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                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
               VOL. XXXV.      October, 1849.      No. 4.


                           Table of Contents

                 Fiction, Literature and Other Articles

          A Year and a Day
          The Engraver’s Daughter
          Jasper St. Aubyn
          The Recreant Missionary
          Minnie Clifton
          Ibad’s Vision
          A Harmless Glass of Wine
          The Village Schoolmaster
          An Adventure of Jasper C——
          Effie Deans
          Wild-Birds of America
          Editor’s Table: The Means of a Man’s Lasting Fame
          Review of New Books

                       Poetry, Music, and Fashion

          Alice
          The Fountain in Winter
          A Parting Song
          The Light of Life
          The Bride of Broek-in-Waterland
          Song
          Northampton
          A Thought
          Speak Out
          The Willow by the Spring
          We Are Changed
          Le Follet
          I Love, When the Morning Beams

       Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.

                 *        *        *        *        *

[Illustration: L. Clennell, pinx.       A. L. Dick sc.

THE BAGGAGE WAGGON.
Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine.]




                           GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.

         VOL. XXXV.     PHILADELPHIA, OCTOBER, 1849.     NO. 4.

                 *        *        *        *        *




                           A YEAR AND A DAY:


                              OR THE WILL.


                      BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.


                               CHAPTER I.

There was once in the city of Philadelphia a poor author whom chilling
disappointments and the biting stings of adversity had brought nigh the
grave—whose high hopes, ardent ambition, and glowing aspirations for
fame, were all quenched and broken beneath the pressure of penury and
wo. The wife, too, of his bosom had passed on to the shadowy land before
him, and now beckoned him to that blissful home beyond the grave where
sorrow and trouble are unknown. One fond tie still bound him to life. He
was a father. No other guide—no other friend had that fair young girl,
over whose innocent head scarce sixteen summers had flown, and for her
sake he still clung to a world whose charms else had long ceased to
attract.

And there was an old man whom the world called unfeeling and miserly,
who day by day passed by the humble home of the author. And day by day
as he passed along, saw at the window a pale young face bent over the
endless seam, and a small white hand never tiring busily plying the
needle. Or sometimes marked the child’s own feeble strength tasked to
support the tottering steps of suffering manhood to the open window,
that the air of heaven might revive that languid frame, while the
hollow, racking cough, and the fever spot on the cheek, like a rose
rooted in the grave and blossoming in beauty above, told too plainly
consumption had made its victim sure.

And then one day when the window was darkened, and he missed the pale
young face, the heart of the old man smote him as he passed along, and
turning he gently sought admittance, and from that time over the bed of
the sufferer the thin, white locks of the old man mingled with the
golden ringlets of Florence.

Heaven surely had first softened his heart, and then guided his
footsteps thither, for, like a ministering angel he came to the house of
sorrow to soothe the last moments of the dying man, and protect the
fatherless child.

Cheered once more by the voice of kindness—his feeble frame invigorated
by healthful nourishment—surrounded by comforts long unknown, or
remembered but as a dream in the dark night of poverty he had passed
through—what wonder the sick man rallied, and for a time gave way to
the flattering hope that he might yet leave a bright legacy to his
child—a name crowned with imperishable fame. His mind, long shattered
by sickness, caught back something of the fire of youth, and once more
his trembling hand seized the pen as the powerful instrument through
which riches and honor were to flow in upon him. But, as the meteor
which for an instant shoots over the wave in sparkling beauty, and then
sinks in the darkness of the fathomless gulf below, was the momentary
out-flashing of that once brilliant mind, ere the darkness of the grave
encompassed it.

When he felt the power of death too surely pressing upon him, he took
the hand of the old man and placed it on the head of his kneeling child
with a look pleading for kindness and protection. The heart of old Abel
May answered to this silent appeal, and stooping down he imprinted a
kiss upon the brow of Florence, solemnly promising never to forsake her.
The dying man raised his eyes in gratitude to heaven, and with a last
effort clasping his beloved child to his breast, expired.

The sad duties left for the living to perform over the venerated dust of
those we have loved, were ended with tears and lamentation—and now in
the wide world had Florence no friend but old Abel May.

“Florence,” said the old man, “I have long since buried the ties of
kindred—they could not survive ingratitude and distrust. I had but one
left to love—but one whom selfishness and sordid expectations did not
bind to me—and now he too has gone. I am now as much alone, my child,
as you—I in the winter of age, you in spring’s freshest bloom. You
shall be to me as the dearest of daughters, as pure and precious in my
eyes as God’s sacred word—although as my wife the world only must know
you. Then, Florence, will you give yourself to me; will you look upon me
in the light of that beloved parent whose loss you now deplore—will you
confide yourself to me in your loneliness and helplessness?”

And the innocent girl, lifting her meek blue eyes to the furrowed
countenance of the old man, threw herself confidingly upon his bosom,
and wept her thanks.

They were married; and then, as some priceless jewel committed to his
charge, which to guard and cherish was henceforth to be his pride and
happiness did Abel May bear home the young orphan.

For many years he had occupied a large mansion near the outskirts of the
city, whose dark granite front and heavy wooden shutters kept constantly
closed, imparted an air of chilliness and gloom to the neighborhood of
flashy brick houses and light airy cottages by which it was environed.
Abel May lived alone, keeping no domestics, and either preparing his own
meals, or partaking of them at a restaurateur’s. Occasionally the woman
whom he employed to do his washing was admitted to sweep and arrange his
sleeping room and the little parlor adjoining. The other apartments were
always locked, baffling all the curiosity of which no doubt the good
woman partook with others.

Various opinions and rumors were afloat concerning him in the
neighborhood, through which however the old man steered steadily and
regardlessly.

Not greater was the surprise of the captive princess in the fairy tale
on awakening one morning and finding before her window a sumptuous
palace rearing high its golden columns, where alone frowning rocks and
dark, turbid waters had before stood, than was the amazement which
pervaded the neighborhood, when early one morning they were aroused from
slumber by the _clink—clink—clink_ of the busy hammer, the crashing of
tiles, and sonorous fall of boards upon the pavements. And behold, every
window of that gloomy house was thrown wide to the glare of day—workmen
were on the roof—workmen were scaling ladders—workmen were tearing off
those clumsy shutters, while within, workmen in paper caps and white
aprons were busily wielding the several instruments of their handicraft.
Day after day their labors went on, and day after day added to the
astonishment of the neighbors. Plate-glass and light Venetian blinds
soon supplanted the small window panes and wooden shutters—a tasteful
portico and marble slabs supplied the place of the clumsy iron railing
and high stone steps so jagged and worn. Carpenters, masons, and
painters speedily completed the interior renovation, and then followed
heavily laden drays bearing rich furniture—and upholsterers flew from
room to room giving the last graceful touch of taste and fashion to the
arrangement of the various articles.

Next came the overwhelming announcement that old Abel May was married,
and that the sylph-like, graceful form, and sunny ringlets of the fair
young girl sometimes seen bending from the window, or leaning on the arm
of the old man, like a lily grafted on some withered branch, belonged to
no other than the bride—and wonder ceased not, but rather grew with the
“food it fed on.”

Not much less was the surprise of Florence at finding herself suddenly
the mistress of a home so charming. She had never connected the idea of
wealth with the plainly dressed humble old man who had so benevolently
administered to the comforts of her dying parent, and cheerfully did she
prepare to follow him to a home, no matter how lowly, so that love and
kindness were to be found there. When, then, old Abel May, lifting her
tenderly from the carriage which bore them from the church wherein the
solemn rite making them man and wife had just been pronounced, and led
her into apartments so splendid, with all that a refined taste might
approve, or a fastidious eye applaud, was it strange that for a moment
the young orphan doubted whether all was not, indeed, a dream or a fairy
creation, such as the pen of her father had often sketched for her
amusement—for never did her waking eyes or her sober senses dwell on
aught so rich and beautiful. Yet neither the elegance by which she was
surrounded, nor the charms which novelty lent to her new existence,
could for a long time withdraw her mind from dwelling on the irreparable
loss she had sustained. Happily, youth is not prone to despondency; hope
in the bright future buoys them exultingly over the billows of
disappointment which engulf so many sorrow-stricken hearts, and
therefore as time wore on it made the old man’s soul rejoice to see
smiles chasing away the tears from the countenance of this dear child.

The education of Florence had been conducted solely under the careful
tuition of her father, and her active mind, regulated and nourished by
judicious application. In the French and German languages she was a
correct scholar, and had attained some little proficiency in drawing;
yet of music or other elegant acquirements she knew nothing.

Hard are the lessons of adversity; and that his humble means precluded
his bestowing on his child those accomplishments for which nature had so
eminently qualified her, was often a source of deep regret to her fond
parent; but now, under the fostering care of the old man, how splendidly
did her talents develop themselves. Music and painting opened for her a
new world of enjoyment, and no expense did her kind protector withhold
to gratify to the fullest extent her eager desire for improvement. He
engaged the most eminent masters to attend upon her, nor did the
proficiency of the pupil shame their skill.

Very limited was the society which Abel May admitted within his walls,
and those only such as he considered worthy of his friendship and
confidence. This gave no disquiet to Florence; indeed, company rather
pained than pleased her. Her most delightful hours were those in which
she could add to the happiness of the old man, by the exercise of those
agreeable sources of entertainment owing their origin to him, or when
with pencil or book, alone in the beautiful little apartment which the
same kind hand had fitted up expressly for her use, the moments flew
unheeding in the all absorbing interest they inspired.

Occasionally, at the Opera or Theatres, old Abel May appeared with his
beautiful young wife; or perhaps, in the delightful coolness of a
summer’s morning, ere yet the noisy din of the city pervaded the air, or
the dust of its countless thoroughfares swept over the dewy freshness of
night, they sauntered through the silent streets or shady avenues of
Washington Square. But more frequently still within the sacred precincts
of Laurel Hill were they seen to wander. In one of its most retired
spots, where a cluster of drooping willows brushed the dew-drops from
the tall, rank grass, and the murmur of the wave below came up sadly yet
sweetly upon the ear, a plain monumental stone was planted. “My Father
Sleeps,” was the only sign it bore; and to this consecrated spot did
their steps most often turn, for well did one fond heart know _who_
slept so peaceful there, and over this hallowed grave the fair form of
Florence bent in filial devotion.

Wherever she appeared the admiration she attracted was universal; and if
some were prone to pity her lot, as being bound by such indissoluble
ties to old Abel May, they were quite at fault by her bright, sunny
countenance which certainly bore no traces of hidden sorrows for their
sympathies to probe. This might have flattered the pride of the old man
while it aroused his fears. His own life he knew, in the common course
of nature, could not be prolonged many years, and then what was to
become of that young girl thus thrown a second time upon the world, so
beautiful and so unprotected.

There was but one person whom he ever mentioned in terms of affection to
Florence, and this was his nephew, and the only son of a favorite
brother, long since dead, who bore his name, and whom he had destined
for his heir. But for many years young Abel May had not been heard from,
and his friends had finally given up all expectations of ever seeing him
again. It was said that being repeatedly reproached by envious relatives
on account of the interest his rich uncle manifested for him, calling
him a poor gentleman—a hanger-on—only waiting to step into dead men’s
shoes, with remarks of the like nature, originating in low, vulgar
minds, and that being a lad of high spirit, he became disgusted and
angered, and vowing he would either make his own fortune or never
return, young May suddenly disappeared.

At length age and infirmities pressed more and more sorely upon the good
old man. Soon he could no longer leave the house or even his
chamber—and then it was he felt how rich a treasure he possessed in
Florence. With how much tenderness and love did she watch over him,
patiently enduring with all the querulousness and complainings of an old
age racked with torturing pains; never weary, neither by day nor by
night, ever devising, ever executing some plan which might soothe his
troubles either of body or mind.

The old man died, leaving his fortune to Florence, upon one
condition—the strangest, surely, that ever guided the pen of a dying
man.

Never was so singular a will written—never was any thing more absurd!
And for more than a month, which is certainly a long time for any wonder
to stand its ground against the constant pressure of newer marvels, for
more than a month after the coffin and the tomb had alike received their
due, the city rang with the whimsicality of the last will and testament
of old Abel May, who by this said will had compelled his young, blooming
widow either to marry within a year of his demise, or otherwise forfeit
to relatives innumerable that fine fortune which, with this proviso, he
had bequeathed to her alone. The motives which actuated him were
doubtless intended as a kindness to the young girl whom his death would
leave unprotected. He overlooked the dangers to which he thus exposed
her from the crafty wiles of the spendthrift and fortune-hunter, or he
trusted, perhaps, that her innocence and loveliness might shield her
against their artifices.

From marble-columned squares and by-lanes—from suburban cottages and
distant villages, disappointed relatives came flocking in like a flight
of hungry crows, one and all croaking forth the will a forgery; or that
their beloved relative, for whom weepers a yard long streamed in the
wind, and black veils fluttered hopefully, through weakness of body and
consequent imbecility of mind, had been influenced by an artful young
wife to draw up the unrighteous instrument to which his signature was
attached. A likely story, truly, that passing by uncles and nephews,
aunts and nieces, to say nothing of innumerable cousins of the first and
third degree, he should have thrown his whole fortune into the hands of
a young girl, one, too, whom they all were convinced he had married only
that she might nurse his old body when gout or rheumatism should rack
his bones, but that he also should have added to this unheard of folly
his commands for her to marry, and by that means allow his hard-earned
riches to pass into the hands of nobody knows who—any beggar she might
choose to call up from squalid rags to fine linen and broadcloth, why
that passed all bounds of belief. There had been intrigue and treachery
somewhere; poor old Abel! it brought tears into their affectionate eyes
even to think of it.

But, unfortunately alike to their jealous affection and hopeful schemes,
the lawyers possessed a quietus in a certain document drawn up and
attested by competent witnesses, which ran thus:

“Whereas jealous and evil-minded persons may seem inclined to dispute my
last will and testament, I hereby declare in the presence of —— and of
——, that, as my dear wife, Florence, has been to me the kindest and
most tender of wives, denying herself for my sake those pleasures and
amusements natural to her youth, and has cheerfully devoted herself to
nursing a poor, feeble old man, I do in token of my love, approbation,
and gratitude, give unto her without reserve all the property of which I
may die possessed, both personal and real. And furthermore, I do most
earnestly entreat of her to choose some deserving young man whom she may
take as a husband, and that she may be happy in such choice, and be
rewarded thereby for her goodness to me, I pray God! And that she may be
influenced the more readily perhaps to comply with this, my last
request, I do hereby declare that unless within one year from my demise
she does make such choice, and marry in accordance, I do annul and make
void my will in her favor, my fortune in such case to be disposed of as
stipulated in my will and testament.”

Now when the smiling lawyers holding such a damper over the high hopes
of the solemn conclave of mourners, made known to them the existence of
this last document, uncles and aunts bounced out of the house like
roasted chestnuts seething and smoking with the fire of anger.

Not so the young nephews and the gallant cousins. Down they went on
their knees before the young widow, swearing she was divine—an angel—a
goddess—and right glad were they that the sensible old gentleman had
given her his fortune, for she deserved it, in faith she did—and they
hoped she would marry immediately; heavens! any body might be proud to
receive her hand—what was the paltry gold in comparison.

And each one of the seven secretly resolved to woo and win her,
and—_the fortune to boot_! But Florence only cast down her eyes and
wept unfeigned sorrow for the loss of a kind old man—her husband and
benefactor.


                              CHAPTER II.

Florence May was, indeed, a bewitching little widow—only eighteen, and
with nearly half a million of dollars in her rosy little palm. The
evening star bursting through a cloud was not more bright than were her
eyes twinkling through the veil of sable crape, or if perchance some
saucy zephyr brushed aside the envious _weed_, what charming flowers
were thereby disclosed—what tempting roses and lilies, and sweet, blue
violets, all bathed in the golden sunshine of her glittering tresses.
Ah, yes—and then the golden sunshine of those glittering guineas—truly
was she not a most adorable widow!

And never was a poor little widow so tormented with lovers since the
world began. _Dingle, dingle, dingle_, quoth the door-bell incessantly;
_tap, tap, tap_, urged the maid at the entrance of her private
sitting-room, until the poor child wearied of shaking her little head,
and uttering a “No!” to their various demands for admittance. With
cards, and tender _billet-doux_, her tables were overburthened, while
pluming themselves upon their relationship, the seven cousins and
nephews intruded without ceremony into her presence, eyeing each other
with jealous defiance, and snarling and snapping like a parcel of angry
lap-dogs.

“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?”

“I do bite my thumb, sir.”

“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?”

“No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir—but I bite my thumb, sir.”

The neighborhood were kept alive with surmises as to who would win the
rich heiress, daily expecting to see a gay wedding party issuing forth,
in contrast to the gloomy funereal spectacle so lately before them. Yet
weeks and months rolled on uneventful. What could it mean? Was the widow
crazy or bewitched? How could she remain so unconcerned when her fortune
was at stake! Day after day was poverty stealthily drawing nearer, in as
much as she still neglected to fulfill the terms on which her fortune
rested, and yet she moved about as careless and indifferent as though
the comforts and elegancies which surrounded her were unconditionally
hers—what a strange creature she must be!

It was thus reasoned the “lookers on in Venice.”

Six months of widowhood were passed. Florence was still unmarried; and
once more the relatives took heart against despair, and golden visions
mingled in their day-dreams. Her obstinacy was to them inexplicable—for
they knew upon the separate assurances of the several nephews and
cousins that she had had _unexceptionable_ offers, and if from those
choice specimens of man she could not select a husband, why, of course,
they had reason to hope she never would be married.

Such was the state of affairs, when one day Florence received the
following note, written in an unknown hand, accompanied with a bouquet
of beautiful flowers:

    “MADAM,—I have seen you, and who that has once looked upon you
    but must adore you! I dare not approach you, nor would I mingle
    with the throng of flatterers around you. Enough for me to
    worship at a distance, and to guard with my whole soul that
    treasure which may never be mine. My life I would willingly lay
    at your feet, but there are important reasons why you should not
    know me. Of one thing, madam, rest assured, you have a friend
    who will secretly watch over you, and guard you from every
    danger.”

Upon a mind so artless as that of Florence, this singular note, which
was without signature, produced a very pleasing influence, and excited a
lively interest for the unknown writer. The idea of possessing such a
friend inspired her with a degree of confidence such as she had not
known since the death of her husband. Nor to that one note did the
unknown limit his attentions—they were manifested in various ways.
Ofttimes in the sweet language of flowers they were spoken—or to her
little boudoir some rare and exquisite painting found its way. Books,
too, with penciled margins, all evincing a pure and elegant perception;
music, which, when awakened by her fingers, breathed the very spirit of
melody; and when from the same unknown hand there came a beautiful cage,
whence the tiny warbler trilled forth in sweetest notes her favorite
airs, Florence was lost in amazement. Who, then, was this mysterious
person who so well understood her tastes, and who was thus ever studying
her happiness? The note had stated: “There are important reasons why you
should not know me.” And Florence was possessed of too much delicacy,
and had too much respect for the writer of the note to seek to penetrate
the mystery. Yet by the use which she made of his gifts, her silent
thanks to the donor were expressed, and insensibly yielding to the
delightful associations they called forth, she felt as if some kind
guardian was ever near shielding her from evil.

Oft amid the rich braids of her hair those fragrant flowers were
intertwined, or rested above a heart not less pure than themselves. The
books acquired a new interest that other eyes had dwelt also upon their
pages; and never did her fingers so skillfully or so tenderly touch the
keys, as when before her was the music which the unknown had conveyed to
her; many times, too, the soft, sweet tones of a flute were heard
echoing the strain. When first they reached her ear, Florence hushed her
instrument and closed the window; but at midnight, again and again the
same sweet strains floated around her, and then she felt it could be no
other than the unknown, who, in music’s gentle voice, addressed her, and
this belief added greatly to the charmed life she was leading, thus
mysteriously watched over and protected.

It was now that chance brought her acquainted with a person whom we must
allow to introduce himself to the reader by the following letter:

    “_From Charles Crayford to his friend, Hastings._

    “I am in luck, my dear fellow; give me joy, for Fortune, blessed
    goddess, hath at length wafted me to the favor of wealth and
    beauty. ’Pon my soul, I know not which I am the most in love
    with, the person or the fortune of the divinity. Her name is
    May—Florence May. She is a widow—a young, blooming, bewitching
    widow, with half a million at her own free disposal, and,
    happily, without a relative in the world, or jealous guardian to
    cavil about disparity of fortune, or pry into secrets.

    “‘But how—and when—and where—did you meet your divinity?’ you
    ask. Listen, then, and admire my policy.

    “Passing down Chestnut street in a somewhat moralizing
    vein—unheeding the light