Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 3 September 1848

Fanny was but a simple country maiden, all unskilled in the light and graceful nothings which form the substance of worldly converse, and so the warm, rich crimson crept into her cheek, and the wee foot forthwith commenced beating a tatoo upon the heads of the unoffending flowers around, who breathed forth their perfumed sighs in mute reproachfulness; but she was still a woman, and so with all a woman's ready tact she replied, though with the flush deepening on her cheek, and a scarce-perceptible tremor in her voice,

"The color which his gaze had thrownUpon a cheek else pale and fair,As lilies in the summer air."

"Indeed, sir stranger, since thou hast given me such unwonted power, I must first use my sceptre of command in banishing all intruders into my august presence, and invaders of this 'hidden sanctum,' which is held sacred to mine own idle feet alone!"

And there was a merry look of mischievous meaning stealing in and out of those bright eyes as they were for a moment uplifted to the face of the stranger, and then again were shadowed by the drooping lid. Whether it was that said "intruder" detected a something in the tone or the demure glance of the fair girl which contradicted the words she spoke, or whether that very glance transfixed him to the spot, history telleth not, but stay he did; and if his tarrying was very heartily objected to by his companion, if the words which fell from his lip in utterance how musical, for the space of two fastly-fleeting hours, were not pleasing to the ear of the maiden, then, indeed, did that soft, bright glow which mantled her fair cheek, and the rosy lip, half-parted and eloquent of interest, sadly belie the beating heart within, as the twain walked lingeringly homeward, the dark shadows lengthening on the green grass, and the setting sun flinging a flood of golden-tinted light upon the myriad leaves which were trembling to the love-voice of the soft summer breeze.

Softly was the latch of the wicket lifted, and light was the maiden's step upon the stair, as she sought her own little chamber. Was she gazing forth from the open window to admire the brilliancy of that gorgeous sunset? Was it to drink in the beauty and brightness of that sweet summer eve, or to feel the soft breeze freshly fanning her flushed cheek? Nay, none of these. See how earnestly her gaze is bent upon the retreating form of the stranger; and now that he is lost to view, behold her sitting with head resting on one little hand, quite lost in a reverie that is not like those of Dream-dell memory, for now there comes a tangible shape in place of those ideal ones, and the echo of a manly voice, breathing devotion and deference in every tone, still is lingering in her enchained ear. For the first time she forgets to carry her offering of fresh flowers to her mother's room. Ah! her busy fingers have been strewing the bright leaves around unconsciously, and she blushingly gathers the few remaining ones, and, with a pang of self-reproach, hastens to her mother's side.

It is with a sigh of relief that Fanny beholds her invalid parent sleeping sweetly – a relief that was augmented by the question which burst suddenly upon her mind, "Can I tell her that I have had a stranger-companion in my wanderings?" Wonder not at the query, gentle reader, for remember that the life of our sweet Fanny had not been blessed with that loving confidence which is the tenderest tie in the relation of mother and child. Her love was ever intermingled with too much fear and restraint from earliest youth, for that interchange of counsel and trust which might have been a sure safeguard against many of earth's ills. And it was perhaps that very yearning to fill the only void left in her happy heart which prompted her to give the helm of her barque of life, so soon and so confidingly into the hands of a stranger.

Day succeeded day, and still the lovers, for they were lovers now, were found at their sweet trysting spot, seeking every pretext for frequent meetings, as lovers will, until many were the heads in Aberdeen which were shaken in wise prognostication; and the Misses Simpkins, to their unspeakable relief, had found a new theme whereon to exercise their powers conversational, while the children of the village mourned the absence of their kind "Fairy," and wished with all their little hearts that Miss Fanny would send away that "naughty man" who kept her from their homes.

Poor Fanny! the hidden seal had been touched at length, and on the deep waters beneath was shining Love's own meteor-light – a light that was reflected on every thing around.

"It was as her heart's full happinessPoured over all its own excess."

How swiftly the days flew by, "like winged birds, as lightly and as free." And, oh! how priceless, peerless was the gift she was yielding to the stranger in such child-like confidence and trust. There was so much up-looking in her love for him; it seemed so sweet to recognize the thoughts which had lain dormant in her own soul, for want of fitting expression, flowing from his lip clothed in such a beauty-breathing garmenture. And now Fanny Layton was a child no longer. She had crossed the threshold, and the "spirit of unrest" had descended upon her, albeit as yet she knew it not. Her heart seemed so full of sunshine, that when she ventured to peep into its depths, she was dazzled by that flood of radiance – and how could she descry the still shadow. Alas! that on this earth of ours with the sunlight ever comes the shadows, too, which was sleeping there, but to widen and grow deeper and darker when love's waters should cease to gush and sparkle as at the first opening of that sweet fount.

But the day of parting came at length – how it had been dwelt upon with intermingling vows, promises, caresses on his part, with trust, and tenderness, and tears on hers! A sad, sad day it was for Fanny Layton, the first she had ever known that was ever heralded by sorrow's messenger. How she strove to dwell upon Edward Morton's words, "It will not be for long;" and banish from her heart those nameless, undefinable fears which would not away at her bidding. The sky looked no longer blue – the green earth no longer glad; and traces of tears, the bitterest she had ever shed, were on that poor girl's cheek, as she went forth to meet her beloved, for the last time.

It matters not to say how each familiar haunt was visited that day; how each love-hallowed spot bore witness to those low murmured words which are earth's dearest music; how time wore on, as time will, whether it bears on its resistless tide a freightage of joys or sorrows, pleasures, or pains, until at length the last word had been said, the last silent embrace taken; and now poor Fanny Layton stood alone, gazing through blinding tears upon the solitary horseman who rode swiftly away, as if another glance at the fair creature who stood with straining gaze and pallid cheek and drooping form, would all unman him. Was it this, or was it that in that hour he felt his own unworthiness of the sacred trust reposed in him?

We will believe, dear reader, that whatever after influences may have exercised dominion over his heart; however he may have been swerved from his plighted faith by dreams of worldly ambition, or wealth, or power; however cold policy may have up-rooted all finer feeling from his soul, we will believe that no thoughts of treachery, no meditated falsehood mingled with that parting embrace and blessing; that although he had bowed at many a shrine before, and therefore could not feel all the depth and purity of the unworldly affection which he had won, still he did not, could not believe it possible that that priceless love would be bartered for pomp and station, he did mean, when he placed the white rose, plucked from the heart of Dream-dell, in the little trembling hand which rested on his shoulder, and murmured "Fanny, darling, ere this bud hath scarce withered, I shall be with you again," that it should be even as he said. Alas! alas! for the frailty of human nature!

That night poor Fanny pressed the precious rose to her quivering lip, and sobbed herself, like a child, to sleep.

The next day wore away – the next – the next – still no tidings from the absent one; and he had promised to write as soon as he arrived "in town!" What could it mean?

Oh, that weary watching! The hours moved, oh, so leaden-paced and slow! Every day the poor girl waited for the coming of the post-man; and every day, with a pang at her heart, and tear-dimmed eyes, she saw him pass the door. "Edward has been detained; he will come yet, I'm sure," a fond inner voice whispered; "perhaps he has sent no letter, because he'll be here himself so soon!" Poor Fanny! another week, and still no letter, no tidings. "Oh! he must be ill!" she whispered, anxiously, but never thought him false. Oh, no! she was too single-hearted, too relying in her trust fora doubt so dreadful; but her step grew heavier day by day – her cheek so very, very pale, except at the post-man's hour, when it would burn with a feverish brightness, and then fade to its former pallid hue again; her sweet voice was heard no longer trilling forth those thrilling melodies which had gladdened the heart of young and old to hear. The visits to Dream-dell were less and less frequent, for now how each remembrance so fondly connected with that spot, came fraught with pain; the works of her favorite author's lay opened, but unread, upon her knee; and the fastly-falling tears half-blotted out the impassioned words she had once read with him with so happy a heart-thrill.

The widow saw with anxiety and alarm this sudden change; but she was an invalid – and the poor suffering one strove to hide her sickness of the heart, and mother though she was, Mrs. Layton discovered not the canker-worm which was nipping her bud of promise, but would whisper, "You confine yourself too much to my room, my child, and must go out into the bright sunshine, so that the smile may come back to your lip, the roses to your cheek."

One day, now three months after Edward Morton's departure, Miss Jerusha Simpkins was seen threading her way to Woodbine Cottage. She held a newspaper carefully folded in her hand, and on her pinched and withered face a mingled expression of caution and importance was struggling.

Lifting the latch of the embowered door, the spinster walked into the small parlor, where Fanny Layton was engaged in feeding her pet canaries; poor things! they were looking strangely at the wan face beside the cage, as if they wondered if it could be the same which used to come with wild warblings as sweet and untutored as their own. Fanny turned to welcome the intruder, but recognized Miss Simpkins with a half-drawn sigh, and a shrinking of the heart, for she was ever so minute in her inquiries for that "runaway Mr. Morton."

"A beautiful day, Miss Fanny," commenced the spinster, looking sharply around, (she always made a point of doing two things i.e. entering the houses of her neighbors without knocking, and then taking in at a glance not only every thing the room contained, but the occupation, dress, &c. of the inmates for after comment,) and then throwing back her bonnet, and commencing to fan herself vigorously with the folded paper, "I thought I must run round to-day and see how your mother did, and bring her to-day's paper. I happened to be standing by the window when the penny-post came by, and Nancy says to me, 'Jerusha,' says she, 'do run to the door and get the Times – I haven't seen it for an age,' for we aint no great readers at our house; so I steps to the door and gets one from neighbor Wilkins – he is a very pleasant-spoken man, and often drops in of a morning to have a chat with me and Nancy. Well, what should I see the first thing (for I always turn to the marriages and deaths) but Mr. Edward Morton's marriage to the elegant and rich Miss – Miss – dear me! I've forgot the name now – do you see if you can make it out," handing her the paper; "but, bless me! what is the matter, Miss Fanny? I don't wonder you're surprised; Nancy and me was – for we did think at one time that he had an attachment to Aberdeen; but, la! one can't put any dependence on these wild-flys!"

The last part of the cruel sentence was wholly lost upon poor Fanny, who sat with fixed and stony gaze upon the dreadful announcement, while it seemed as if her heart-strings were breaking one by one. In vain Miss Simpkins, thoroughly alarmed at length, strove to rouse her from this stupor of grief. In vain did her dear old nurse, who ran in affrighted at the loud ejaculations of the terrified but unfeeling creature who had dealt the blow, use every epithet of endearment, and strive to win one look from the poor sufferer, into whose inmost soul the iron had entered, upon whose heart a weight had fallen, that could never, never be uplifted again on earth. Every effort alike was useless; and for days she sat in one spot low murmuring a plaintive strain, rocking to and fro, with the white rose, his parting gift, tightly clasped in her pale fingers, or gazing fixedly and vacantly upon the birds who sang still, unconsciously above her head. After a time she became more docile, and would retire to rest at night, at the earnest entreaties of her poor old nurse – but reason's light, from that fearful moment, was darkened evermore. She would suffer herself to be led out into the open air, and soon grew fond again of being with her old playmates, the children; but her words were unintelligible now to them, and she would often throw down the wreath she was twining, and starting up, would exclaim, in a tone that thrilled to one's very heart, "Oh, has he come? Are you sure he has not come yet —my rose is almost withered?"

Poor, poor Fanny Layton! She would go to church regularly – it was there, dear reader, that her faded face had brought to me such bewildered rememberings of the Fanny Layton of other years – and always dressed in the same mock-bridal attire. And there was not an eye in that village-church but glistened as it rested upon the poor, weary, stricken one, in her mournful spirit-darkness, and no lip but murmured brokenly, "Heaven bless her!"

This was the last drop in the cup of the bereaved desolate widow. She soon found that rest and peace "which the world cannot give or take away." She sleeps her last, long, dreamless sleep.

It was not long ere another mound was raised in the humble church-yard, on which was ever blooming the sweetest and freshest flowers of summer, watered by the tears of many who yet weep and lament the early perishing of that fairest flower of all. And a marble slab, on which is simply graven a dove, with an arrow driven to its very heart, marks the last earthly resting-place of our Lily of the Valley.

THE SPANISH PRINCESS TO THE MOORISH KNIGHT

BY GRACE GREENWOODThou darest not love me! – thou canst only seeThe great gulf set between us – had'st thou love'Twould bear thee o'er it on a wing of fire!Wilt put from thy faint lip the mantling cup,The draught thou'st prayed for with divinest thirst,For fear a poison in the chalice lurks?Wilt thou be barred from thy soul's heritage,The power, the rapture, and the crown of life,By the poor guard of danger set about it?I tell thee that the richest flowers of heavenBloom on the brink of darkness. Thou hast markedHow sweetly o'er the beetling precipiceHangs the young June-rose with its crimson heart —And would'st not sooner peril life to winThat royal flower, that thou might'st proudly wearThe trophy on thy breast, than idly pluckA thousand meek-faced daisies by the way?How dost thou shudder at Love's gentle tones,As though a serpent's hiss were in thine ear.Albeit thy heart throbs echo to each word.Why wilt not rest, oh weary wanderer,Upon the couch of flowers Love spreads for thee,On banks of sunshine? – voices silver-tonedShall lull thy soul with strange, wild harmonies,Rock thee to sleep upon the waves of song.Hope shall watch o'er thee with her breath of dreams.Joy hover near, impatient for thy waking,Her quick wing glancing through the fragrant air.Why dost thou pause hard by the rose-wreathed gate,Why turn thee from the paradise of youth,Where Love's immortal summer blooms and glows,And wrap thyself in coldness as a shroud?Perchance 'tis well for thee– yet does the flameThat glows with heat intense and mounts toward heaven.As fitly emblem holiest purity,As the still snow-wreath on the mountain's brow.Thou darest not say I love, and yet thou lovest,And think'st to crush the mighty yearning down,That in thy spirit shall upspring forever!Twinned with thy soul, it lived in thy first thoughts —It haunted with strange dreams thy boyish years,And colored with its deep, empurpled hue,The passionate aspirations of thy youth.Go, take from June her roses – from her streamsThe bubbling fountain-springs – from life, take love,Thou hast its all of sweetness, bloom and strength.There is a grandeur in the soul that daresTo live out all the life God lit within;That battles with the passions hand to hand,And wears no mail, and hides behind no shield!That plucks its joy in the shadow of death's wing —That drains with one deep draught the wine of life,And that with fearless foot and heaven-turned eye,May stand upon a dizzy precipice,High o'er the abyss of ruin, and not fall!

THE LIGHT OF OUR HOME

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READOh, thou whose beauty on us beamsWith glimpses of celestial light;Thou halo of our waking dreams,And early star that crown'st our night —Thy light is magic where it falls;To thee the deepest shadow yields;Thou bring'st unto these dreary hallsThe lustre of the summer-fields.There is a freedom in thy looksTo make the prisoned heart rejoice; —In thy blue eyes I see the brooks,And hear their music in thy voice.And every sweetest bird that singsHath poured a charm upon thy tongue;And where the bee enamored clings,There surely thou in love hast clung: —For when I hear thy laughter free,And see thy morning-lighted hair,As in a dream, at once I seeFair upland scopes and valleys fair.I see thy feet empearled with dews,The violet's and the lily's loss;And where the waving woodland woosThou lead'st me over beds of moss; —And by the busy runnel's side,Whose waters, like a bird afraid,Dart from their fount, and, flashing, glideAthwart the sunshine and the shade.Or larger streams our steps beguile; —We see the cascade, broad and fair,Dashed headlong down to foam, the whileIts iris-spirit leaps to air!Alas! as by a loud alarm,The fancied turmoil of the fallsHath driven me back and broke the charmWhich led me from these alien walls: —Yes, alien, dearest child, are theseClose city walls to thee and me:My homestead was embowered with trees,And such thy heritage should be: —And shall be; – I will make for theeA home within my native valeWhere every brook and ancient treeShall whisper some ancestral tale.Now once again I see thee stand,As down the future years I gaze,The fairest maiden of the land —The spirit of those sylvan ways.And in thy looks again I traceThe light of her who gave thee birth;She who endowed thy form and faceWith glory which is not of Earth.And as I gaze upon her now,My heart sends up a prayer for thee,That thou may'st wear upon thy browThe light which now she beams on me.And thou wilt wear that love and lightFor thou'rt the bud to such a flower: —Oh fair the day, how blest and bright,Which finds thee in thy native bower!

AN INDIAN-SUMMER RAMBLE

BY ALFRED B. STREET

It was now the middle of October. White frosts had for some time been spreading their sheets of pearl over the gardens and fields, but the autumn rainbows in the forests were wanting. At last, however, the stern black frost came and wrought its customary magic. For about a week there was a gorgeous pageantry exhibited, "beautiful, exceedingly." But one morning I awoke, and found that the mist had made a common domain both of earth and sky. Every thing was merged into a gray dimness. I could just discern the tops of trees a few feet off, and here and there a chimney. There was a small bit of fence visible, bordering "our lane," and I could with difficulty see a glimmering portion of the village street. Some gigantic cloud appeared to have run against something in the heavens and dropped down amongst us. There were various outlines a few rods off, belonging to objects we scarce knew what. Horses pushed out of the fog with the most sudden effect, followed by their wagons, and disappeared again in the opposite fleecy barrier; pedestrians were first seen like spectres, then their whole shapes were exhibited, and finally they melted slowly away again, whilst old Shadbolt's cow, grazing along the grassy margin of the street, loomed up through the vapor almost as large as an elephant.

About noon the scene became clearer, so that the outline of the village houses, and even the checkered splendors of the neighboring woods could be seen; so much of Nate's sign, "Hammond's sto – " became visible, and even Hamble's great red stage-coach was exhibited, thrusting its tongue out as if in scorn of the weather.

In the afternoon, however, the mist thickened again, and the whole village shrunk again within it, like a turtle within its shell. The next morning dawned without its misty mask, but with it rose a gusty wind that commenced howling like a famished wolf. Alas! for the glories of the woods! As the rude gusts rushed from the slaty clouds, the rich leaves came fluttering upon them, blotting the air and falling on the earth thick as snow-flakes. Now a maple-leaf, like a scalloped ruby, would fly whirling over and over; next a birch one would flash across the sight, as if a topaz had acquired wings; and then a shred of the oak's imperial mantle, flushed like a sardonyx, would cut a few convulsive capers in the air, like a clown in a circus, and dash itself headlong upon the earth. Altogether it was an exciting time, this fall of the leaf. Ah! a voice also was constantly whispering in my ear, "we all do fade as the leaf!"

I took a walk in the woods. What a commotion was there! The leaves were absolutely frantic. Now they would sweep up far into the air as if they never intended to descend again, and then taking curvatures, would skim away like birds; others would cluster together, and then roll along like a great quivering billow; others again would circle around in eddies like whirlpools, soaring up now and then in the likeness of a water-spout, whilst frequently tall columns would march down the broad aisles of the forest in the most majestic manner, and finally fall to pieces in a violent spasm of whirling atoms. Even after the leaves had found their way to the earth they were by no means quiet. Some skipped uneasily over the surface; some stood on one leg, as it were, and pirouetted; some crept further and further under banks; some ran merry races over the mounds, and some danced up and down in the hollows. As for the trees themselves, they were cowering and shivering at a tremendous rate, apparently from want of the cloaks of which every blast was thus stripping them.

A day or two after came the veritable soft-looking, sweet-breathing Indian-Summer – "our thunder." No other clime has it. Autumn expires in a rain-storm of three months in Italy; and it is choked to death with a wet fog in England; but in this new world of ours, "our own green forest land," as Halleck beautifully says, it swoons away often in a delicious trance, during which the sky is filled with sleep, and the earth hushes itself into the most peaceful and placid repose. There it lies basking away until with one growl old Winter springs upon Nature, locks her in icy fetters, and covers her bosom with a white mantle that generally stays there until Spring comes with her soft eye and blue-bird voice to make us all glad again.

Well, this beautiful season arrived as aforesaid, and a day "turned up" that seemed to be extracted from the very core of the season's sweetness. The landscape was plunged into a thick mist at sunrise, but that gradually dwindled away until naught remained but a delicate dreamy film of tremulous purple, that seemed every instant as if it would melt from the near prospect. Further off, however, the film deepened into rich smoke, and at the base of the horizon it was decided mist, bearing a tinge, however, borrowed from the wood-violet. The mountains could be discerned, and that was all, and they only by reason of a faint jagged line struggling through the veil proclaiming their summits. The dome above was a tender mixture of blue and silver; and as for the sunshine, it was tempered and shaded down into a tint like the blush in the tinted hollow of the sea-shell.