LETTER XLVII.
Isabel is married! My dear pupil is to-day hailed
with the matronly and dignified title of Madame Isidore
de Clery. The wedding took place yesterday evening,
at 4 o'clock, in the little brick chapel, which nestles in a
grove of sycamores, a mile from the chateau.
As I know you men have a great deal of curiosity
about everything, though you try and hide it, as well as
you can, behind the shadow of your beards, I will give
you some account of the ceremony, and how it came off.
The day was as fine as if it were the first day that
morning had ever broken upon, the skies were of so
“heavenly a blue,” as Mrs. Hemans describes the peculiar
azure of the cerulean and transparent autumnal atmosphere.
There was but one cloud visible, which floated
over the cast, like a bridal scarf, graceful and undulating,
as if borne onward by a company of invisible fairies,
by and by to descend and cast it over “the bride of the
day.” The birds, all of them, blue and gray, orange-colored
and scarlet, brown and black, were all on the
wing, and singing quite beside themselves, as if they
well knew there was a grand holiday.
The little army of sable urchins, that always appertain
to a planter's domestic establishment, were arrayed in
their “Sunday best,” and with great fragments of corn
bread, sweetened with molasses, in their hands, were
tumbling, rolling, somerseting, galloping over the green,
and as generally beside themselves with joy, as the birds
were. Then all the dogs—Tray, Blanche, Sweetheart,
and old Bonus—seemed to have inhaled exhilarating gas.
Such wagging of tails short, tails long, tails shaggy, and
tails genteel! such extravagant demonstrations of joy
were never before known among the canine family of the
chateau. Every particular dog seemed to delight himself
in chasing his own tail around and around a circle,
and the whole yard seemed to be converted into a sort
of animated orrery, the orbits in which they revolved
having old Bonus for their central sun, and Bonus, like
the sun, made slow and majestic revolutions on his axis,
and, unlike the sun, would once in a while elevate his
toothless jaws, and, opening his huge mouth, send forth
towards the heavens a doleful and horrible howl. Poor
Bonus! it was his best. He would have yelped and
laughed, like the younger dogs, if he could; but all that
he could do towards approaching a proper expression of
the common joy were the hoarse, guttural notes, which
from time to time reached the ears of Isabel, and made
her turn pale with apprehension. “It is an evil omen,
dear Kate,” she said, trying to laugh.
“It is old Bonus' best mode age has left him to hail
your bridal day,” I answered. “You should take it as
a compliment from the old dog, Bel. Hear him! It
does sound wofully doleful, but let it not annoy you. I
will have him muzzled. But pardon his unusual excitement,
considering the occasion.”
But Bel was troubled, and I had to order Pierre to
put a muzzle on the howling patriarch; and no sooner
had he obeyed, than all the little dogs ceased their revolutions
after their tails, and came and stood around him,
gazing upon him with looks of curiosity and canine sympathy,
and evidently were doing their best respectfully
to console the old patriarch.
Noon at length passed, and I went in the carriage to
the chapel, to see if it were all dressed for the bridal.
On the way I met Dr. S—, the clergyman, in his
black coat and white stock, jogging along on a big,
handsome mule, which was his favorite riding horse.
“Good day, Miss Conynghame,” he said, bowing with
courteous kindness. “You will find the chapel all arranged
with taste, by my daughters, and several other
maidens. How is Miss Peyton?”
“Well, sir,” I answered. “Isidore was wishing to
see you, to ask some questions about what he should say
and do in the ceremony.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, smilingly. “Young people feel
a little nervous at such times. I must drill him to the
tactics for the day. Good-bye.”
So he thrust his left heel thrice into the left flank of
his mule “Columbus,” and went pacing off up the Levee
road, at an enormous gait.
I soon came in sight of the chapel. It was prettily
and rurally situated, in a fine grove, a hundred and fifty
rods from the road. It faced the river, and, with its
little cemetery about it, glittering with white marble
monuments, formed a picturesque feature in the scenery.
But all was beautiful everywhere the eye fell, the whole
mile from the chateau to the chapel, and for leagues below
it. The river road was bordered with gardens,
and villas, and lawns, and groves, on one side, and on
the other was the green elevation of the Levee, with the
ever-rolling tide of the dark brown flood of the Mississippi,
the other side of it; while upon its broad bosom
were pleasure boats, and row-boats, crossing this way
and that—fishermen suspended motionless above the
deep, in their light red canoes, and in the distance, the
majestic forms of ascending and descending steamers
marked their paths above the trees by long trains of
dark, chocolate-colored smoke. All was beautiful and
grand, with the splendid sun shining obliquely down on
all, tesselating land and water with a mammoth mosaic
of light and shadow, copying on the ground, “in shade,”
the forms of all things it shone upon.
The little chapel is an ancient and very small edifice,
brown and ivy-grown, with signs of age in its steep,
moss-covered roof, and weather-brown doors. It has
two narrow painted windows, on each side, a triplelancet
window above the chancel, and a lower one oddly
shaped, surmounted by a red spire, crowned by a cross,
which had once been gilt, but was now bronzed by exposure.
Two immense sycamores stood before the low
Gothic door of the tower, and rising far in the air, spread
their broad, white arms protectingly above it; while in
their rear grew elms, and a majestic live-oak, that over-shadowed
the altar-window, and a lowly grave beneath.
Shade, repose, and holy seclusion marked the spot.
One might forget there, it would seem, that around,
though out of sight, rolled the great wicked world, and
that sin was but a dream of the past, but for the graves
about, and the recollection of the fearful words, “Death
came by sin.”
Yes, even there, in that sweet, secluded, shut-out spot
of peace, the graves—which added to its solemn beauty,
and gave it an air of repose—spoke of
sin! No—nowhere
on earth can we escape the presence of it, or of
its memorials: it is only in that bright world, beyond
the glittering constellations that pave the floor of the
“mansions of God,” that peace and sinlessness are
known. “
There shall be no more sin.”
All things on earth speak of death. Its sable seal is
impressed upon everything below. The flower buds,
blooms, diffuses its fragrance, and withers away. This
is death. The lordly oak decays with age, and falls to
mingle with the dust from which it sprung: and this is
death! The day fades into twilight, and loses itself in
the shades of night: and this is death! The green spring,
which blooms through all the summer, in autumn turns
gray and sear, and casts its dry leaves upon the earth:
and this is death! The new moon fulls, and wanes, and
ceases to shine: and this is death! The stars leave their
spheres, glitter for a brilliant moment, and disappear in
darkness: and this is death!
The seal of death is truly impressed upon all things
beneath the shining sun. “Nothing remains in one stay.”
Even the nuptial vow before the altar was echoed from
the white marble monuments of the dead, that glared
into the windows upon the bridal.
But, my dear sir, this is a sad conclusion for a letter
upon a “wedding.” But it is the reflection of the shadow
upon my heart. Isabel's marriage has made me
weep more than smile, for she is lost to me, and ere many
days elapse, we separate—perhaps forever.
In my next, Mr. —, I will describe the wedding, for
really I have no heart to do it to-day.
