Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848

Another of the party had also brought his guitar, and the two were soon tinkling away at different parts of the grounds – the latter surrounded by half a dozen young men and women, and several beautiful children; while the stranger, throwing himself on the grass at the feet of Hortensia, upon whose lap nestled the little Emma, began a simple ballad of the olden time – while the squire and his bride stood against the old oak behind Hortensia. At length the strain of the young musician changed, subsiding into low and plaintive undulations.

"It is time for us to go," whispered Alice to her husband; "we are evidently de trop here" – and the wedded pair glided noiselessly off, casting mischievous glances at the haughty Hortensia, who sat absorbed in the music, and tears of sympathy and rapture ready to fall from her eyes. It was a clear case of love at first sight.

From this pleasant reverie both musician and listener were suddenly roused by little Emma, who, raising her head and shaking back the long ringlets from her face, exclaimed,

"Oh, sister, hear that! There goes the champagne, and I am so hungry. Come, let us go to dinner."

"Excuse me, madam," exclaimed the stranger, ceasing to play and springing to his feet, "your beautiful little monitor is right. I was already forgetting myself and venturing to dream as of old;" and he offered his arm to Hortensia, with that polite freedom not only permitted, but enjoined, by the etiquette of the pic-nic.

"And do you call it forgetfulness to dream?" inquired Hortensia.

"With so fair a reality before me, yes; but at other times to dream is to live."

"Oh, yes, it is nice to dream!" broke in the little Emma. "Almost as nice as a wedding. Now last night I dreamt that you were married, Haughty, like sister Alice."

A lambent rosy flame seemed to envelop for an instant the beautiful Hortensia, disappearing instantly, yet leaving its scarlet traces on cheek and brow.

"What say you, my pretty one," said the stranger, patting the lovely child upon the head, "what say you to a sandwich and a glass of wine with me, here on the greensward? (They had now approached the table– if a snow-white damask spread upon the velvet grass, and loaded with tempting viands could be called so.) Is not that better than dreams?"

"I love wine, sir, but mamma and sister say I shouldn't drink it, because it makes my eyes red. Now your eyes are as bright as stars. Do you drink wine?"

It was the stranger's turn to blush. And this little childish prattle seemed to have removed the barrier of strangership from between the two young people, who exchanged glances of a sort of merry vexation, and seemed to understand each other as if they were old friends.

That was a merry meal, "all under the greenwood tree," and on the margin of that sweet little fountain, whose waters came up to the very lip of the turf, which it refreshed with a sparkling coolness that ever renewed the brightness of the flowers upon its bosom. After the dinner was over, a dance was proposed, and the services of the handsome stranger, as musician, were cheerfully offered and promptly accepted. It was observed, however, that Hortensia, usually crazy for dancing, strolled pensively about with little Emma at her side, and at length seated herself on a little grassy bank, remote from the dancers, yet where she could overlook the scene.

There was a little pause in the dance, and Squire Deerdale approached the stranger and whispered,

"Do you like her?"

"She's as beautiful as Juno, but I dare not hope that she would ever love a poor vagabond like me. She deserves a prince of the blood, at the very least."

"Never mind! —Vedremo, as we say in Italy;" and with a laugh the young man bounded again into the dance, while the stranger redoubled his attention to his guitar.

The day began to wane, and the shadows of a neighboring mountain to creep slowly across the lea; and yet, so absorbed was that gay company in the merry pleasures of the day, that hours glided by unnoticed; and it was not until the round, yellow moon rose over the eastern hills, as if peeping out to see the sun set, that they thought of breaking up a scene of little less than enchantment.

The stranger scarcely left the side of Hortensia, who seemed completely subdued and fascinated by the serious eloquence, the inexhaustible brilliancy of his conversation, as well as enthralled by the classic beauty of his face, and the respectful yet tender glances which he from time to time cast upon her face. It may also be supposed that the hints casually dropped by the squire the night before, respecting his distinguished acquaintance, the young Duke of St. James, had not been without their effect. Sooth to say, however, that the hitherto cold and impassive Hortensia was really in love, and that she had too much self-respect to make any conditions in the bestowal of her admiration. She was haughty, proud and ambitious – yet at the same time high-minded and generous where her feelings were really interested.

Much may be accomplished in an afternoon between two congenial hearts that meet for the first time; and it is not at all surprising that on their way home the stranger and Hortensia should have lingered a little behind the rest of the party, engaged in deep and earnest talk.

"Beautiful being," whispered the stranger, "I have at length found my heart's idol, whom in dreams I have ever worshiped. What need of long acquaintanceship between hearts made for each other? Lady, I love you!"

"Sir, sir, I beg you to pause. You know not what you are saying – you cannot mean that – "

"But I tell you he does mean it, though," exclaimed a merry voice close at the lady's elbow; and turning round, she saw her mischievous brother-in-law, who had been demurely following their tardy footsteps.

"Brother! you here! I – really – am quite astonished!"

"And," interrupted the stranger, while a dark flush came over his face, "allow me to say, Squire Deerdale, that I also am astonished at this violation of the rights of a friendship even so old and sincere as ours."

"Well, well, I beg your pardon, fair lady; and as for you, sir, after you have heard my explanation, I shall be prepared to give you any satisfaction you may require. You must know, then, my dear old friend, that from a few careless words I dropped last evening, by way of joke, this young lady has imbibed the idea that you are the young Duke of St. James in disguise; and for the purpose of preventing any misunderstandings for the future, it is requisite that my sister and my friend Walter Willie, the artist, should comprehend one another's position fully."

"Good heavens! madam, you cannot believe that I was accessory to this mad prank of your brother's? Do not believe it for the world."

"No, no, I acquit you and every body but myself. I am sure I intended no harm by my thoughtless joke. Come, come, make up the matter at once, so that I may hasten back to Alice, who will begin to grow jealous, directly."

"Madam, dear madam, (Hortensia turned away her head with an imperious gesture,) I have only to beg your pardon for having too long intruded upon your attention, and to take my leave. The poor artist must still worship his ideal at a distance. For him there is but the world of imagination. No such bright reality as being beloved rests in his gloomy future. Farewell!" and the young man, bowing for a moment over the hand of Hortensia, withdrew.

"Brother, brother, what have you done!" passionately exclaimed the beauty, in a voice choked by sobs. "For a foolish joke you have driven away the only being who has ever interested my lonely heart. And now I can never, never be happy again."

"But, dear Hortensia, would you stoop to love a mere artist?"

"Stoop, sir, – stoop! I know not what you mean. Think you so meanly of me as to believe I would sell myself for wealth and a title? Proud I may be – but not, I thank God, mercenary nor mean. And what a lofty, noble spirit is that of your friend! What lord or duke could match the height of his intellect or the gorgeousness of his imagination. Oh, too soon my beautiful dream is broken!" and the young lady, all power of her usual self-restraint being lost, wept like a child upon the shoulder of her brother.

"Nay, nay, sister dear, weep not," at length said the squire, tenderly raising her head and leading her homeward. "All is not lost that is in danger. And so that you really have lost your hard little heart to my noble, glorious friend, I'll take care that it is soon recovered – or at any rate another one quite as good. Come, come, cheer up! All will go well."

The squire, although not usually rated as a prophet, predicted rightly for once; for the very next day saw young Walter Willie at Sweetbriar Lodge, with a face as handsome and happy as the morning. Hortensia was ill, and must not be disturbed; and at this information his features suddenly became overcast, as you may have seen a spring sky by a thick cloud, springing up from nobody knows where. However, the squire entered directly after, and whispered a few words to his guest, which seemed to restore in a measure the brightness of his look.

"And you really think, then, that I may hope?"

"Nay, my friend, you may do as you like about that. All men may hope, you know Shakspeare says. But I tell you that Hortensia has fallen in love with your foolish face – it's just like her! – and that's all about it. Come in and take some breakfast. Oh, I forgot – you've no appetite. Of course not. Well, you'll find some nice fresh dew in those morning-glories yonder, and I will rejoin you in a minute. We 'll make a day of it."

That evening the moon shone a million times brighter, the sky was a million times bluer, and the nightingale sung a million times sweeter than ever before. At least so thought the beautiful Hortensia and her artist-lover, as they strolled, arm-in-arm, through the woody lawn that skirted the garden of Sweetbriar Lodge, and held sweet converse of immortal things by gazing into each other's eyes. And so ends our veracious history of the Pic-Nic in Olden Time.

TO THE VIOLET

BY H. T. TUCKERMANSweet trophy of life's morning, fresh and calm,Dropped from the gleanings of relentless time,How from thy dainty chalice steals the balmThat hung like incense o'er its dewy prime!The lily's stateliness thou dost not own,Nor glow voluptuous of the damask rose,Thou canst not emulate the laurel's crown,Nor, like the Cereus, watch while all repose.And these gay rivals of parterre and fieldMay freely drink the sunshine and the dew,But only unto thee does heaven yieldThe pure reflection of her cloudless blue.Thy tint will sometimes darken till it wearA purple such as decked the eastern kings,And yet, like innocence, all unawareIts tribute to the wind thy blossom flings.Symbol of what is cherished and untold,Thy fragrance oft reveals thee to the sight,Peering in beauty from the common mould,As casual blessings the forlorn requite.Thy image upon Laura's robe was wrought,O'er which her poet with devotion mused,And gentle souls, I ween, have ever caughtFrom thee a solace that the world refused.The Tuscan flower-girls delight to cheerEach pensive exile with thy scented leaves,Fit largess of a clime to fancy dear,Which a new blandishment from thee receives.Grief's frenzy, when it melts, of thee will rave,As of a thing too winsome to decay,And thus Laertes at his sister's graveBids violets spring from her unsullied clay.Lowly incentive to celestial thought!We ne'er with listless step can pass thee by,For thou with tender embassies art fraught,Like the fond beaming of a northern eye.Hence thou art sacred to our human needs;Laid on the maiden's white and throbbing breastThy delicate odor for the absent pleads,And mourners strew thee where their idols rest.In those wild hours when feeling chafed its bound,And deepened more that utterance was denied,In thee persuasive messengers I foundThat reached the haven of love's wayward tide.And I have borne thee to the couch of deathWhen naught remained to do but wait and pray,And marked the sudden flush and quickened breathThat proved thee dear though all had passed away!

THEY MAY TELL OF A CLIME

TO – BY CHARLES E. TRAILThey may tell of a clime more delightful than this,The land of the orange, the myrtle and vine;Where the roses blush red beneath Zephyr's warm kiss,And the bright beams of summer unceasingly shine.But I know a sweet valley, a beautiful spot,Where the turf is so green, and the breezes are bland;And methinks, if you'll share there my ivy-crowned cot,There'll be no place on earth like my own native land.A palace 'neath Italy's star-covered sky,Unblest by thy presence would desolate be;But cheered by the light of thy soft beaming eye,Ah! sweet were a tent in the desert with thee.For 'tis love – O! 'tis love which thus hallows the ground,And brightens the gloom of the anchorite's cell;And the Eden of earth – wheresoe'er it be found —Is the spot where the heart's cherished idol doth dwell.Then come to my cottage – though cool be the shade,And verdant the sod 'neath the wide-spreading bough —Where the wood-dove its nest 'mid the foliage hath made,Yet lone is that cottage, and desolate now.For as the green forest, bereft of the dove,No more with sweet echoes would musical be —Even so is the rose-mantled bower of love,Unblest and uncheered, if not gladdened by thee.

A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

BY C. A. WASHBURN

I dreamed that for a long time I courted Charlotte – what need of dreaming? It was true. Nevertheless I dreamed that for a long time I courted Charlotte, and at last, which was not true, married her. And I thought that Charlotte and I lived very happily together.

She loved me better than she ever thought she could before we were married, for I loved her exceedingly, and was very kind to her.

I remember how long it was that I wooed her, · always hoping, though sometimes fearing that she would never love me so as to marry me; how, when at last we were married, and I carried her home to my pretty cottage, I could hardly contain myself for joy; and when I saw her seated in our own parlor on the wedding eve, I could not keep a tear from trickling down my cheek; and how she kissed away the tear, and when she knew the cause, how she burst into a flood of tears, and said she would love me the better for my having loved her so; and how that we were from that time wholly united in heart and sympathy.

Then, in the course of time, we had two darling children, which we both loved – and I thought my cup of happiness completed. I had been an ambitious man in my youth, and had experienced much of the disappointment incident to a life for fame. But when God had given us two such lovely children, I thought it was abusing his mercy to neglect them for the applause of the world – and so devoted myself entirely to their welfare. If I worked hard and was inclined to feel peevish and cross, I thought how that I was laboring to make happy, and good, and great, the dear boys, and I forgot every thing else. If I became tired of the turmoil of life, I was the more happy when I got home, for the children were always waiting and glad to see me, and their presence immediately banished all anxiety and care. They seemed so happy when I came – for Charlotte used to teach them to prize my presence by dating their pleasures by my arrival; that I thought it joy enough for one mortal to have looked upon the impersonation of innocence and joy in his own children.

Then, when the boys were asleep, how we used to talk about them; how anxious we were when either of them was restless or unquiet! How we used to reckon on the joy they would give us in age, and how in the happiness of our lot we shed tears of happines and joy! With what fervor did we unite in prayer for their health and preservation, and wish all the world as happy as we were. We became selfish in our joy, and felt to care little for any thing but home, and in our enjoyment of the gift we had like to have forgotten the Giver.

But at length Charlie, the younger boy, was sick, and we feared he would die. We then remembered in whose hands his life was, and, I believe, ever after regarded our treasures as trusts committed to our keeping. Charlie suffered great pain, but he complained not. His very submission smote our hearts, and though we could not think he was to die, yet we thought he was too good to live. Benny could no longer smile upon us, but watched by his brother's bed without speaking or moving, unless to do him some service. We felt anxious about Charles, yet forbore to speak of our anxiety, though when he was asleep we could no longer conceal our sorrow and fears. And when one day the physician imprudently said in his hearing that he feared Charles would die, he looked at him in surprise, as if he had not thought of that; and kissing the fevered brow of his sick brother, he came and stood by his mother's side, and looking in her face as much as to say you wont let brother die, he saw a tear in the clear blue eye of his mother, and he sobbed aloud; and Charlotte could contain herself no longer, but dropped hot tears on his face faster than she could kiss them away. Then I feared if Charlie should die lest Benny should die too; and then I knew that Charlotte could not bear all this, and I prayed in my heart to God for Charles. And the next day, when the good physician said the danger was past, we felt to thank God that he had so chastened our affections, and ever loved him the more.

So we lived in love and happiness for many years, and all that time not a shade of discord passed between us; and I often thought what a dreary world this had been to me if Charlotte had never been mine. I used to pity my bachelor neighbor, and, as I thought, I could see the tear of disappointment in his eye when he witnessed my happy lot. I saw it was a vision, and only the figure of Margaret, my once loved and pretty sister, who existed then but in the land of spirits, was before me.

And I told Margaret of the vision, and could not repress a sigh that it was not reality; and musing long on what I was, and what I might have been had nature dealt with me more kindly, until the vision returned. Again I lived the life of youth's fancy.

But the boys now began to mingle a little with the world, and we feared we were not equal to the task of educating them. We trembled when we thought of the dangers before them, though we could not believe it possible that they should ever do wrong. Alas! what trouble was before us!

I had carried home a box of strawberries, and set them in the pantry, and setting myself down in the library, waited for Charlotte to come home from shopping. I saw Charlie come from the pantry, but thought nothing at the time, and when Benny came in, bade him bring them to me that I might divide them between them – they were gone; Charles must have taken them, for no one else had been in the pantry. I called him to me, and asked if he had taken them. I asked without concern, for I knew if he had, he did it supposing it to be right. He said, "No, sir." "Ah," said I, "you did." He then inquired what ones I meant, and I told him, and told him he must confess it, or I must punish him. But when I talked so seriously of punishment, he seemed confounded. He turned pale, and only said, "I did not do it." That was a trying moment; and when Charlotte came in, we considered long and anxiously what we ought to do. Should we let the theft go unpunished, and the falsehood to be repeated. Again we urged him to confess. The answer was still the same. There was no alternative but a resort to what I had prayed Heaven might spare me. I punished him severely, but he confessed not. I wished I had not begun, but now I must go on. I still increased the castigation, and it was only when I told him that I would stop when he owned the theft, and not before, that he confessed he had taken the berries.

After this cruel punishment he went out and found Benny, who had been crying piteously all the time, and then my two boys went and hid themselves. I would have suffered the rack to have recalled that hour. It was too late. On going into the kitchen shortly after, I found a poor woman of the neighborhood with the box, which she said her thievish son had confessed he stole from the pantry. Perhaps some parents imagine the feelings of Charlotte and myself when we made this discovery. But they are few. The boys both shunned us, and we dreaded to see them. But at last we sent for them to come in, and they dared not refuse to obey. I took Charles in my arms. I asked him to forgive me; I told him who took the berries; I shed tears without measure; I begged him to forgive me – to kiss me as he was wont. He could not do it. It was cold and mechanical. His little heart seemed broke. Had he died I thought I could have borne it, but I could not endure this. When he slept he was fitful and troubled; ah! his troubles could not be greater than mine. I slept not that night; no, nor for many nights after that; but I watched him in his sleep, and many a hot tear did I drop on his cheek, which he wiped off as poison; and for many weeks I would rise several times every night, and go and gaze on his yet pretty face, on which was stamped the curse for my own cruel haste.

In the midst of these sore trials, the lovely face of Margaret again appeared before me, and again the vision vanished into nothing. And I told her this part of the dream, and even then could not suppress a tear that it was a dream, and that the children of W – could never have an existence or a name.

Then the kind Margaret spoke words of comfort to me, and made me repress the half-formed feeling of discontent.

"Have you not," said she, "said you would be satisfied for only one hour of the love of Charlotte?"

"True," I replied, "and that dream was worth more than all my life before."

"Have you not known in that the joys of a parent, and have you not seen what sorrows and trials might have been yours, from which you have now escaped? And do you now complain of your lot, W – ? You know not the designs of Providence. Will not Charlotte be yours in the world to come?"

"God grant it!" said I; "but where will be Benny and Charles? They can never be, and I shall die, and the flame of parental love will burn in me, and never can it have an object."

"Hush you!" said Margaret, "cannot God give you in the other world those spirits of fancy? Did you not enjoy them in the dream, and cannot the same power make you enjoy them in Elysium? Is it nothing that God has done for you in showing you what might have been, and what can be there? Are you still ungrateful, and do you still distrust his goodness? Is it nothing that he has kept you from temptation, and that you have so clear a conscience? Will you not be worthy of Charlotte in heaven; and have you no gratitude for all this? Have you not dear friends still; and will not Margaret be a guardian-angel to you so long as you sojourn in this valley of tears?"

"Ah!" said I, "I am blest beyond my deserts, and I will no more complain, but thank my heavenly Father for the dream-children he hath given me."

I felt reproved by the words of Margaret, for I felt I had often indulged in useless repinings; and I determined I would do so no more, but patiently await my time to enjoy the loved ones, both real and ideal, in heaven. I again turned to speak to Margaret – but Margaret had vanished to the land of spirits, and I was alone, the solitary man I had long been. It was but a dream within a dream.

PASSED AWAY

BY W. WALLACE SHAWWith wearied step, and heavy heart,O'erburdened with life's woes —My soul bowed down with grief and careThe orphan only knows —I strayed along old ocean's shore,Where I had wandered oft before,My grief to hide from men;I listened – something seemed to say —The joys that once did fill thy breastWhere, oh! where are they?A voice that mingled with the roarOf dashing waves against the shore,In hollow tone, replied —"They bloomed; and died!"

AN EVENING SONG,

BY PROFESSOR WM. CAMPBELL[AN EXTRACT.]Lyre of my soul, awake – thy chords are few,Feeble their tones and low,Wet with the morning and the evening dewOf ceaseless wo.The time hath been to me and thee, my lyre,When soul of fireWas ours, and notes and aspirations boldOf higher hopes and prouder promise told —Those days have flown – Now we are old,Old and alone!Old in our youth – for sorrow maketh old,And disappointment withereth the frame,And harsh neglect will smother up the flame,That else had proudly burned – and the coldOffcasting of affection will repelThe warm life-current back upon the heart,And choke it nigh to bursting – yet 't is well,And wise-intended, that the venomed dartShall bear its sure and speedy remedy.Why should the wretched wish to live? to beOne in this cold wide world – ever to feelThat others feel not – wounds that will not heal —A bruised, though yet unbroken spirit's strife —A waning and a wasting out of life —A longing after loving – and the curseTo knowOne's self unknown —In secrecy a hopeless hope to nurse —Down to the grave to goUnloved – alone!Yet not alone! Pardon, thou gentle breeze,That comest o'er the waters with the treadOf beauty stealing to the sufferer's bed,To cool the burning brow, and whisper peace.Pardon, ye sweet wild flow'rets, that each mornWoo us to brush the dew-drop from the lidOf tearful innocence, and meekly warnOf worth in garb of lowliest texture hid.Beings of gentlest life, ye murmuring streams,Lull of our waking, music of our dreams,Ye things of artless merriment, that throwAround you gladness, wheresoe'er ye flow —And ye dark mountains, down whose changeful sidesThe mystic guardian, giant shadow strides,Whose kindly frown, howe'er the storms prevail,Peace and repose ensureth to the vale —Ye tall proud forests, that forever swayIn kingly fury, or in graceful play —Ye bright blue waters whose untiring dripAgainst this island shore doth lightly break,Gentle and noiseless as the parting lipOf dreaming infant on its mother's cheek,Pardon my rash averment – pardon, yeFlow'rets and streamlets, mountains, woods and waves,That pour into the soul a melody,Like to the far down music of the cavesOf ocean, heard not, felt not, save within,Seeking to joy the darker depths to win —Oh! while your sweet and sacred voices stealInto my spirit, as the joyous fallOf the warm sunbeam on the frozen rill,To wake the voice that slumbereth, and callTo bear you companyIn your glad hymnings, let the wretched ownHe cannot beAlone!Never alone! – awake, my soul – on highThe glorious sun his thousand rays has flungAthwart the vaulted sky —Lo! there the heavens their mighty harp have strung,The gold, the silver and the crimson chord,To hymn their evening hymn unto the Lord.Hark! heard ye not that glorious burst of song,Which, touched by hands unseen, those chords sent forth,Bidding the attuned spheres the notes prolongDeeper and louder, till the trembling earthCatcheth the thrilling strain —Echoeth back again —From the bosom of ocean a voicePealeth forth, and the mountains rejoiceAnd the plains and the woods and the valleys rebound,And the Universe all is a creature of sound,That runneth his raceThrough the infinite regions of infinite space,Till arrived at the throneOf HIM who aloneIs worthy of honor and glory and praise.And it is ever thus – morn, noon and eve,And in the still midnight, undyingChoirs of creation's minstrels weaveSweet symphony of incense, vyingIn wrapt intricacy of endless songs.Ever, oh ever thus they sing,But to our soul's dull ear belongsSeldom the trancing senseTo list the universal worshiping,Thrill with the glorious theme, and drink its eloquence.Mocking all our soul's desiring,Distant now the notes are stealing,And the minstrels high reining,Drapery blue their forms concealing.