Ten Books on Architecture by Vitruvius (good books to read for women .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Vitruvius
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"Well, I am fairly caught," quoth Frank, in the privacy of his apartment, "for I swore I never would marry an heiress. That was a rash oath—let it pass. But what a pity dear Ursula has money. I wish to my soul her father had not left her a cent—why could not he have endowed a hospital. She is a dear, noble girl, willing to bestow it all upon one whom she believes struggling with poverty; never mind, I shall get the laugh on her yet."
At an early hour the following morning the venerable village pastor pronounced the nuptial benediction; and with the hearty good wishes of the old farmer and the dame, and followed by the loving eyes of Hetty, the new married pair bade farewell to the spot consecrated to so many happy hours.
A ride of a few miles brought them to the steamboat; and just as the rays of the setting sun gilded the spires and roofs of the city, the boat touched the wharf.
And now Frank's heart beat almost audibly, as he thought how rapidly the moment was approaching when, throwing off all disguise, he should lead his lovely bride to his own princely dwelling.
And Ursula, too, had never looked so beautiful—had never felt so proud and happy; proud to present her husband to her good uncle and aunt, who were waiting to welcome them; happy that her beloved Frank would no longer have to plod on life's dull round in poverty and loneliness.
It certainly was happiness to be an heiress.
"Ursula," said Frank, as the carriage rolled rapidly over the pavements, "will you do me a favor?"
"Most certainly, dear Frank—what is it?"
"My sister, poor girl," replied Leland, in some embarrassment, "resides on the route to your residence; will you alight there just for one moment, that I may have the happiness of bringing together the two dearest objects of my heart?"
"Order the carriage to stop when you please, Frank—I, too, am impatient to embrace your sister," replied the blushing Ursula.
The carriage soon turned into a fashionable street, even at that early hour brilliant with gas lights. Elegant equipages rolled past; already lights streamed, and music sounded from many splendid dwellings. Soon the carriage drew up before one even more splendid—the steps were let down—the door thrown wide by a servant in livery, and, with mingled pride and tenderness irradiating his fine countenance, and meeting with a smile her perplexed and wondering glance, Frank led his fair bride into a spacious and beautiful apartment, taste and elegance pervading all its arrangements. A young girl sprang from the sofa, and came tripping to meet them.
"My sister Helen, dearest Ursula. Helen, embrace your sister, and welcome her to the home she is henceforth to grace."
Then leading the agitated girl to a seat, he threw himself on his knees before her, saying,
"Pardon, pardon, my dearest wife! I, too, had my secret. No poor artist sought your love—I, too, am the heir of wealth; I, too, sought to be loved for myself alone. Say that you forgive me, dear one."
Ursula could not speak, but wept her joy and happiness on his bosom.
Helen laughs merrily, yet slily wipes a tear from her eye, then kissing them both, she says,
"What think you now of the great book of human nature you went forth to study, you discontented ones? You favorites of fortune! ingrates that you have been—you foolish pair of lovers! Listen dear brother. As the rich Frank Leland you possessed the same attributes of goodness as did Frank Leland the poor artist; and you, dear sister, were no less lovely and amiable as the heiress of wealth, than as Ursula the little cap-maker. See you not, then, that true merit, whether it gilds the brow of the rich man or radiates around the poor man's path, will find its way to every pure and virtuous mind. Henceforth, you dear ones, look at human nature with more friendly eyes, and forget in the excellencies of the many, the errors of the few."
To live, to love, to be forgot. Cone.
Round every breast that beats to hope and fear
In this drear world, until the death's knell, ringing,
Chimes with heart-moanings o'er the solemn bier;
Then come love's pilgrims to the sad shrine, bringing
The choicest offering of the heart—a tear.
Were the brave hearts that mingle in the strife.
Patriot and Christian in their toil would languish—
Truth lie down-trodden—Error, then, stalk rife
Over the body she at last could vanquish—
So fond remembrance ceased along with life.
Of heart to genial heart, that beat again,
Were turned to throbbings; and each pulse repeating
But the sad echoings of pain to pain.
And the blest rapture of the longed for meeting,
Then be unsought, or would be sought in vain.
And love's fond beamings change to glance of scorn—
Though those once trusted now may harsh assail thee—
Thy friend of yesterday, thy foe this morn—
There is, who holds thee dear—do not bewail thee
If His blest Book of Life thy name adorn.
"Give her what she wants," said Mr. Grey impatiently. "How can you let the child cry so?"
"But, my dear," expostulated his wife, "I am afraid it will hurt her."
"Nonsense!" replied Mr. Grey, "it hurts her more to scream so. Here, my princess royal," he continued, "take that, and keep quiet, do"—but Pauline's spirit was not to be so easily appeased as the impatient father imagined, for imperiously spurning with her tiny foot the proffered gift, she screamed more indignantly than when it had first been refused.
"Hey day, Pauline," said Mr. Grey angrily.
"My darling," interrupted Mrs. Grey, hastily addressing the child, "let mamma peel it and put some sugar on it. Come Pauline," she said, as she stooped to pick up the orange.
Pauline's cries subsided for a moment, as apparently taking the matter in consideration, or else, perhaps only holding her breath for a fresh burst, while the tears hung in heavy drops on her long black lashes, and her large eyes still sparkled with excitement.
"Let mamma peel it nicely," continued Mrs. Grey. "Come, and we'll go and get some sugar."
"Yes, yes, do," said Mr. Grey impatiently. "Now go, Pauline, with your mother;" to which the little lady consented, and, tears still upon her blooming cheeks, she withdrew with her mother, leaving Mr. Grey to the quiet possession of the parlor and tranquil enjoyment of his book.
And thus it was generally with Pauline. What she was refused at first, she was coaxed to take at last, and between the indulgence of her mother and the impatience of her father, she seldom or never failed to have what she wanted.
A passionate determination to have her own way marked her character perhaps rather more strongly than that of most spoiled children, for nature had endowed her with a strong will, which education had fostered, as it almost seemed, with sedulous care. For the fact was Mrs. Grey dreaded a contest with Pauline; she screamed so, and Mr. Grey got so angry, sometimes with her, and sometimes with the child, and altogether it was such a time, that she soon begun to think it was better not to thwart Pauline, which certainly was true; for every contest ended in a fresh victory on the part of Pauline, and the utter discomfiture of Mrs. Grey, and the vexation of Mr. Grey, who, more vexed at the contest than the defeat, usually said, "Pshaw! you don't know how to manage that child." Thus Pauline, an only child, beautiful, gifted and willful, idolized by both parents, soon ruled the household.
"I'll not go to that school any more," said Pauline indignantly, as she tossed her books down, the second day of her first school experience.
"Why not, my love?" asked her mother anxiously.
"I don't like that Miss Cutter," said Pauline, her large black eyes dilating as she spoke, and flashing with excitement.
"You don't like Miss Cutter," repeated Mrs. Grey. "Why don't you like Miss Cutter, Pauline?"
"She put me on a high bench and said 'chut' to me," replied Pauline. "Nobody shall say 'chut' to me, and I wont go there again."
"You'll go there if your mother says so, Pauline," said her father. But Pauline knew better than that, and so did Mr. Grey for that matter; but Mrs. Grey said, "well, we'll see about it, Pauline. Now go and be dressed for dinner."
"I wont go again," said Pauline with determination, as she left the room.
"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Grey anxiously, as the child left the room, "that Pauline has taken a dislike to Miss Cutter. It was injudicious in her to commence her school discipline so rigorously at once."
"Just like those people," said Mr. Grey, testily; "they have no judgment—dressed in a little brief authority they make the most of it."
"Pauline is such a peculiar child," continued Mrs. Grey, (for all people think their children "peculiar," unless they have half a dozen of them, and then they know better). "Pauline is such a peculiar child that I dislike driving her against her feelings. I am very sorry for this," she added, looking much perplexed and embarrassed. "I don't know what to do."
Fortunately Pauline had a little cold the next day, or Mrs. Grey imagined she had, and so the question of school was dodged for a day or two, during which, however, Pauline continued firm in her determination of not returning.
By the time she had recovered past all possibility of thinking she was not quite as well as usual, Mrs. Grey had reasoned herself into thinking, and talked Mr. Grey into believing, that there was so much that was injurious in the present mode of school education, that upon the whole she would prefer keeping Pauline at home. A governess, under her own eye, would do her greater justice and bring her on faster; and, above all, she would escape the contamination of indiscriminate contact with children of whose tempers and characters Mrs. Grey knew nothing.
She need not have said half as much to convince Mr. Grey, for he was tired out with the subject, and ready to yield before she was one third through; but she was talking as much to satisfy herself that what she did was the result of mature reflection, and not to gratify, or rather pacify Pauline, as to convince Mr. Grey. Whether she was able to attain this point is somewhat doubtful, although the capacity people have for self deception is amazing. And to what perfection Mrs. Grey may have reached in the happy art, we are not able exactly to say.
But the governess was engaged, (a day governess, for neither Mr. Grey nor Pauline could have borne the constant presence of even so necessary an evil,) and under her tuition Pauline made rapid progress in her studies. Miss Burton soon finding that the moral education of her little pupil was quite beyond her reach, Mrs. Grey generally evading any disputed point between
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