought Montague; "but who could it be? she had not the air of a rustic!" After receiving Mr. Claremont's cordial welcome, he advanced toward his cousin, and closing her book with gentle violence, said—
"If you sustain no other injury, my dear Alice, you will inevitably ruin your eyes by reading while you weep so profusely. I wish you would relinquish novels as I fear they do you little good. Their general tendency is to enervate rather than strengthen the character." "I wish you could persuade her to relinquish them, Mr. Montague," said Mr. Claremont. "I am satisfied that that class of reading, only increases in Alice that sensitiveness which is already too strong. It will degenerate into weakness, and I know of few things more to be dreaded than a sickly sensibility."
"Why should you suppose that the reading of novels would produce that effect, more than the scenes of real life?" said Alice, "when it is universally conceded, that no genius can ever reach the truth."
"I can tell you why, Alice," said Montague. "In reading works of the imagination, persons of feeling unconsciously identify themselves with the favorite character; and then in a day or two, and sometimes in a few hours, their feelings are taxed with those scenes of sorrow and excitement, which in real life are scattered through months, or perhaps years. The greater part of life is made up of comparative trifles, which make little demand on the feelings, and scenes of sorrow and excitement are 'few and far between,' like the convulsions of the elements—which, though often distressing, and sometimes disastrous, are, on the whole, highly beneficial. But were the elements always at war, nature would soon sink to dissolution; and so if the mind and the heart were constantly raised to a state of high excitement, their energies would soon be exhausted, and the corporeal part would soon sink in the conflict. Do you read novels, Miss Claremont?" inquired Montague.
"Sometimes, but not often," Margarette replied.
"And do they affect you as they do cousin Alice?"
"Affect her?" cried Alice—"no, indeed! I never saw her moved to tears, by reading, but once in my life."
"And pray what was she then reading?" asked Montague, with a smile.
"A little penny tract, called 'Old Sarah, the Indian Woman'"—said Alice. "Over that she actually wept!"
"Did you read the tract, cousin Alice?"
"Yes—from mere curiosity, after witnessing the wonderful effect it produced."
"And did it call forth your tears?"
"No, certainly not!—Sarah was a good old creature, to be sure, but there was nothing in the tract to touch one's sensibility; and I could never conceive what there was in it, that so moved Margarette."
"Pho, pho, Alice," said Mr. Claremont, "Margarette is not the Stoic you represent her. I caught her no longer ago than this very morning, with a tear in her eye, while reading."
"My dear uncle," said Margarette, in a supplicating tone, while the pure blood in her cheeks rushed to her temples.
"What was she reading, uncle?" cried Alice.
"None of your lackadaisical nonsense, you may be certain, Alice," said Mr. Claremont. "She was reading a newspaper."
Alice laughed outright.
"Not so laughable an affair, neither, my dear," said Mr. Claremont, "as she was reading of the bravery and sufferings of the poor unfortunate"——
"Dear uncle!" again ejaculated Margarette.
"Poles," added Mr. Claremont, without noticing the interruption.
"The Poles? O yes," said Alice. "There was 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'—he was a divine creature! Well might one weep at the recital of his sufferings!"
"Doubtless, my dear—but Margarette's sympathies were moved by sufferings of a more recent date than his—by the narrative of bravery and suffering in all their nakedness—unadorned with the romance and poetry that Miss Porter has thrown around her hero. And to tell you the plain truth, Alice—I do like that sensibility better, that sympathizes with the actual miseries of our fellow creatures, even though there be nothing elegant, or poetic about them, than that which has tears only for some high-wrought tale of fictitious woe—the afflictions of some fallen prince, or the sorrows of some love-stricken swain, or lovelorn damsel."
"That, dear uncle, is as much as to say," said Alice, while her voice was choked with rising emotion—"that I can feel for sorrows of no other kind, and that you like Margarette's sensibility better than you do mine! I suppose you love her, too, more than you do your own poor, lone Alice! I feel that she is stealing every one's affection from me, though I love with so much more ardor than she does!" and she burst into tears.
All present felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and Margarette, who was really distressed, resolved to give a new turn to the conversation. Alice had seated herself on Mr. Claremont's knee, and thrown both her arms around his neck—so leaving him to soothe her wounded feelings in his own way, Margarette asked Montague some question, as foreign as possible to their recent conversation. The effort succeeded—the tears of Alice were soon dried, and the remainder of the evening passed very pleasantly.
One evening Montague and Gordon met the Claremont family, with a small select party, at the house of a friend. Gordon, as usual, secured a seat next Margarette, who was also attended by Alice, who had learned that to be near her, was the surest way to be near the idol of her imagination, the Black Prince. Montague likewise stood near them; for he was beginning to find, that there was something extremely attractive, even in Margarette's apparent coldness; or rather, that it was peculiarly interesting to observe marks of deep feeling, under so calm, so placid an exterior. Gordon recollected the conversation concerning Lord Nelson, and the effect produced on Margarette; and resolving in his turn to find a passage to her sensibilities, led the conversation to heroes and great men. He made some very eloquent remarks, as he apprehended, on heroism and greatness, which had previously been arranged with great care.
"Whom do you consider truly great men, Mr. Gordon?" asked Alice.
"Alexander—Louis the Fourteenth—Napoleon—Voltaire and Lord Byron," said Gordon. "Each in his turn, and in his own way, has dazzled the whole world!"
"Dazzled, but not enlightened!" said Montague.
Margarette looked up with one of her brightest smiles, and Montague felt, at the bottom of his heart, that it was warm, as well as brilliant.
"By Vesta," thought Gordon, "she has rewarded him for those two words, with that smile, which I have made such useless efforts to obtain! and he has made no effort at all!—I abandon her!"
"Whom do you esteem great men, Mr. Montague?" inquired Margarette.
"O, there have been hosts of them in the world," answered Montague; "but perhaps it would be better to tell you what I call true greatness, than to name those whom I esteem great. True greatness, I apprehend, consists in conquering or in duly restraining the ruling passion; in forgiving an injury, when we have fair opportunity for avenging ourselves; in sacrificing our own feelings and interests for the good of others; in that benevolence that leads to a forgetfulness of self, in efforts to promote the happiness and welfare of mankind."
"The world will hardly subscribe to your explanation of greatness," said Gordon, with something like a sneer, "and few are great!"
"Few are—but many might be," said Montague. "Every one who foregoes his own personal good, for the good of others; who forgets his own happiness, in efforts to promote the happiness of those around him, and who will not be turned aside from his purpose by the obstacles, or the unkindness, or the ridicule with which he meets, is great."
"Who sees such greatness?" asked Gordon.
"It has sometimes been conspicuous on earth, as in the case of Howard, Peter the Great of Russia, Wilberforce, Clarkson, Mrs. Fry, and multitudes of others," said Montague. "But no matter whether it is seen by the world or not, provided its influence be felt. And there is no one, capable of moral action, who has not almost daily opportunities for exercising true greatness and magnanimity of soul; and should every one improve the opportunity, the wilderness of this world would soon be like Eden, and her deserts like the garden of the Lord!'"
Margarette's countenance again beamed with pleasure and approbation, as she said—"Moral grandeur, would then be your definition of greatness, Mr. Montague?"
"It would."
"And the only true one, according to my apprehension," said Margarette, "and I have often had the pleasure of seeing it exemplified. And this moral greatness leads to sublimity of thought," she added. "It expands the soul, and elevates the conception. As an instance: I once attended a prayer meeting, where was a man who had no more than ordinary capacity, and who knew nothing beyond the cultivation of his little farm, and the path to heaven. He could scarcely read intelligibly. Being called on to lead in the devotions of the evening, he knelt down, and began in this manner—'O, thou, who lightest up heaven!' To me, it was like a shock of electricity! I have thought of it a thousand times since, and doubt whether Byron, with all his genius, in his happiest moment of poetic inspiration, ever had so sublime a conception."
"Would you like to examine the prints on the centre table, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon, rising, and offering her his arm. With a heart buoyant as the thistle's down, Alice accepted the proffered arm, and Montague secured the seat she vacated.
"There is nothing here that you have not seen a hundred times," said Gordon—"but I panted to get into a warmer latitude. The north pole has few charms for me, notwithstanding its brilliant corruscations. By the way, is this cousin of yours ever warmer than the summit of Mont Blanc?"
"Why ask me such a question?" said Alice.
"Because I thought you would be likely to know," answered Gordon.
"She is much admired and beloved," said Alice, with a sigh. "I wish I had her power over the heart!"
"Admired she may be—but beloved is she?" said Gordon.
"You surprise me, Mr. Gordon," said Alice. "I thought—I feared—I mean I conjectured"—and she stopt short.
"What did you think, fear, or conjecture, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon.
"O nothing—nothing of any consequence," said she, with real or assumed embarrassment.
"Now be frank, sweetest Alice," said Gordon, tenderly pressing her arm, which was still locked in his, to his side—"be frank, and tell me kindly what you thought."
"Why I knew that you admired my cousin, and I feared—pshaw—I mean that I thought you loved her," and she sighed again.
"O no, I could never love a block of marble, even if moulded into a Venus," said Gordon. "Believe me, sweet Alice, there must be some signs of sensibility—some little warmth of feeling, to awaken the affections of my heart. I could never love the twin-sister to the snow, and such I take Miss Claremont to be."
"So you are going to take an airing this morning, Commodore!" said Montague, as he saw the old man getting into a wagon in the street.
"Yes, Squire; you see I am taken from my work"—holding out a lame foot—"and so I am going on some business into the country."
"How long have you been lame? and what is the matter with your foot?" asked Montague.
"I sprained it a fortnight ago, sir—and it is almost the same as well now—only Miss Margarette made me promise not to try to use it too soon."
"Miss Margarette?—Margarette Claremont?" said Montague. "Does she advise you about your lameness?"
"Yes, and more than that, Mr. Montague, for, under Providence, she has cured it. There hasn't been a day since I hurt it, in which she has not come and tended it herself, bathing it with her own little hands, in a medicine she brought a-purpose. I couldn't put her off, Mr. Montague! And when she has so patiently and kindly sat, with the old man's foot in her lap, I'll tell you what I thought; I thought—here is the very spirit of Him who said—'If I, then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye ought also to wash one another's feet'—and the tears ran down my old cheeks whether I would or no."
There was a slight rising in Montague's throat, but he checked it, and inquired—"How far the Commodore was going."
"I don't know exactly, Squire, as I am going to buy a cow, and want to hunt up a pretty good one."
"A cow!" said Montague—"What in the world can you do with a cow?"
"Why, she isn't for my own use, Mr. Montague, though she is to be kind o' mine—but that's neither here nor there, and I must be going, as I want to get back in good season. Good day, Squire," and the Commodore drove off.
A few days after this, when Montague was one morning at Mr. Claremont's, it came into Alice's mind to inquire after his protégés, the Delanty's.
"O, they are all well, and in comparatively comfortable circumstances," said Montague. "They have found a very kind friend, who has furnished them with comfortable clothing, besides lending them a cow. Should they be the survivors, I think they would canonize her," added he, smiling.
"Her!" said Alice. "Is it a lady, then?"
"Yes, the same young lady that I told you assisted in nursing the mother. I wish you could hear them express their gratitude, in their own emphatic dialect, with their strong Irish feelings?"
"It is strange who it can be," said Alice. "Have they not yet found out?"
"It seems she has been very careful to conceal her name," said Montague, "as they have not yet learned it. But yesterday I was there, and they pointed her out to me, as she at that moment chanced to pass by."
"And did you know her, Hubert?" eagerly inquired Alice.
"I did,"—said Montague, "but I did not tell them, as she seems so desirous to 'do good by stealth,' and would doubtless 'blush to find it fame'—and neither will I tell you, cousin Alice,"—he added, as Margarette cast on him a look of mingled distress and supplication.
"Now that is the most provoking thing I ever knew you do, cousin Hubert!" said Alice. "But I will find out, if I go to Delanty's on purpose!"
"But I tell you they do not know, Alice; and beside, if a motive of benevolence would not draw you to them, when they were in distress, pray do not let so poor a one as curiosity procure them a visit, now that they are comparatively happy."
Margarette stayed by most perseveringly this morning. She would have given almost any thing would Alice have left the room, if only for one minute. Great was her satisfaction when her cousin hastily rose, saying—"I entirely forgot to send Mrs. Frost the pattern of my new pelerine. I must do it this moment."
She had scarcely closed the door, ere Margarette said, "I must do away the mistake under which you labor, Mr. Montague. The Delantys are indebted to my uncle, and not to me. I was only the channel through which his bounty flowed."
"Mr. Claremont was then Mrs. Delanty's nurse!" said Montague, smiling.
"O no, not that—but the clothing and the cow were purchased with his money."
"I understand it perfectly," said Montague. "I have seen my cousin's neck, encircled by a pearl-necklace; but Miss Claremont preferred relieving the sufferings of a poor Irish family, to adorning her own person."
"But Mr. Montague!" said Margarette.
"But Miss Claremont!" said Montague, laughing.
"Very well," said Margarette, in great perplexity what to say,—"you must think as you will."
"I will think as I must," said Montague,—"and bid you good morning."
A few weeks after the above conversation took place, Mr. Claremont, on returning from a morning's ride, was thrown from his horse, a few rods from his own door, and was brought in, apparently lifeless. At the appalling spectacle, both his nieces obeyed the impulse of nature, and turned to fly. But Margarette had scarcely begun her retreat, ere she returned. "I must face it," thought she, "however dreadful! kind heaven sustain me!" Without much apparent agitation, she gave directions, and assisted in conveying her uncle to his room; and before medical aid could arrive, employed herself in examining his limbs, to ascertain whether they were broken, and then in chafing his hands and head, to produce, if possible, some signs of life. All beside herself, seemed nearly delirious from fright.
The news of the accident flew like wild-fire, and in twenty minutes Montague was at the house. He found Alice in the parlor, walking the floor, and wringing her hands, in an agony of distress, constantly exclaiming—"my dear uncle!"—"my poor, dear uncle." In answer to Montague's hasty inquiries, she exclaimed—
"O, he is dead!—my dear, dear uncle!—and what will become of his own poor Alice?—doubly—doubly an orphan?"
Montague hastened to Mr. Claremont's room, hopeless of learning any thing of his situation from his cousin. The physician and surgeon were both there, and there was Margarette—pale as a statue, and apparently as firm, supporting her uncle's head on her bosom. There was a deathlike silence in the room, while the medical gentlemen were endeavoring to restore animation; while all feared that their endeavors would prove useless. A groan at length announced that the vital spark was not extinguished, and Mr. Claremont opened his eyes on his niece.
"Dear uncle," said Margarette, "do you know me?"
"Margarette!" murmured Mr. Claremont.
"Away with her, Mr. Montague," said the physician—"she is gone!"
Montague clasped her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, while a servant hastened after with restoratives. "She must be mine!" thought Montague, as he supported her lifeless frame, while the servant resorted to the usual means of restoration,—"she must be mine! Such benevolence without ostentation,—such firmness and deep feeling,—such exalted worth and true humility, are a rare combination! She must be my own!"
Mr. Claremont was scarcely able to leave his room, to which he was confined several weeks, ere Montague asked him, if he would bestow upon him his niece.
"Yes, take her Montague," said Mr. Claremont,—"take her as the choicest treasure one man ever bestowed on another. I know no man but yourself, worthy of her hand and heart."
An almost convulsive pressure of the hand, was the only sign of gratitude Montague could give.
Well, who was at the wedding?—and when did it take place?—It took place in a few months, and a large company was assembled,—for Mr. Claremont hated a private wedding. The Black Prince was one of the guests.
"Are they not a beautiful—a fine-looking couple, Mr. Gordon?" said Alice, after the great cake was cut, and the congratulations were over.
"O, yes"—said Gordon—"as fine pieces of statuary as one could wish to look upon! Montague, indeed, has fire enough—the more fortunate for him, for a deal it must have taken to thaw the ice of your cousin!"
"They are both a little singular," said Alice, "yet they love each other tenderly. How happy they will be! How sweet life must be, when congenial hearts are thus united forever!"
"Yes,—perhaps so—but after all, sweet Alice, it is better to do, as you and I do—love each other, and still be free!—I would not link my fate with that of any woman in the world. I am quite sure, that I should hate even you, sweetest,—angel as you are, could you call me husband. O, there is something killing to all romance, in the very sound of that word!—Do you not agree with me, dearest?"
Alice could not utter a syllable—but cast on him a heart-rending look of mingled disappointment, mortification and astonishment!—"False!—ungrateful! cruel!"—at length she murmured—and hastened to her chamber, at once to indulge and conceal the bitterness of her feelings.
"Alice is mourning herself to death, for that worthless, heartless Gordon," said Margarette to Montague, some time after their marriage.
"She is doing what she has ever done," said Montague—"thinking only of herself, and cherishing feelings that are totally destructive of all that is valuable in character."
"She has keen sensibility," said Margarette.
"But it is all expended on herself," said Montague. "Her sensibility results in good to no one, for she has no sympathy. Her character used to interest me, until I saw it contrasted with one so much more valuable—so much more exalted!—It was you, my dearest wife, who first taught me the strong distinction betwixt sympathy and sensibility,—and how utterly useless the latter is, when unaccompanied by the former. With Alice, it is not love for Gordon, but self-love that is the cause of her thus pining. Let some other romantic looking knight appear, and sue for her hand, and her affections would be at once transformed. Should no such one appear, she will by degrees degenerate into a peevish, useless, discontented, burdensome old maid. And the best advice I could give to any young lady of great sensibility, and who would be either useful or happy, is—That she should strive to forget her own sorrows, whether real or imaginary, and expend her sympathies on the afflictions and distresses of her fellow-creatures. By so doing, the benevolence of her heart would be constantly expanding, until she would on earth approximate to the character of an angel,—and when the summons came, would drop the garment of mortality, and shine a seraph in eternal day."
S. H.
There is little merit in the following lines besides that rare merit in poetry, their truth. They were written in the place of the writer's nativity, where he had at length settled down, after an absence of thirty years. They were written in a house just purchased, and from which the former owner had not yet removed his family, and were inserted in the Album of his daughter. She was young, beautiful, accomplished, newly married, and wealthy. Though confined to her room by bad health, she was preparing for a voyage to Europe, since happily accomplished.