______
By J. Beauchamp Jones, Philada.
______
Chapter I.
“Farewell, Mary!”
“Good bye, George–you must think of me often.”
“Think of thee, Mary? I can think of only thee, the queen of all my brightest hopes. By day, when we wandered along the clear stream together, thou wert ever the smiling genius of my youthful heart–the only one who could beguile my weary spirit during the relaxation between my studies–and at the solemn hour of midnight, when reclining on my lonely couch, and all was silent, save the cricket, which chirped from the hearth within, and the constant song of the katy-did from the rose-bush under my window, without–when the slanting rays of the silvery moon stole through the pane, and illumined the chamber with soft enchanting light–in such an hour have my eyes voluntarily opened, and in the indistinct figures around, pictured the forms of celestial images– and thou, ever thou, wert the directing angel of the scene–the fixed star of my destiny!”
“George! –the carriage waits–but I will write to you soon–and thou must come and see me, and we will speak of our old haunts. Indeed I will never forget thee. Be not so sad, dear George!”
“Mary, were it bad fortune had befallen thee, I should be merrier–I should then never be separated from thee.”
“Dost thou think my good fortune will estrange me? Believe it not, George. It may be possible we will be much separated during the next few years–but when I shall have acquired the education which they say is necessary to be accomplished, and thou hast distinguished thyself at the bar, which thy genius must some day effect–then, George, no one can object to our meeting to part no more. Farewell!” A pressure of the hand in silence, and they were separated for many a long day.
The sun sank gradually down the west and vanished–but still the youth remained motionless, his arms folded on his breast, and his eyes turned towards the city which could be distinguished in the distance, whither the companion of his happy childhood was suddenly destined to take up her future abode.
The father of George was a poor but contented man–his only possession a few acres, the cultivation of which was his dependence for a support. His wants were few, and his frugality afforded a plentiful supply. He had once been a wealthy man, and in the wreck of his fortunes retained a philosophic equanimity of temper, and preserving a clear conscience through all the perplexities of bankruptcy, he breathed calmly, ever reposing the utmost confidence in a future state of felicity, which he hoped his actions and meditations would secure to him. When bidding the scene of his misfortunes a lasting adieu, accompanied by his little George, (his wife being dead,) and reflecting on the probable destiny of his child, he was accosted by a little orphan girl, whom he had frequently noticed with peculiar interest, who now wept piteously, and desired to be taken along with him. Little George seconded the entreaty, and she was accordingly added to the party. Mary was soon so beloved that she was regarded as one of the family, and long this trio enjoyed uninterrupted happiness.
At the age of sixteen George evinced so great a disposition to study, that his father, whose economy had now considerably replenished his purse, treated with a professional gentleman in the city to take him into his office for a brief term of years. George exceeded his parent’s most extravagant anticipations, and surprised his preceptor by his unprecedented advances in the usually repugnant study of the law. Once a week he flew to his father’s cottage and kissed his affectionate Mary, who grew in native beauty, and daily improved in intelligence by the instructions of her aged protector. George not only studied the works pertaining to his profession, but found time to regale on the emanations of mighty geniuses, and thus he revelled in the resplendent fields of poesy, felt the ecstatic influence of the magic of imagination in the unbounded realms of fiction, and treasured in his memory all the most important incidents recorded by the faithful historian. These books he was permitted to take to Mary, who read them during the intervals of his visits, and thus was engendered a congeniality of sentiment which rendered their interviews felicitous. And thus their lives continued up to the time of their separation.
George had outstripped his years–passed his examination triumphantly, and now only waited to arrive at the age required by law to enter on the practice of his profession. The few months to intervene before he could be admitted to the bar, he resolved to pass at the cottage with Mary and his fond parent, amid his pleasing books, and the various sweet flowers. His father smiled on him a father’s welcome, and Mary culled the most beautiful roses, and read to him the most thrilling passages of the bard of Avon, the great poet of Nature, and thus their hearts exulted with a rapture known only to youth, an aerial enjoyment like some intermediate existence between heaven and earth, which endures not, and is only remembered as some pleasurable dream. Yet it is real happiness to the recipients for the time being, for they dream not of the bitterness of maturer years.
It was in the midst of these halcyon days that Mary was sought out by a rich relative, who had never condescended to notice the sufferings of her parents whilst living, but at the termination of his miserly life (hard hearted old misers are never held in grateful remembrance after they are dead,) sought to atone for his neglect by heaping an overgrown fortune on the abandoned orphan. Having removed her to the city and appointed a wealth-grasping guardian, he yielded up his detestable life.
______
Chapter II
A year had passed, and the father of George was among the lamented dead. Although the grieved youth frequently heard from Mary, yet during the whole twelve months he had not spoken to her, nor seen her but for a moment at a time, as her carriage rattled past to some fashionable party. Still he could not believe her disinterestedness and simplicity were changed to pride and folly. Her notes breathed the same familiar and affectionate tone of the frank and devoted girl. Yet George was very unhappy. His success was anything but encouraging in the courts where so many heads had grown gray in the practice. He was embarrassed in his finances, and having in vain endeavored to dispose of his few paternal acres, he now drooped over the sad contemplation of impending difficulties. And dreary is the one dependent on a selfish world for support, wherein he has neither kin nor any one to feel an interest in his welfare. And far more dreadful is this utter loneliness to the virtuous being: he feels that he deserves a station and a happiness which he cannot attain–and he beholds others in posession who do not merit them. The evil one is contaminated by no bad company, but ready for any fellowship, and but little apprehension for the future preys upon his spirits. But the honest will be rewarded, and the wicked punished, in a future state of existence.
His incessant studies had stamped a thoughtful expression on the features of George, and his wardrobe betrayed the want of replenishing in his threadbare dress. But he felt no disgrace in the disparity of costume, even at the moment some finely-attired beau flitted before him, for he enjoyed a pride in the consciousness of superior intellect. He imagined (and often truly,) that the butterfly of the day sported the sum total of his treasure in his gaudy wings–and he would fain believe that his was an inexhaustible wealth of mind. Thus, notwithstanding frequent clouds of despondency hung darkly over him, still there were moments when his ardent fancy painted triumphs of the noblest kind, when his spirits were on the wing, and his eye lit up with an almost preternatural brightness.
It was under the influence of these feelings that he left his office one pleasant evening in summer, for the purpose of taking a solitary stroll, and indulging the splendid train of images which his teeming mind seemed prone to exhibit in successive reveries. He passed through street after street–traversed densely thronged promenades and thinly populated alleys, without heeding the jargon of voices around him, and his eye arrested not even by the beautiful or grotesque.
Long he continued his measured pace, unconscious of his destination, and forgetful of the link that bound him to his grovelling species. At length he paused in front of a row of snow-white marble buildings, his ear attracted by a strain of sweet melody, and his imagination seized in its erratic flight by that soothing power which is said to have moved even stocks and stones–to listen. Harmony is an attribute of Nature: the music of the spheres and the warbling of the bird attest it Its vibrations most powerfully affect the upright and sympathising heart: the man who is guided by the holy impulses of nature, feels his soul swell within him when his ear is regaled by soft melodious tones. But the base man of coppers is delighted with no sounds hut the jingle of coins. George rested his arm on the railing of one of the princely habitations before him, and gazed up at the million twinkling stars. Although his ear was charmed with earthly tones, yet with his eyes fixed above, he associated them with heavenly visions.
Ere long his meditations were startled by a rustling of satin on the balcony hard by, and he beheld a female richly attired, standing but a few paces distant, her brow clasped by her ivory hand, and sighs proceeding from her unquiet breast. Regarding her intently, a few moments sufficed to reveal to him his long adored Mary! Undecided whether to accost her, or to retreat unperceived, he remained motionless and silent, until he distinctly heard her utter the following words–
“I will sing no more–the song reminds me of George, and I am sad to think he cannot be with me as formerly! What has become of him? Can he suppose my good fortune has made me forget him? Whatever frivolities my gay associates may urge me into, I am sure, at least, that I shall never cease to think of George!”
“I thank thee, Mary!” responded George.
“Who art thou? Art George?”
“Ay, Mary–dost thou not know me?”
“Yes! I know thy voice–come within, and I will introduce you to my new friends. Oh, George, I have often been very unhappy to think thou wert so long away! They tell me I must not think of thee, because thou art poor, and my guardian asserts his power over my actions, and the swarm of my never before heard of relations drag me from one amusement to another, and continually introduce me to their great people, whose etiquette and unmeaning forms are not half so pleasing to me as our old unrestrained sociability i”
They proceeded to the rooms where the fashionable guests were assembled, arrayed in costly habiliments for the occasion, the head nodding to head, the eye in quest of peculiarity of dress, or deformity of person, and the tongue too often running riot with scandal.
When Mary attempted to introduce our plain hero to this company, an unequivocal coldness and haughtiness could be observed in the slight attentions he received. This he perceived, but exulted the more in the decided preference shown by Mary, whom he knew to be the centre of attraction. She was the greatest fortune in the city, and he rightly conjectured that all the fine gentlemen were drawn thither by the potency of her solid charms. But he had loved her in indigence, for herself only, and yet indulged the hope that the passion was reciprocal. The sneers and scornful glances of the perfumed beaux and detracting belles, only stimulated him the longer to protract his conversation in a half undertone with Mary. Her eyes sparkled with remembrance and her brow flushed with delight, when he reminded her of their many rambles along the verdant banks of the winding river–the books once read together, and all the various flowers they admired in childhood. She yielded to the interest of the subject, and the fascinating tones of her youthful companion so absorbed her fancy, that her attention was for an unusual length of time withdrawn from the rest of the party, and her presence of mind only regained, when she perceived Mr. Gragg, her guardian, advancing towards her.
“Mr. Gragg, permit me to introduce George–Mr. George –––.”
George rose and bowed, but Mr. Gragg’s eyes were riveted, in astonishment, on his ward. After a significant stare, the watchful guardian, who considered himself fully authorised to select the acquaintances whom Mary should entertain, withdrew without bestowing the least attention on the mortified student. But the blushing girl continued the conversation with redoubled earnestness, although she was unable to conceal her wounded feelings.
The next effort to separate the heiress from the vulgar intruder was successful. Some half dozen of her adulating cousins came round and reminding her of an appointed lounge with Major –––, or game of chess with Colonel –––, swept her away by force, leaving our hero the only occupant of the now deserted room. The servants peeped in and chuckled. Bursts of uproarious laughter were heard in the adjoining apartments–and George felt that his poverty debased him in the eyes of the world. He was also pained to recognise in Mary’s guardian, the rich banker to whom he had once made an unsuccessful application to raise funds on the cottage and grounds left him by his father. But what was yet more poignant, he had accepted an offer made by advertisement, to transcribe some documents of official correspondence, the recompense but a trifling sum, but his exigencies requiring it–and his employers were the Major and the Colonel to whom Mary attempted to introduce him that night! He recollected the curl of the lip at the recognition, and the smile of derision as they withdrew!
George remained some moments alone in painful and intense anxiety: he hoped that Mary would “break away from her officious companions, if but for an instant, to reassure him that he held a place in her regard–and, pained with fear that her young heart might eventually be estranged, and her memory be gradually weaned from old recollections. She came not–and when he rose with a heavy spirit to depart he cared not whither, a servant entered with his hat, which George threw violently on his head, and abruptly rushed away.
Again our hero strode onward, bestowing no notice on the thousands he overtook and passed, with a far more miserable breast than before he entered the rich man’s dwelling. Magnificent creations of the imagination no more beguiled his fevered head–but the reality of his unenviable condition flashed upon him. He possessed not five dollars in the wide world–he was despised by those whom he had never harmed–and in all probability abandoned by the only being he loved. With the harrowing feelings of utter loneliness, he directed his weary steps towards the peaceful cottage where he had so often been joyous in infancy, hoping to pluck a cheering thought, or a balm among the dew-besprinkled roses, to allay the burning of his throbbing temples.
He lifted the latch of the cottage door, but all was dark and silent within, like some deserted tenement of a past generation; it was awful and still as a mouldering sepulchre! A chillness fell upon his breast, but his brain was in frantic commotion. He rushed away, striding through theneglected garden, and paused not until the grave of his father arrested his steps. He gazed upon the green mound and seemed to hold communion with its solitary tenant.
“Thou art at rest, father!” he said in tones of thrilling solemnity–”yes, thou art at rest. The humiliation of penury–stings of malice–scoffs of the proud–deceptions of friendship–fickleness of love–all are nothing to thee now! The racking agony of crushed ambition is unknown to thee–no more cherished hopes can be disappointed–oh! –that I were cold and pangless–slumbering at thy side a stiffened corpse! Oh, that I too were dead!” He ran to a wild summit jutting above the winding stream which murmured among the rocks some fifty feet below. He paused at the very verge and glared at the waters, wherein the starry heavens were reflected, and he was tempted to make a leap, which his frenzy intimated would hurl him into the eternal skies, and for ever release him from the shackles of a tormenting world. He flew back a few paces–paused, and then sprang forward with a determination to plunge into the undescribed eternity–when his foot becoming entangled, he was prostrated so near the edge of the precipice that his head hung over the descent. Not yet deterred from his desperate purpose, he struggled to cast himself off–but was still withheld by the obstruction mentioned, which seemed to be planted firmly in the earth. He drew back to disengage himself, when he discovered the object which thwarted his will, to be a heavy hoe, which some hand had stricken so deeply into the ground that it was almost impossible to remove it, and there it was providentially suffered to remain. Sanity now resumed its empire, and our hero reflected upon the act he was about committing. Reflection in such cases is salvation, for the act is never done deliberately. When the head can reason cooly, the hand can never be raised rashly for self-destruction,
“Heaven be thanked,” cried he, “that I have been prevented from accomplishing my unnatural purpose! I tremble now, even to think of the horrible thing I was intent upon doing! Should a young man, possessing perfect health and bodily vigor, despair in this changeful world? Shall the vexation of the moment subdue my spirit, and make me a miserable victim of melancholy ever after? No! Here I seize upon this good implement of labor, and I stand henceforth an independent man upon my own soil! Here I cast the worthless objects of fell ambition to the fleeting winds, and in future will engage in the rational pursuit of peace and humble contentment. My stout limbs shall procure me a sustenance, and my books shall yield amusement. Here will I abide, the solitary and happy ascetic. I will find fellowship in the inexhaustible resources of mind, and repose in the peaceful pulsations of an honest heart. Fool that I was to entertain a thought of suicide, when I could work!” Saying this, he sprang up, wrenched the hoe from its confinement, and struck it again into the green sod–but when he attempted to repeat the blow something beneath the surface which the iron penetrated, prevented him from raising the instrument for some moments. He succeeded in extricating it, however, and repeated the blow with still greater force, some inches distant from the spot indicated before, but it again clung to the same hidden substance.
George’s heart almost failed him in his first effort to reduce his resolution to practice–but not to be so suddenly driven into a relinquishment of his chimera, he threw off his coat and determined to see what it was that thus impeded his exertions. In a very few minutes he had the earth removed from the object in question, which he discovered to be an immense mass of metal, that his whole strength was insufficient to remove from its bed. He then struck it with the blunt part of the hoe, and the dust falling away, revealed to his astonished vision (the moon being risen above the city and shining brightly,) a glittering body which his joyful imagination whispered was gold! He endeavored to prize the treasure from its location, but this too, from its great weight, he was unable to accomplish. Throwing aside his hat in his struggles, he perceived a folded note fall from it, which he had no previous knowledge of, and though he saw by the light of the moon it bore his name on the back, yet being too intent in the more important affair, he thrust it back, to be perused at a more leisure moment. He succeeded in chipping off a small particle from the huge lump, and replacing the sod, set off for the city, with the specimen clenched in his hand.
His brisk step soon brought him to the great metropolis, and he proceeded without consulting any one else, to the director of the mint.
“What is the matter?” demanded that gentleman, observing the anxious looks of our hero, whose heart could be distinctly heard to beat.
“Look at this!” said George, thrusting the specimen into the gentleman’s hand.
“Well, there’s not more than a pennyweight.”
“Is it gold?” demanded George.
“Pooh! you don’t expect this is a fortune?”
“Is it gold?” shouted George.
“Assuredly, but this is a very small quantity,” replied the gentleman, handing it back to our hero, who now calmly smiled, having entirely recovered his self-possession.
George then briefly related his discovery, and that night the director accompanied him to the cottage, followed by a strong dray, which was to transport the great treasure to the mint.
When they arrived at the summit on the bank of the river, George ran forward and found everything in the same condition as he left it. He removed the sod and displayed to the delighted eyes of the man of coins, a huge misshapen mass of solid gold. It was heaved into the dray without loss of time, driven to the city, and deposited in the mint for instant coinage.
______
Chapter III
The next morning our hero rose from his couch a happy man; for after all, the most exquisite enjoyment is of the mind–and to dwell in anticipation of certain good is more than equal to the actual possession. He now broke open the mysterious note, which he was delighted to find came from Mary, whom he had more than once feared would soon learn to look with contempt on his hopeless poverty. She had hastily penned the epistle, and thrusting it into his hat, which had been left in the entrance to the chamber, sent it to our hero by the servant. The lines informed him that her heart was unchanged and unchangeable–and when the legal period should place her beyond the domination of her guardian, she would instantly become George’s wife, if he desired it. This was new rapture for our hero, and he again upbraided his impetuosity, which was well nigh defeating all the good intended him.
Satisfied of the faith of his Mary, our hero now set about meditating what should be the first step he must take. He recollected having enjoined the strictest secrecy on the officers of the mint in regard to his sudden acquisition, and he now resolved to discover his wealth to the world in his own peculiar way. A smile played on his lip as he arrayed himself in his most homely clothes. When his toilet was finished he started forth on foot, and traversed all the streets wherein he was most likely to encounter his old acquaintances. He soon accosted numbers, who merely stared at his poverty-stricken tout ensemble, and passed hastily on, as if not wishing to be seen speaking to so miserable an object. George bowed and stepped on, without feeling the least slighted. The next persons he met were the Colonel and Major already alluded to, who regarded him with a detecting leer of the eye, but hastened on without turning the head. George was not pained by their contempt, but diverted at their estimation of his insignificance, and thought he might improve in their opinion were they to see his lump of gold. Next, a company of ladies with gorgeous equipage drove by, and to his inexpressible joy the lily hand of Mary was waved to him as they flew past.
Being now in the vicinity of the mint he stepped in and filled his pockets with the glittering new money just made from his lump of gold. He then went to the tailor’s, who seeing George enter the door, handed out a bill of long standing, which he declared must be settled that day, or our hero might look to taste the atmosphere of a prison. George threw him a handful of gold, and Mr. Cabbage stared like a wild man. He asserted that he was only joking about having a warrant issued–would wait until it was entirely convenient for the gentleman to pay, and hoped to have a continuance of his custom. George laughed outright, but paid the debt which had truly been due a considerable time, and ordered several costly suits, for which he settled in advance.
George next purchased a very costly carriage, beautiful horses and trappings, and hired a dozen servants. He then authorised his friend, the director of the mint, to purchase him a commodious dwelling in the most fashionable part of the city, into which he moved without delay, and in a few days was established in grand style.
On the Sabbath our hero drove to church, the same he had ever attended, but where the discerning sexton had been in the habit of placing him on some mean and obscure bench. When he alighted the crowd gave way with instinctive deference, and the gaping door-keeper led him to a cushioned seat, and bowing very low, condescended to inquire after our hero’s health. George felt an inclination to tell him to go to the devil, but bridled the impulse. He soon became so great an object of curiosity that even the parson was in a measure neglected ; and when the service was over, more than a score of young ladies whom he thought had long since forgotten him, graciously nodded as he passed out to his carriage. The Colonel and Major themselves spoke to him.
By the next morning George’s astounding acquisition was rumored over the city, and before evening his residence was beset with applying clients. Mr. Gragg himself waited upon him, and now proposed to purchase the cottage. Our hero was not anxious now to part with his few acres, but named another affair to Mr. Gragg, who acquiesced in the most obsequious terms, and they drove together to his residence, and that evening our hero and Mary were united.
“Now, Mary,” said George, when they were seated together after the ceremony was over, “if good fortune can metamorphose a vagabond into a noble gentleman in the eyes of the world, no doubt our old cottage will be considered a magnificent palace.”
“In the eyes of the world, perhaps,” replied the happy bride, “but in the eyes of neither you nor I does it require a change, to bring back all the cherished recollections of our childhood, and I should be delighted to pass all my days in it.”
“Then we will remove thither immediately: and by merely enjoying the desirable comforts of life in our retirement, and ministering bountifully to the needy around, will disappoint the venal expectations of our many new friends, and study the best means of promoting our lasting happiness.”
The joyful couple retired to the humble cottage ; and though they remained separated from the dissipated votaries of fashion, yet they were remembered and respected as the possessors of the
Magic Lump of Gold.
1 Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine and American Monthly Review, Volume 5; December 1839, pp. 305-308. (Burton’s was edited by William E. Burton and Edgar Allen Poe at this point.)