Part 5

And _the_ day at length arrived! A New Year’s sun enlivened the spirits of the villagers, (albeit, they knew nothing of fashionable “calls” on Time’s natal day,) and threw open the gates of the parsonage. At an early hour might be seen gliding over the polished surface of a late fallen snow, the farmer’s sled, bearing its ponderous load of wood; here and there, wheel-barrows and hand-barrows, groaning with the burden of such variety as would puzzle any head to remember, all wending their way to the pastor’s dwelling. Two o’clock, P. M. found the elder portion of his congregation, having sent their gifts as a passport, preparing to appear in person before their minister. For once, the “Sunday suit” of true blue and shining gilt, was put in requisition on a _work_-day; and the buxom dame came forth from her toilet in her “best” gown and cap, and when in addition, the “meeting-bonnet” and hat were donned, away trudged the farmer and his “better half,” leaving the care of the homestead to the young folks, who were to take their turn at candle-light; when it was understood that the old folks were to return, and give them a chance by themselves.

Ye who love the cheerful, unostentatious scene, peep with me in imagination into the minister’s parlor:—see that weather-beaten group of farmers in the corner, animated by the light of each other’s countenances, while the crops of the late season are compared, and the improvements in modern husbandry denounced as “innovations,” and hostile to the wisdom and practice of their respected fore-fathers. Or if you would hear of broken banks and money-matters in general, listen to that trio, which comprises the chief of the village merchants: and then pass to those social wives and spinsters who are rocking, knitting and gossiping, all most industriously at the same moment. The latter accomplishment they evidently excel in; as can be proved by their remarks on the domestic qualifications of Mrs. Tidifield; the lax government of Mrs. Gadabroad; the inferior household management of Mrs. Carelittle, and the “high notions” of Mrs. Citybred, (a late comer among them,) which they “_guess_ will have to come down, after she has lived in the country awhile,” &c. &c. But as these industrious _ladies_ had no ill _meaning_ in this species of detraction, and would do “a good turn” for any of their erring neighbors before mentioned, we must attribute this propensity for scandal, to the “original sin” which is inherent to their sex. The tea “goes off” in old presbyterian style, and each discovers something of her own handiwork amid the variety spread before them. * * * But alas! all earthly pleasures must terminate. As the evening shades gather without, there is a breaking up of the gathering within, and the afternoon visiters disperse to the “quickstep” of “Homeward bound.”

The first light that gleamed through the parsonage-windows was a signal, that seemed well understood by the belles and beaux of the village; who light of heart and light of step, hurried in blooming clusters to the evening gathering, evidently reckoning on a merry-making of no common order. But after the excitement of arriving was over, and the last guest had been ushered into the presence of the company, there arose a question in the minds of some, as to what they had met together for; and in sooth no one seemed exactly to know. On one side of the ample apartment, in bright array, were seated all the fair of the neighborhood, in blushing, simpering silence! While opposite, in formidable rows, sat the young farmers and shop-keepers of the village, as “slick” as pomatum and starch could make them, twisting their thumbs one way for lack of thought, and the other way, for lack of talk; but not daring to cross the dividing-line, into “_fairer_ realms beyond.”

“The awful pause” was at length broken by a proposition which came from some unknown source, to “get up a play,” and many were the bright smiles that responded to it. Every one knows, that when the young folks of a village once throw off the stiffness of distance, and mingle in the unrestrained mirth of a rustic game, they are the happiest of the happy! On this New Year’s evening, they would have had a regular “_jollification_,” but for the timely caution of deacon Gravely, who remained to sustain the dignity of his office, by keeping the lambs of the flock within due bounds; reminding them that they were at the _minister’s house_: a fact which they seemed quite willing to forget.

The deacon’s notice proved something of a damper upon their gaiety; but after all was far less _effectual_ than that given on the preceding Sunday; as many a chasing for the kiss which was to redeem a pawn, and loud bursts of merriment testified; much to the discomfiture of the deacon. But there were at the party _two_ who kept themselves aloof from the festivities of the evening, and were observed to sit in a corner together, engaged in conversation and apparently unconscious of the merry scenes around them. They were none other than the daughter of Mrs. Citybred, and the intelligent young physician of the village. It was evident that they had been accustomed to the refinements of education and good society, and were for the first time in their lives at a parsonage gathering. Many were the sly jokes and whisperings interchanged by the company touching these _exclusives_; but of none effect on the doctor and his unsuspecting companion.

What they conversed _about_ is none of our business; but certain it was that the lady’s countenance glowed with pleasure; and it was observed by all that the doctor never looked happier before. On the breaking up of the party, it did not escape observation nor remark, that the doctor waited on Mrs. Citybred’s daughter home.

What the effect of such an agreeable meeting was, none could say decidedly; but as they were afterward seen riding together several times in a very _exclusive_ looking vehicle; and as the doctor has never before been known to ride out with a lady alone, since he settled in the village, of course there were _rumors_ of a wedding to take place before the next gathering, and much commiseration wasted on the doctor in anticipation of his “extravagant wife.” But as the next New Year’s day found him still a bachelor, it yet affords matter for gossip and conjecture among the villagers whether the Dr. and Mrs. Citybred’s daughter will ever be married or not.

Liberty, Pa. April, 1841.

* * * * *

TO AN OLD ROCK.

BY G. G. FOSTER.

Well! hands of friends have all been pressed— My mother’s kiss is on my cheek— My father’s hands and eyes have blessed His first-born—though he could not speak! And now I break the ties that bind Me to the last of my own kind.

But yet, to thee, my old grey rock, I hasten as in days of yore; And memories sweet and pleasant flock In throngs around me, as I pour My last heart-gushes over thee, Friend of my wayward infancy!

For oft ere yet my tongue expressed The wild emotions of my soul, And strange, proud feelings heaved my breast, Like tides beneath the moon’s control, I’ve wandered to this cool retreat, The Spirit of the place to meet.

And often in the solemn night, While kissing winds slept on the lake Which murmurs at thy base, and light And starry music kept awake The thronging fires of thought within, I’ve stolen to thee an hour to win

From all the carking care which rushed Over my untamed spirit’s mood, And leaned on thee, like infant hushed, And felt, as thus secure I stood, The god whose shrine was in my brain, Return to his old haunts again!

And when the friends of youth grew cold, And loving eyes were turned away, And even Hope was growing old, And all my heart-flowers withered—aye, I turned to thee, my firm old rock, And learned, like thee, to bear the shock.

But now, I go—Old Rock, farewell! And thou my tiny lake, adieu! Proud Hope my wandering steps impel O’er yonder mountain calm and blue. When fame is won and withered too, Old friends! I will return to you.

* * * * *

TO THE “BLUE-EYED LASSIE.”

BY THE LATE J. G. BROOKS.[2]

They tell me thine eyes are blue, lassie, They tell me thy cheek is fair. May grief never spoil its hue, lassie, Nor give its bloom to the air.

The world lies before thee now, lassie, And when time rolls a few more years Its troubles may blight thy brow, lassie, And dim thy blue eyes with tears.

Thou art come to a stormy life, lassie, Where often the hurricanes lower— Where wild are the waves of strife, lassie, And strong is affliction’s power.

Where flowers soon fade away, lassie, And strew their leaves to the blast— Where one moment the sky is gay, lassie, The next with clouds overcast.

Thou art the new-born rose of spring, lassie, As soft, as fair, and as frail— The hands of the storm oft fling, lassie, The rose of spring to the gale.

May that hand never fall on thee, lassie, To blight thy rose in its pride, Mayst thou glide o’er a sunny sea, lassie, On a calm and gentle tide.

May the cup of thy life never cloy, lassie, May thy heart e’er be light and gay; Mayst thou meet with the smile of joy, lassie, And a blest, and a cloudless day.

[2] Through the kindness of the mother of the poet, (the well-known and lamented _Florio_) we are enabled to present our readers with the above sweet little poem—one of his earliest compositions, and certainly not one of his worst. By mere accident it has hitherto remained unpublished.—Eds.

* * * * *

LEAVES FROM A LAWYER’S PORT-FOLIO.

THE ROBBERY AND MURDER.

_Macd._ O, horror! horror! horror! tongue, nor heart, Cannot conceive nor name thee! _Macbeth._

“James,” said a mild but feeble voice, “cheer up, God will yet send us relief. Has he not said that he heareth even the young raven’s cry, and think you that he will suffer us to starve? Oh! no,” continued the sick wife, forgetting her own sufferings in those of her husband, “believe it not. Succor will yet come: we shall once more see happy days—”

“Ay!” answered the husband, bitterly, “when we are in our graves. Ay! when want has driven the nails in our coffins: but not till then. My God!” he exclaimed suddenly, with the fierceness of despair, “was it for this I was sent into the world?”

“Oh! James,” said the meek wife, bursting into tears, “I can bear all except such terrible repinings. Father,” she continued, raising her streaming eyes to heaven, “forgive him, for he knows not what he says.”

The husband was moved. He turned his head away from his wife, perhaps to hide a tear; but if so, his weakness vanished as he gazed upon the ruinous and desolate apartment to which poverty had driven them, while all the bitterness of his soul once more lowered on his face.

The room was a low garret, black with age, and tottering to ruin. In its best days it had been at most but a wretched apartment, for at its highest part it would scarcely admit of a man standing upright, while on the opposite side the cracked and leaky ceiling shelved down until it met the floor. The walls had once been plastered, but age had long since peeled them nearly bare; and the time-stained beams of which the building had been constructed—it was a wooden one—now gaped through many a crevice. In several places even the weather-boarding without had given way or rotted off, admitting in copious draughts, the biting wintry blast which roared around the house. A solitary candle burned in the room, flaring wildly as the gusts whirled through the apartment. There was no fire-place in the garret—God knows it was well enough!—for the poverty-stricken inmates had not wherewithal to purchase food, much less fuel. No furniture was in the room, except an old chest, a broken cup or two, and the ricketty bedstead, on which, with a mattress of straw beneath her, lay that suffering wife. She was pale, emaciated, and evidently ill, but, amid it all, you could see on her wasted countenance, traces of the rarest beauty. The marble forehead; the classic eye-brow; the Grecian contour of face; the finely chiselled mouth and throat; and above all, the dark blue eye, its chastened expression lighting up the whole countenance as with an angel’s purity, told what must have been the loveliness of the sufferer, before care, or poverty, or woe had driven their iron ploughshares through her soul. Oh! well might it fill her husband’s heart with agony to look upon her now, and think of the day when in far different circumstances, he led her a blushing bride, to his home. But if such were his feelings when gazing on his angelic wife, how far more poignant did they become as his eye fell upon the almost famished babe lying in her arms. Poor little thing! it had fallen asleep at length, after crying long for that sustenance which its mother had not to give, although she would have drained her heart’s blood, if, by so doing, she could have appeased the hunger of her babe. By its side lay a boy, apparently about four years of age, his little delicate face worn with hunger and privation, and his thin fingers tightly grasping the bed-clothes, as though he feared lest some one should snatch the scanty covering from around his form. Alas! he had been early introduced to misfortune. Often had he gone supperless to bed of late, forbearing even to ask for food, because he knew his mother had it not, and that it would only pain her to refuse him; and often, too, when her husband being absent in the vain search after employment, his mother would indulge freely in the tears she checked in his presence, her little boy would climb upon her knee, and throwing his wan arms around her neck, kiss her and tell her not to cry. At such times the mother’s tears would only fall the faster, and clasping her babes convulsively to her bosom, she would find a melancholy pleasure in the sympathy of her child. But all these things were now forgotten by the boy. He lay in the deep sleep of infancy; and as he slumbered a smile played across his little face. Perhaps he was dreaming of the angels in heaven.

James Stanhope was a young man of good family, a fine personal appearance, and the manners of a gentleman. Destitute, however, of a fortune, he obtained a livelihood by acting as a clerk in a public office. He moved in good society, and enjoyed a moderate income, which, by proper economy afforded him, at least once a year, the means of spending a fortnight at one of those public places of amusement to which beauty, wealth, and fashion annually resort. During a visit to one of these summer pleasure haunts he met, and formed an acquaintance with Miss Howard, a young lady, scarcely seventeen, a beauty, and an heiress, who was spending a month at the watering-place, with a maiden cousin for a chaperon. An intimacy was the result of a casual introduction, which soon ripened into that most dangerous of all things to two young hearts—an acknowledged friendship. In one short word, they loved, and loved as few have done. But Stanhope, while he addressed the younger, did not neglect the older cousin; and the consequence was that the simple-hearted spinster fancied that it was her company to which the handsome young stranger was attracted. She thus shut her eyes effectually to the increasing intimacy between the young people, and their love had become not only unconquerable, but so evident as to be the theme of general remark, before the deluded chaperon, became aware of Miss Howard’s entanglement. She was then thunder-struck at her own indiscretion. She was more: she was enraged at the deception which had been practised upon her, or rather which she had practised upon herself. Dreading, moreover, the consequences of Mr. Howard’s displeasure, she determined at once, by flying from the place, to escape the attentions of Stanhope. Her carriage was instantly ordered to the door, their baggage hastily collected, and with scarcely an hour’s warning, Miss Howard was torn from her lover’s presence, without a moment being afforded her to communicate with him. She was not able even to wave him a silent adieu, as he was absent that morning on a ride. Disturbed by a thousand fears lest her lover should think her faithless, and compelled to listen to the bitter recriminations of her cousin, when sympathy was rather needed for her tortured mind, the poor girl lay back in the corner of the carriage and wept with a bitterness of heart such as she had never experienced before. Oh! who can picture the agony of one thus rudely torn from the object of her love. Life seemed to her to have lost its charm. Death, in those first moments of crushing anguish would almost have been welcome.

But if such were Miss Howard’s feelings, what were those of her lover when, on returning from his ride, he learned her sudden departure! A thousand doubts tortured him. At length, however, he gleaned enough of the real cause of Miss Howard’s disappearance, to convince him that her flight did not, as he had at first feared, originate in herself. Oh! the joy, the bliss of that knowledge. Ellen still loved him, loved him as warmly as ever. But here another reflection shot across his mind. With the sanguine temper of youth he had indulged the hope that his want of fortune would be overlooked by Mr. Howard, especially as his cousin had suffered the intimacy between his daughter and Stanhope to continue so long unopposed; but now—how could he resist the intimation so plainly given to him? Few can tell the agony of the lover’s feelings who have not passed through the same terrible ordeal.

“I will follow her,” at length he said, “I will see her once more. To live without beholding Ellen is more than I can endure,” and having come to this conclusion the ardent young man set out within a day to the city which was the residence alike of himself and his mistress.

We will not detail the progress of these two young beings’ passion. As in every like case opposition only fanned their love. Young, ardent, and uncalculating they had already exchanged those vows, which are only less lasting and holy than the marriage ones,—and the pure mind of Miss Howard looked upon it as sacrilege to break her troth, even had her heart whispered a willing assent thereto. But, on the contrary, all that was said against her lover, only increased her admiration of his character, and consequently heightened her affection. There is nothing like injustice to draw a woman’s heart closer to that of her lover. In vain they originated slanders to lower him in her eyes; in vain they even brought pretended letters to convince her of his infidelity; she remained inflexible, for every one, who knew Stanhope, joined in asserting his innocence, and it was impossible to conceal this from her without secluding her wholly from society. How often does a woman, in some trying circumstances, rise above herself, and display a sudden energy of character which those who had known her for years had thought foreign to her. Thus it was with Miss Howard. How long this reliance in her lover’s unabated integrity might have continued, if she had remained without meeting him, we know not; but Stanhope soon found a means to open a communication with his mistress, which effectually checked all danger, and deepened incalculably their mutual love.

Foiled in his attempts to obtain an interview with his mistress, Stanhope had found out the church which she attended, and thither he resorted every Sunday, to enjoy the happiness of at least, beholding, if he could not address her. It was not long before Ellen detected his presence, and the stolen glances they exchanged across the church, were mutual assurances of their unabated love. How Stanhope’s heart fluttered as he saw her enter the church, and move up the aisle to her father’s splendid pew. And if, perchance, when the family turned to depart, Ellen could, unobserved, give him a smile and a nod of recognition, how would he long to clasp the dear girl to his arms, and thank her for her kindness. Weeks passed in this manner, however, before the two lovers found an opportunity for an interview. At length one Sunday morning Ellen came alone. As Stanhope beheld her enter the door unattended, he could hardly contain himself in his seat, so great was his joy. The moment the service was over he hurried down stairs, and amid the crowd in the vestibule, with a beating heart, awaited her. Her agitation was scarcely less than his own, as he addressed her. A thousand eyes seemed to her fancy to be bent upon her, and she turned pale and trembled by turns. They had proceeded some distance down the street before either could speak more than the common words of salutation. At length Stanhope broke the silence.

“Ellen, dear Ellen, do we meet at last?” he said, in a low tone, “oh! how can I describe the joy of this moment. Since we last parted what agony have I not endured: doubt, fear, hope, despair have all succeeded each other in my mind.”

“How could you be so unjust?” said the sweet girl, reproachfully, “oh!” she thought to herself, “if he only knew what I have suffered for his sake.”

“Pardon me, dear Ellen, but though I felt convinced of your truth, yet I knew not what false accusations might be made against me. It was that which troubled me. I never doubted you, believe me. But oh! you cannot know how terrible it is to be forever excluded from your presence. How often have I watched your window at night, hoping to catch even a glimpse of your shadow, and how long and hitherto how fruitlessly have I waited for this blessed opportunity, if only to assure you of my unabated love, and to ask if you are still my own Ellen. Answer me but once more, dearest: let me hear it from your own lips again.”

The arm of Ellen trembled within her lover’s during this passionate address, and, as he continued, her agitation increased so visibly that when he ceased, and looking up into his face, she essayed to answer him, for a moment, she could not speak. At length she murmured brokenly.

“Why do—you ask me—such a cruel question?” and giving her lover a look of mingled reproach and affection that dissolved him with tenderness, she continued, “you know I love you!” and overcome, by her emotions, and even forgetting her public situation, she burst into tears.

If Stanhope could have that moment clasped her to his arms, and poured forth upon her bosom his thanks for her renewed avowal, what would he not have given! But he could only press her arm as it lay within his own, and murmur his gratitude. Oh! the ecstacy of that moment: it repayed him for all he had suffered during the months he had been separated from Ellen.

Their conversation was long and full of moment to their future lives. Urged passionately by her lover, and half persuaded by her own heart, Ellen consented at length to meet Stanhope in her morning walks; and then, bursting afresh into tears, left him at the corner of the street, not far from her father’s princely dwelling, and hurried home. It was a hard task for her that day at the dinner table to conceal her emotion; but she did so. When the meal was over, she hurried to her room to indulge in her feelings. Had she done right in thus consenting to meet her lover clandestinely? Her heart answered yes—her reason no. A fresh flood of tears came to her relief, and thus tortured by conflicting emotions, she sank toward morning into a troubled sleep.