« ElőzőTovább »
I was now more than ever mistress of my own will.
"One morning I had received many visi-j tors, among whom came Lord Deloraine. A miniature of mine (the one you hold now, Anna,) was thrown carelessly on a table, amidst books, cards, &c. Unknown to me, Deloraine carried it away.
"I was engaged that evening to a large assembly. Splendidly dressed, exulting in the consciousness that I looked unusually well, I was gayer than usual. At a late hour, I returned home; when, on entering my dressing-room, I was surprised to see Lindsaye pacing up and down the room, his hair disordered, and evidently laboring under great agitation.
"' Unhappy woman,' he exclaimed, as he saw me, 'could I believe you so lost to all sense of your own honor. What a fool have I been to trust my happiness to your care.'
"I was startled, and said 'Robert! Lord Lindsaye, what is the matter V
"He cast on me a look of extreme contempt,—'Ay, well may you strive to disguise it. Would you conceal it from me, that you gave your miniature to Lord Deloraine, and that he spoke of you, as no man shall speak of my wife without—no matter. Oh, Agatha, could I believe this of youl' and hej turned to leave the room. I sprang after him,' but he eluded my grasp, and heeded not the sound of my voice.
"I threw myself, half senseless, on a couch, and sank into an uneasy and restless slumber. I Horrid dreams disturbed me, and I was] awakened by the sound of heavy footsteps' near my room. I rose hastily, and threw a, mantle around me, intending to seek Lord! Lindsaye.
"The sun was just rising, and the eastern: clouds were tinged with gold. I opened my. door, when, O! what a sight met my view— Lindsaye, pale, lifeless, and stained with blood, in the arms of the servants, who were placing him on a bed in a room just opposite mirie. I fainted, and when I recovered found j myself in my room, with my maid, who was bathing my temples. The truth flashed on me; Lindsaye had met Lord Deloraine; and, despite the girl's entreaties, I rushed to hisj room. He was very pale; a surgeon wasr bending over him, and at the foot of the bedi stood Deloraine.
"' Agatha,' he said, 'can you forgive me, dearest? had I listened to you, but no, my
pride and anger prevented me. Agath'
his breathing became difficult, and in a few moments he expired in my arms.
"You know the rest, Anna, that since then, I have wholly resided in this sequest
ered village, hoping to spend the remainder of my life more to my good, and that of my fellow-creatures. And now, Anna," concluded Lady Lindsaye, "would you wish to feel all the remorse that 1 do, and have your future life embittered by it! Ah, no! You are very lovely, Anna; may my tale prove a warning to you, never to indulge the sin of Vanity.
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
BY THOMAS M'KEILAR.
A mother's Jove! a mother's love!
The holiest boon from heaven— Apart from saving grace and truth—
To man in mercy given. It beautifully gushes out
From fountains deeply hidden Within the bosom—by the voice
Of nature's teaching bidden.
A mother's love! a mother's love!
Its object ne'er forsaking,
Through whom her heart is breaking. Unworthy though he be, and vile;
The bosom he is stinging— Forgetting all his wilfulness—
In love is 'round him clinging.
A mother's love! a mother's love!
Few feel aright her kindness
Her eyes in mortal blindness:
The wanderer, sorrow-riven,
He needs to be forgiven.
My mother's love! my mother's love!
My spirit, inly weeping, Oft wanders to the quiet spot
Where silently she's sleeping; The thoughtless words to memory come
Which I in youth had spoken; And then I sorrow bitterly
Until my heart is broken.
My mother's love! my mother's love!
Could Mercy but restore her, That I might see her face again,
I'd humbly kneel before her; I'd tell her I have often pour'd
My tears on sorrow's altar— 1 know ske would forgive her child!
Her love could never falter.
Philadelphia, May, 1842.
As a part of our title is "Amusement," and as we wish our present number to be a sort of specimen of what the whole volume will be, we give the following amusing sketch of the troubles and final submission of Soloman Swallow. The moral of it will be found in the last paragraph. We have no doubt that there are many wives who would have been better wives than they are, if their husbands had treated them properly in the commencement of their matrimonial life.
SOLOMAN SWALLOW, The WOMAN HATER.
Soloman Swallow was a bachelor, and somewhat rusty too; but nevertheless he hail made up his mind to one thing—that he was the only man living who had acquired any knowledge of the sublime art of taking cire of a wife. "All the married men are dolts," was Soloman's constant asseveration. "There, for instance, is my neighbor Tom Tangible; his wife makes a sort of three legged stool of him; she shoves him in one corner, and then in another, and sits on him, and walks on him, in short, treats him like nobody in the house; while he, poor man, takes it as easy as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Now, were I only Tom Tangible, I'd first write a series of matrimonial rules, and if Mrs. T. did'nt abide by them, I'd submit her to the wholesome discipline of bread and water and padlock; and mayhap brighten her ideas, touching her conjugal duties, by the application of the cowhide—and there again are Everard Easy, and Dick Snooks— and a host more of the'm in the same condition—but I'm the boy that will set them all right if they'll only follow my example, after I have condescended to endow some fortunate female with the legal claim to the title of Mrs. Swallow." , Brave Soloman Swallow!
"Well, Soloman," said a neighbor to him one morning, " as you are always boasting of your skill in managing a wife, how comes it that you are not married?"
"Why because I have not quite perfected my system! You poked your head into the noose without making preparation, and hence Mrs. Everlack makes what she likes of you! But I go to work logically. I begun by studying the erudite works of Zingabrazo, 'on the philosophy of making a woman hold her tongue.' I then read several treatises, 'on the effect of bread and water discipline in making good wives.' Shakspeare's 'Taming of the Shrew,' furnished me with a few practical lessons. And 1 am now generalizing all their systems into one, which shall carry the sway in all future generations, and convert the plague of matrimony into a blessing. In the course of a year or so, (added Soloman,) my rules for the regulation of women, (I intend to publish them,) will be completed, and then I shall take unto me a wife."
And Soloman was as good as his word, for at the age of thirty-five, feeling himself prepared to give battle to any woman in or out of the land of the Amazons, he got married. At this important period, Soloman was a puffy, comfortable looking little fellow as you would meet in a days' walk; for albeit, the crown of his head never stood five feet two from the heels of his boots, he had a corporation that would have done honor to an alderman, or even a lord mayor; and his gait (especially when walking with any thing in the likeness of a woman) was as pompous as a Sultan's, while, at such times, his countenance always assumed an expression of female familiarity.
The lady whom Soloman had chosen for his worser half, was apparently a modest, lamb-like creature, so that the chances were very fair that she would not only be a tractable wife, but that Mr. Swallow woulJ need no help from his system to make her so. Now Soloman had the forbearance not to interfere with the lady's sayings and doings on her wedding day; nor is it recorded that he assumed any special or improper authority on that day; but about six o'clock the next morning, he softly insinuated to his sleeping partner, that it was time to get up; "And when breakfast is ready, call me ; but be sure you don't burn the toast."
"Breakfast and toast," said Mrs. Swallow, "why, what do you mean V
"Why, my dear—I mean madam—that I have begun my system."
"And won't you«get up, too?"
"Yes, when the breakfast is ready, and my stockings aired!"
Mrs. Swallow was about to reply, but she checked herself as she was ashamed to say much to him on so short an acquaintance; but though in the present instance she did precisely as she was bid, she resolved in her heart that it was the last time she would get up at six o'clock in the morning and prepare breakfast.
At eight o'clock, every thing being ready, Mrs. S. called to Mr. S;—"Breakfast is ready, Mr. Swallow." "Is the toast made?" "Yes." "And not burned?" "No." "Are my stockings aired?" "Yes." "You'll do," quoth Mr. Swallow, and to breakfast he went, having first received the services of the blushing Mrs. Swallow in adjusting some of the minor parts of his apparel.
The breakfast, however, did not turn out to be the thing it was cracked up to be. The toast was done a little too much, and the tea was'nt done quite enough; the slop bowl was at the wrong end of the tray, and there were several crumbs on the carpet.
"These things call for improvement," observed Mr. Swallow.
"The servant has'nt been here this morning," answered his wife.
"Servant," retorted Mr. Swallow. "I discharged him yesterday. You don't suppose I can afford to keep a servant and a wife too V
The lady was again posed, and said nothing, but the day had worn to a close before she could bring herself to believe that Mr. Swallow had actually made use of the words "servant" and wife, in the same sentence.
The next morning at six o'clock, Mr. Swallow again informed his wife that it was time to get up, coupling his remarks with the suggestion that in future she must save him the trouble of reminding her of so necessary a duty.
Mrs. Swallow, however, benefitted nothing by this soft insinuation, for at that moment she either was or pretended to be fast asleep.
"Don't you hear, Mrs. Swallow?"
But alas, a slightly conscious snore was the only audible response vouchsafed by Mrs. Swallow.
Now this was a ticklish point with Soloman, but he was prepared for it. "What says my system on thisf" said he to himself, musingly. "It says a lazy wife who lies abed in the morning, may be very profitably reminded of her duty by the judicious application of a needle." And this magnificent idea scarcely crossed the threshhold of his brain-pan, than he inserted ttie point of a needle into his drowsy helpmate's propria persona. As may be expected, the intended effect instantly followed the cause, for the astonished Mrs. Swallow sprung from the bed as though she had been thrown from it by an earthquake! but alas, her agility was but too strikingly manifested, for she not only all but annihilated poor Mr. Swallow in rolling over him, but she dashed his patent lever from a nail which suspended it to the wall and broke the dial.
"What a dreadful dream," ejaculated Mrs. Swallow, pressing her hand on her wounded arm.
"What a dreadful reality," shouted Mr. S. contemplating the fragile mass of his broken time-piece.
"Now Mrs. Swallow," said Soloman, "seeing that I Can't be always awake to call you up in the morning, to eat burnt toast, or drink raw tea, &c., it is time that I should begin to instruct you in your duties."
"And what are they?"
"Be silent, madam, if you please. Not to talk but to listen is one of the most important of them." "Proceed, sir."
And Mr. Swallow, looking daggers at his beloved for the second interruption, proceeded as follows:
"From six to eight, you are to get up, dress quietly, so as to create no disturbance —light fire—air shirts and stockings—sweep room—prepare breakfast, and announce perfection thereof. Eight to ten, wash dishes, make beds, rub furniture, and clean windows. Ten to twelve, go to market, prepare dinner. Twelve till two, devoted to dish-washing, sweeping up and rubbing furniture. Two till six, spinning, mending linen and darning stockings. Seven, tea. From that till nine a second course of mending and darning— then to bed. And this daily course, madam, with a strict observance of the rules of civility, frugality, decorum, and obedience, may enable you to do honor to the choice of Mr. Soloman Swallow."
Mrs. Swallow listened quietly to the end, and then mildly inquired. "And do you really expect this of me, Mr. Swallow!" "To be sure I do," responded her spouse. "Then you will be sadly disappointed, for I'll do no such thing." "No?" "No!" "I've a way to make you." "How?" "Spoon diet—locks—chains—and cow hides." "Mr. Swallow!" "What?" "You're a brute." And Mrs. Swallow threw herself back and looked desperate.
Now this was a climax. Mr. Swallow was called a brute at his own fireside, and by his own wife, which was the worst of all. He, Soloman Swallow, the celebrated founder of the system of Matrimonial Observations, called a brute by no less a person than Mrs. Swallow. At first he was so astonished at such open manifestations of rebellion to his royal will, that he could only look aghast; but when he came to himself he saw that something must be done at once, or that the field was lost forever.
"You called me a brute, Mrs. Swallow." "I did, Mr. Swallow." "A brute?" "A brute!" "I'll go mad and break things, Mrs. Swallow." "As you like, Mr. Swallow."
And Mr. Swallow dM go mad, but he had a method in his madness, for he seized the cheapest article of delf that was on the table (an old plate with a crack in it,) and dashed it into a thousand pieces upon the hearth, as if he was in a terrible passion.
"How do you like that, Mrs. Swallow?"
"Vastly, Mr. Swallow—try it again."
And again did he try it, for he had become desperate, and demolished the cream jug.
"Now," said the lady, "its my turn," and jumping up, she sent the slop-bowl to keep company with its two unfortunate " tea-table companions."
This of course was too much for Soloman; it snapped asunder the only remaining cord of the little reason he had left, and he slapped his help-mate—we use the word in its most positive term—on the right cheek, but scarcely had the echo of the blow melted into silence, ere the indignant dame had seized the tea-pot and shivered it to atoms against the devoted head of the devoted Soloman. Nor was this all, for as he was reeling heels over head from the effects of that awful collision, she plied dim with the remainder of the dishes, until there was scarcely a bone in his body which had not echoed to the shocks of cups and saucers, and rounds of buttered toast.
Unable to carry the war on any longer for that day, Soloman gathered himself up as well as he could, and vowing all sorts of vengeance, stuck his pipe into his mouth, his hands in his pockets, and then setting a chair in the middle of the room, he planked himself on it, and commenced whistling a jig to the tune the old cow died of, looking the while as if he could bite a piece out of a griddle without setting his teeth on edge.
His good lady, too, being determined to follow the example of her lord and master in other matters besides delf breaking, placed another chair back to back with Soloman's, and after providing herself with a novel, sat herself down and began reading, as if there were no such thing as beds to make, or stockings to mend in all Christendom.
Here this affectionate couple sat for six mortal hours, each bent on sitting the other down, and ruminating the while upon the pleasures of their relative positions. But it must be confessed that Mrs. Swallow had the best of the bargain, for independent of Soloman's mangled head and parboiled neck and shoulders, he was mad because the watch dial and crockery must be replaced; so that the reducing of the first chapter of this voluminous system to practice must be attended to with an outlay of at least twenty dollars. This being the case, I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, thought he, and with that he rose from the chair—stole softly out of the room, and'Hamed the key upon the gentle Mrs. Swallow.
The turning of the key made her aware of his intention, when she rushed to the door, but it was too late.
"Open the door this instant, Mr. Swallow."
"Not until I have kept you for seven days upon bread and water," returned the victorious Soloman, and he went on his way rejoicing.
But alas! how evanescent is human greatness—in about half an hour he returned to see how matters went on, but had scarcely put his eye to the keyhole than he began to roar like a bull, for Mrs. Swallow had torn every one of his fine linen shirts—(that on his back excepted)—into pieces, to make a
rope to let herself down from the window; nor was this all, for upon further examination, he discovered that she had also thrown a variety of chair cushions—bed linen, &c., into the dirty yard, to make her descent safe and comfortable.
Oh! chop-fallen Soloman Swallow.
The Archives of the Swallows are silent as to the remaining occurrences of this eventful day, but on the very next morning about seven o'clock, Mr. Swallow popped his head from under the blankets and said to Mrs. Swallow in the most soothing and imploring tone possible:—" Mrs. Swallow, dear, isn't it time to get up?"
"Yes," returned the lady, " and you may call me when you have lit up the fire and put on the kettle."
Poor Soloman! There was no alternative; so he even sat about his work with an alacrity which showed that he had the terror of broken heads and demolished body-linen running in his memory. In short, Soloman was a conquered man. That day he had to prepare breakfast, sweep the room, &c. The next, his assistance was required in rubbing of furniture and making of beds; and before the week was out he was initiated into the mystery of washing coarse towels!
Degenerate Soloman Swallow! Nay, in after times, when the little Swallows began to gather about him, it is whispered that his better half (she was now his better half) used to employ him as yet more deeply in conjugal offices.
But for this we have no proof other than the fact that he was the only nurse that Mrs. Swallow would trust with the children.
About five years after the celebration of his nuptials, a friend called to see him.
"You must go with me to the Temperance meeting. Swallow," said the friend.
"He shant," said Mrs. Swallow.
"But he must," replied the friend, "and so must you."
"I may, but he can't," returned the dame, "for he must stay at home and mind the children."
And Mrs. Swallow did go to the meeting, and Soloman Swallow stopped at home, and when I visited that evening, I found him nursing his three children.
Oh! hen-pecked Soloman Swallow!
The moral of this authentic tale is, that bachelor's wives and old maid's children are always excellent in theory, but as bad as can be in practice—and that a managed wife is worse than no wife at all. Had Soloman only treated his better half decently in the beginning, things might have gone on smoothly to the end: but as it was, he compelled her to be a tartar in her own defence, and had to take the consequences.
No. 1. "I went to Gather Fowers."—Last Verses. 39
Written for the Ladies' Garland.
«I WENT TO GATHER FLOWERS."
There is an engraving in many Albums of] the day, with this brief sentence as an explanation of the seitiment which the device is designed to convey. It represents a graveyard in a shady retreat, in which the monuments are disposed in that order of mossy decay and polished freshness which is natural, where the recent dead are occasionally laid among graves that have been tenanted a century. Under a huge and decaying oak, which seems rooted in human mould, is seated a little girl who is weeping. From the device it appears that she had accidentally strayed into those consecrated ground?, to gather the bright and beautiful flowers that sprung up wildly and profusely among the graves. She had not gone there " to bewail the dead," but was lured thither by flowers;—that poetry which God has written upon the fields for angels and the innocent of earth to read and revel in. No, she had not come out to weep; but rather to be happy in the buoyant hopes of childhood, and carry home some rich trophies of her excursion. But in her blithesome ramble, she has perchance passed a sepulchre in which is garnered up some dear parent—a little brother or sister, or perhaps some beloved playmate. It breaks in upon her happy musings—her thoughts turn back, and in an instant her young heart is flooded with a tide of bitter memories, and she sits down and weeps. Surprised at so sudden a re-' verse in her feelings, she turns her eye upon the little basket of flowers that lies neglected beside her, and bethinking her purpose, exclaims: "Why I went to gather flowers!" Poof child! thus your joyous anticipations have ended in disappointment and tears; and yet you have attained al] that you sought for. No allegory on the vicissitudes of human fortune could have been more aptly embodied in an engraving so simple. There is a sentiment written in it that appeals eloquently to our experience of the illusory nature of] human pursuits and attainments. This child is but a miniature sketch of man fully developed, with all his high resolves and schemes of enjoyment. Like her, we all set forward in the morning of life, each in quest of some cherished object of expectation. The dew of youth has not yet been exhaled, but glistens, like radiant gems upon the flowers of] Hope, that so richly border our early pathway. To us, the world is then new and beautiful; and the morning of our existence, seems but the spring morning of the world. We have not yet learned, that the buds of promise, which are breaking so thickly about us, are destined to bloom in such painful con tiguity with the thorn and the thistle. We
have not yet learned, that the clearer the sunlight in which we maybe basking, the more rapidly it is generating the elements of the tornado. How many go forth into the world to gather flowers;—but alas! how many like our little wanderer meet with sad mementos of departed joys, which cloud the soul, and cause them to sit down and weep. Who has not felt in the bitterness of his spirit that life is a scene of transition and trial!? — and that
"The things we deem the surest,
May wither in a day;
But while we should realize the evanescent nature of earthly good, it is not well that we should dwell with despondency on sombre reflections alone. We should rather transfer our hopes and interests to a brighter world; for—
There is above earth's anguish,
A better, happier clime;
May feast on bliss sublime. l'ates, JV. Y. 1842. B. W., Jr.
.en I beneath the cold red earth am sleeping, Life's fever o'er, Will there for me be any bright eye weeping
That I'm no more? Will there be any heart still memory keeping * ;Of heretofore?
When the great winds, through leafless forests rushing, Like full hearts break—
When the swollen streams o'er crag and gully rushing,
Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing,
When the bright sun upon that spot is shining
With purest ray. And the small flowers ttieir bud^jad blossoms twining.
Burst thrmigh the clay. Will there be one still on that spot repining.
Lost hopes all day?
When no star twinkles, with its eye of glory,
And wintry storms have with their ruins hoary,
Will there be then, one, versed in misery's story,
It may be so ;—but this is selfish sorrow,
To ask such meed—
A weakness and# wickedness to borrow
From hearts which bleed
The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow
Lay me, then, gently in my narrow dwelling,
And though thy bosom should with grief be swelling,
It were in vain, for time has long been knelling