Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848

On we went, and from time to time as I stole a glance at her sweet face, I thought I detected a sly, mischievous little devil playing around the corners of her small dimpled mouth, and about the pure lids of her downcast long-fringed eyes. She never vouchsafed me a look, however; and as we went on, and as I still watched her lovely face, a dread vision arose up before me of a six-foot and well proportioned youth, with fierce whiskers and a moustache of undisputable cut and style, that I remembered to have seen with the young lady during our stage-coach ride together – that I remembered, with a terrible heart-sinking, was impressively attentive to her. I inwardly resolved to let nature have her way, and let all the hair grow on my face that would; what if it did grow a little reddish or so – why I should resemble the rising sun, with my glory like a halo around me. Seriously, I have long been of the opinion that a shaved face is as much of a disgrace, and ought to be so considered, as a shaved head fresh from prison. Why do we not finish the half completed work and actually shave off the hair of our heads, our eye-brows and lashes, as well as our beards, and thus go cool and comfortable through the world? There would be this advantage in it, the disciples of Spurzheim would have no trouble of making a map of our bumps at sight; and then think what an immense saving it would be in combs and brushes, to say nothing of pomatum, which some so freely use. I rejoice sincerely to see the sudden rise in crops of hair, and most truly hope they will not have as rapid a fall. Shaving is artificial and injurious, exposing parts to cold that Nature never meant should be exposed. Black, white or red – hair is a protection and ornament that no manly face or head should be without. Rejoice ye, therefore, over every repentant sinner who tarrieth in Jericho and letteth his beard to grow.

But to return to my little omnibus companion, who by this time was gracefully moving over the smooth gravel-walks of Fairmount – for there we had stopped – and exceedingly refreshing were its cool shades and splashing fountains on that sultry June day. I kept as near her as I could without appearing rude, especially as I had received one or two half glances from her bright eyes, that nearly annihilated me, such an unearthly fluttering and bumping in the region of my heart did they create. Mercy upon me! what would a whole glance do? And for a whole glance I courageously resolved to strive, let the consequences be what they might.

Now do you not expect an earthquake, or a roaring bull, or at least a rabid dog? It was nothing more however than a refreshing shower of rain – truly refreshing to my thirsty soul, for it gave me that coveted whole glance. Heavens! I actually staggered, and would undoubtedly have fallen had it not been for a friendly sappling – you will sneer at witless I – that grew near me. But just try the effect upon yourself – a shock of electricity is nothing in comparison to a shock from a pair of bright eyes – such eyes as hers. The truth of the case was here, of a sudden, apparently from out the clear sky, came down, with not a moment's warning, a perfect avalanche of rain-drops – all expressly got up, or down, for my benefit, else why did I happen to have an umbrella in my hand? "A Wise man – " you remember the rest. My beautiful incognito was away up those long stairs, and walking leisurely around the immense basin, when the rain came down. I was not very far from her, and in less than an instant my umbrella was over her pretty little blue bonnet, with —

"Be kind enough to accept my umbrella, Miss" – in the most insinuating manner of which I was master.

"Thank you! but I will not deprive you of its shelter," with that whole glance of which I spoke. So on we went together, and somehow after we found ourselves under shelter, it was the easiest and most natural thing in the world to fall into a pleasant conversation. After talking about the scenery, weather, &c., we had mutually enjoyed during our short stage ride, I spoke of the beauty around us, and asked her if she often visited this lovely spot.

"Not very often," replied she. "It is very beautiful though, in spite of all they have done to spoil it."

"To spoil it!"

"Yes, by making it as much like a chess-board as possible, all straight lines and stiffness. That is Philadelphia however."

"Then you are not a Philadelphian, or it is not a favorite city with you?"

"There you are mistaken. It is my native place, and a city I love dearly – with all its formalities and inhospitalities toward strangers. Philadelphia is a prim matron, with a warm heart but a most frigid, repulsive exterior, until you become acquainted with her – one of her particular children."

"I have been told that there is a finer collection of works of art here than in any other city in the Union."

"I believe you have been told correctly. We have more time in our quiet way to look after and admire the productions of the great masters. Our taste has wonderfully improved within a few years."

"I have not been in town long enough to visit any of your show places yet."

"How I should like to see that lovely water-fall and the whole of that beautiful scene on canvas. Do you know I almost envied you a home in that beautiful house with all its picturesque surroundings."

"I am truly thankful you had the kind grace to think of me at all."

"How could I help it? I had a feeling the first moment I saw you that you and I were destined to be friends. Is there not a certain mysterious something – call it magnetism or instinct – that either draws us toward or repels us from every person we meet in either a greater or less degree? With me this instinct is very strong, and I obey it implicitly, never in one instance having found it to fail. I know at once who to trust and who to love. And would know, by the same unerring law of my nature, who to hate if ever I felt the least inclination to hate. The only feeling of hate I ever experienced is a strong desire to avoid all persons or things that are disagreeable to me. I love harmony the most perfect, and discord is a thing for me to flee from. I felt toward you a most decided drawing, and I felt a conviction then, as I do now, that we are to be very near and dear friends."

The little angel! I could have hugged and kissed her on the spot; but I hugged her in my soul, and inwardly vowed to consecrate my life to her, if the "drawing" she felt for me could be rendered sufficiently strong to admit of such a thing. On a sudden I bethought me of the whiskered incognito, her stage attendant. I mustered courage to ask her in a half laughing way, if that fine-looking fellow she had called Charles were her brother.

Instantly her manner changed from that of sweet and almost tender seriousness to an arch, quizzical one that puzzled me.

"Oh no, not my brother," said she.

"Not her brother – a sharp pang of pain shot through me – I was getting dreadfully jealous – I looked all manner of curiosity and all manner of questions; she took pity on me and said – a smile still lurking in the corner of her eye —

"He is no more nor less than the intended future husband of the one you see before you."

"The future devil! I sincerely beg your pardon, but – you take me by surprise – I regret – but really I do not feel that it can be so."

"And why not?"

"Truly, why not!"

"He is very handsome."

"That is as one thinks."

"And very accomplished."

"In flattery, most like."

"And a most profound scholar."

"In the art of making love, it would seem."

"But I do not love him."

"Not love him!"

"No, nor never can."

"Then why, my dearest young lady, do you marry him?"

"You may well ask; why indeed?"

"You seemed very friendly with him the day I saw you together, and happier than I could have wished you."

"That was before I knew I was to be his wife. It has only been decided upon a few days."

"And now?"

"It is a long story, that I may tell you if we should meet again. I never can love him, though I greatly esteem him, and – "

"Esteem!"

"A sad substitute for love; but what is love without esteem?"

"What is esteem without love?"

"Very true. It was not my own doing, although I reluctantly gave my consent. If I can with honor release myself from this unfortunate engagement – I have thought more and more every day since, that love, true heart-love, is the only tie that should sanction the union of two beings – but why should I talk in this way to you, a stranger? I cannot feel, however that you are a stranger; we have surely met before in some other state of being. I am a firm believer in the beautiful faith of the transmigration of souls – of pre-existence. What is it that brings two congenial souls together, uniting them in one hour in more perfect harmony than whole years could effect among ordinary acquaintances?"

"Something unexplainable," I answered, "as it is mysterious. We can call it elective affinity, and can talk very learnedly upon the singular attraction of the magnet, as applied to the poles as well as souls, and we can make vast and wise experiments, and in the end be as far from the real cause as we were before the Solomonic experiments were made. The school-boy's reasoning was more to the point —

"I do not like you, Dr. Fell,The reason why I cannot tell."

I love you dearly, Dr. Fell, the reason why, &c., would be just as conclusive. We are so accustomed to seeing drops of water drawing near to meet each other, and mingling in a loving embrace of perfect unity, that we cease to wonder at the occurrence, as we do also at the fact that oil and water will not mingle."

"Just as my soul will not mingle with the souls of some. There is an antagonism more or less decided between my inner self and many persons I know; people, too, that I am compelled to be friendly with, and wish to be friendly with, many of them my cousins and aunts. Then again toward some am I as irresistibly attracted."

Her beautiful eyes sought mine frequently during our conversation, and her glorious soul looked through them – earnest, simple and pure.

"Just so," resumed she, after a pause, during which her sweet, soft eyes had been gazing on the dreamy waters. "Just so have I felt attracted toward you. I could sit down beside you and tell my whole soul to you as freely as though you were my own brother."

The word brother sent a disagreeable shiver through me that all her sweet confidence could not banish.

"But," exclaimed she, starting up, "what am I doing? The rain has stopped, and the waning sun warns me that it is time to be at home. And what must you think of me? I hardly dare to ask the – "

"That you are the most lovely, most glorious of all Heaven's glorious creatures; that you – "

"There, there! if you talk in that way, I shall truly repent having said all I have to you."

"Forgive me; though I spoke sincerely, I hope – "

"I will forgive on condition of good behavior in future. But I must not stay for another word. Promise me that you will not leave this spot until ten minutes after the omnibus I shall be in is out of sight."

"I promise," said I, reluctantly.

She gave me her little, soft, ungloved hand at parting; its gentle pressure sent a thrill of ecstasy through me, and I looked all the unutterable things that my full soul felt into her warm brown eyes. And, by the way, I may as well say that my own eyes are – they are a dark, deep blue, and strangely expressive, if I believe my sisters and my friends, and – my own glass.

For one week did I wander up and down the streets, and watch every omnibus, and stare into the windows and doors of every house I passed. I peered under every pretty bonnet I met, and was, on the eighth day, giving full chase to a coquettish little blue one, in the earnest hope of finding the sweet face of my beautiful incognita hidden under it, when some one laid a strong grasp on my shoulder, and looking around, I beheld the generous face of my good uncle.

"Bless the boy! why, Led, what is your hurry? Your business must have been very urgent this last week. Why, in the name of all the saints, have you kept away so studiously? There is poor little Emily actually dying with anxiety to see you. Bless my soul! is this the way to treat your friends? But now that I have fairly captured you, I do not intend to let you go."

And he did not, and would not; so I had to go with him. And what do you think? The first object that met my bewildered gaze, as my uncle led me into the drawing-room, was – herself! her very self! but so altered, looking so cold and stately. My uncle introduced me to her as "My daughter Emily, nephew Ledyard." "My daughter Emily" inclined her beautiful head most graciously, and sweetly smiled, but not one recognizing glance did she deign to bestow on poor "nephew Ledyard." Lovely she was, and proud and majestic as a queen. What could it mean? I made several well-planned alluions to omnibuses and stages, &c., not one of which did she seem to comprehend.

Her exceeding beauty still charmed me in spite of her coldness; and I stayed to tea and then the evening. My cousin sung for me; her voice was highly cultivated and exceedingly sweet, and full of feeling. Song after song she poured forth into the listening air, and each song entranced me more than the last.

We conversed gayly on several topics, and she grew more and more familiar with me, alluded playfully to our childish intimacy; still, to the very close of the evening, did she refuse to remember by look or word that we had met since children. She evidently wished to forget, and wished me to forget the whole of that pleasant interview that had afforded me, at least, such soul-felt delight; yet she acted her part so well, was so careless and unconscious, and withal so cold and full of queenly dignity, that I went home in a perfect bewilderment of amazement.

As I lay tossing on a sleepless bed, and in my heart bitterly railing against the perversity and incomprehensibility of women, I found myself incessantly repeating to myself, "Am I Giles, or am I not;" the truth flashed upon me that I was the unhappy victim of an optical illusion, that the Cousin Emily I had but a little before left was simply my Cousin Emily, and not the beautiful being of whom my heart and life were full – that incessant thinking of her, and seeking her, had crazed my brain. I relighted my lamp and made my way into the doctor's study. I read all I could find on the subject of optical delusion and maniacal hallucination until I convinced myself that I was laboring under a very alarming attack of one or both, and resolved on seriously consulting my friend, the doctor, early the next morning.

I went back to bed with the decided opinion that I was exceedingly to be pitied – how would it appear in the papers? for I must undoubtedly grow worse, and it must undoubtedly end in suicide. "Sad occurrence," "nice young man," "brilliant prospects," "only son of – ," and "promising talents," "laboring under incipient insanity," "fatal cause unknown," &c., &c. I sympathized with myself until near morning, then fell into a sleep, which lasted until the bell rung for breakfast. I dressed in a hurry, and got down before the muffins were quite cold. I ate a hearty breakfast, read a newspaper or two, and determining on seeing my cousin again before I made up my mind to ask advice, I soon found myself at her door. The fresh morning air and the walk had so invigorated me, that I laughed at my last night's fears, especially as my lovely cousin came into the drawing-room to receive me, radiant with health and beauty. I found her just the same as she was the night before, gay, witty and charming, and as cold as marble. Still I could not be mistaken; for, with all her feigned coldness – for some good reason of her own undoubtedly – there was no doubting her identity with that of my glorious Fairmount vision.

The day was a lovely one, soft and mild as a June morning could make it. After conversing on indifferent subjects for a time, I asked her, remarking on the deliciousness of the morning, if she would not like to go out with me to Fairmount. She assented with a quiet smile, as innocently as though she had never in her life before heard of such a place as Fairmount.

"The little-deceiver!" thought I. "Which way shall we go?" said I, aloud, and very significantly, "shall we take the omnibus?"

"I will order the carriage," replied she, with a slight shrug; "I never ride in those omnibusses, one meets with such odd people."

"Never?" asked I, emphatically.

"Certainly, never!" answered she, with much apparent surprise.

My drive was a delightful one. How could it be otherwise, with a glorious day surrounding me, and a gloriously beautiful cousin sitting beside me, with whom I could not exactly make up my mind whether to fall desperately in love, or desperately out of love. I, too, such an enthusiastic lover of beauty. But she chose to be so different from what she was at our first meeting – so reserved, that I could not decide whether I most loved or was most indifferent to her.

We rode all the morning, and I left her, promising to call again in the evening. I walked the streets until dark, the whole affair vexed me so much – I, such a hater of all mysteries, the most impatient of all breathing mortals. I determined to come at once to an understanding with my perverse little cousin, and to decide at once the puzzling question whether to love or not to love.

In the evening I found myself alone with my little tormentor.

"Now, sweet Cousin Emily," said I, playfully, "you have been teazing me long enough with your pretty affectation of ignorance and innocence – not but that you are as ignorant as the rest of your sweet sex, and as innocent too – but, I beseech you, lay by this masquerading, you have played possum long enough. I humbly implore of you to be the same to me that you were in our first visit to Fairmount – the earnest, simple-hearted Cousin Emily you then were."

"Mr. Lincoln speaks in enigmas; I must confess I do not understand his meaning, nor his elegant allusion to 'playing possum.'"

This she said with so much haughtiness, that I was taken all aback. Rallying, however, in a moment I determined not to give up the point.

"I beseech of you to pardon the inelegance of my expression, and also my pertinacity in insisting upon some explanation of your manner toward me. It will all do very well for the stage," continued I, bitterly, "but in real life, among cousins, and two that have met so frankly, and in such sincerity, I feel that our acquaintanceship must at once end, pleasant as it has been, as it might be to me, unless you lay aside this assumed coldness. It harasses me more than I can express. Emily, after seeing you in the stage-coach, I thought I had never met with one half so lovely, and I could think of nothing but you. After remaining at home but one week, business called me to Philadelphia. Judge of my delight when almost the first object that met my view was your beautiful, unforgotten little self. You were just stepping into one of those very omnibusses you have since seen fit to decry. What followed you must remember as distinctly as I – no not as distinctly, for the whole of that delicious interview is engraven on my heart – one of the sun-bright scenes of my life that I can never forget. And now, after that beautiful interchange of thought and soul that promised – every thing, do I find you cold, impassive. If you repent the trust you so freely reposed in me, in all frankness, say so; but for the sweet love of heaven, do not pretend to such – "

"For the sweet love of heaven what is the man raving about? Are you mad, dear cousin, insane? Poor Cousin Ledyard! Or is it – ?" her whole manner changed, her brilliant eyes lighted up with intense fire. How beautiful she looked! I could have knelt and worshiped her, though, strange to say, my restless, ardent love for her had entirely abated. "Yes!" exclaimed she, "it must be so;" and with that she clasped her small white hands, and throwing back her fine head, laughed with all her heart, and strength, and soul.

This was very pleasant for me; still I had to join her laugh, it was so genuine and infectious.

"Forgive me, dear cousin, forgive me for my rude laughter; forgive me also for my folly in attempting to deceive you. You will hereafter find me the same you found me in our first pleasant interview. Here is my hand – I will not explain one other word to-night; I hear voices on the stairs. Come here to-morrow evening at eight, and you shall know all – all my reasons."

"And why not to-morrow morning, cruel cousin?"

"I am engaged all of the day to-morrow. I go with mamma and papa out of town, ten miles or so, to dine; a stupid affair, but mamma wishes it."

"But before you go – just after breakfast."

"No, no – come in the evening."

By this time the voices heard on the stairs had entered the room in the shape of a merry half-dozen of my cousin's young friends. Feeling too agitated for society, I withdrew.

And now another night and a whole day more of suspense – that pale horror, that come in what shape it will, even in the shape of a beautiful cousin, always torments the very life from my heart.

All the clocks in town were striking eight as I rung my uncle's bell. I found the drawing-room full of company, at which I felt vexed and disappointed.

My lovely cousin came up to me and placed her arm within mine, and led me through the next room into the conservatory, and there, seated amid the rare eastern flowers, herself the queen of them, was, gracious heaven! I dared scarcely breathe, so great was my fear of dispelling the beautiful illusion. It was she! none other; my stage-coach companion – my Fairmount goddess. The musical, measured voice of my statue-like Cousin Emily brought me to myself.

"Allow me. Cousin Ledyard, to introduce you to my Cousin Emily."

There they both stood, one Cousin Emily, calm, stately, serene; the other trembling and in blushes.

I looked from one to the other in the most ludicrous bewilderment, yet each glance showed me more and more what a wonderful fool I had been making of myself for the last few days. Still they were strangely alike; their own kindred could not at times distinguish one from the other. My heart could feel the difference. My Emily was a child of nature, the other bred in a more conventional school. My Emily was a shade less tall, less stately, less Grecian, and exquisitely more lovely, and loving.

But that double wedding was a grand one. By what means my Emily contrived to disentangle herself from that handsome-whiskered "Charles," and to entangle him fast in the chains of the other Emily, any one who wishes to know, and will take the trouble, can have all due information on the subject, and can also learn how I wooed my peerless Emily and won her, by coming to our lovely picturesque dwelling, situate in one of the most romantic spots in the country. I write you all to come, one by one, and spend a month with me, and you shall know all the particulars. You will find my little Emily a pattern housekeeper; you will also find a ready welcome. Bless her sweet face! There she sits, at the moment that I am writing this to you, with her willow arms twined around the exquisite form of her little lily-bud boy, and bending low her graceful form over him, hushing to sleep the very bravest, noblest, merriest little specimen of babyhood – the exact image of his enraptured father.

THE DEFORMED ARTIST

BY MRS. E. N. HORSFORDThe twilight o'er Italia's skyHad wove a shadowy veil,And one by one the solemn starsLooked forth serene and pale;As quickly the waning lightThrough a high casement stole,And fell on one with silver hair,Who shrived a passing soul.No costly pomp and luxuryRelieved that chamber's gloom,But glowing forms, by limner's artCreated, thronged the room:And as the low winds echoed farThe bell for evening prayer,The dying painter's earnest tonesFell on the languid air."The spectral form of Death is nigh,The thread of Life is spun,Ave Maria! I have lookedUpon my latest sun.And yet 'tis not with pale diseaseThis frame is worn away,Nor yet – nor yet with length of years —A child but yesterday""I found within my father's hallNo fervent love to claim —The curse that marked me from my birthDevoted me to shame.I saw upon my brother's browAngelic beauty lay,The mirror gave me back a formThat thrilled me with dismay.""And soon I learned to shrink from all,The lowly and the high;To see but scorn on every lip,Contempt in every eye.And for a time e'en Nature's smileA bitter mockery wore,For beauty stamped each living thingThe wide creation o'er;""And I alone was cursed and loathed;'Twas in a garden bowerI knelt one eve, and scalding tearsFell fast on many a flower;And as I rose I marked with aweAnd agonizing grief,A frail mimosa at my feetFold close each fragile leaf.""Alas! how dark my lot if thusA plant could shrink from me;But when I looked again I markedThat from the honey-bee,The falling leaf, the bird's gay wing,It shrunk with pain and fear,A kindred presence I had found,Life waxed sublimely clear.""I climbed the lofty mountain heightAnd communed with the skies,And felt within my grateful heartStrange aspirations rise.Oh! what was this humanityWhen every beaming starWas filled with lucid intellect,Congenial, though afar.""I mused beneath the avalanche,And traced the sparkling stream,Till Nature's face became to meA passion and a dream:"Then thirsting for a higher loreI left my childhood's home,And stayed not till I gazed uponThe hills of fallen Rome."I stood amid the forms of light,Seraphic and divine,The painter's wand had summoned fromThe dim Ideal's shrine;And felt within my fevered soulAmbition's wasting fire,And seized the pencil with a vagueAnd passionate desire""To shadow forth, with lineamentsOf earth, the phantom throngThat swept before my sight in thought,And lived in storied song.Vain, vain the dream – as well might IAspire to build a star,Or pile the gorgeous sunset cloudsThat glitter from afar.""The threads of life have worn away,Discordantly they thrill,But soon the sounding chords will beForever mute and still.And in the spirit-land that liesBeyond, so calm and gray,I shall aspire with truer aim —Ave Maria! pray!"