Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII. No. 5. May 1848

"Suppose I wish to be married myself on the same evening?"

"Well, I don't know. I think you had better be with us, then make such arrangements as you please, and say nothing to us about it. It may make a little breeze at first, but it will soon blow over. Nobody will like you the worse for it in the end." Heartily thanking his uncle for his frankness and affection, and taking a courteous leave of Emily, he took his departure, with Mr. Benfield, for the city.

CHAPTER IV

The white house was a scene of great activity as the wedding-day drew near. Aunt Mary's services were put in requisition to a much greater extent than usual. When she protested that she could do no more, Mrs. Earl suggested that her niece would help her. Aunt Mary could not help remarking that Eliza might have something else to do as well as Miss Emily.

It was understood that a large number of guests were to be invited.

Many dresses were ordered in anticipation of an invitation. The services of the village dress-maker were in great demand. Eliza ordered a plain white dress – a very unnecessary expenditure, it was thought, since it was certain that she would not receive an invitation. It was a pity that she should thus prepare disappointment for herself, poor thing!

Benfield and Mason arrived together on the appointed day. All things were in order. The preparations were complete. The guests assembled – the "big white house" was filled as it never had been filled before. Suddenly there is a hush in the crowd – the folding-doors are thrown open – the bride and bride-groom are seen, prepared for the ceremony that is to make them one – in law. The words are spoken, the ceremony is performed, the oppressive silence is removed – the noise and gayety common to such occasions take place.

After a time, it was noticed by some that the pastor, and Mason, and Esq. Ralston had disappeared.

They repaired to Aunt Mary's, where a few tried friends had been invited to pass the evening. These friends were sorry that Eliza had not been invited to the wedding, but were pleased to find that she did not seem to be disappointed – she was in such fine spirits. She wore her new white dress, and a few roses in her hair.

The entrance of the pastor, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Ralston, seemed to cause no surprise to Aunt Mary, though it astonished the assembled guests. After a kind word from the pastor to each one present, for they were all members of his flock, Mason arose, and taking Eliza by the hand, said to him, "We are ready." Prayer was offered, the wedding-vows were spoken, and George Mason and Eliza Austin were pronounced husband and wife.

Joy seemed to have brushed away the clouds from Aunt Mary's mind. She conversed with the intelligence of her better days. The guests departed, and ere the lights were extinguished in the parlors of the white house, it was known throughout the village that there had been two weddings instead of one.

Early in the morning, before the news had reached them, Mr. and Mrs. Benfield set out upon their wedding tour. Emily learned her cousin's marriage from the same paper which informed the public of her own.

George Mason had no time for a wedding tour. He removed his wife and her aunt immediately to the city, and at once resumed the labors of his calling.

Emily did not become acquainted with Mrs. Mason, until Mr. Benfield had failed in business, and was enabled to commence again, with capital furnished by her cousin, who had become the leading member of his firm.

THE DAYSPRING

BY SAMUEL D. PATTERSONMourner, bending o'er the tombWhere thy heart's dear treasure lies,Dark and dreary is thy gloom,Deep and burdened are thy sighs:From thy path the light, whose raysCheered and guided thee, is gone,And the future's desert wasteThou must sadly tread alone.'Neath the drooping willow's shade,Where the mourning cypress grows,The beloved and lost is laidIn a quiet, calm repose.Silent now the voice whose tonesWakened rapture in thy breast —Dull the ear – thy anguished groansBreak not on the sleeper's rest.Grace and loveliness are fled,Broken is the "golden bowl,"Loosed the "silver chord," whose threadBound to earth th' immortal soul.Closed the eyes whose glance so dearOnce love's language fond could speak,And the worm, foul banqueter,Riots on that matchless cheek.And the night winds, as they sweepIn their solemn grandeur by,With a cadence wild and deep,Mournfully their requiem sigh.And each plant and leaf and flowerBows responsive to the wail,Chanted, at the midnight hour,By the spirits of the gale.Truly has thy sun gone downIn the deepest, darkest gloom,And the fondest joys thou'st knownBuried are within that tomb.Earth no solace e'er can bringTo thy torn and bleeding heart —Time nor art extract the stingFrom the conqueror's poisoned dart.But, amid thy load of wo,Turn, thou stricken one, thine eyesUpward, and behold that glowSpreading brightly o'er the skies!'Tis the day-star, beaming fairIn the blue expanse above;Look on high, and know that thereDwells the object of thy love,Life's bright harp of thousand stringsBy the spoiler's hand was riven,But the realm seraphic ringsWith the victor notes of heaven.Over death triumphant – lo!See thy cherished one appear!Mourner, dry thy tears of wo,Trust, believe, and meet her there!

SONNET. – CULTIVATION

BY MRS. E. C. KINNEYWeeds grow unasked, and even some sweet flowersSpontaneous give their fragrance to the air,And bloom on hills, in vales and everywhere —As shines the sun, or fall the summer showers —But wither while our lips pronounce them fair!Flowers of more worth repay alone the care,The nurture, and the hopes of watchful hours;While plants most cultured have most lasting powers.So, flowers of Genius that will longest liveSpring not in Mind's uncultivated soil,But are the birth of time, and mental toil,And all the culture Learning's hand can give:Fancies, like wild flowers, in a night may grow;But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow.

FIRST LOVE.

OR LILLIE MASON'S DEBUT

BY ENNA DUVALMaybe without a further thought,It only pleased you thus to please,And thus to kindly feelings wroughtYou measured not the sweet degrees;Yet though you hardly understoodWhere I was following at your call,You might – I dare to say you should —Have thought how far I had to fall.And even now in calm reviewOf all I lost and all I won,I cannot deem you wholly true,Nor wholly just what you have done. MILNES.There is noneIn all this cold and hollow world, no fountOf deep, strong, deathless love, save that withinA mother's heart. HEMANS.

On paying a visit to my friend Agnes Mason one morning, the servant told me his mistress would be pleased to see me in her dressing-room. Thither I repaired, and found her, to my surprise, surrounded by all sorts of gay, costly articles, appertaining to the costume of a woman of the world. To my surprise, I say, for Agnes has always been one of the greatest home-bodies in the whole circle of my acquaintances. A party, or a ball she has scarcely visited since the first years of her marriage, although possessing ample means to enjoy every gayety of fashionable life.

Over the Psyche glass was thrown a spotless crêpe dress, almost trembling with its rich embroidery; and near it, as if in contrast, on a dress-stand, was a velvet robe, falling in soft, luxurious folds. Flowers, caps, coiffures of various descriptions, peeped out of sundry boxes, and on a commode table was an open écrin whose sparkling, costly contents dazzled the eyes.

"Hey-day!" I exclaimed to my friend, as she advanced to meet me, "what's the meaning of all this splendor?"

"I was just on the point of sending for you," she replied laughingly – "Madame M – has sent home these lovely things for Lillie and I – and I want your opinion upon them."

"And you are really going to re-enter society?" I asked.

"Lillie is eighteen this winter, you know," was my gentle friend's reply. "Who would have thought time could have flown around so quickly. Mr. Mason is very anxious she should make her entrée this season. You can scarcely fancy how disagreeable it is to me, but I must not be selfish. I cannot always have her with me."

"And you, like a good mother," I said, "will throw aside your love for retirement and accompany her?"

"Certainly," replied Agnes eagerly, and she added with a slight expression of feeling which I well understood – "I will watch over her, for she will need my careful love now even more than in childhood."

"Where is the pretty cause of all this anxiety and attention?" I inquired.

"Charlie would not dress for his morning walk," answered the mother, "unless sister Lillie assisted in the robing of the young tyrant, so she is in the nursery."

We inspected the different robes and gay things spread out so temptingly before us, and grew femininely eloquent over these beautiful trifles, and were most earnestly engaged in admiring the parure of brilliant diamonds, and the spotless pearls, with which the fond, proud father and husband had presented them that morning, when a slight tap was heard at the door, and our pet Lillie entered. A bright-eyed, light-hearted creature is Lillie Mason – a sunbeam to her home. She ran up to me with affectionate greetings, and united in our raptures over the glittering bijouterie.

"How will you like this new life, Lillie?" I asked, as the lovely girl threw herself on a low marchepied at our feet, as if wearied of the pretty things.

"I can scarcely tell," she replied, and she rested her head on her mother's lap, whose hand parted the clustering ringlets on the fair, smooth brow, while Lillie's eyes looked up most lovingly to that beloved mother, as she added – "How we shall miss the quiet reading hours, mother, darling. What time shall we have during our robing and unrobing for 'the gentle Una and her milk-white lamb,' and 'those bright children of the bard, Imogen, the fair Fidele and lovely Desdemona?' What use is there in all this decking and adorning? Life is far happier spent in one's own home."

"I fear," said Agnes, as she fondly caressed her daughter, "that I have made my Lillie too much of a household darling; but I have done it to avoid a greater evil. We women must love something – such a wealth of affection is stored within our hearts, that we are rendered miserable if it is poured out upon one human being, after being pent up within bounds, during childhood and girlhood up to womanhood. Should my Lillie be unfortunate in her love – I mean her wedded love – the misery will not be half so intense, for her heart belongs, at least two-thirds, to her family and mother, and no faithless lover can ever boast the possession of the whole of it."

"No, indeed," exclaimed the dear girl, drawing her mother's face down to hers – "my whole heart is yours, chère maman, and yours it shall always be."

With what rapture gleamed the mother's eyes, as she returned the daughter's fond caresses. Some day, dear reader, I may tell you what happened to Lillie Mason's heart, but now my thoughts are o'er-hung with the dark mantle of the past, and I can only think of the mother's former life.

Agnes Howell was a beautiful girl – there was so much purity in her appearance. The gentle beam of her blue eye was angelic, and her auburn ringlets hung over her clear fair brow and soft cheek as if caressing that lovely face. Then she was such a contrast to her family – an only daughter among a troop of strong, stout clever brothers – merry healthy-minded boys were they, but the gentle Madonna sister in their midst seemed an "angel unawares." Agnes' mother was an excellent woman, strong-minded, pains-taking, but a little hard and obtuse in feeling. She no more understood the gentle spirit and deep heart-yearnings of the daughter God had given her than she did the mystery of life. She loved her with all the strength of her nature, but she made no companion of the quiet girl, and thought if she kept her wardrobe in good order, watched her general health, and directed her serious reading, she did all that was required of her. Agnes grew up a dreamer, an enthusiast; quiet and self-possessed her home training had made her, and a stranger would have wondered at the tide of deep feeling that ebbed and flowed within the breast of that gentle, placid girl. She shrunk from the rude badinage of her boisterous brothers, and finding that little was required of her in the heart-way from her matter-of-fact mother and good-natured, easy father, she lavished the wealth of her love upon an ideal. A woman soon finds, or fancies she finds, the realization of her ideal. Chance threw in Agnes' path one who was superior enough in mind and person to realize any image of a romantic girl's fancy.

I remember well the time Agnes first met Mr. Preston. We were on a visit one summer to some friends together, and while there we met with this accomplished gentleman. How delighted were we both with him, and how enthusiastically did we chant to each other his praises, when in our own room we assisted each other in undressing for the night, or decking ourselves for the gay dinner or evening party. We met with many other gentlemen, and agreeable ones too, on this eventful visit, but Mr. Preston was a star of the first magnitude. I was a few years Agnes' junior, and well satisfied with the attentions I received from the other gentlemen, who deigned to notice so tiny a body as I was; but Mr. Preston soon singled out Agnes. He walked, rode and drove with her: hung over her enraptured when she sung, and listened with earnestness to every word that fell from her lips. She was "many fathom deep in love" ere she knew it – poor girl – and how exquisitely beautiful did this soul's dawning cause her lovely face to appear. The wind surely was not answerable for those burning cheeks and bright, dancing eyes, which she bore after returning from long rides, during which Mr. Preston was her constant companion – and the treasured sprigs of jessamine and verveine which she stored away in the leaves of her journal, after a moonlight ramble in the conservatory, with the same fascinating attendant – did not love cause all this? Naughty love, can the moments of rapture, exquisite though they be, which thou givest, atone for the months and years of deep heart-rending wretchedness which so often ensues?

During the six weeks of that happy visit, Agnes Howell lived out the whole of her heart's existence. Blissful and rapturous were the moments, sleeping or waking, for Hope and Love danced merrily before her. But, alas! while it was the turning point – the event of her life – "it was but an episode" in the existence of the one who entranced her – "but a piping between the scenes." I do not think Mr. Preston ever realized the mischief he did. He was pleased with her appearance. Her purity and naïveté were delightful to him. Her ready appreciation of the true and beautiful in nature and art, interested him; and he sought her as a companion, because she was the most congenial amongst those who surrounded him. He was a man of society, and never stopped to think that the glowing, enthusiastic creature, whose eyes gazed up so confidingly to him, as he conversed of literature and poesy, or whose lips overflowed with earnest, eloquent words, was an innocent, guileless child, into whose Undine nature he had summoned the soul. He had been many years engaged, heart and hand, to another; and circumstances alone had delayed the fulfillment of that engagement. This Agnes knew nothing of, and surrendered herself up, heart and soul, to him, unasked, poor girl! He regarded her as an interesting, lovely girl, but he attributed the enthusiasm and feeling which he unconsciously had called into birth, to the exquisite formation of her spirit, and thought her a most superior creature. No one marked the affaire as I did, for we were surrounded by those who knew of Mr. Preston's situation in life, and his engagement, and who, moreover, regarded Agnes as a child in comparison to him – an unformed woman, quite beneath the choice of one so distingué as was Mr. Preston.

Our visit drew near to a close; the evening before our departure I was looking over some rare and beautiful engravings in the library. A gay party were assembled in the adjoining apartments, and Mr. Preston had been Agnes' partner during the quadrilles and voluptuous waltz. I had lingered in the library, partly from shyness, partly from a desire to take a farewell of my favorite haunt, and look over my pet books and pictures, while the rich waves of melody floated around my ears. At the close of a brilliant waltz, Mr. Preston and Agnes joined me, and I found myself listening with as much earnestness as Agnes to the mellow tones of his voice, while he pointed out to us beauties and defects in the pictures, and heightened the interest we already took in them by classical allusion or thrilling recital. If the subject of a picture was unknown, he would throw around it the web of some fancied story, improvised on the instant. I listened to him with delight; every thing surrounding us tended to increase the effect of the spell. Music swelled in voluptuous cadences, merry voices, and the gushing sound of heart-felt laughter greeted our ears. Opposite the table over which we were leaning was a door, which opened into a conservatory, through whose glasses streamed the cold, pure moonlight, beaming on the exotics that in silence breathed an almost over-powering odor; and my eyes dwelt upon that quiet, cool spot, while the soft, harmonious conversation of my companions, and the merry, joyous sounds of the ball-room, blended half dreamily in my ears.

"You are wishing to escape into that conservatory, Miss Duval," said Mr. Preston to me suddenly.

A warm blush mantled my face, for I fancied he thought I was weary of his conversation. I stammered out some reply, I scarce knew what, which was not listened to, however, for Agnes, catching sight of an Ethiop gypsey flower at the far end of the conservatory, expressed a wish to see it. Mr. Preston with earnestness opposed the change – the atmosphere there, he feared, was too chilling; but as she rested her hand on his, with childish confidence, to prove to him the excitement and flush of the gay waltz had passed, and looked up with such beaming joyfulness out of her dark, violet eyes, he smilingly yielded; but first wrapped around her shoulders, with affectionate solicitude, an Indian crêpe shawl, that hung near him on a chair. "Poor little me" was not thought of; I might take cold if I could, he would not have noted it; but I ejaculated to myself, "If I am too young for Mr. Preston to feel any interest in, a few years will make a vast difference, and maybe in the future I shall be an object of care to some one."

We reached the beautiful flower, over which Agnes hung; and as she inhaled its fragrance, she murmured in low words, which Mr. Preston bent his tall, graceful form to hear,

"Thou dusky flower, I stoop to inhaleThy fragrance – thou art oneThat wooeth not the vulgar eye,Nor the broad-staring sun."Therefore I love thee! (selfish loveSuch preference may be,)That thou reservest all thy sweets,Coy thing, for night and me."

"This flower must be mine, Miss Agnes," said Mr. Preston, with gallantry; "and when I look on it, it will tell me of the delicate taste and pure spirit of one who has rendered six weeks of my cheerless life bright."

The chill moonlight shone down on Agnes, and its rays nestled between the ringlets and her downy cheek, but its cold beams could not blench the rosy hue, that mounted to her blue veined temples, as Mr. Preston severed the fragrant exotic from its stem, and carefully pressed it between the leaves of his tablets. Many such words followed, and I walked unheeded beside them, as they lingered in this lovely place. Pity that such blessed hours should ever be ended – that life's lights should need dark shadows. Midnight swept over us ere good-night was said; and in a half-dreamy state of rapture, Agnes rested her head on her pillow. Nothing had been said; no love had been actually expressed, in the vulgar sense of the word, and according to the world's view of such matters, Mr. Preston was entirely guiltless of the dark, heavy cloud that hung over the pathway of that young creature from that night.

We returned to our homes; I benefited by my visit, for my mind had been improved by the association with older and superior persons – and I returned with renewed zeal to my studies and reading, that I might understand that which had appeared but "darkly to my mind's eye." But Agnes found her companionless home still more cheerless. The bustling, thrifty mother, and hearty, noisy brothers, greeted her with earnest kindness; but after a few weeks had passed, her spirit flagged. She lived for awhile upon the recollection of the past, and that buoyed her up; but, as day after day went noiselessly and uneventfully by, her heart grew aweary of the dear "hope deferred," and a listlessness took possession of her. Poor girl! the rosy hue of her cheek faded, and the bright light of her eye grew dim. Her bustling, active family did not take notice of the change in her appearance and spirits; but I, thrown daily with her, noted it with anxiety. I sought to interest her in my studies, and asked her assistance in my music. With labor she would exert herself to aid me; and at times her old enthusiasm would burst forth, but only as the gleams of an expiring taper; every thing seemed wearisome to her.

One morning I heard that she had been seized with a dangerous illness, and I hastily obeyed the summons which I had received from her mother. What a commotion was that bustling family thrown into. The physicians pronounced her sickness a brain fever. When I reached her bedside, she was raving, and her beautiful eyes gazed vacantly on the nearest and dearest of her friends; even the mother that bore her hung over her unrecognized. She had retired as usual the night before, her mother said, apparently well; but at midnight the family had been awakened by her shrieks and cries. I watched beside her bed weepingly, for I never hoped to see her again in health. The dark wing of Death I felt already drooping over her; and with anguish I listened to the snatches of poetry and song that fell in fragments from her lips. As I was placing a cup on a table in her room, during the day, my eye caught sight of two cards tied with white satin ribbon, and on them I read the names of Mr. Ralph Preston and his bride, with these words hastily written in pencil in Mr. Preston's handwriting on the larger of the two cards,

"You will, my lovely friend, rejoice in my happiness, I am sure. Short was our acquaintance, but with the hope that I am not forgotten, I hasten to inform you that the cheerless life-path you deigned to brighten for a few short hours by your kind smiles, is now rendered calm and joyous. I am at last married to the one I have secretly worshiped for years. We both pray you may know happiness exquisite as ours."

How quickly I divined the cause of my friend's illness; no longer was it a mystery to me as it was to her family. Those silent cards had been the messengers of evil, and had been mute witnesses of the bitter anguish that had wrung her young heart. There, in the silent night, had she struggled with her agony; and I fancied I heard her calling on Heaven for strength – that Heaven to which we only appeal when overwhelmed by the sad whirldwind caused by our errors or passions. But strength had been denied, and her spirit sank fainting.

For weeks we watched the fluttering life within her, at times giving up all hope; but youth and careful nursing aided the struggle of Nature with Death, and at last Agnes opened her languid eyes upon us, and was pronounced out of immediate danger. The sickening pallor that overspread her face an instant after her returning consciousness, I well understood; the thought of her heart's desolation came to her memory, and I fear life was any thing but a blessing to her then. Her health continued delicate; and at last it was deemed advisable to take her to a more genial climate – that change of scene and air might strengthen her constitution, and raise her spirits, depressed, the physician said, by sickness. I knew better than the wise Esculapius; but my knowledge could not restore her. Her father was a man of considerable wealth, therefore no expense was spared for her benefit. They resided some years in Europe, and the letters I received from Agnes proved that the change had, indeed, been of benefit. New associations surrounded her, and dissipated the sad foreboding thoughts, bringing her to a more healthy state of mind. I was a little surprised, however, when I heard of her approaching marriage with Mr. Mason. Had I been as old as I am now, I would not have felt that wonder; but I was still young and sentimental enough to fancy the possibility of cherishing an "unrequited, luckless love, even unto death." Agnes had never spoken openly to me of her unfortunate attachment, but there was always a tacit understanding between us. She was too delicate and refined, too sensitive to indulge in the eager confidence which a coarser mind would have luxuriated in; but in writing to, or talking with me, she many times expressed herself in earnest, feeling words, that to a stranger would have seemed only as "fine sentiments," while to me, who knew her sad history, they bore a deeper meaning; therefore, the letter I received from her, on her marriage, was well understood, and quietly appreciated by me.