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

Another Washingtonian, perhaps?

No indeed! nothing of the sort. Had he been a Washingtonian, he would have found something more than a hole in his pocket when he had got through his week's work, and was beginning to find his way back to his little ones.

Well, well, have it so, if you like; but what say you to the couple you see there?

Stop! – that large woman, leading a child with a green veil – and the other passing her in a hurry without lifting her eyes, and the moment she has got by turning and looking after her, as if there were something monstrous in the cast of that bonnet – a very proper bonnet of itself – or in the color of that shawl – of gold and purple and scarlet and green – both were but just entering upon the field of vision as you spoke, and now both have vanished forever! And lo! a tall man of a majestic presence, with a little black dog at his heels – the veriest cur you ever saw! What must be the nature of such companionship? Look! look! there goes another – a fashionably dressed young man – followed by two or three more – intermixed with women and children – and now they go trooping past by dozens! leaving you as little time to note their peculiarities as you would have before the table of a camera obscura, set up in the middle of Broadway at the busiest season of the year. Let us breathe a little. And now the current changes – the groups are smaller – the intervals longer – and if we can do nothing else, we may watch their step and carriage, the play of colors, and the whimsical motion of their arms and legs while they go hurrying by, these phantoms of the hour. And then, what a world of enjoyment just for the mere trouble of looking out of a window! Can it be a matter of surprise that, in countries where it is not permitted to women to look at the show in this way, or even to appear at the window, a substitute should be found by so arranging mirrors as to represent within their very bed-chambers whatever happens in the street below?

But the business of the day is nearly over. The chief thoroughfare is well nigh deserted and we may now begin to dwell upon the peculiarities of here and there one, as the laggards go loitering by, some nearer and some further off, but all with a look of independence and leisure not to be mistaken. And why? They have money in their purses – the happy dogs – or what is better than money, character and credit, or experience, or health and strength, and a willingness to oblige.

Not so fast, if you please. What say you to that man with the pale face and coal-black hair?

Let me see. What do I say of that man? Do you observe that slouched hat, and old coat buttoned up to the chin? – the dangling of that old beaver glove, and the huge twisted club – the slow and stately pace, and the close fitting trowsers carefully strapped down over a pair of well blacked shoes without heels, and therefore incapable of being mistaken for boots.

There is no mistaking that man. He has seen better days; the world has gone hard with him of late, and he is a – Ah! that lifting of the head as he turns the corner! that gleam of sunshine, as he recovers and touches his hat, after bowing to that fine woman who just brushed him in passing, shows that he is still a gentleman; and, of course, can have nothing to fear, whatever may happen to the rest of the world. Fifty to one, if you dare, that he has just bethought himself of the bankrupt law, of a bad debt which he begins to have some hope of, or of the possibility of making up by his knowledge of the world for what he wants in youth, should he think it worth his while to follow up the acquaintance. Ah! – gone! He disappeared, adjusting his neckcloth, and smiling and looking after the handsome widow, as if debating within himself whether the advantage he had obtained by that one look were really worth pursuing.

What ho! another! A vulgar phantom this – a fellow that has nothing to do. After hurrying past a couple of women, hideously wrapped up, and beyond all doubt, therefore, uglier than the witches of Macbeth, he stops and leers after them – not stopping altogether, but just enough to keep his head turned over his right shoulder – and then walks away, muttering to himself so as to be heard by that ragged boy there, who stands staring after him with both hands grasping his knees, and with such a look!

Another yet – and yet another shape! and both walking with their legs bent; both taking long strides, and both finding their way, with the instinct of a blood-hound, never looking up, nor turning to the right or left in their course. Are they partners in trade, or rivals? Do they follow the same business, or were they school-fellows together, some fifty years ago; and are they still running against each other for a purse they will never find till they have reached the grave together. See! they have cleared that corner, side by side; and now they are stretching away at the same killing pace, neck and neck, toward the Exchange. Of course, they live in the same neighborhood; they are fellow-craftsmen, they have reputations at stake, and are determined never to yield an inch – whatever may happen. But why wouldn't they look up? Was there nothing above worth minding – nothing on the right hand nor on the left of their course, worthy a passing thought? Whither are they going? And what will they have learnt or enjoyed, and what will they have to say for themselves when they reach the end of their course?

And that other man, with arms akimbo, a dollar's worth of flour in a bag, flung over his shoulder – why need he strut so – and why doesn't he walk faster? Has he no sympathy for the rest of the world, not he; or does he only mean to say, in so many words, that for such weather! and that for every fellow I see, who isn't able to carry home a dollar's worth of flour to his family every Saturday night! Does he believe that nobody else understands the worth and sweetness of a home-baked loaf?

And that strange looking woman there, with her muff and parasol, her claret-colored cloak, with a huge cape, and that everlasting green veil! What business, now, has such a woman above ground – at this season of the year? Would she set your teeth chattering before the winter sets in? And what on earth does she carry that sun-shade for, toward nightfall, about the last of October – is the woman beside herself?

But she is gone; and in her stead appear three boys, who, but for the season of the year, might be suspected of birdnesting. They are all of a size – all of an age, or thereabouts – and all dressed alike, save that one wears a cloth cap, and the others fur. Yet, like as they are in age and size, and general appearance, anybody may see at a glance that one is a well-educated boy, and a bit of a gentleman – perhaps with spending money for the holydays, while the other two are clumsy scapegraces. Watch them. Observe how the two always keep together, and how, as they go by the windows of that confectionary-shop, first one lags a little in the rear, and then the other, till they have stopped and wheedled their companion into a brief display of his pocket-money. The rogues! – how well they understand his character! See! he has determined to have it his own way, in spite of their well-managed remonstrances and suggestions; and now they all enter the shop together – he foremost, of course, with a swagger not to be misunderstood for a moment. And now they have sprung the trap! and the poor boy is a beggar!

But who are they? Judge for yourself? Do they not belong, of course, to the same neighborhood? Have they not an air of good-fellowship, which cannot be counterfeited – a something which explains why they are always together, and why they are all dressed alike? How they loiter along, now that they have squeezed him as dry as an orange, as if they were just returning from a long summer-day's tramp in the wilderness after flowers and birds-nests – the flowers to tear to pieces, and the birds-nests to set up in the school for other boys to have a shy at. By to-morrow, they will be asunder for months – he at school afar off, and they at leap-frog or marbles. And after a few years, they will be forgotten by him, and he remembered by them – such being the difference in their early education – as the boy they were allowed to associate with, and to fleece at pleasure when he was nobody but Tom, Dick, or Harry, and thought himself no better than other folks.

But enough – let us leave the window. It is growing dark; and if you are not already satisfied, nothing ever will satisfy you, that the great mass of mankind have ears, but they hear not; and eyes, but they see not – and go through the world with their night-caps pulled over both. Poor simpletons! – what would they think of a man who should run for a wager with both feet in one shoe. Are you satisfied?

I am – of one thing.

And what is that?

Why, that a magazine-writer may coin gold out of any thing – out of the golden atmosphere of a summer-evening – or the golden motes he sees playing in the sunshine, on the best possible terms, with the common dust of the trampled highway – or the golden blossoms that fill the hedges – in a word, that with him it should be mere child's play to "extract sunshine from cucumbers."

THE OAK-TREE

BY PARK BENJAMINIBeautiful oak-tree! near my father's dwelling,Alone thou standest on the sloping green;In size, in strength, all other trees excelling —The noblest feature of the rural scene.Whether with foliage crowned in Summer's glory,Or stripped of leaves in winter's icy reign,Grandly thou speakest an unchanging storyOf power and beauty, not bestowed in vain.I looked upon thee with deep veneration,When first my soul acknowledged the sublime,And felt the might and grandeur of creation,In all that longest braves the shock of Time.Centuries ago, an acorn, chance-directed,Fell on the spot, and then a sapling sprung,From driving winds and beating storms protectedBy that kind Heaven which guards the frail and young.And prouder height with greater age acquiring,Fair as when suns on thy first verdure smiled,Thou standest now, a forest lord, aspiringO'er all thy peers from whom thou art exiled.Beautiful oak-tree! my most pleasant gambolsWere, with my dear companions, always playedBeneath thy branches, and from farthest ramblesWearied, we came and rested in thy shade.Morning and evening, Falls, and Springs, and Summers,Here was our Freedom, here we romped and sported;And here by moonlight, happiest of all comers,In thy dark shadow lovers sat and courted.And here, when snow in frozen billows bound thee,Like a white ocean deluging the land,And smaller trunks, or near or far, were round theeLike masts of vessels sunken on the strand,We climbed high up thy naked boughs, enchanted,Shaking whole sheets of spotless canvas down,And, by keen frosts and breezes nothing daunted,Hailed the slow sledges from the neighboring town.Ah! flown delights! ah! happiness departed!What have I known like you, since, light and free,And undefiled, and bold and merry-hearted,I used to frolic by the old oak-tree!IILong years ago I left my father's mansion,Through many realms, in various climates roamed,Speeding away o'er all Earth's wide expansion,Where icebergs glittered, and where torrents foamed.From pole to pole, across the hot Equator,Restless as sea-gulls whirling o'er the deep;From Snowden's crown to Ætna's fiery crater,From Indian valley to Caucasian steep;From Chimborazo, loftiest of all mountainsTrod by man's foot, to Nova Zembla's shore;From Iceland Hecla's ever-boiling fountains,To where Cape Horn's incessant surges roar;From France's vineyards to Antarctic regions,From England's pastures to Arabia's sands,From the rude North, with her unnumbered legions,To the sweet South's depopulated lands;O'er all those scenes, or beautiful or splendid,Which man risks wealth, and peace, and life to see,I roved at will – but all my journeys ended,Returned to gaze upon the old oak-tree.But, ah! beneath those broad, outreaching branches,What other forms, what different feet had strayed,Since I, a youth, went forth to dare the chancesWhich adverse Fortune in my path had laid.Past my meridian, sinking toward the seasonWhen Hope's horizon is with clouds o'ercast,When sportive Fancy yields to sober Reason,I came and questioned the remembered Past.I came and stood by that oak-tree so hoary,Forgetting all the intervening years,Stood on that turf, so blent with childhood's story,And poured my heart out in one gush of tears.I had returned to claim my father's dwelling,Borne like a waif on Time's returning tide —Summoned I came, by one brief missive tellingThat all I left behind and loved had died.Wiser and sadder than in life's bright morning,As softly fall the sun's last rays on me,As when I saw their early glow adorningThe emerald foliage of this old oak-tree.

PAULINE GREY.

OR THE ONLY DAUGHTER

BY F. E. F., AUTHOR OF "AARON'S ROD," "TELLING SECRETS," ETC(Concluded from page 233.)

The result of Mr. Grey's investigations was decidedly unfavorable. He had much difficulty, in the first place, in obtaining any distinct information at all, most people hating to commit themselves in such a matter. He was generally answered evasively, and one or two merely said, "they knew no good of him."

A friend, however, undertook to make the inquiries, and with much better success than Mr. Grey could do; and he learnt "that young Wentworth was wild, very wild – much in debt, with no business habits; and, in short, that there was not a father in town who would be willing to give his daughter to him."

Mr. Grey, of course, considered this information as decisive, and communicated it to his wife. She received it with mingled feelings of relief and apprehension. There was no danger now of Pauline's having him, but she dreaded telling her so; not that she for a moment doubted Pauline's acquiescence in the decision, about which she herself supposed there could be no two opinions, but only the burst of grief with which she would receive it.

But never was Mrs. Grey more mistaken. Pauline saw nothing in the information that her father had received to change her opinions or feelings at all; "that he was wild – she knew that – he had told her so himself. He had been very wild before he knew her – and in debt – yes, he had told her that too. He had never had any motive to apply himself to business before," and Pauline seemed to think his not having done so as a matter of choice or taste, only showed his superior refinement. In short, she adhered as resolutely to her determination as ever.

What ideas did she, poor girl, attach to the word "wild;" something very vague, and not disgraceful at all. Perhaps a few supper parties, and a little more champagne than was quite proper. She did not know, could not know, the bearing of the term; and as to being in debt, that conveyed little more to her mind. If he owed money it could easily be paid. She knew no more of the petty meanness of small sums borrowed, and little debts contracted every where, than she knew of the low tastes involved in the word "wild."

Mrs. Grey was in despair. But here Mr. Grey interposed. He had never exerted his authority before, but never doubted he had the power when he had the will. He forbade Pauline to think of him.

He might as well have forbade the winds to blow. Pauline vehemently declared she would marry him, and wept passionately; and finally exhausted by the violence of her emotions, went to bed sick.

She kept her room for the next week, wept incessantly, refused to eat, except when absolutely forced to, and gave way to such uncontrolled passion, as soon told upon her slight frame, always delicate.

Mrs. Grey was alarmed; but Mr. Grey, not having seen Pauline since his decision had been communicated to her, was very firm.

"After the first burst was over, Pauline," he said, "would return to her senses."

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Grey, "go up stairs and see her yourself; perhaps you can induce her to listen to reason."

And Mr. Grey went to Pauline. He had been prepared to see her looking pale and sad, but he was not prepared for the change that a week's strong excitement had wrought in Pauline's appearance. Her large, black eyes looked larger, and her face smaller from the deadly paleness of her fair skin. Mr. Grey was, indeed, shocked; and either a slight cold, or the nervousness induced by weakness, had brought on the little hacking cough they always so dreaded to hear.

He was much moved. He could not see his child die before his eyes; and it ended in Pauline's tears prevailing, and bringing him to listen to her views, instead of his inducing her to listen to reason. He promised he would do what he could – and once having been brought to hesitate, the natural impatience and decision of his character led him to the very point Pauline desired, of settling the matter as fast as possible; for "if it was to be, let it be done at once," he said.

Mr. Wentworth was recalled. He was all protestations and promises; and Mr. Grey, with a heavy heart, "hoped it might turn out better than they anticipated."

Pauline, at any rate, was restored to present happiness, and her doating parents had the immediate satisfaction of seeing her once again her radiant self, full of joy and gratitude, and confident of the future as secure of the present.

The gay world in which they lived were very much surprised at the announcement of the engagement; at Mr. and Mrs. Grey's consenting to it; and even confounded at hearing that a day – and an early day, too – was actually named for the marriage.

"Is not that extraordinary?" said Mrs. Livingston. "One would really think they were afraid the young man would slip through their fingers. How anxious some people are to marry their daughters!"

"How absurd!" said another; "for I am told they don't like it, as, of course, they cannot. And she is so young, that if they delayed it a little while, another season, with the admirers she is sure to have, would put it out of her head."

Lookers on are very wise; and it's a pity actors cannot be equally so. No doubt this would have been the right, and probably the successful course. But Mrs. Grey had no longer any spirit to oppose Pauline, and Mr. Grey, in his impatient agony, seemed to think the sooner it was over the better.

Foolish, unhappy father. He was only riveting his own misery.

But Pauline was radiant. Deep in the excitement of wedding preparations and invitations – for her parents listlessly acquiesced in every thing she asked; and she meant to be married "in pomp, in triumph, and in revelry."

The mornings were spent in shopping, and one could scarcely go into a store where they did not meet Mrs. Grey and Pauline looking over delicate laces, exquisite embroidery, and expensive silks, Pauline's bright face looking brighter than ever, and her youthful voice musical in its gay happiness; and Mrs. Grey looking so dejected, and speaking in the lifeless tones of one who has a heavy sorrow settled on her heart.

Two short months were rapidly consumed in all the arrangements usually made on such occasions – and the wedding day arrived.

Never had Pauline looked so beautiful. The emotions called up by the occasion softened without dimming the brilliancy of her usual beauty. The veil of finest lace, the wreath of fresh and rare exotics, the jeweled arms, all lent their aid to render her surpassingly lovely.

"Pray God it turn out better than we can hope!" was all Mr. Grey could say, to which his wife replied by a sigh, which seemed the fitting response to a prayer uttered with so little hope.

CHAPTER I

Mr. and Mrs. Grey had made it a condition with Mr. Wentworth that they were not to lose Pauline, and consequently it was arranged that the young couple were to live at home.

Scarcely were the wedding festivities over before Mrs. Grey remarked that Pauline was nervous when her husband was alone with her father and herself; and that when he entered into conversation, she always joined in hastily, and contrived to engross the greater part of it herself. She evidently did not want him to talk more than could be helped. But much as she shielded him, the truth could not be concealed. Little as Mr. and Mrs. Grey had expected from Wentworth, he fell painfully below their expectations. He was both weak and ignorant – ignorant to a remarkable degree, for one occupying his position in society. It only showed how he had turned from every advantage offered him by education. His sentiments, too, were common; every thing stamped him as a low-minded, coarse-feeling young man – at least they feared so. He might improve. Pauline's influence might do something.

But was Pauline beginning to be at all alive to the truth as it was?

Mrs. Grey feared so; but she could not ascertain. Pauline was affectionate and tender, but not frank with her mother. Mrs. Grey, like most mothers, who, to tell the truth, are not very judicious on this point, would have led Pauline to talk of her husband; but here, she knew not how, Pauline baffled her. She always spoke, and spoke cheerfully and respectfully, of Mr. Wentworth, but in such a general manner, that Mrs. Grey could come to no satisfactory conclusion either way.

The truth was that though Pauline was very young, her character was developing fast. Her heart and her mind were now speaking to her trumpet-tongued – and their voice was appalling.

Her husband was daily revealing himself in his true character to her; and the idol of her imagination was fast coming forth as an idol of clay. But though Pauline was willful, she had other and great and noble qualities. An instinct told her at once that no complaint of her husband must pass her lips. Pride whispered that she had chosen her own lot, and must bear it, and love still murmured, "Hope on – all is not yet lost." But she grew pale and thin, and though she was animated, and talked, perhaps, more than ever, Mrs. Grey imagined, for she could not tell to a certainty, that her animation was forced, and her conversation nervous.

Mr. Wentworth seemed soon to weary of the calm quiet of the domestic circle, for of an evening he was beginning to take his hat and go to the club, staying at first but for an hour or so, and gradually later and later.

"I am not going up stairs yet, mamma," said Pauline, "I will sit up for Mr. Wentworth."

"Robert will let him in, Pauline," replied Mrs. Grey, anxiously. "You are looking pale, my child – you had better go up."

"Very well," answered Pauline, quietly; and her mother satisfied, retired to her own room, supposing Pauline had done the same. But Pauline had let the man sit up for her husband the night before; and she had heard her mother, as she happened to be passing in the hall when Mrs. Grey did not see her, finding fault with him for being late in the morning; to which the servant answered, in extenuation, that he had been up so late for Mr. Wentworth that he had over-slept himself.

"How late was it, Robert?" asked Mrs. Grey, in a low voice.

"Near two, ma'am," replied the man.

"Near two!" repeated Mrs. Grey, as if to herself – and a heavy sigh told Pauline better than any comments could have done what was passing in her mother's mind. She determined that henceforth no servant should have her husband in his power again. So when she had heard her mother's door close for the night, she rang for the man and said,

"Robert, you can go to bed now, I will sit up for Mr. Wentworth."

"My child, how thin and pale you grow," Mrs. Grey would say, anxiously; "and that little cough of yours, too, Pauline – how it distresses me. What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing, mother," Pauline would reply, cheerfully; "I always cough a little, you know, if I am not well. And if I am looking paler and thinner than usual, that is to be expected – is it not?"

"I suppose so," Mrs. Grey would reply, half satisfied for the present that perhaps Pauline had truly accounted for her wan looks.

Ah! little did she know of the late hours of harassing watching that, night after night, Pauline spent waiting the coming in of her truant husband; and less did she know of the agonized feelings of the young wife, as she read in the glassy eye and flushed brow of her husband, the meaning of that once insignificant word "wild," which now she was beginning to apprehend in all its disgusting reality.

Pauline's spirit sometimes rose, and she remonstrated with Wentworth; but his loud tones subdued her at once. Not that she yet feared him, but dreaded lest those tones should reach her mother's ear. The one absorbing feeling, next to bitter disappointment, was concealment.