Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 2 August 1848

"But see how weak I am! and all from the breath of those poor flowers!"

"There is a source from which strength may be obtained."

"My pride, oh, father, that may do to shield me from the world's scorn, but it avails nothing with my own heart."

"But prayer, Florence, prayer to Almighty God the Infinite. I remember how sweet it was when you were a little child kneeling by your mother's lap with your tiny hands uplifted to Heaven. Surely you have not forgotten to pray, my child?"

"Alas! in this wild passion I have forgotten every thing – my duty to you – the very heaven where my mother is an angel!" cried Florence, and for the first time in many days she began to weep.

Mr. Hurst took her hands in his, tears stood in his proud eyes, and his firm lips trembled with tender emotions. "My child," he said, pointing to a velvet easy-chair that stood in the chamber, "kneel down by your mother's empty chair and pray even as when you were a little child!"

Florence watched her father as he went out through her blinding tears. The door closed after him, a mist swam through the room, she moved toward the empty chair, and through the dim cloud which her tears created its crimson cushions glowed brightly, as if tinged with gold. A gleam of sunshine had struck them through a half open shutter, but it seemed to her that the sudden light came directly from the throne of Heaven.

The next moment Florence fell upon her knees before the chair, her face was buried in the cushions, broken words and swelling sobs filled the room; over her fell that golden sunbeam, like a flaming arrow sent from the Throne of Mercy to pierce her heart and warm it at the same moment.

The sun went down. Slowly and quietly that wandering beam mingled with the thousand rays that streamed from the west, spreading around the young suppliant like a luminous veil; there was blended with the gold hues of rich crimson and purple, that flashed over the ebony mirror, wove themselves in a gorgeous haze among the snow-white curtains of the bed, and fell in drops of dusky yellow over the floor and among the waving apple-boughs.

But Florence felt nothing of this, her heart was dark, her frame shook with sobs, and the agony of her voice was smothered in the cushions where her face lay buried.

It came at last, that still small voice that follows the whirlwind and the storm. In the hush of night it came as snow-flakes fall from the heavens. And now Florence lay upon the cushions of her mother's chair motionless, and calm peace was in her heart, and a smile of ineffable sweetness lay upon her lips. It might have been minutes, it might have been hours for any thing that the young suppliant knew of the lapse of time since she had crept to her mother's chair. When she arose the moonlight was streaming over her through an open window. Never did those pale beams fall upon features so changed. A spirituelle loveliness beamed over them, soft and holy as the moonlight that revealed it.

Some time after midnight Mr. Hurst went into his daughter's chamber, for anxiety had kept him up, and the entire stillness terrified him. She was lying upon the bed, half veiled by the muslin curtains, breathing tranquilly as an infant in its mother's bosom. During many nights she had not slept, but sweet was her slumber now; the flowers inhaling the dew beneath the window did not seem more delicate and placid.

It was daylight when Florence awoke. A few rosy streaks were in the sky, and lay reflected upon the water like threads of crimson broken by the tide. Out to sea, a little beyond the opening of the cove, was a large vessel with her sails furled, and evidently lying-to. Near a curve of the shore she saw a boat with half a dozen men lolling sleepily in the bow. Her heart beat quick with a presentiment of some approaching event. She felt certain that the boat and the distant ship were in some way connected with herself. But the thought hardly had time to flash through her brain when a commotion in the old apple-tree – a shaking of the limbs and tumultuous rustling of the leaves – made her start and turn that way. The largest bough was that instant spurned aside, and Jameson sprung through the open window. He was out of breath and seemed greatly excited.

"Florence, my wife, come with me!" he said, casting his arms around her shrinking form. "I will not go without you. See the vessel is yonder – a boat is on the shore. In half an hour we can be away from your father, alone, without hindrance to our love. Come, Florence, come with your husband!"

Ah, but for the strength which Florence had sought from above, where would she have been then. For a moment her heart did turn traitor; for one single instant there came upon her cheek a crimson flush, and in her eyes something that made Jameson's heart leap with exultation; but it passed away, Florence broke from the arms that were cast around her, and drew back toward the door.

"Leave me!" she said, mildly, but with firmness, "I am not your wife – will never be!"

"You hate me, then!" exclaimed Jameson, goaded by her manner. "You still believe what my enemies say against me."

"No, I hate no one – I could not hate you!"

"But you love me no longer."

Florence turned very pale, but still she was firm. "It matters nothing if I love or hate now," she said, "henceforth, forever and forever, you and I are strangers. If you have come here in hopes of taking me from my father, go before he learns any thing of your visit; a longer stay can only bring evil."

Again Jameson cast himself at her feet; again his masterly eloquence was put forth to melt, to subdue, even to over-awe that fair girl; but all that he could wring from her was bitter tears – all that he accomplished was a renewal of anguish that prayer had hardly conquered.

"And you will not go! You cast me off forever!" he exclaimed, starting up with a fierce gesture and an expression of the eye that made her shrink back.

"I cannot go – I will not go!" she said, in a low voice. "You have already taught me how terrible a thing is remorse. Leave me in peace, if you would not see me die!"

"And this is your final answer!" cried Jameson, and his eyes flashed with fury.

"I can give no other!"

"Then farewell, and the curse of my ruin rest with you," he cried in desperation, and wringing her hands fiercely in his, he cleared the window with a bound, and letting himself down by the apple-tree, disappeared.

The tempter was gone; Florence was left alone, her head reeling with pain, her heart aching within her bosom. Jameson's last words had fallen upon her heart like fire; what if this refusal to share his fate had confirmed him in evil? What if she, by partaking of his fortunes, might have won him to an honorable and just life. These thoughts were agony to her, and left no room for calm reflection, or she would have known that no human influence can reclaim a base nature; one fault may be redeemed, nay, many faults that spring from the heat of passion or the recklessness of youth, but habitual hypocrisy, craft, falsehood – what female heart ever opposed its love and truth to vices like these, without being crushed in the endeavor to save.

But Florence could not reason then. Her soul was affrighted by the curse that had been hurled upon it. Half frantic with these new themes of torture, she left her room, and hurried down to the cove just in time to see the boat which contained Jameson half way to the vessel. Actuated only by a wild desire to see him depart, she threaded her way through the oak grove, unmindful of the dew, of her thin raiment, or of the morning wind that tossed her curls about as she hurried on. And now she stood upon the outer point of the shore, where it jutted inward at the mouth of the cove and commanded a broad view of the ocean. High trees were around her as she stood upon the shelving bank, her white garments streaming in the breeze, her wild eyes gazing upon the vessel as it wheeled slowly round and made for the open ocean. Florence remained motionless where she stood so long as a shadow of the vessel fluttered in sight. When it was lost in the horizon she turned slowly and walked toward the house, weary as one who returns from a toilsome pilgrimage. It was days and weeks before she came forth again.

Years went by – many, many years, and yet that outward bound vessel was never heard of again. How she perished, or when, no man can tell. The last ever seen of her to mortal knowledge was when Florence Hurst stood alone upon the sea-shore, conscious that she was right, yet filled with bitter anguish as she watched its departure to that far-off shore from which no traveler returns.

And Florence came forth in the world again more attractive than ever; a spiritual loveliness, softened without diminishing the brilliancy of her beauty, and with every feminine grace she had added that of a meek and contrite spirit. Did she wed again? We answer, No. Many a lofty intellect and noble heart bent in homage to hers; but Florence lived only for her father – the great and good man, who was just as well as proud, and nobly won his child from her error by delicate tenderness, such as he had never lavished upon her faultless youth, when many a man, to shield his weaker pride, would have driven her by anger and upbraiding from his heart, and thus have kindled her warm impulses into defiance and ruin.

SUMMER

BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. NShe comes with soft and scented breath,From fragrant southern lands,And wakens from their trance of deathThe flowers, and breaks the handsOf fettered streams, that burst awayWith joyous laugh and song,And shout and leap like boys at playAs home from school they throng.From sunny climes the breeze set freeComes with an angel strainAthwart the blue and sparkling seaTo visit us again.The low of herds is on the gale,The leaf is on the tree,And cloud-winged barks in silence sailWith stately majestyAlong the blue and bending sky,Like joyous living things,And rainbow-tinted birds flit byWith swiftly glancing wings:O summer, summer! joyful time!Singing a gentle strain,Thou comest from a warmer climeTo visit us again!

DESCRIPTION OF A VISIT TO NIAGARA

BY PROFESSOR JAMES MOFFATThrough the dark night urging our rapid wayWe listen to a low, continued sound,As of a distant drum calling to arms.It grows with our approach; lulls with the breeze,And swells again into a bolder note,Like an Æolian harp of giant string.Again, the tone is changed, and a fierce roarOf tumult rises from the trembling earth,As if the imprisoned spirits of the deepHad found a vent for that rebellious shout,Which from ten thousand lips ascends to Heaven.Voice not to be mistaken – even heUpon whose ear it comes for the first timeClaims it as known, and bringing to his heartThe boldest fancies of his early days —Thy thunders, dread Niagara, day and night,Which vary not their ever-during peal.Burning impatience, not to be controlled,Has hurried on my steps until I standWithin the breath of thy descending wave.The night conceals thy wonders, but enrobesThee with a grandeur, wild, mysterious,As with thy spray around me, and the windWhich rushes upward from thy dark abyss,And thy deep organ pealing in my ear,Thy mass is all unseen, and I beholdOnly the ghost-like whiteness of thy foam.The morning comes. The clouds have disappeared,And the clear silver of the eastern skyGives promise of a glowing summer sun.In the fresh dawn, I hasten to the rockWhich overhangs the ever-boiling deep,And all the wonders of NiagaraAre spread before me – not the simple dashOf falling waters, which the fancy drew,But myriad forms of beautiful and grandPress on the senses and o'erwhelm the mind.Yon bright, broad waters on their channel sleepAs if they dreamed of the most peaceful flowTo the far-distant sea. But now their courseAccelerates on their inclining path,Though still 'tis with the appearance of a calmAnd dignified reluctance, and the waveRemains unbroken, till the inward forceIncreasingly silently, like that which breaksThe short laborious quiet of the insane,Bursts all restraint, and the wild waters, tossedIn fiercest tumult, uncontrollable,Menace all life within their giant grasp;Leaping and raging in their frantic glee,Dashing their spray aloft, as on they rushIn wild confusion to the dreadful steep.An instant on the verge they seem to pause,As if, even in their frenzy, such a gulfWere horrible, then slowly bending down,Plunge headlong where the never-ceasing roarAscends, and the revolving clouds of spray,Forever during yet forever new.The sun appears. And, straightway, on the cloudWhich veils the struggles of the fallen waveIn everlasting secrecy, and waftsAway, like smoke of incense, up to Heaven,Beams forth the radiant diadem of light,Brilliant and fixed amid the moving mass;And beauty comes to deck the glorious scene.For as the horizontal sunbeams restUpon the deep blue summit, or unfoldThe varying hues of green, that pass awayInto the white of the descending foam,So colors of the loveliest rainbow dyeTinge the bright wave, nor lessen aught its pride,Now joyous companies of fair and youngCome lightly forth, with voice of social glee,But, one by one, as they approach the brink,A change comes over them. The noisy laughIs hushed, the step is soft and reverent,And the light jest is quenched in solemn thought —Yea, dull must be his brain and cold his heartTo all the sacred influences that springFrom grandeur and from beauty, who can gaze,For the first time, on the descending floodWithout restraint upon the flippant tongue.If such the reverence Great Invisible,Attendant on one of thy lesser works,What dread must overwhelm us when the eyeIs opened to the glories of thyself,Who sway'st the moving universe and holdstThe "waters in the hollow of thy hand."

SONNET

BY CAROLINE F. ORNEThere have been tones of cheer, and voices gay,And careless laughter ringing lightly by,And I have listened to wit's mirthful play,And sought to smile at each light fantasy.But ah, there was a voice more deep and clear,That I alone might hear of all the throng,In softest cadence falling on my earLike a sweet undertone amid the song.And then I longed for this calm hour of night,That undisturbed by any voice or sound,My spirit from all meaner objects freeMight soar unchecked in its far upward flight,And by no cord, no heavy fetter bound,Scorning all space and distance, hold commune with thee.

AUNT MABLE'S LOVE STORY

BY SUSAN PINDAR

"How heartily sick I am of these love stories!" exclaimed Kate Lee, as she impatiently threw aside the last magazine; "they are all flat, stale, and unprofitable; every one begins with a soirée and ends with a wedding. I'm sure there is not one word of truth in any of them."

"Rather a sweeping condemnation to be given by a girl of seventeen," answered Aunt Mabel, looking up with a quiet smile; "when I was your age, Kate, no romance was too extravagant, no incident too improbable for my belief. Every young heart has its love-dream; and you too, my merry Kate, must sooner or later yield to such an influence."

"Why, Aunt Mable, who would have ever dreamed of your advocating love stories! You, so staid, so grave and kindly to all; your affections seem so universally diffused among us, that I never can imagine them to have been monopolized by one. Beside, I thought as you were never – " Kate paused, and Aunt Mabel continued the sentence.

"I never married, you would say, Kate, and thus it follows that I never loved. Well, perhaps not; I may be, as you think, an exception; at least I am not going to trouble you with antiquated love passages, that, like old faded pictures, require a good deal of varnishing to be at all attractive. But, I confess, I like not to hear so young a girl ridiculing what is, despite the sickly sentiment that so often obscures it, the purest and noblest evidence of our higher nature."

"Oh, you don't understand me, Aunt Mable! I laugh at the absurdity of the stories. Look at this, for instance, where a gentleman falls in love with a shadow. Now I see no substantial foundation for such an extravagant passion as that. Here is another, who is equally smitten with a pair of French gaiters. Now I don't pretend to be over sensible, but I do not think such things at all natural, or likely to occur; and if they did, I should look upon the parties concerned as little less than simpletons. But a real, true-hearted love story, such as "Edith Pemberton," or Mrs. Hall's "Women's Trials," those I do like, and I sympathize so strongly with the heroines that I long to be assured the incidents are true. If I could only hear one true love story – something that I knew had really occurred – then it would serve as a kind of text for all the rest. Oh! how I long to hear a real heart-story of actual life!"

Kate grew quite enthusiastic, and Aunt Mable, after pausing a few minutes, while a troubled smile crossed her face, said, "Well, Kate, I will tell you a love story of real life, the truth of which I can vouch for, since I knew the parties well. You will believe me, I know, Kate, without requiring actual name and date for every occurrence. There are no extravagant incidents in this "owre true tale," but it is a story of the heart, and such a one, I believe, you want to hear."

Kate's eyes beamed with pleasure, as kissing her aunt's brow, and gratefully ejaculating "dear, kind Aunt Mable!" she drew a low ottoman to her aunt's side, and seated herself with her head on her hand, and her blooming face upturned with an expression of anticipated enjoyment. I wish you could have seen Aunt Mable, as she sat in the soft twilight of that summer evening, smiling fondly on the young, bright girl at her side. You would have loved her, as did every one who came within the sphere of her gentle influence; and yet she did not possess the wondrous charm of lingering loveliness, that, like the fainting perfume of a withered flower, awakens mingled emotions of tenderness and regret. No, Aunt Mabel could never have been beautiful; and yet, as she sat in her quiet, silver-gray silk gown, and kerchief of the sheerest muslin pinned neatly over the bosom, there was an air of graceful, lady-like ease about her, far removed from the primness of old-maidism. Her features were high, and finely cut, you would have called her proud and stern, with a tinge of sarcasm lurking upon the lip, but for her full, dark-gray eyes, so lustrous, so ineffably sweet in their deep, soul-beaming tenderness, that they seemed scarcely to belong to a face so worn and faded; indeed, they did not seem in keeping with the silver-threaded hair so smoothly parted from the low, broad brow, and put away so carefully beneath a small cap, whose delicate lace, and rich, white satin, were the only articles of dress in which Aunt Mabel was a little fastidious. She kept her sewing in her hand as she commenced her story, and stitched away most industriously at first, but gradually as she proceeded the work fell upon her lap, and she seemed to be lost in abstracted recollections, speaking as though impelled by some uncontrollable impulse to recall the events long since passed away.

"Many years since," said Aunt Mable, in a calm, soft tone, without having at all the air of one about telling a story, "many years since, there lived in one of the smaller cities in our state, a lady named Lynn. She was a widow, and eked out a very small income by taking a few families to board. Mrs. Lynn had one only child, a daughter, who was her pride and treasure, the idol of her affections. As a child Jane Lynn was shy and timid, with little of the gayety and thoughtlessness of childhood. She disliked rude plays, and instinctively shrunk from the lively companions of her own age, to seek the society of those much older and graver than herself. Her schoolmates nicknamed her the "little old maid;" and as she grew older the title did not seem inappropriate. At school her superiority of intellect was manifest, and when she entered society the timid reserve of her manner was attributed to pride, while her acquaintance thought she considered them her inferiors.

This, however, was far from the truth. Jane felt that she was not popular in society, and it grieved her, yet she strove in vain to assimilate with those around her, to feel and act as they did, and to be like them, admired and loved. But the narrow circle in which she moved was not at all calculated to appreciate or draw forth her talent or character. With a heart filled with all womanly tenderness and gentle sympathies, a mind stored with romance, and full of restless longings for the beautiful and true, possessed of fine tastes that only waited cultivation to ripen into talent, Jane found herself thrown among those who neither understood nor sympathized with her. Her mother idolized her, but Jane felt that had she been far different from what she was, her mother's love had been the same; and though she returned her parent's affection with all the warmth of her nature, there was ever within her heart a restless yearning for something beyond. Immersed in a narrow routine of daily duties, compelled to practice the most rigid economy, and to lend her every thought and moment to the assistance of her mother, Jane had little time for the gratification of those tastes that formed her sole enjoyment. "It is the perpetual recurrence of the little that crushes the romance of life," says Bulwer; and the experience of every day justifies the truth of his remark. Jane felt herself, as year after year crept by, becoming grave and silent. She knew that in her circumstances it was best that the commonplaces of every-day life should be sufficient for her, but she grieved as each day she felt the bright hues of early enthusiasm fading out and giving place to the cold gray tint of reality.

With her pure sense of the beautiful, Jane felt acutely the lack of those personal charms that seem to win a way to every heart. By those who loved her, (and the few who knew her well did love her dearly,) she was called at times beautiful, but a casual observer would never dream of bestowing upon the slight, frail creature who timidly shrunk from notice, any more flattering epithet than "rather a pretty girl," while those who admired only the rosy beauty of physical perfection pronounced her decidedly plain.

Jane Lynn had entered her twenty-second summer when her mother's household was increased by the arrival of a new inmate. Everard Morris was a man of good fortune, gentlemanly, quiet, and a bachelor. Possessed of very tender feelings and ardent temperament, he had seen his thirty-seventh birth-day, and was still free. He had known Jane slightly before his introduction to her home, and he soon evinced a deep and tender interest in her welfare. Her character was a new study for him, and he delighted in calling forth all the latent enthusiasm of her nature. He it was who awakened the slumbering fires of sentiment, and insisted on her cultivating tastes too lovely to be possessed in vain; and when she frankly told him that the refinement of taste created restless yearnings for pursuits to her unattainable, he spoke of a happier future, when her life should be spent amid the employments she loved. Ere many months had elapsed his feelings deepened into passionate tenderness, and he avowed himself a lover. Jane's emotions were mixed and tumultuous as she listened to his fervent expressions; she reproached herself with ingratitude in not returning his love. She felt toward him a grateful affection, for to him she owed all the real happiness her secluded life had known; but he did not realize her ideal, he admired and was proud of her talents, but he did not sympathize with her tastes.

Months sped away and seemed to bring to him an increase of passionate tenderness. Every word and action spoke his deep devotion. Jane could not remain insensible to such affection; the love she had sighed for was hers at last – and it is the happiness of a loving nature to know that it makes the happiness of another. Jane's esteem gradually deepened in tone and character until it became a faithful, trusting love. She felt no fear for the future, because she knew her affection had none of the romance that she had learned to mistrust, even while it enchanted her imagination. She saw failings and peculiarities in her lover, but with true womanly gentleness she forbore with and concealed them. She believed him when he said he would shield and guard her from every ill; and her grateful heart sought innumerable ways to express her appreciating tenderness.