Part 5

The old man looked round and sighed. The apartments were in sad disorder, for the servants, overcome by the fatigues of the previous day, had followed the example of their master, and stolen from the morning the sleep they had been denied at night. A bottle lay shivered in one corner of the supper room, the champaigne with which it had been filled soaking into the rich carpet—a piece of plum-cake had been crushed by some heedless foot into the snow-white rug which lay before the drawing-room fire—the sweeping draperies of one of the curtains was still dripping with something which bore a marvellous resemblance to melted ice cream, and the whole suite of apartments wore that air of desolation which usually characterizes a “banquet hall deserted.”

“Do you calculate the destruction of furniture in counting the cost of your parties, Charles?” asked Mr. Waterton.

“Oh no—that of course is expected; furniture, you know, becomes old-fashioned and requires to be renewed about every three years, and therefore one may as well have the use of it while it is new.”

“You must have a vast addition to your fortune if you expect to pay for all these things.”

“My dear sir,” replied the nephew, with a most benignant smile at his uncle’s superlative ignorance of his affairs, “my dear sir, you do not seem to know that, in the course of about three years, I shall be one of the richest men in New York.”

“Do you sell on credit?” asked the old man, significantly.

“Certainly; everybody does so now.”

“Well, then, my boy, take an old man’s advice, and don’t count your chickens before they are hatched; don’t live on ten thousand a year when that sum exists only in your ledger. Call in your debts, and when your customers have _paid_, then tell me how _much_ you have _gained_.”

“My dear uncle, you are quite obsolete in your notions. I wish I could induce you to enter with me into a new scheme; it would make your fortune.”

“I am content with my present condition, Charles; my salary of eight hundred a year is quite sufficient for the wants of a bachelor, and leaves me a little for the wants of others; nor would I sacrifice my peace of mind and quiet of conscience for all the fortunes that will ever be made by speculation.”

“It is not necessary to sacrifice either peace or principle in making a fortune, uncle.”

“You have not seen the end yet, my dear boy; I have lived long enough to behold several kinds of _speculative mania_, and all terminated in a similarly unfortunate manner. It is a spirit of gambling which is abroad, and I am old-fashioned enough to believe that money thus obtained never does good to any one. It is like the price of a soul: the devil is sure to cheat the unhappy bargainer.”

“How I hate to hear people talk about business,” lisped Mrs. Waterton, as she sat listlessly in her loose wrapping-gown at the breakfast table; “I think no one ought to mention the word before ladies.”

The old man looked at her with ill-disguised contempt.

“It will be well for you, young lady,” said he, “if you never have to learn the necessity of a knowledge of business.”

Laura put up her pretty lip, but was silent, for she was much too indolent, and rather too well bred, to get angry.

Charles Waterton had given his uncle what he believed to be an accurate view of his circumstances. Excited beyond the bounds of sober sense by his seeming success, he was as sanguine a dupe as ever bled beneath the leech-craft of speculation. His real estate, which he _very moderately_ estimated at _quintuple_ its cost, formed, _at such prices_, an immense fortune. His book debts were enormous, for his money was scattered east, west, north and south, and in consequence of giving long credits, he was enabled to obtain exorbitant profits. But the Eldorado whose boundaries seemed so accurately defined on paper, became exceedingly indistinct as he fancied himself about to approach its shores. The following year began to afford tokens of coming trouble. Credit was still good, but money had entirely disappeared from the community, and men who had learned to make notes in order to _acquire fortunes_, were now obliged to continue their manufacture in order to _avoid ruin_. Rumors of approaching distress arose in the money market; men began to look with distrust upon their fellows, and as unlimited confidence in each other had been the foundation of the towering edifice of unstable prosperity, the moment that was shaken, the whole structure fell crumbling to the earth. As soon as doubt arose, destruction was at hand, and at length one wild crash of almost universal bankruptcy startled the dreamers from their golden visions.

* * * * *

One fine morning in the spring of 1838, the doors of one of the most stately houses in —— street, were thrown open to the public, and the auctioneer’s flag waving from the window gave a general invitation to every passer by. That ominous red flag! no less significant of evil than the black banner of the rover of the seas; for it is ever the signal of the disruption of household ties. That ominous red flag! sometimes betokening the instability of fortune—sometimes the work of death—sometimes telling of blighted fortunes—sometimes of broken hearts, but _always_ of discomfort and disquiet. And yet few things will so readily collect a concourse of people as that scarlet harbinger of destruction. There may be found the regular auction-haunters, men of idleness, bachelors, perhaps, glad to find an hour or two killed beneath the auctioneer’s hammer—single ladies of small fortunes, who have nothing to do for themselves, and have not yet learned the luxury of doing something for their neighbors—notable housewives, actuated by a sense of duty and a love of economy, who waste _nothing but time_ in their hunt after bargains—young ladies who come to see how such persons furnished their houses—and perhaps some would-be connoisseur in search of old pictures, which, if they have only hung long enough over a smoky fire-place, may be classed with the works of the old masters. On the morning in question, however, unusual attractions were offered to the visiters of such places, for it was the abode of wealth, and luxury, and taste which was thus desecrated—the mansion of the Watertons! The rich carpets were disfigured by many a dirty footstep,—the velvet couches bore the impress of many a soiling touch, and many a rude hand was laid upon the delicate and costly toys which had once been the admiration of the fashionable visitants of the family. Among the crowd were two of that _numerous tribe_ found in the very midst of fashionable life, who have learned the trick of combining meanness and extravagance—women who will spend hundreds upon a shawl, and at the same time beat down the wages of a poor sempstress until she is almost compelled to purchase with life itself the bread which ought to sustain life. Such were the two who now seated themselves in the drawing-room of the ruined family, in order to be in the _right place_ when certain articles were put up for sale.

“I want nothing here,” said one, with a half scornful air, “except those mosaic tables; the carpets and curtains are ruined by carelessness, and no wonder, for Mrs. Waterton was a wretched house-keeper.”

“And I only mean to buy that workbox,” said the other; “Mrs. Waterton told me it cost a thousand francs in Paris, and I am sure it will not sell for one fourth its cost.”

“By the way, have you seen her since her husband’s failure?”

“Oh no, I shouldn’t think of calling upon her when in so much distress; besides, I am told she has refused to see any one. Did you hear how she behaved when she heard of Mr. Waterton’s reverses?”

“No, I know nothing about her since she gave her last grand party, which was followed in a few days by his bankruptcy.”

“Why I was told she raved like a mad woman, reproached her husband in the vilest terms for thus reducing her to poverty, taunted him with his low origin, and accused him of the basest deception.”

“I can easily believe it, for these mild, placid milk-and-water women have got the temper of demons when once aroused.”

“I have not told you all yet; she refused to give up her jewels, which were known to be of great value, and having secretly employed a person to dispose of them for her, she took passage for France, and actually set sail a few days since; merely informing her husband _by letter_ that such was her purpose. This letter she placed in such hands that she knew he would not receive it until the vessel was underweigh, and he thus learned that she had deserted him forever. She pretends to have gone to join her sister; but there is a whisper of a certain black-whiskered foreigner who is the companion of her voyage. At any rate, whether he goes with her or not, he is a fellow passenger.”

“Where is Mr. Waterton?”

“At the house of his old uncle, who will probably be obliged to transfer him to a lunatic asylum before long; but hush, the auctioneer is coming.”

I have told you the _dénouement_ as related by the heartless women of the world, but like most of their species, they were only _half right_. Mrs. Waterton _did_ go with the intention of seeking her sister’s protection, but ere she arrived there, she was persuaded to travel farther under the protection of her fascinating friend. Mr. Waterton did not enter a lunatic asylum, but recovered his senses so fully that he obtained a divorce from his wife, and is now a fellow-clerk with his uncle; enjoying as much tranquility as a remembrance of his former follies, his imprudent choice, and his three years of wedded life will allow.

Brooklyn, N. Y.

* * * * *

A DREAM OF THE LONELY ISLE.

BY MRS. M. ST. LEON LOUD.

There is an isle in the far south sea, Sunny and bright as an isle can be; Sweet is the sound of the ocean wave, As its sparkling waters the green shores lave; And from the shell that upon the strand Lies half buried in golden sand— A thrilling tone through the still air rings, Like music trembling on fairy strings. Flowers like those which the Peris find In the bowers of their paradise, and bind In the flowing tresses, are blooming there, And gay birds glance through the scented air. Gems and pearls are strew’d on the earth Untouch’d—there are none to know their worth; And that fair island death comes not nigh: Why should he come?—there are none to die.

My heart had grown, like the Misanthrope’s, Cold and dead to all human hopes; Fame and fortune alike had proved Baseless dreams, and the friends I loved Vanish’d away, like the flowers that fade In the deadly blight of the Upas shade. I long’d upon that green isle to be, Far away o’er the sounding sea; Where no human voice, with its words of pain, Could ever fall on my ear again. Life seem’d a desert waste to me, And I sought in slumber from care to flee.

Away, away, o’er the waters blue, Light as a sea-bird the vessel flew. Deep ocean furrows her timbers plow, As the waves are parted before her prow; And the foaming billows close o’er her path, Hissing and roaring, as if in wrath. But swiftly onward, through foam and spray, To the lonely island she steers her way. The heavens above wore their brightest smile, As the bark was moor’d by that fairy isle; The sails were furl’d, the voyage was o’er: I should buffet the waves of the world no more. I look’d to the ocean—the bark was gone, And I stood on that beautiful isle, alone.

My wish was granted, and I was blest; My spirit revell’d in perfect rest,— A Dead Sea calm,—even thought repos’d Like a weary dove with its pinions closed. Beauty was round me: bright roses hung Their blushing wreaths o’er my head, and flung Fragrance abroad on the gale, to me Sweeter than odors of Araby; Wealth was mine, for the yellow gold Lay before me in heaps untold. Death to that island knew not the way, But life was mine for ever and aye, Till Love again made my heart its throne, And I ceased to dwell on the isle, alone.

Long did my footsteps delighted range My peaceful home, but there came a change; My heart grew sad, and I looked with pain On all I had barter’d life’s ties to gain. A chilling weight on my spirits fell, As the low, soft wail of the ocean shell— Or the bee’s faint hum in the flowery wood, Was all that broke on my solitude. Oh! then I felt, in my loneliness, That earth had no power the heart to bless, Unwarm’d by affection’s holy ray; And hope was withered, as day by day I watch’d for the bark, but in vain, in vain; She never sought that green isle again.

I stretch’d my arms o’er the heaving sea, And pray’d aloud, in my agony, That Love’s pure spirit might with me dwell— Then rose the waves with a murmuring swell, Higher and higher, till nought was seen Where slept in beauty that islet green. The waters pass’d o’er me,—the spell was broke; From the dream of the lonely isle I woke, With a heart redeem’d from its selfish stain, To mingle in scenes of the world again With cheerful spirit—and rather share The pains and sorrows which mortals bear, Than dwell where no shade on my path is thrown, ’Mid fadeless flowers and bright gems, alone.

Philadelphia.

* * * * *

LINES.

Why do we live? Is it to fade From glory to the tomb, Wrapt in its melancholy shade, Inheritors of gloom? Struck like the stars from Heav’n we die: Quench’d is the spirit’s light; Youth’s cheer and Hope’s sweet melody Are hush’d in sorrow’s night.

Why are we here! but to depart? ’Tis anguish thus to fade. Shall grief oppress a single heart When we are lowly laid? Thank God! th’ immortal soul no blight Of earth can e’er decay; On high, to realms of endless light It flashes far away.

* * * * *

THE HEAD AND THE HEART.

BY W. LANDOR.

“This is certainly the most charming opera that was ever produced,” said Mrs. Althorp, as the curtain fell after the first act of Sonnambula, and she turned round to entertain the company in her box; “yet, after all, what an absurdity it is! However, I must remember that I am growing old.”

“Pardon me,” said Mr. Hartford, who sat behind her, “elegance and beauty have no age.”

“Surely elegance has its Age, and it is that in which Mr. Hartford lives.”

“Mrs. Althorp’s _fiat_ has, indeed, such potency that it can make even me, in fact at least, the model of elegance.”

“My stamp,” she replied, “like that of the mint, only ascertains the value of the metal.”

“But, in the mint of fashion which you administer, there is such a seignorage as makes the coin far more valuable than the bullion.”

“Mr. Hartford, you talk operas,” said Mrs. Althorp, who knew she could never beat him in the charming absurdities of compliment, and was willing to retire from the contest.

“What do you think of the Prima Donna to-night?” said Miss Stanhope.

“I think she has miscarried in nothing but her singing, her acting and her speaking,” replied Mr. Hartford.

“She certainly does not sing as well as she did. She has sung too much; her voice is worn out.”

“You were speaking of the absurdity of the opera, Mrs. Althorp,” said Hartford. “The matter has certainly not been improved since the time when the Earl of Chesterfield settled it, that when you go to the opera, you must take leave of your understanding and your senses with your half guinea at the door, and give yourself up to the dominion of the ears and eyes; in other words, you must live by sight, and not by faith. But the repugnancy to reason is increased by the manner of performing them in this country, where part of the dialogue is spoken. The illusion of the opera is by that means destroyed. You may in time become accustomed to a race of beings whose natural dialect is poetry, and whose common cadences are music; but a set of people who let us see from time to time that they can talk like ourselves, and who yet, whenever they are excited, break out into modulated strains of song—who speak their common-places, and warble their exclamations—such people shock our credulity.”

“Yet it would seem that at Athens, where they knew something about these things,” said Mr. Temple, “the same confusion of the natural and the impossible prevailed on the stage. The chorus usually chanted its part, and was accompanied by music; and as we find that the persons of the drama, in conversing with them, frequently adopt the measure of verse which they sung, we must suppose that the former at such times sang. The chorus also often employs the rhythm which was used in speaking, and thus seems to have used the double dialect of recitation and singing. Nay, the chorus, as it circled the altar, employed a gliding step which resembled dancing; so that the Greek drama partook of the threefold nature of our tragedy, opera and ballet.”

“I have lost all my respect for the taste of the Greeks,” said Mrs. Althorpe, “since I heard that they painted their temples.”

“It was savage, indeed, to paint their temples,” said Mr. Hartford; “the more refined moderns only paint their cheeks.”

“The French are the modern Athenians,” said Miss Stanhope. “De Bourrienne says that the soldiers who were with Napoleon in Egypt complained bitterly of their privations, and longed especially for the opera.”

“Do you know who that person is that is talking to the leader of the orchestra?” said Miss Stanhope, directing the attention of Mrs. Althorpe to a young man of very striking appearance, who stood just within the door of the orchestra, and who seemed to be giving some directions that were listened to with great attention.

“Oh! that is Mr. Nivernois,” said Mrs. Althorpe; “a very odd person, by the by; I intended to have sent for him to sup with us to-night.”

After a few moments, the door of the box opened, and Mr. Nivernois came in. There was something very remarkable in his appearance: regular, well-chiselled features, of an Italian cast; pale complexion; large, black, vivid eyes, and long, straight black hair; in his countenance was an aspect of force and fire, keen intellectual action, and the power of deep passion. He was negligently dressed, and was very careless in his manner.

“This opera does not seem to be very popular to-night,” said Mrs. Althorpe to him. “And yet it is a fine one.”

“Nay,” he replied, “if you were to set Austerlitz or the Angel Gabriel to music, people would still complain.”

He turned round to Mr. Hartford, and began to put to him a variety of questions about music, with such rapidity as gave him no time to answer one of them. Hartford was ambitious to display his knowledge, and would have been glad to confound his interrogator by his superior taste. But the answer which he had begun to one question was cut off by another, and before that could be attended to, a third had succeeded. When the string was ended, he was so perplexed as to what he should reply to, and so stunned by the fiery fervor of the questioning, that he remained silent.

Nivernois fixed his keen eyes upon him, and waited an instant for the reply, which came not. He then turned aside.

“Humph!” said he; “for my part, I know nothing of music; not I. I thought I did, until I played three months every morning with Paganini. I would not give up the struggle sooner. At the end of that time I broke my fiddle, and abandoned fiddling forever. It was necessary to do that, or throttle the old hair-scraper. I should strangle with anguish in my chair, if I knew that there was a man living who could excel me in any thing I undertook. But what can one do? We have but one life to live. We are like felons, fumbling with a bunch of keys at the outer door of the sanctuary of immortality, while the police of death are hurrying after us round the corner; and who knows whether he has got the right key? No lasting fame can be founded on music. No melody is immortal but that of the drum and the cannon. That alone is eternally re-produced. How the Corsican knew to touch that instrument!—the Handel of the iron flute! What brave tunes they played off at Borodino and at Eylau! What a concert was given under the pyramids—the companies in squares, the musicians at the angles, and the shod feet of the Mameluke cavalry marking time upon the crusted sand! For the rest, what composer is there whom you recognise as _great_—whose name rushes on the breathless soul, and echoes through the spirit with a sound like thunder, or the voice of Milton? Fashions vary; tastes change. Who plays Purcell?—who sings Arne? The musician cannot throw himself upon that broad, unchanging instinct of popular judgment which, after the subtleties of criticism are exhausted and the disputes of the schools are at an end, must decide upon questions of taste, and to which literary creators may directly appeal. The _people_ cannot get at music to judge of it. Overtures cannot play themselves; and the professors, whose taste is corrupted by the over-refinements of science, take good care that the world at large shall not hear that great, universal music of a past age which would sweep away their conspiracies against taste. Lightning itself would go out of fashion, and thunder be pronounced exploded, if you could prevent the people from hearing them; if the learned had the playing of them, they would swear to us that steam-guns and rockets were more sublime. Still it is better to compose good choruses than to write bad poetry, like the great Frederic, or read worse, like Napoleon. We must multiply and spin out the offices of life. We must cram full the charge of life, if we would have a loud report. We must coin sleep into immortality, and mould the waste of leisure into stars of glory. We have but one life to live.”

The curtain rose, but Mr. Nivernois still went on with his harangue. There presently occurred in the opera a passage of extraordinary beauty, and Mrs. Althorpe began to be annoyed by the unceasing voice behind her. Her impatience presently got the better of her courtesy.

“Tell Mr. Thingembob there to hush,” said she to Mr. Temple.

But the discourse still continued, and above the rapid din of words could be occasionally heard, “Napoleon,” “genius,” and “We have but one life to live.”

Mrs. Althorpe turned round.

“Mr. Nivernois, hush!”

Mr. Nivernois was silent. Mrs. Althorpe relented of her severity, and began to fear that the unfortunate man might pine away in despair under the infliction of her rebuke. She turned round again with one of her most gracious smiles, and begged the favor of his company at supper after the opera.

The passage in the play struck most of the company in the box as new; they did not remember to have heard it at the previous representations of the opera. The house seemed to agree with them as to its beauty. It was called for a second and even a third time, and the applause was loud and long.

“What do you think of that?” said Mrs. Althorpe to Nivernois.

“Read the prophecies of Isaiah to this people,” he replied; “if they applaud that fittingly, I should think their praise of this worth something.”

In a few moments, he left the box. Presently the leader of the orchestra came in, between the acts.

“I thought I saw Mr. Nivernois here.”

“He has just gone. But where did you get that magnificent passage you just played? It surely does not belong to the play.”