The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 03, No. 19, May, 1859. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ has told many a sad tale in my own family. It came back, broken, to my brother Arthur, and he died of a broken heart. My sister Eveline gave it to her young cousin, to whom she engaged herself. But afterwards, when she went to live with a gay and heartless aunt of mine, she broke her promise to him for the sake of a richer match. The day that she was married, our cousin far away saw the black letters turn red upon the signet-ring."

      "Oh, Miss Agnes!" I exclaimed.

      "And why should not letters change?" she asked, abruptly; and I saw her eyes look out dreamily, as if at something I did not see. "The letter clothes the spirit; and the spirit gives life to the form. A face grows lovely or unlovely with the spirit that lies behind it. I cannot say if there be a spirit in such things. Yet what we have worn we give a value to. It has an expression in our eyes. Do we give it all that expression, or has it some life of its own?"

      She interrupted herself, and went on:—

      "I had known that Ernest was not true to me. I had known it by the words he wrote to me. They did not have the ring of pure silver; there was a clang to them. When Fanny read aloud the loss of that ring, it spoke to a suspicion that was lying in the depth of my heart, and roused it into life. My little Jeanie, I was very sad then.

      "You do not know how deeply I loved Ernest Carr. You do not know how I might have loved your brother George,—yes, the noble, upright George. He loved me, and treated me most tenderly; he found this home for me. I did not banish him from it,—he would have stayed all these years in Calcutta, if it had not been for me,—so he said. You cannot understand how it was that Ernest Carr, whom I had known before, should have impressed me more. You do not know, yet, that we cannot command our love,—that it does not always follow where our admiration leads. I loved Ernest for his very faults. The fascinations that made the world, its prizes, its money, its fame, so attractive to him, won me as I saw them in him. It is terrible to think of my last meeting with him; but his fate seems to me not so awful as the fate towards which he was hurrying,—the life which could never have satisfied him."

      She left off speaking, and dreamed on, her eyes and thoughts far away.

      And I, too, dreamed. I fancied my brother George coming home, and that he would meet with that ring somehow. I knew it must come back to her.

      And it did; and he came with it.

      TWO YEARS AFTER

      Oh, I forgot that, long ago!

      It was very fine at the time, no doubt,—

      Remembering is so hard, you know;—

      Well, you will one day find it out.

      I love the life of the happy flowers,

      But I hate the brown and crumbling leaves;

      You cannot with spices embalm the hours,

      Nor gather the sunshine into sheaves.

      We are older now, and wiser, too.

      Only two summers ago, you say,

      Two autumns, two winters, two springs, since you–

      Will you hold for a moment my bouquet?

      Yes,—take that sprig of mignonette;

      It will wither with you as it would with me:

      Freshness and sweetness a half-hour yet,

      Then a toss of the hand, and one is free.

      Why will you talk of such silly things?—

      What a pretty bride! Do you like her hair?

      See Madam there, with her twenty rings.

      Ogling the youth with the foreign air!—

      The moon was bright and the winds were low,

      The lilies bent listening to what we said?

      I did not make your lilies grow;

      Will they bloom for me now they are dead?

      You hate the rooms and the heartless hum,

      The thick perfumes and the studied smile?

      'Tis the air I love to breathe,—yet come,

      I will watch the stars with you awhile;

      But you won't talk nonsense, you promise me?

      Tear from the book the page we read;

      We are friends,—dear friends. You must come and see

      My new home, and soon.—What was it you said?

      Heartsick, and weary, and sad, and strange,—

      Ashes and dust where swept the fire?

      I am sorry for you, but I cannot change.—

      Did you see that star fall from the Lyre?

      A moment's gleam, and a deeper night

      Closing around its wandering way:

      But then there are other orbs as bright;

      Let your incense burn to them, I pray.

      Oh, conjure your mighty manhood up!

      Let it blaze its best in your flashing eyes!

      Can it stare my womanhood down, or hope

      To scorch my pride till it droops and dies?—

      There, do not be angry;—take my hand;

      Forgive me;—I meant not anything:

      I am foolish, and cannot understand

      Why you throw life out for one dumb string.

      Sweeter its music than all the rest?

      It may be so, though I cannot tell;

      But take the good when you lose the best,

      And school yourself till it seems as well.

      Love may pass by, but here is fame,

      And wealth, and power;—when these are gone,

      God is left,—and the altar-flame

      May, brightening ever, burn on and on.

      And yet to my heart at times there come

      Tidings of lands I shall never see,

      Sweet odors, and wooing winds, and hum

      Of bees in the fields that are far from me,—

      Far fields, and skies that are always fair;

      And I dream the old dreams of heaven, and you.—

      But here comes the youth of the foreign air.

      I will dance and forget,—and you must, too.

      A BUNDLE OF OLD LETTERS

      To struggle painfully for years, spending all of life's energies for others, and then to be forgotten by those for whom all was hazarded and consumed, is a lot demanding the most unselfish aims. Yet this befell many a suffering patriot in our Revolutionary struggle. The names of those who were the leaders in battle and in council, men whose position in the field or whose words in Congress gave them a country's immortality, have remained bright in our memory. But others there were who cheerfully surrendered eminence in their private walks and happiness in social life to endure the hardships of a protracted contest till life was spent, and who, from the very nature of the services they rendered, have remained in obscurity. They would not themselves repine at this; for they gave their strength, not for their country's applause, but their country's good. They sought, not our remembrance, but our freedom.

      In many an old garret, or treasured up in some old man's safest nook, are worn-out, faded letters, telling of struggles and hopes in that long contest, that would make their writers' names bright on the nation's record, were not the number СКАЧАТЬ