Read Ebook: Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 4 October 1848 by Various Conrad Robert Taylor Editor Graham George R Editor

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Editor: George R. Graham Robert T. Conrad

GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

THE UNMARRIED BELLE.

BY ENNA DUVAL.

Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was wasted; If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters returning Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill them full of refreshment; That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain. Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy work of affection! Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike; Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the heart is made godlike, Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered more worthy of heaven! LONGFELLOW'S EVANGELINE.

I was loitering beside my mother's chair, in her drawing-room, one day on my return from school, listening to the conversation between her and some morning visiters; they were discussing most earnestly the merits of a reigning belle.

"I can assure you," interrupted Mr. Foster, an intimate friend of our family, "the daughter has quite as much admiration for the rich Mr. Langley as the mother. There is a little incident connected with that same concert Mrs. Duval speaks of, that convinces me of the daughter's powers of management."

"Shame on you, Philip Foster!" said my mother, "you should not talk thus of any lady, much less of Mary Lee."

"What was the incident, Mr. Foster?" eagerly inquired the other ladies.

"Yes, do tell us, Phil," urged his gentleman friend.

My mother looked reproachfully at Mr. Foster, but he shook his head laughingly at her, as he said,

"I do not believe any such thing, Philip!" exclaimed my mother, indignantly. "I will answer for it, there was some mistake. Mary Lee would scorn a falsehood, and is entirely above all artifice or design. Mrs. Lee is said to be maneuvering and worldly; if she is, her daughter is entirely free from such influences."

"How did Morton take it, Phil?" asked the other friend, laughingly.

"He was with me," replied Mr. Foster, evidently enjoying with some little malice my kind mother's annoyance, "we had dropped into the concert by chance together. He looked thunderstruck, but said nothing, and did not approach her during the whole evening. She knew he was there, however, for I saw her return his cold bow in a painfully embarrassed manner."

The entrance of some other visiters, connected with the Lees, put an end to the conversation. That night, when my nurse was undressing me for bed, I said,

"What's a belle, Katy?"

"A very rich and beautiful young lady," replied my nurse, "who has plenty of lovers, and gets married very soon."

"Will I ever be a belle?" I innocently inquired, as she gathered up my rebellious hair under my cap.

"No," she replied, in impatient tones, "your hair is too straight, and your skin too yellow; but you must do as you're told to, or else nobody will even love you; so go to sleep right away."

One of Nurse Katy's principal attributes of a belle, however, Mary Lee was deficient in. She did not get married at all--and Mary Lee she remained all her life. But she was one of the loveliest old maids in the world, and quite as popular in our circle as she had been in her own. She had been confined many years with an invalid mother and paralytic father, but after their death some time, she re-entered society; and her house was the favorite resort of the new set of young people, as it had been in her young days. She gave the most delightful parties, planned the most pleasant enjoyments for us, and although acknowledging herself to be an old maid, she still retained her youthful feelings unimpaired.

Miss Lee had been very fond of my mother, and extended to me the same regard, therefore I was, notwithstanding the difference in our ages, on a more intimate footing with her than her other young friends. One day, as we were discussing the merits of an approaching wedding, the conversation assumed a confidential tone.

"Indeed, Enna," she exclaimed, laughingly, "there is nothing more interesting to me than a couple of lovers full of romance, poetry, and perfectly blind and uncaring as to the future. I love to watch them in courtship, lend them a helping hand in the quicksands of that dangerous but delicious season; and then it makes me so happy to congratulate them after their troubles are all over, and they are happily married."

"Ah! if they only could be sure of happiness," I replied.

"Shame on you for that old maid's croak!" she said, with a bright look; "those who are not happy in married life, would never be happy in any situation. There should be no old maids or old bachelors, Enna; we would all be happier married; we fail in fulfilling our missions when we remain single. Hunt up a lover, Enna; let me watch your courtship, and rejoice over your wedding. As a clever friend of mine once said, we think poetry as lovers, but in married life we act true poetry."

I opened my eyes with astonishment, and innocently asked, "Why is it, then, you have never married?"

A shadow crossed over her face, and I felt a desire to recall the question, for I feared I had called up disagreeable reminiscences, but the next instant her countenance was as beaming and calm as before.

"I will tell you, Enna," she said, as she caressingly rested her head on my shoulder, "why I have never married; but to do that I must relate the history of my rather uneventful life. My story has but little interest, but it will gratify the curiosity of one who loves me. My childhood was spent with an old aunt. She took me when I was a delicate wee thing, and I remained with her until her death, which took place when I was nearly grown. She was a dear, good old lady, and with her my life passed most happily; my short visits home gave me little pleasure, for my mother was a very worldly, ambitious woman, and displayed but little tenderness for me, which, when contrasted with my aunt's fondness and indulgence, made me feel quite as a stranger in my family; and when Aunt Mary died, I wept as bitterly, and felt as lonely and bereft of friends, as though I did not possess a mother, father, and sisters. The two years after my aunt's death were spent in close attention to those accomplishments which had been neglected in my education as unnecessary, and which my mother deemed so essential; and not a day passed without my poor mother's exclamations of despair over me.

"But the report of my being an heiress was not needed, for when I entered society, to my mother's amazement, I created quite a sensation. I had been looked upon as a pretty girl always; but my mother had so often declared that I was so inanimate and innocent, she never would be able to do any thing with me, and my pretty face would be of no service to me, that I looked upon myself as quite an ordinary person, and was as much surprised at my belle-hood as my family. I wonder my little head was not turned with the attentions I received, so unused as I had been to admiration; it might have been, however, had not a disappointment--a bitter, heart-aching disappointment, wearied me of all this adulation and attention.

"Soon after my entrance into society, I became acquainted with a Mr. Morton--agreeable, good-looking, and attentive he was, of course--quite an acquisition to me in my circle of admirers. His worldly qualifications were not of so brilliant a nature as to attract my prudent mother's fancy, for he was only a young lawyer of slender means and moderate practice. I do not think she ever dreamed of the interest he excited in me, but looked upon him as one of the crowd of attendants necessarily surrounding a belle. But how differently I regarded him. The piles of costly bouquets I received daily, gained but little attention from me, unless I discerned among them the tiny bunch of sweet-violets, tea-roses, and mignonette, which he once in a great while sent me. In my ball-tablets my eyes sought the dances marked down for him; and when he was my partner, the dance, generally so wearisome, was only too short, too delightful; the reminiscence of that happy time makes a silly girl of me again. My mother never imagined he aspired to my hand--she would have looked aghast at the bare mention of such a probability; but she regarded him as a friend, and he was a great favorite with her. She used to say young men like Harry Morton, that knew their places, were invaluable acquaintances for a belle; thus were we thrown a great deal together. She was so blind to his real position with me, quick-sighted as she generally was in other things, I was permitted to have him for my partner in dancing, even for several quadrilles during an evening; he was my constant attendant in my daily rides on horseback, and my mother never hesitated to call upon him if we were at any time in need of an escort to a ball or opera. He was upon the footing of a brother or cousin in the family; but, ah! how dear was he to me. Without any actual explanation, I felt sure of Harry Morton's love. I never had any doubts or jealousies--we seemed to perfectly understand each other. I never looked forward to our future--I was too quietly happy in the present. I only dated from one meeting to another--from the dinner to the party, when he would be ready to hand us from our carriage, to take me off my father's arm in compliance with my mother's constant inquiry and request of, 'Where's Harry Morton? Here, Harry, do take charge of Mary,' a request which he always seemed delighted to obey. Then, after the happy good-night, I would lie my head on the pillow to dream of him and the morning ride we would take together. Why he never spoke to me of his love I cannot tell. It might have been that feelings of delicacy restrained him; my father was rich, while he was but a poor young lawyer; then report had made me an heiress in my own right, as well as a belle, to my worldly mother's great content. That he loved me I am sure, though he never told me with his lips.

"'May I join your party at the concert this evening?' Harry asked me, in a low voice.

"'I do not think I shall go,' he replied, in low, earnest tones, 'for I could not enjoy the concert if not with you.' A turn in the general conversation drew us more into notice, and some ladies and gentlemen entering, put an end to all further intercourse between us; how long I remembered and cherished those last words of his. When I made my appearance in my mother's room at 5 o'clock, shawl and hood in hand, she regarded me from head to foot smilingly.

"'What new caprice to-day?' she said, 'and yet I must confess it is very becoming to you.'

"'If Mary does not love Mr. Langley,' he said, 'why urge her to marry him? Do not scold the poor child,' and he drew me toward him tenderly.

"Templeton Langley was rather an indifferent person in every way. His wealth, combined with his situation in the fashionable world, placed him in a fictitious light; but he had little intelligence, no originality, and only a passable personal appearance. I was constantly drawing the comparison between him and Harry Morton. Harry was so handsome, so brilliant in conversation--and this thought rendered poor Mr. Langley, with all his fastidious, elegant manners, quite unbearable to me. To think of being tied to such a man for life was perfect martyrdom for me; and although hitherto so yielding, I showed myself on this occasion obstinate. Floods of tears I shed, and my mother fancied at first she could overcome my 'ridiculous sentimentality,' as she called it, but in vain; and finding a friend in my father, I remained firm. I felt more sorry for old Mrs. Langley, who was, indeed, terribly distressed, but she treated me very kindly, and exonerated me from all blame. She was, however, really very fond of me, and had set her heart upon having me for a daughter. Mr. Langley returned to Europe, and for many months our circle of friends were quite at a loss to know whether he had offered, been accepted, or refused, or whether he had only flirted with me. My mother felt too disappointed to boast of the rejection; and, moreover, she was so occupied in bringing out my sister, Emma, as to have little time to think of me or my affairs. My sister was but seventeen, three years younger than I, but much nearer my age in appearance. I found myself now of but secondary consideration in my mother's eyes. I fear she really disliked me then. She was an ambitious woman, and had set her heart upon my making a brilliant match; this favorite hope of hers I had blighted, and feeling little interest in society, I became of less consequence, for my sad, absent manner made me, of course, uninteresting; therefore, as my reign as a belle was over, my poor mother now sought to dismiss me from her mind and occupy herself with other objects.

"Harry Morton had gone to the Southwest ere we returned from our summer's journey, and we never met again. A year or so afterward I heard of his marriage with a dashing southern belle, and he is now a distinguished man at the South. After these perplexing, unfortunate misunderstandings, my health failed, and for a long while I was an invalid, rarely appearing in society. My two sisters, Emma and Alice, were more lucky than I, for they married happily, and with my mother's gratified approbation--for they each made the 'best match of their season.' Neither one was so pretty as I had been, and as my mother used to ejaculate,

"'Thank Heaven! neither Emma nor Alice are belles; they at least will not trouble me with their exaggerated notions about love and all that nonsense.'

"I passed a miserable, wretched existence for a year or more after Harry and I were separated. How earnestly I prayed for death, so completely prostrated was my spirit by my disappointment. I felt as lonely as I had at the time of dear Aunt Mary's death. In time, however, I aroused myself from my morbid feelings, and in reading and study found at first occupation, then strength and content.

"The week after my youngest sister was married my father was stricken down with paralysis. I was the only one at home with my parents, for my bride sister had sailed for Europe the day after her wedding, and Emma was far distant in her Southern home, having married a wealthy South Carolinian two years before. Faithfully I devoted myself to my father, and when my mother, a year afterward, was seized with a painful, lingering disease, I made myself so necessary to her comfort, that she at last acknowledged, that what had appeared to be her greatest trouble had proved her greatest blessing. She altered very much before her death, and lost entirely all those worldly feelings which had actuated her during her early life. She suffered for many years at times agonizing pain, and during this time I was sole companion and nurse to my parents. Often I thanked Providence for having denied to me my early love, granting to me in lieu an opportunity of fulfilling the most holy of duties. See, Enna, to what an unromantic and yet enviable state of mind I at last attained. Believe me, dearest, we never should grieve over unavoidable troubles, for many times they are but the rough husk of that sweet kernel--a hidden blessing."

ZENOBIA.

BY MYRON L. MASON.

Long had the Orient owned the sovereign sway Of Rome imperial, and in forced submission Had bowed the neck to the oppressor's yoke. The corn of Syria, her fruits and wares, The pearls of India, Araby's perfumes, The golden treasures of the mountains, all Profusely poured in her luxurious lap, Crowned to the full her proud magnificence. Rome regal, throned on her eternal hills, With power supreme and wide-extended hand, Plundered the prostrate nations without stint Of all she coveted, and, chiefly thou, O Liberty, the birthright boon of Heaven. But Rome had passed her noon; her despotism Was overgrown; an earthquake was at work At her foundations; and new dynasties, Striking their roots in ripening revolutions, Were soon to sway the destinies of realms.

Domestic treason, with insidious stab, Snatched from Zenobia's side her gallant lord, And threw into her hand the exigencies Of an unstable and capricious throne. Yet was her genius not inadequate. The precepts of experience, intertwined With intellectual power of lofty grade, Combined to raise Palmyra's beauteous queen High in the golden scale of moral greatness. Under the teachings of the good Longinus The streams of science flowed into her mind; And, like the fountain-fostered mountain lake, Her soul was pure as its ethereal food. The patronage bestowed on learned men Declared her love for letters. The rewards, Rich and unnumbered, she conferred on merit Her own refined, exalted taste betrayed. Her graceful and majestic figure, crowned With beauty such as few but angels wear, Like the rich casing that surrounds the gem, Heightened the splendor of her brilliant genius. Equally daring on the battle-field And in the chase, her prudence and her courage, Displayed in many a hot emergency, Had twined victorious laurel round her brow. Under her rule Palmyra's fortunes rose To an unequalled altitude, and wealth Flowed in upon her like a golden sea, Her wide dominion, stretching from the Nile To the far Euxine and Euphrates' flood-- Her active commerce, whose expanded range Monopolized the trade of all the East-- Her stately capital, whose towers and domes Vied with proud Rome in architectural grace-- Her own aspiring aims and high renown-- All breathed around the Asiatic queen An atmosphere of greatness, and betrayed Her bold ambition, and her rivalry With the imperial mistress of the world.

But 't is the gaudiest flower is soonest plucked; The sturdiest oak first feels the builder's axe. Palmyra's rising greatness had awaked The jealousy of Rome, and Fortune looked On her prosperity with envious eye. Under the golden eagles of the empire, Aurelian's soldiers swept the thirsty sands, And poured into Palmyra's palmy plains, A mighty host hot for the battle-field. Borne on her gallant steed, the warrior queen The conflict sought, and led her eager troops Into the stern encounter. Like the storm Of their own desert plain, innumerable, They rushed upon the foe, and courted danger. Amid the serried ranks, whose steel array Glowed in the noonday sun, and threw a flood Of wavy sheen into the fragrant air, Zenobia rode; and, like an angry spirit, Commissioned from above to chastise men, Where'er she moved was death. There was a flash Of scorn that lighted up her fiery eye, A glance of wrath upon her countenance-- There was a terror in her frenzied arm That struck dismay into the boldest heart. Alas for her, Fortune was unpropitious! Her fearless valor found an overmatch In the experienced prudence of Aurelian; And scarcely could the desert's hardy sons Cope with the practiced legions of the empire. The battle gained, Palmyra taken, sacked-- Its queen a captive, hurled from off a throne, Stripped of her wide possessions, forced to sue In humblest attitude for even life-- The haughty victor led his weary legions Back to Italia's shores, and in his train His fallen rival, loaded with chains of gold, Forged from the bullion of her treasury.

TEMPER LIFE'S EXTREMES.

BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.

'Tis wise, in summer-warmth, to look before, To the keen-nipping winter; it is good, In lifeful hours, to lay aside some store Of thought, to leaven the spirit's duller mood; To mould the sodded dyke, in sunny hour, Against the coming of the wasteful flood; Still tempering Life's extremes, that Wo no more May start abrupt in Joy's sweet neighborhood. If Day burst sudden from the bars of Night, Or with one plunge leaped down the sheer abyss, Painful alike were darkness and the light, Bearing fixed war through shifting victories; But sweet their bond, where peaceful twilight lingers, Weaving the rosy with the sable fingers.

THE CRUISE OF THE RAKER.

A TALE OF THE WAR OF 1812-15.

BY HENRY A. CLARK.

The report of the pistol fired by Julia had also been heard upon the pirate brig. To Florette it gave assurance of the safety of the fair fugitive. The pirate sprang to his feet, forgetful of his wound, but fell back helpless upon the companion-way, and soon relapsed into his former thoughtful state, supposing the sound had come from the deck of the Raker, though it had seemed much too near and distinct to appear possible that such was the case.

The escape of Julia was not discovered until the following morning. The wrath of the pirate was fearfully vindictive. Even Florette became alarmed when he fiercely accused her of some share in the disappearance of the captive girl. This she tremblingly denied, suggesting the opinion that Julia must have jumped overboard, in her despair, induced by the threats of the pirate. The loss of the boat was also noticed, but not connected with the escape of Julia, it being supposed that it had been carelessly fastened. As a very natural consequence of his anger, the pirate sought some person on whom he could vent its fury.

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