GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XVIII. March, 1841. No. 3.

Contents

[Transcriber’s Notes] can be found at the end of this eBook.

Eng^d. by J. Sartain

GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XVIII. March, 1841. No. 3.

THE LADY ISABEL.

A TALE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

Chapter I.

Why don’t he come?

It was a splendid landscape. Far away before the eye stretched a wide, undulating country, checkered with lordly mansions, extensive woodlands, and here and there a quiet little village peeping out from amidst the verdant hills; while away on the verge of the horizon glittered a majestic river, which, winding hither and thither among the uplands, burst at length into view in a flood of glorious light, that lay like a shield of burnished silver in the distance.

Nor was the foreground of the scene less beautiful. Art had there been taxed to rival nature in loveliness. Terraces sinking one beneath another; a verdant lawn that seemed like velvet; rich, old lordly balustrades skirting the garden at your feet; and beyond, open glades, and clumps of forest trees thrown together in apparent confusion, but to produce which the utmost skill had been tasked, evinced at once the taste and opulence, of Lord Deraine, the owner of that rich domain. Such was the scene upon which two beings gazed on a lovely summer afternoon, in the year 16—.

One of these was a youth, just verging into manhood, dressed in a dark, plain suit, with a deep lace collar, and cuffs of the same material. He had apparently been singing, and accompanying himself on the guitar; for his instrument was still held idly in his hand, as he sat at the feet of a lady, into whose face he was looking up with a rapt intensity of gaze, which told that the soul of the page—for such he seemed—was in every glance.

And well might his emotion toward that lovely being be one of unmixed love; for never did a more beautiful creature gaze upon a summer landscape. Tall, stately, with dark lustrous eyes, and a port that might have become a queen, Isabel Mowbray, was a being formed to be loved with an intensity such as this world rarely witnesses. As she now stood gazing out upon the landscape, with one hand shading her brow, and the other thrown back, and resting on the balustrade, thus displaying her snowy neck and bust, and her matchless figure to the best advantage, she seemed a being too beautiful for aught but a poet’s imagination.

“You are silent, this afternoon, cousin,” at last said the youth, breaking a silence which had lasted for several minutes, “what are you looking at, Isabel?”

The maiden made no reply, but still gazed down the park. She was apparently lost in thought.

“Shall I sing again for you?” said the boy, in his low, sweet voice, looking up more devotedly than ever into the maiden’s face, “you used to like to hear me sing, you know, Isabel.”

“Oh! Henry is it you?” said the beauty, looking down, and half blushing, as if detected in something she wished to conceal, “sing by all means, my pretty page and coz. Sing me that old lay of the troubadour, and here Wyn,” and she called playfully to a beautiful greyhound reposing at the feet of the boy, “come here and let me talk to you, while Henry sings.”

An expression of gratified joy—of joy such as is rarely seen, except in the countenances of those who love—illumined the whole face of the boy as the maiden thus spoke—and taking up his guitar, he sang the words of an olden lay, which has now passed, with many a fair lip that once warbled it, into oblivion.

Gazing up into the face of the maiden as he sang, the youth appeared to have forgotten that aught else existed on earth besides the object of his adoration,—while the caresses lavished upon his greyhound, but more than all the occasional smiles which Isabel bestowed upon himself, filled his whole soul with a delicious emotion, such as is known only to us when we fancy our first love is returned. But had he not been misled by his own blind admiration, he might have seen much in her conduct to dissipate his delusion; for scarcely a minute would elapse, without Isabel casting an anxious glance, down the avenue of the park, and once her lips moved unconsciously, and even the page might have heard her murmur, had he listened, “I wonder where he can be?” But appearing to awake to her indiscretion, the maiden suddenly ceased gazing, and turning to Henry, said,

“A thousand, thousand thanks, sweet coz. You sing, to-night, sweeter than ever. But there if Wyn—the saucy fellow—has not run off with my shawl.”

The eyes of the youth lighted up with pleasure, and the blood mounted even to his brow, at this encomium,—and exclaiming,

“Stay—I will win back the truant,” he bounded gaily down the terrace after the playful hound.

The maiden followed him with her eyes, and sighed, “Poor Henry.” In those two words what a volume of hopeless love and years of anguish for the youth were spoken.

Chapter II.

The Page: The Lovers.

Henry De Lorraine was the only son of a once proud, but now decayed lineage, and, being left an orphan at an early age, had been reared in the house of his cousin, Lord Deraine. His life there had been that of most noble youths of his day, who, either through necessity, or for the purposes of advancement, were brought up as pages in the establishments of the wealthier nobility. Lorraine, however, possessed one advantage over the other pages of his cousin: he had from the first been the companion of the Lady Isabel, the only child of his patron. Although a year or two older than himself, the want of either brother or sister, had induced Isabel to confide in him all her little difficulties; and they had grown up thus, more on the footing of children of the same parent, than as a wealthy heiress, and a poor dependant.

During the last year of their lives, however, a change had silently, and almost imperceptibly, come over their feelings toward each other. An absence of nearly a twelvemonth with his patron at a foreign court, had in part altered the sentiments of Lorraine from those of a devoted brother to the emotions of love. He left Isabel, when both thought as children; he returned and found her already a woman. During that interval new scenes, new thoughts, new emotions had successively occupied the heart of the page; and though when he came back he was still a boy in years, he had already began to feel the intenser passions of the man. Never had he seen such beauty as burst upon him when Isabel entered the room on his return. It was as if a goddess of olden Greece had been ushered into his presence, as if the inanimate statue of Pygmalion had flushed, all at once, into a breathing being. Lorraine had dreamed of loveliness, but he had never, in his brightest visions, pictured aught so fair. He had expected Isabel to be improved, although he had left her the loveliest being of the riding; but he had not imagined that she would bud forth into a flower of such surpassing, such transcendent beauty. He was awed; he was filled as if with the presence of a divinity, to which he bowed irresistibly, but in strange delight. From that hour the bosom of the warm, high-souled boy, was ruled by a passion that devoured his very existence.

But we said Isabel had changed. She too had learned to love, though not her cousin. As yet she scarcely knew it herself; the secret lay hidden in the recesses of her own bosom; and though her heart would beat more wildly, and the blood rush in deeper tints to her cheek, whenever the steed of her lover, the young Lord De Courtenay, was seen approaching her father’s gate, yet the Lady Isabel had never asked herself whence arose her emotion. Perhaps she feared to institute the inquiry. Certain it is, that like every other delicate female, she almost shrank from owning, even to herself, that her affections had strayed from their pure resting-place in her own bosom.

It was well for Lorraine’s present, though unfortunate for his future, happiness, that De Courtenay had left the country a few days prior to the page’s return. By this means he was prevented from learning, what, otherwise would have checked his growing affection even in its bud, and suffered to go on in his dreams of love, until the very existence of the endeared object became almost a part of his being.

It was some time before Isabel perceived the change which had been wrought in her cousin’s feelings toward herself, and when she did, the knowledge served more than aught else, to reveal to her the state of her own heart. She saw she could not return her cousin’s passion, though she still loved him with the same sisterly affection as ever, and with this discovery came that of her own love for De Courtenay. Although her equal in rank, and even her superior in wealth, there was a romantic gallantry in her lover which had forbade him to woo her as others of like elevated station would have done. Though, therefore, her parent would have sanctioned the alliance at once, he was yet ignorant of the love the only son of his neighbor, the earl of Wardour, bore to his daughter. And though the lady Isabel thought of her absent lover daily, there was something—it might be maiden modesty, which made her shun breathing De Courtenay’s name.

Several weeks had now elapsed, and months were beginning to pass away, since the departure of De Courtenay for Flanders. The time for his return had nearly arrived, and Isabel had even received a hasty note from him, breathing a thousand delicate flatteries, such as lovers only know how to pay and to receive, telling her to expect him at Deraine Hall, on this very afternoon—yet he came not. Why did he tarry? It was this knowledge which had made the lady Isabel watch so long from the terrace, down the avenue of her father’s park. Little did Lorraine think, as he gazed so devotedly into her face, that her thoughts even then were wandering upon another.

Let it not be fancied that the lady Isabel trifled with her cousin’s feelings. Deeply, daily was she pained at his too evident love. She longed to tell him the truth, and yet she shrank from it. She could not inflict such agony upon his heart. She would have given worlds to have had the power of returning his love, but that had long since passed from her, and like the pitying executioner, she loathed striking the blow, which she knew must eventually be struck. And thus the story of those two beings went on, and while both were full of joy and hope, one, at least, had before him to drink, a cup, as yet unseen, of the bitterest agony. Alas! for the disappointments, the worse than utter wo, which a devoted heart experiences, when it discovers that its first deep love is in vain.

Chapter III.

The Letter: The Discovery.

“She loves me—she loves me,” exclaimed the page joyfully, as he stood in a sequestered alley in the garden, a few hours later than when she first saw him, “yes!” he exclaimed, as if he could not too often repeat the glad tidings, “she loves me; and, poor, as I am, I may yet win her.”

As he spoke his whole countenance lighted up; his slender figure dilated; his chest heaved; and all the lofty spirit of his sires shone in the boy’s eyes, and spoke in his tones.

“Yes! she loves me,” he repeated, “she called me ‘sweet coz,’ and thanked me a ‘thousand times’—these were the very words—and she played so with Wyn, and said I sang better than ever. Yes! yes! I cannot be mistaken—she loves me, me only.”

The page suddenly ceased, for he heard a rustling as of some one walking slowly up an adjacent path, separated from his own by a narrow belt of shrubbery. His heart fluttered, and the blood rushed into his cheek. He wanted nothing to tell him that the intruder was the lady Isabel.

She was evidently reading something, though in a low voice, as if to herself. For a minute the page hesitated whether he should join her, but then he reflected that she could be perusing nothing that she would not wish him to hear, when something in her glad tones, something in the words she read, induced him, the next instant, to pause. The lady Isabel was apparently repeating a letter, but from whom? Did he dream? Could those terms of endearment be addressed to her? Was it her voice which lingered upon them in such apparent pleasure? She was now directly opposite to the page; not more than a few feet distant; and the sense which hitherto had only reached him in broken fragments, now came in continuous sentences to his ear. The letter ran thus:

Dearest Isabel:—I write this in haste, and with a sad heart, for instead of being on my journey to see your sweet face once more, I am suddenly ordered back to Flanders with despatches for the commander in chief. You may judge of your Edward’s feelings, to have the cup of bliss thus dashed from his lips at the very moment when he had thought a disappointment impossible. Oh! if I knew that you still thought of me, love, as you once said with your own sweet lips that you did, I would depart with a lighter heart. God only knows when I shall see you. But the king’s messenger has come for me, and I must go. Farewell, dearest. I have kissed the paper over and over again. Farewell, again, and again.

Here the words of the reader became once more undistinguishable; but had they continued audible, Lorraine could have heard no more. A fearful truth was breaking in upon him. His brain was like fire: his heart beat as if it would snap its bonds asunder. He staggered to a tree, for a faintness was coming over him. Big drops of agony rolled from his brow, and he placed his hand to his forehead, like one awaking from delirium. At length he found words for his woe.

“No no, it cannot be,” he exclaimed “it was all a dream. Yes! it is too, too true. But I will not, cannot believe it, unless I hear it from her own lips,” and starting forward, with sudden energy, the page placed his hand upon the shrubbery, and pushing it aside with superhuman strength, he stood the next instant panting before his cousin.

Astonished at his unexpected appearance, Isabel started back with a suppressed shriek; but on recognising the intruder, her fear gave way to confusion. The blood mounted in torrents over brow, neck, and bosom; and hastily crushing the letter in her hands, and concealing it in her dress, she paused hesitatingly before her cousin. His quick eye detected the movement, and rushing forward, he flung himself at the feet of Isabel.

“It is then true—true—true,” he exclaimed passionately, “my ears are not deceived, and you love another. Is it not so Isabel?” The maiden averted her head, for she saw at once that she had been overheard, and she could not endure the boy’s agonised look. “Oh! Isabel, dear, dear Isabel, say it is untrue. Only say I was mistaken, that it was all a dream, that you still love me as you used to love me.”

“I do love you still,” murmured Isabel, in broken accents, “as I ever did, as my dearest, nearest cousin.”

“Is that all!” said the boy, whose eyes for a moment had lighted up with wild unchecked joy, but which now shewed the depth of his returning agony in every look, “is that all?” he continued in a tone of disappointment. “Oh Isabel,” and the tears gushed into his eyes, “is there no hope? Speak—only one word, dear Isabel. I have dared to love you—I might have known better—and now you spurn me. Well—the dream is over,” and dropping the hands which he had seized, he gazed a minute wildly into her face, to see if there was one last gleam of hope. But no response came back to dispel his agony. The lady Isabel was violently agitated, and though her look was one of pity, it was not, alas! one of encouragement. She burst into tears, and turned her head partially away. Striking his brow wildly with his hands, the page rushed from her presence, and when she murmured his name and looked up, he was gone.

(To be continued.)

CALLIRHÖE.

———

BY H. PERCEVAL.

———

Whence art thou bright Callirhöe,

Calm, Hebé-eyed Callirhöe?

Art thou a daughter of this earth,

That, like myself, had life and birth.

And who will die like me?

Methinks a soul so pure and clear

Must breathe another atmosphere,

Of thought more heavenly and high,

More full of deep serenity,

Than circles round this world of ours;

I dare not think that thou shouldst die,

Unto my soul, like summer showers

To thirsty leaves thou art,—like May

To the slow-budding woodbine bowers.

Oh no! thou canst pass away.

No hand shall strew thy bier with flowers!

Those eyes, as fair as Eve’s, when they,

Untearful yet, were raised to pray,

Fronting the mellow sunset glow

Of summer eve in Paradise,

Those bright founts whence forever flow

Nepenthe-streams of ecstacies.

It cannot be that Death

Shall chill them with his winter breath,—

What hath Death to do with thee,

My seraph-winged Callirhöe?

Whence art thou? From some other sphere,

On which, throughout the moonless night,

Gazing, we dream of beings bright,

Such as we long for here,—

Or art thou but a joy Elysian,

Of my own inward sight,

A glorious and fleeting vision,

Habited in robes of light,

The image of a blessed thing,

Whom I might love with wondering,

Yet feeling not a shade of doubt,

And who would give her love to me,

To twine my inmost soul about?

No, no, these would not be like thee,

Bright one, with auburn hair disparted

On thy meek forehead maidenly,

No, not like thee, my woman-hearted,

My warm, my true Callirhöe!

How may I tell the sunniness

Of thy thought-beaming smile?

Or how the soothing spell express,

That bindeth me the while,

Forth from thine eyes and features bright,

Gusheth that flood of golden light?

Like a sun-beam to my soul,

Comes that trusting smile of thine,

Lighting up the clouds of doubt,

Till they shape themselves, and roll

Like a glory all about

The messenger divine.—

For divine that needs must be

That bringeth messages from thee.

Madonna, gleams of smiles like this,

Like a stream of music fell,

In the silence of the night,

On the soul of Raphael.

Musing with a still delight,

How meekly thou did’st bend and kiss

The baby on thy knee,

Who sported with the golden hair

That fell in showers o’er him there,

Looking up contentedly.

Only the greatest souls can speak

As much by smiling as by tears.

Thine strengthens me when I am weak,

And gladdens into hopes my fears.

The path of life seems plain and sure,

Thy purity doth make me pure

And holy, when thou let’st arise

That mystery divine,

That silent music in thine eyes.

Seldom tear visits cheek of thine,

Seldom a tear escapes from thee,

My Hebé, my Callirhöe!

Sometimes in waking dreams divine,

Wandering, my spirit meets with thine,

And while, made dumb with ecstacy,

I pause in a delighted trance,

Thine, like a squirrel caught at play,

Just gives one startled look askance,

And darteth suddenly away,

Swifter than a phosphor glance

At night upon the lonely sea,

Wayward-souled Callirhöe.

Sometimes, in mockery of care,

Thy playful thought will never rest,

Darting about, now here, now there,

Like sun-beams on a river’s breast,

Shifting with each breath of air,

By its very unrest fair.

As a bright and summer stream,

Seen in childhood’s happy dream,

Singing nightly, singing daily,

Trifling with each blade of grass

That breaks his ripples as they pass,

And going on its errand gaily,

Singing with the self-same leap

Wherewith it merges in the deep.

So shall thy spirit glide along,

Breaking, when troubled, into song,

And leave an echo floating by

When thou art gone forth utterly.

Seeming-cheerful souls there be,

That flutter with a living sound

As dry leaves rustle on the ground;

But they are sorrowful to me,

Because they make me think of thee,

My bird-like, wild Callirhöe!

Thy mirth is like the flickering ray

Forthshooting from the steadfast light

Of a star, which through the night

Moves glorious on its way,

With a sense of moveless might.

Thine inner soul flows calm forever;

Dark and calm without a sound,

Like that strange and trackless river

That rolls its waters underground.

Early and late at thy soul’s gate

Sits Chastity in maiden wise,

No thought unchallenged, small or great,

Goes thence into thine eyes;

Nought evil can that warder win,

To pass without or enter in.

Before thy pure eyes guilt doth shrink,

Meanness doth blush and hide its head,

Down through the soul their light will sink,

And cannot be extinguished.

Far up on poiséd wing

Thou floatest, far from all debate,

Thine inspirations are too great

To tarry questioning;

No murmurs of our earthly air,

God’s voice alone can reach thee there;

Downlooking on the stream of Fate,

So high thou sweepest in thy flight,

Thou knowest not of pride or hate,

But gazing from thy lark-like height,

Forth o’er the waters of To be,

The first gleam of Truth’s morning light

Round thy broad forehead floweth bright,

My Pallas-like Callirhöe.

Thy mouth is Wisdom’s gate, wherefrom,

As from the Delphic cave,

Great sayings constantly do come,

Wave melting into wave;

Rich as the shower of Danäe,

Rains down thy golden speech;

My soul sits waiting silently,

When eye or tongue sends thought to me,

To comfort or to teach.

Calm is thy being as a lake

Nestled within a quiet hill,

When clouds are not, and winds are still,

So peaceful calm, that it doth take

All images upon its breast,

Yet change not in its queenly rest,

Reflecting back the bended skies

Till you half doubt where Heaven lies.

Deep thy nature is, and still,

How dark and deep! and yet so clear

Its inmost depths seem near;

Not moulding all things to its will,

Moulding its will to all,

Ruling them with unfelt thrall.

So gently flows thy life along

It makes e’en discord musical,

So that nought can pass thee by

But turns to wond’rous melody,

Like a full, clear, ringing song.

Sweet the music of its flow,

As of a river in a dream,

A river in a sunny land,

A deep and solemn stream

Moving over silver sand,

Majestical and slow.

I sometimes think that thou wert given

To be a bright interpreter

Of the pure mysteries of Heaven,

And cannot bear

To think Death’s icy hand should stir

One ringlet of thy hair;

But thou must die like us,—

Yet not like us,—for can it be

That one so bright and glorious

Should sink into the dust as we,

Who could but wonder at thy purity?

Not oft I dwell in thoughts of thine,

My earnest-souled Callirhöe;

And yet thy life is part of mine.

What should I love in place of thee?

Sweet is thy voice, as that of streams

To me, or as a living sound

To one who starts from fev’rous sleep,

Scared by the shapes of ghastly dreams,

And on the darkness stareth round,

Fancying dim terrors in the gloomy deep.

Then if it must be so,

That thou from us shalt go,

Linger yet a little while;

Oh! let me once more feel thy grace,

Oh! let me once more drink thy smile!

I am as nothing if thy face

Is turned from me!

But if it needs must be,

That I must part from thee,

That the silver cord be riven

That holds thee down from Heaven,

Not yet, not yet, Callirhöe,

Unfold thine angel wings to flee,

Oh! no, not yet, Callirhöe!

Cambridge, Mass., 1841.

THE CONFESSIONS OF A MISER.

———

BY J. ROSS BROWNE.

———

Continued from Page 87.

Part II.

That irrevocable passion which sprung up between Marco Da Vinci and Valeria, during the hours of mutual communion which they enjoyed while preparations were in progress for the annual exhibition at the Academy of Arts, was not destined to wither in its infancy.

Scarcely had the portrait been finished, when notice was conveyed to the candidates to send in their productions; and of course my anxiety was great to ascertain what impression my daughter’s beauty should make in public. Completely blinded by those deep and damning schemes which have proved my ruin, I meantime suspected nothing of what was in progress between the young and ardent lovers. They were bound heart and soul to each other; but except by those involuntary signs, which none but the victims of passion can understand, their love was unuttered. Hourly was this misplaced flame acquiring an increasing degree of vigor, from the very means taken to suppress it. I saw not, in my blindness, that in spite of the respectful and irreproachable conduct of Da Vinci toward the idol of my mercenary dreams, his tender flame, his ill-disguised sentiments of admiration, his involuntary devotion, were all returned in the same manner by Valeria.

In due time the exhibition took place. A week of thrilling excitement passed away. On the evening the premiums were to be awarded, I sallied out to await the decisions, persuaded that Valeria’s beauty, and not the skill of Marco Da Vinci, must make serious impressions in favor of the portrait. How describe my delight, when the premium was bestowed on the limner of my daughter’s charms! Her fame, I well knew, would now rapidly spread, and my fortune was sure!

In the excitement of the moment, I hurried from the Academy, and sought to drown my feeling in deep potations. While under the influence of an unusual quantity of the stimulant, the time flew rapidly past; and it was late in the night before I recovered myself sufficiently to stagger home. To account for the sight which there paralyzed my eyes, it is necessary to touch upon what happened during my inebriation.

Marco Da Vinci, on learning the decision made in favor of his work, proceeded with haste to pour out his feelings of gratitude to Valeria, whom he regarded as the instrument of his success. In the passionate eloquence of his temperament, he dwelt upon all, save that which was consuming his vitals, and which he dared not avow. They who pass any portion of their time in a state of beatitude, can alone say how swiftly it flies. Valeria and Da Vinci, entranced with their own dreamy visions of future happiness and of present joy, noted not that the hour of midnight had approached. At length the “iron tongue” of the town clock warned them to part; and with a deep sigh Valeria murmured a request that Da Vinci would visit the house again and frequently.

“My determination,” said Marco, “can no longer be suppressed.” In a voice of the deepest agitation he proceeded: “I had hoped, Valeria, that we might part without a word of regret on either side; but your kindness and friendship toward me, render it a duty that I should make some explanations in defence of my refusal of your hospitable invitation. I must speak, whatever be the penalty. Your beauty and charms of person—your mental fascination—render it too dangerous for me to continue my visits! We must part—forever!”

In a hurried and agitated manner the young painter rushed toward the door.

“Stay!” cried Valeria, in whom the struggle between love and duty was for a moment so violent as to deprive her of her faculties, “Da Vinci, why must we part thus? Why are we never again to meet? I am sure it is no harm for us to enjoy the pleasure of each other’s society.”

This was said in a voice of such warmth and artlessness, that, for a moment, he was unnerved in his resolution. The danger, however, was too great; and he resisted the temptation.

“Valeria,” said Marco Da Vinci, endeavoring to answer calmly, “I am an outcast—a beggar!”

“But I do not think less of you for that!” cried Valeria, passionately.

“Hear me!” cried Da Vinci, in a hurried and choaking voice, “you know me not! I have dared—I still dare—to love you!”

Valeria might have suspected, and probably did suspect, that this declaration was inevitable; but there is a great deal of deceit in the female heart; and she evinced much astonishment at the words of her lover. She endeavored to frown—to look serious—to speak of my authority—but love was the conqueror!

That resource which woman is ever prone to make use of, was at hand; and Valeria wept. Her beauty had always been a subject of dangerous interest to Marco Da Vinci: it was now heightened in his mind by the consciousness that she loved him. No longer able to control those feelings, which from the moment of their meeting, had taken possession of Da Vinci’s heart, the enthusiastic lover sprang forward and clasped Valeria to his bosom. He pressed her lips to his own, and imprinted on them the burning kiss of first-love.

At this critical moment I entered. Unable to believe my senses, I stood gasping for breath, and transfixed with doubt and astonishment. Convinced at length that I was not deceived, I sprang forward to wreak my vengeance on the villain who had so basely abused my confidence.