Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848

Again we look upon the village church, but it is no mournful procession that passes up its shaded aisles. There are white-robed maidens thronging around, and men with sun-burned faces. Children, too, scarce large enough to grasp the flowers which they tear from the shrubs that climb to the very windows of the sanctuary; and through the crowd comes the bridal train. Mary Gordon, leaning upon the arm of her betrothed, is more beautiful than ever, for a quiet dignity is now added to the grace that ever marked her footsteps; and he, in the pride of his manhood, looks with pride and tenderness upon her.

The deacon is there, with his heavy, good-natured face, lighted by an expression of profound content; and his wife is by his side, looking less calm and placid than usual, though she is very happy. It may be that she fears for her daughter's future welfare, though that can scarcely be when the dearest wish of her heart is about to be fulfilled; or, perhaps, as her eye wanders from the gay group around her, it rests upon a little grassy mound not far away, and she is thinking of one who would have been the fairest and the best beloved of all.

Stephen seemed to feel a little out of place, as he stood there with a gay, laughter-loving maiden clinging to his arm; but the happiest of all, if we may judge from the exterior, was James; arrived but the night before, after an absence of nearly two years. He had just been admitted to the bar, and Mr. Hall, who was present at the examination, said it was rare to meet with a young man of so much promise, and knowing his untiring industry, he had little doubt of his success in after life. So James – now a manly-looking fellow of three-and-twenty – was, after the bride, the observed of all observers; and not a few of the bride's white-robed attendants put on their most witching smile when he addressed them.

Despite of all the sunshine and festivity at a bridal, there is to me more of solemnity, almost sadness, in the scene than in any other we are called upon to witness, save that more mournful rite, when dust is returned to dust. There is a young and often thoughtless maiden, taking upon herself vows which but few understand, in the depth of their import, vows lasting as life, and on the full performance of them depends, in a great measure, the joy or misery of her future years. Then, too, in her trust and innocence, she does not dream that change can come, that the loved one will ever be less considerate, less tender, than at the present hour. True, she has been told that it may be so – but the thought is not harbored for an instant. "He never could speak coldly or unkindly to me," she murmurs, as eyes beaming with deep affection meet her own. Then, too, the proud man that stands beside her, may be but taking that gentle flower to his bosom, to cast it aside when its perfume may have become less grateful – leaving it crushed and faded; or, worse still – and still more improbable, though it is sometimes so – there may be poison lurking in the seemingly pure blossom, that will sting and embitter his future life. Oh, that woman should ever prove false to the vow of her girlhood!

All these thoughts, I say, and many more scarcely less sorrowful, come to my mind when I look upon a bridal; and tears will start, unbidden it is true, when the faces of those around are radiant with smiles. But perhaps few have learned with me the truthful lesson of the poet —

"Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers —
Things that are made to fade, and fade away,
Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours."

How could I call up such a train of sombre thought when speaking of Mary Gordon's marriage? None doubted her husband's truth, her own deep devotion, as they crowded around when the simple rite was ended to congratulate them, and breathe a fervent wish that their joy might increase as the years of their life rolled onward. They went forth from that quiet church with new and strange feelings springing up, and as Mary looked upon the throng who still reiterated their friendly wishes, she felt an inward consciousness that God had blessed and sustained her through those years of trial and probation.

"Who would have thought that the deacon's Mary would ever have grown up such a fine woman?" said Aunty Gould, as she wiped her spectacles upon the corner of her new gingham apron. "The deacon himself ain't got much sperit in him, and as for Miss Gordon, I don't believe she ever whipped one of them children in her life. She always let 'em have their own way a great deal too much to suit me. Jest think of her letting Mary go off to Lowell, in the midst of that city of iniquity, and stay three or four years, jest because James must be college larned. As if it warn't as respectable to stay to home and be a farmer, as his father and his grandfather was before him. I haven't much 'pinion of him, but Stephen Gordon is going to make the man. Steddy and industrious a'most as the deacon himself."

So we see the differences of opinion which exist in the narrowest community; for Mrs. Hall, as she turned toward her own bright home, said to her husband that Mary Gordon was a pattern to the young girls now growing up in the village. But for her honest independence and hardihood in braving the opinion of the world, her family might have been living without education, and without refinement. Now she had won for herself the love of a noble heart – could see her brother successful through her efforts, and knew that their parents were happy in feeling that they were so. "She has been the sun of that household," replied her husband, "and I doubt not will ever be the happiness of her own."

They were sitting alone – the newly made husband and wife – on the eve of their marriage-day. They were in their home, which was henceforth to be the scene of all their love and labors. The last kind friend had gone, and for the first time that day they could feel the calm, unclouded serenity which the end of a long and often wearisome toil had brought.

The moonlight trembled through the shaded casement, and surrounded as with a halo the sweet, serious face that looked out upon the night; and far around, even to the rugged mountains that rose as sentinels over the green valley, earth and air were bathed in that pure and tender radiance. The flowering shrubs that twined about the little porch seemed to give forth a more delicious perfume than when scorched by the sun's warm kiss. The neighboring orchards almost bending beneath the clusters of buds and blossoms that covered the green boughs, waved gently in the light breeze that showered the sunny petals as it passed upon the freshly springing grass beneath. The low cry of the whippo-wil came now and then from a far-off wood; save that, and the rustle of the vines clinging about the casement, no sound broke the sabbath-like repose. The church – scarce a stone's throw from the little parsonage – stood boldly relieved by the dark trees which rose beside it; and not far away – not too far for them to see by day the loved forms of its inmates – they could distinguish the sloping roofs and brown walls of Mary's early home.

The young bride turned from the scene without, and when she looked up into her husband's face he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"Are you not happy, my Mary?" said he, as he drew her more closely to his bosom.

"Happy! oh, only too happy!" was the murmured response, as he kissed the tears away. "I was but thinking of my past life; how strange it seems that I should have been so prompted, so guided through all. Then, stranger than the rest that you should love one so humble, so ignorant as myself. I may tell you now – now that I am your own true wife, how your love has been the happiness of many years. Ere I dared to hope that your letters breathed more than a friendly interest – and believe me I would not indulge the thought for an instant until you had given me the right so to do – though the wish would for an instant flit across my mind – I knew that one less wise, less noble than yourself would never gain the deep affection of my heart. I almost felt that I could live through life without dearer ties, if so you would always watch my path with interest, awarding, as then, praise and blame.

"But, strange as it may seem, you did love me through all, deeply, devotedly. Oh, what is there in me to deserve such affection! and when I read those blessed words – 'I love you, Mary, have loved you from an early period of our correspondence,' it seemed as if my heart were breaking with the excess of wild happiness which rushed like a flood upon it. How could you love me? what was there in me to create such an emotion?"

Allan Loring thought that the wife was far more beautiful than the maiden, as she stood encircled by his arms, gazing with deep earnestness, as if she would read his very soul.

"I cannot tell you all there is in you to love and admire," said he, tenderly, "and, indeed, my little wife would blush too deeply at a recital of her own merits and graces. But this I now recall, that the first emotion of deep interest which I felt for you, arose as I listened to your brother's recital of your wonderful self-denial, and persevering effort for his sake. I saw, young as you were, the germ of a high and noble nature, best developed, believe me, in the rough and untoward circumstances by which you were surrounded. I wrote to you at first, thinking, perhaps, to aid you in the struggle for knowledge and truth; and as your mind and heart were laid open before me, how could I help loving the guileless sincerity which every act exhibited.

I knew that the good sister, the affectionate child, could but make a true and gentle wife. So I thought myself fortunate, beyond my own hopes even, when I found you could grant me the only boon I asked, a deep and steadfast affection."

What heart is there that would not have been satisfied with such praise; and who, witnessing the calm spirit of content which animated both the husband and the wife, could have prophesied evil as the result of such a union.

We might follow our heroine still farther – might show her to you as the companion and assistant in her husband's labors of love, as he fulfilled the high mission to which he had been appointed – as the mother, training her little ones to usefulness and honor. But we will leave her now, assured that whatever storms may cloud the unshadowed morn of her wedded life – and all know that in this existence no home, however lofty or lowly, is exempt from suffering and trial – she bore a talisman to pass through all unscathed – strength, gained by patient endurance, and the knowledge of duties rightly performed.

It may be, dear lady – you who are now glancing idly over these pages – that you are surrounded by every luxury wealth can command. You are lounging, perhaps, upon a softly cushioned divan, with tiny, slippered feet half buried in the glowing carpet. There are brilliants blazing upon the delicate hand which shields your face from the warm sunlight, and as you glance around, a costly mirror reveals at full length your graceful and yielding form.

"I have no interest in such as these," you say, as the simple narrative is ended.

I pray, in truth, that you may never learn the harsh lessons of adversity; but remember, as you enjoy the elegancies of a luxurious home, that change comes to all when least expected. And if misfortune should not spare even one so young and so beautiful; if poverty or desolation overshadow the household, it may be your part to sustain and to strengthen, not only by words, but by deeds. Well rewarded should I feel, if words from this pen could aid in removing one pang, could give a tithe of the strength of mind and heart such a lesson would call forth. God shield you, dear lady; but if the storm come, remember that honest labor elevates rather than degrades; and those whose opinions are of value will not hesitate to confirm the truth of the moral.

LINES TO —

BY W. HORRY STILWELL

A sister's love I did not ask from thee,
Though that were much – oh, more than earth hath given;
None live to bear that gentle name for me,
Though one may lisp it now, perchance, in Heaven.
I know not even, for I never felt,
The quiet yearnings of such love as this;
Thou should'st have known a deeper feeling dwelt
In the rapt glow of that impassioned kiss!

"I had no wish a brother's love to share" —
I did not read thy features dreamingly,
And peer into thine eye's deep azure, there
Searching another's depths, in revery!
I did not press, all passionless, thy hand
Or idly dally with thy taper finger,
Or coldly gaze, for I could not withstand
The high and holy hope which bade me linger!

I was not thinking of another then,
In thy sweet face her features imaging,
Tracing each thought-print o'er them – watching when
Hope's earnest breathings to my lips might spring;
Nor this – nor fame – though her ascending star
Might shed its glory in a halo o'er me;
No thought like this, that moment, rose to mar
The vision that in beauty stood before me!

But it was marr'd, for even then the feeling
Came o'er me, that thou never couldst be mine!
And in the cloud of sadness, gently stealing
Like a dim shadow o'er that brow of thine,
I read my destiny. Oh! life can bring
No darker doom – no wo that may inherit
So much of bitterness – no rack to ring
With deeper agony, my fainting spirit.

To dwell, in thought, upon one image still,
Till it becomes a portion of our being,
Hath fix'd its features in the eye, until
It hath become a part of sight – thus seeing,
Even in tree, and rock, and rill, and flower,
A form of borrow'd beauty, and a spell —
A spirit of unspeakable heart – power —
To move the waters in our soul's deep well!

Till every thought, that like a wavelet, breaks
Upon the surface of life's charmed pool,
Circling instinctively, unbidden, takes