Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

devotion would at last meet its due reward? age." She married the enthusiast in an ecstacy

No, Edina knew too much of life, too much of
man's nature, to despair now. Cholmondely's
heart was too noble, too full of warm affections
to recoil wholly upon itself; and, at the same
time, he was neither young enough nor hopeful
enough to venture into the untried depths of
stranger hearts.
With these reflections she
looked so radiantly lovely that Mrs. Winterton
was astonished at the effect she produced.

"Is it dress that improves your ward so much, Horace? I have never seen her before in ball attire; I had no idea it would make such a difference. Or have you been bewitching her with Affghan spells, that she is so bright this evening? What an eye she has for expression!"

Cholmondely fully assented to his cousin's admiring remarks; he was pleased to see Edina appreciated, he had begun to appreciate her himself, and was delighted that evening at the praises he overheard among the Calcutta judges of beauty.

Independent of Edina's new hopes, there was much that night to amuse and enliven her. There was Miss Skylark floundering in valse and galop with a mustachioed aide-de-camp; there was the eccentric Miss Redhead with a shabby morning-gown and crumpled collar, sitting behind a pillar, reading one of the Bridgwater treatises, with apparent absorption in the subject, and vouchsafing no reply to the beaux whom her strange unconcern had piqued into accosting her. There were Miss Archer and Miss Simpson sharing the attentions of the fascinating chief-mate of the Dreadnought, who, relieved from his captain's fidgetty eyes, was amusing himself with mischievous flatteries and insinuating sighs, and by his carefully alternated devoirs had embittered the ci-devant friends against each other beyond hope of reconciliation. There was also Miss Lackinsense, who sate in the centre of a listening circle, to whom she was, in a low voice, reciting her last celebrated "Ode to Immensity," which had already found its way into the Bengal Hurkaru;" to say nothing of seven sonnets on the Passions, in the Calcutta Literary Gazette; so that the genius felt herself in all the glory of a poetical lioness. Her Corinna-like air, the Sapphic upturning of her eyes, and the disposal of her robes, in which she had copied Miss Adelaide Kemble's dress as "Norma," struck Edina as so irresistibly ludicrous, that she could scarcely recognize her old shipmate with gravity, and her composure was still further tried by the Juno nod she received from the scornful lady of the lyre.

It is a sad truth, which this faithful history cannot in bounden' duty omit to relate, that Miss Lackinsense's portion of fifty thousand rupees created so many budding poets among ensigns and assistant-surgeons, that she was deluded into accepting a young gentleman who showed a taste in raving about her divine poems, which she said "she had not believed yet existed in this degenerate and railway-hardened

of joy at his volunteering to print a threevolumed novel, which in MS., under seal of profoundest secrecy, she showed to all her admiring acquaintances. Alas for the credulity of woman! the lover volunteered to print, the husband tore up the MS. to make matches to light his cigars; the only thing dirty written paper was fit for.

"Did she think women had no other duties but to sit at desks, spinning nonsensical stories about love, and trash of that sort? Go back to your dizzies and sircars, Mrs. Postlethwaite, and mind that my clothes are mended, and my dinner properly cooked; and let me hear no more about poetry and wishy-washy romance.

[ocr errors]

Mrs. Postlethwaite saw her three-volumed novel consumed in daily smokings, her genius tied down to ordering dinner, and keeping the house accounts; and after scribbling elegies "On a stifled muse," on the back of the weekly bills, which were discovered and ignominiously torn before her eyes, she took to beer as a resource, and with that and eau de Cologne, soon floated herself out of this world of prose and poverty.

But the Dreadnought has sailed while we have been digressing, and borne with her Cholmondely and his ward. There were pleasant passengers, civilians with their wives, going home on furlough, some intelligent foreigners, ancient heroes of colonels; all was amenity and friendliness. Edina never shone so much as among a few; her many good qualities were created for a select circle and intimate companionship. Every day Cholmondely saw in her more to respect and love; and when they landed at the Cape of Good Hope, where the Captain stopped for a few days to take in water, he begged her to accompany him to the lovely villa of Claremont, where they had first met, nearly seven years before. Edina complied with a fluttering heart; and having procured two horses, they rode thither on a lovely spring morning. The huge hill was tossing about his silvery veil of mist in a sort of gigantic pet; the vines hung fresh and tenderly green over the neat white Dutch cottages; the lanes were exquisitely lovely with wild flowers; the very waggons, with their teams of twenty bullocks, looked happy in the sunshine. Edina's thoughts ran back with powerful emotion to her life in these sweet scenes-her first dawn of proud love in the sensation that Cholmondely preferred her to the snowy-skinned Dutch beauties; her trials at home, the dreadful desertion of her father-all returned upon her but this last sorrow had been much softened by Cholmondely's narration of Bremer's repentance and death; and when she remembered that his hand had saved him to whom her heart clung, she blessed him daily in her prayers. As she rode along, Cholmondely broke silence by saying, in a faltering tone

"Do you remember, Edina, the old French proverb?-On revient toujours à ses premiers amours.' No man has lived to feel its truth

more than myself. Here, Edina, did I first Although the fortune in money which the old meet you, and here you excited no slight interest gentleman had left Frank made him better off in my bosom. But ill health, and the hurry of than the good old aunt had imagined, yet her my departure, prevented my feelings from de- proposal was so feasible, and so much for the veloping themselves even to myself as they must happiness of all, that it was immediately achave done had I remained and known you as cepted, and Miss Merton, the happiest and you are. I went to England: I did not recog-liveliest old maid that ever was seen, is very busy, she has announced, in saving up a marriage portion for Mary's baby daughter, in whose features she has, to her own delight, in spite of universal incredulity, discovered a remarkable resemblance to herself. She has also arranged a charming match between Edina's boy and Mary's girl.

nize you when we met, you were so changed; and your cousin was so beautiful, so susceptible, so artless you know the rest. Edina, here on the spot where first I saw you, is it presumptuous of me to return, and offer mine ancient fealty to mine ancient shrine? to ask for a prize, of whose excellence I have ever been unworthy? Edina, mine is not a youthful ardour, founded on a fair form, or a winning glance. It has required years of intimate intercourse of trial, which no woman but yourself could have so nobly borne, for me to appreciate and fully recognize the traces of evident excellence, which my grosser nature was always blindly incapable of penetrating. Edina, I ask it humbly, for you have convinced me of your immeasurable superiority to all other women; I ask you humbly, will you be content to take pity on a worn heart, and a poor shattered frame?"

Was Edina satisfied? was the voyage home happy? was the simple, quiet wedding, at the Isle of Wight, happy was the little picturesque cottage near Ryde a happy home? Go, and you will see, gentle reader; you will see a veteran hero, with eyes brimful of love and affection, reading in the sunny porch that looks out on the Solent sea, and on the white ramparts of Portsmouth. You will see an elegant, still young-looking matron, plying her needle on a child's frock, while she listens to her husband's voice, and her eyes of earnest tenderness follow a baby round-about, all smiles and curly locks, that is rolling on a quilt on the lawn. They are very happy-far from rich, it is true; but a few books, a few prints, a small neat house, health, and contentment make them blessed beyond kings.

Miss Merton had very soon the rapture of welcoming back her beloved niece. For the old man died in his attack of liver complaint, and Frank being the heir, Miss Merton insisted on his taking up his abode with her, and sharing the pleasures and comforts of the Meadow Land in her lifetime.

"For then, my dears," wrote the old lady, "you will not be wishing for my death, as all heirs naturally do, and as you would do, were you to go on baking out in India, and scraping and screwing to make both ends meet, while I am lolling on my bed of roses in Meadow Land. No, no; come home, and let me clasp my darling Mary to my old heart before I die ; and then I shall not feel a cumbrance on the ground, and a shadow on the happiness of those I love best in life.

P.S. Cholmondely is very well off, I hear. Edina makes a pattern wife, and is always laughing and merry. Who would have believed it? she seemed to me a stiffer, primmer old maid at twenty than I am at seventy."

"He is the image of his dear papa's papa, my first love, Mary, and my only one. Just look at this picture; and then you see Providence has just suited them for each other-for there is just a week between their ages, and the boy has the advantage, a very great advantage; for what is more absurd than a husband young enough to be his wife's son. Oh! it will be a charming match; I only wish I could live to see it."

NAIRLA.

BY MISS M. H. ACTON.

On the dark forest trees the dew lay sleeping,

When her lone watch an Indian girl was keeping,
Sunset had tinged with gold each fleecy cloud;
Where a tall pine had cast its shadow proud.
Nairla! the stern Manhatta's lovely daughter,
Brightest and best amid thy dark-brow'd race,
Linger not still thus by the lake's blue water,
Else will they miss thee from the greenwood chace.

Ah! she is not alone! through wood and brake,
Parting the boughs that o'er his pathway fall,
An aged man his feeble way doth take,

And waves a welcome to the maiden's call.

Swift as a deer she flies his steps to meet,
And there the maiden kneeling at his feet,

And lead him 'neath the stately forest tree;

Bowed her young brow in bitter agony.

"Father!" she cried, "look on these waving trees,
This silver lake; is it not passing fair?
Yet oh, my father, death is in the breeze

That steals e'en now to play within thine hair.

"Thou from thy distant land, with gentle speech And patient look, hath wander'd here alone, The red man in his forest wild to teach,

And win him to a worship not his own.

"And thou hast taught me from thy holy book
Things that do make me scorn the life I've led;
His daughter's change Manhatta cannot brook;
Alas! his wrath will fall upon thy head.

They say thou hast bewitch'd me; turn'd my heart
From all it used to love in days of yore;
That in their rites I cease to take a part,
And join them in their festive sports no more.

"And they will kill thee, father; aye, this night; Perchance this hour. Oh fly, ere yet too late; See, my canoe rides o'er the waters bright,

Swift shall it bear thee from thy cruel fate.

"Oh, fare thee well! thou must no longer stay." But calmly did the missionary stand: "Weep not, my child, I will not flee away, Though bonds and cruel torture be at hand."

"Father, 'tis madness! they are rushing on;

Quick to the bark, ere they can gain the spot. Alas! it is too late; our hope hath gone;

They've track'd thee here, yet Nairla leaves thee not!"

Round the old man the Indian maiden clung,

Her dark locks twining with his snowy hair, Clasping, as in her sorrow wild she hung,

His feeble hands that join'd in fervent prayer.

And onward, onward, came the band of death,
Swiftly, yet surely, like a mighty flood,
Trampling the flowers, that seem'd with balmy
breath

To stay their footsteps from the deed of blood.

Near, and yet nearer, till with vengeful cry
Manhatta marks his prey before him rise,
Through the still air the fatal arrows fly,

Then starts he back with horror and surprise.

He sees two victims wrapp'd in last embrace,

His heart grows cold! What form his eye doth meet?

Why does he dread to look upon the face

Of her who sleepeth in her beauty sweet?

Lo! with the blighted flower upon his breast,
The aged martyr in the forest lay;
The dart that gave his earthly spirit rest

Hath call'd the Indian maiden's soul away.

Pass we the frantic woe, too late to save;

The wailing dirge, the stricken chief's despair: In the far west there is a hallow'd grave, Shelter'd by trees-Nairla is sleeping there.

THE LINDEN TREE.

Ah! who a lovelier day might see?
The sunbeams played right merrily
In sweet fantastic style;

Then full upon the Linden tree
They held their court of revelry,

And laugh'd and danced the while.

Telling their tale of joy to air,

The whisp'ring leaves wave here and there,
As though distraught with glee;
While glebe and flower don best array,
And smile to see a world so gay
Around their Linden tree.

To share this mirth from cot hard by,
With lightsome heart and sparkling eye,
Sporting so wild and free,

In gleeful gambols came two boys,
Uncheck'd to revel in the joys
Beneath that Linden tree.

A gentle girl, with modest mien,
Fairer the sun had never seen,

Approach'd their sports to see; Though sister, and their senior far, She did not scorn their sports to share About that Linden tree.

When o'er yon rugged steep they race,
Where sterner heart would fear to chace,
Then gently chide did she;
But soon returning the truant smile,
She counsels them to keep the while
Quite near the Linden tree.

Her careful hand averts the fall,
Her patient aid regains the ball
As oft as need may be.
When tired, she strives their thoughts to raise
To other worlds, and songs of praise
Teaches 'neath the Linden tree.

A change comes o'er this fairy scene,
Where winter stealthily aspires to reign;
Gently to brown turns each green field,
Nips tender buds; yet will not summer yield,
But soothes and cheers each flower with smiles,
That promised to withstand all winter's wiles.
Soon icy breath the fair plain sweeps,

Chills the smooth stream; alas! the Linden weeps:
Winter's strong arm now bolder grown,
Conquers with one fell blow, and reigns alone.

When thrice ten rounds this globe had run,
And swallows thirty visits paid,
Slowly came forth a wearied one,

And sat him down beneath its shade.

No sportive smile rests on his brow,

No light heart sparkles through his eye: There all is cold and seared now,

E'en Linden's greeted with a sigh.

"Ah! brother, thou art blest," he cried; "Thou left this world while it was fair, The slippery paths of life untried,

Thy heart untouch'd with guile or care.

"Had I been wise, I had not roam'd
From this calm spot so full of peace,
In the false world to seek a home,
Where subtle vice steals heart and ease."

The once fair girl stood by his side,
Her beauty flown; but matron grace
Was still with her and she replied,
While sister's love beam'd in her face-

"Why envy our departed one?
Wherefore regret thou left this place ?
The prize not his that idly shuns,
But his that nobly wins the race.

S. C. E. B.

O, indolence and indecision of mind! If not in yourselves vices, to how much exquisite misery and mischief do you frequently preface the way!

THE FIRST LOVE-GIFT.

BY S. X.

"But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, Is first and passionate love: it stands alone, Like Adam's recollection of his fall!"'

BYRON.

I am a hale, strong, hearty, old gentleman; but, like you, gentle reader, was once young, gay, and active, as you are at this moment, in all the hey-day excitement of youth; but the wild blood grows tame, and yet more tame, as we descend the darkened vista to future years, and this you will find when you have arrived at my age, and are enabled to look down the perspective lines of life, wondering at their length, and at their indistinctness as they approach the utmost horizon of existence.

It is not to so far distant a period as the day of my birth that I would have the reader's fancy recede, but would have it pause and alight at the time I had almost attained my twentieth year. For the better understanding of my narrative, and for politeness-sake to my readers, being very particular in all matters in which etiquette is involved, I must introduce, par déscription, a young lady, to whom, as the reader will shortly see-I say shortly, having a great prejudice to long prosy narratives-I presented my "First Love-Gift."

At the time of which I write, she was, to the best of my memory, nearly-perhaps quite two years my junior; unquestionably beautiful, having that peculiar cast of countenance and expression which Sir Joshua Reynolds loved to pourtray. Her hair was light brown, of a texture beautifully silky, and I remember on the evening of which I write, it was bound tastefully with a wreath of various artificial flowers, then first coming into general use. Her eyes were full, and abounding in expression, showing the emotions of a heart whose feelings could spring only from a nature truly estimable and good, and their expression was heightened by the long lashes that shadowed them; her nose was reguJar in its form, and her mouth and chin are best described by the paintings prompted by the imagination of the great master I have before mentioned, having an archness when she smiled, that was more or less diffused through every feature, yet never approaching to that excess which the "men about town" I have heard, at the

[ocr errors]

present day, call wickedness of expression. Her figure was graceful, easy, and elegant in all its movements; and her head was supported on a neck and shoulders of a whiteness, clearness of complexion, and symmetry of form, rarely equalled, and never have I seen it surpassed. Such, gentle reader, is the description; and picture it in its most refined degree, and you will arrive at a resemblance of the young lady who won the admiration of an old English gentleman," thirty years ago. Perhaps it was something more than admiration, for her mind was as refined as her appearance, as gentle, as polished; the one the gift of nature assisted by art, the other the gift of art assisted by nature; all guarded by that self-pride, the possession and influence of which prevents the possessor committing an action which should cause the slightest blush of shame on the most modest cheek, and yet a pride that none could call offensive or absurd.

Of myself, inquiring reader, I can say but little. Doubtless I differed much from what I am now, having then youth, energy, and ambition, coupled with an activity of mind and body; all of which are now, like myself, on the shady side of fifty, and in their decline. I think, perhaps, the description I one day heard a young friend give of me at a party, when unknown to him I stood almost at his elbow, is the one the reader will find most intelligible, because it is most to the point, and though it referred more particularly to my present character, I think I have but little changed since the year I first bade farewell to my teens, save that I have grown a little more steady. "Ah!” said he, Mr. Hetherstone is rather hasty sometimes, but it is soon over, and then he is one of the best fellows in the world." It is wonderful how one's personal pride is gained upon-wonderful! for the very next day I asked him to dine with me. I lived in the country, at a pretty villa, sometimes visiting a friend at a few miles' distance, a great crony of mine, and who knew Miss James (or Mary, as I shall in future call

I

her, such being her Christian name), when I met her on the evening, the events of which I shall briefly describe. I find I have omitted mentioning that I sometimes perpetrated poetical effusions, once published a song, and that Miss Mary James is the present Mrs. Alfred Hether

stone.

I had been introduced to the family several months previous to the evening to which I have more than once alluded. Mrs. James was a great invalid. Of Mr. James I saw very little, he being rarely disengaged from his profession. Mary had brothers and sisters, all tractable in their general looks and behaviour. The evenings were spent chiefly in music, of which I am passionately fond, though able to perform but little on any instrument.

Early one spring I received an invitation from a young and lately married friend, whose parties I always enjoyed, the which I accepted, and was not a little pleased to see Mary James enter the room, accompanied by her father and some other members of her family, though I more than half expected they would be there. The time passed agreeably and, like all our happiest moments, rapidly away, finding me repeatedly by Mary's side, when the conversation between us suddenly turned on flowers.

"That is a beautiful rose you have in your coat, Alfred," she said, gazing on the flower, "and so early in blossom, it is the first I have seen this year."

"Yes," I answered, "and for a moss-rose it is very early, April having but just commenced." "Is it indeed a moss-rose?" she inquired, with one of her archest smiles, and I thought she called to mind the language of the budperchance it was only fancy, for I replied immediately that it was, making some passing remark on the sweetness of its scent. She inhaled its perfume, and the next moment we withdrew to another room where the music had commenced.

Night had far advanced, but parties were given earlier then than now, when Mr. James's carriage drove up. I stood on the staircase, awaiting the time when Mary should pass me. My feelings can be better imagined than described; the thoughts that flitted through my brain how sweet, how beautiful! lit up as they were by hope, bright, dazzling, sunny hope; hope bounding beyond the present; far into the years of futurity; hope that traced all with a pencil dipped in gold, apparently without alloy. Presently I saw her descending, and advanced a step or two to meet her; drawing from my coat the rose-bud, I paused for a moment by

her side.

"Will you accept this rose?" I demanded in a hurried and excited tone, pressing her hand as she took it, and, without distinctly hearing her reply, I continued my way up stairs. Presently the rest of the party descended, and having handed them to the carriage, I returned to the crowded and brilliant rooms; but the charm had gone:

I left the house, and soon arrived at my own dwelling.

I threw myself on my bed, and strove to get a little sleep; but the brilliant lamps, the thril ling music, aud the merry laugh, all hurried through my brain. I was watching the revelry as it had passed before me a short time since; again I heard the joyful song, again I joined in the applause, and again I sat by the beautiful being I had so lately parted from. After tossing restlessly on my bed for more than two hours, I rose, for sleep I could not. Having lit my lamp, and placed it on a table by my bedside, I began to read-but to no purpose: the letters became transformed into a thousand dancing forms, pictures, lights, faces, everything in fact which had passed before me. I dropped the shade of my lamp so as to screen my eyes; but the delusion continued, till, suddenly, as if nature was overcome with excitement and fatigue, I fell asleep. The short rest that followed must have been broken and disturbed in the extreme.

Apparently, scarcely had I fallen asleep when I again stood on the staircase, waiting the depar ture of Mary James; she came, radiant in beauty; again I advanced, and again stood by her side. I offered the rose: in taking it she smiled; and in my dreams I pressed her hand fondly and affectionately. Suddenly the scene changed, and I stood on the top of the staircase, when I heard the angry tones of her father's voice: they sounded harsh and unkind.

"What is that?" I dreamed he asked. She did not answer, but seemed to conceal some thing in her handkerchief. Again he demanded what it was. Still she made no reply. "You should not have accepted it of him," were the next words I heard him speak distinctly: "give it to me." I dreamed she pressed the handkerchief closely to her bosom, her eyes fixed stedfastly on the ground. "Give it to me," he repeated; and I saw him snatch the handker chief from her, and drawing from it the rosethe very rose I had the moment before given to her-he threw it away. I saw them approach the carriage, and instantly stood beside them. We parted. There was a coldness in Mr. James's manner; he parted with a formal "Good night, sir," and the carriage rolled away. Excited, I returned, rushed into the passage seeking for the rose; I found it, but on grasping the stem, it seemed to strike a chill, like that of death, through every vein.

At that moment I awoke, and found myself, to my no small surprise, in my own room, half stepped out of bed, and grasping the cold brass stand of my reading-lamp, which, doubtless, from the excessive heat and excitement I was in caused that death-like chill, which I dreamed came from the blighted rose, and, releasing my grasp, I dropped into a chair, and you may guess my joy at finding it all a dream, and that she had indeed retained my

FIRST LOVE-GIFT.
Brighton, March, 1845.

« AnteriorContinuar »