University of Virginia Library

THE ABDUCTION.

Proserpine! Proserpine! hold! beware! temptation may
be too tempting! She little heeds the warning which Prudence,
in her ears, whispers and urges; but cheek, and eye,

and tongue, and hand, are busy all coquetting. She gathers
up her flowers, and presses them closely together, and binds
them with the ends of her long flowing hair. And often, as
she binds them, she looks, with half shut eye, through the
meshes of her locks; and through her long, dark eyelashes,
the beams of a mellow dreamy eye, fall, broken, upon Pluto.
So, moonlight rays, through intertwining trees, sprinkle the
leafy ground, in yellow autumn. And now she scatters them
to the winds, and claps her empty hands, bending her bare
white arms; and now she gathers the woodrose gay, and
snatches the pale lily, and winds them with a willow wreath,
and presses them, all trembling, against her leaping heart,
and fawn-like, startled, flies, but archly she looks back and
peals in Pluto's ear a merry laugh. Her maidens, delighted,
encourage the flirtation, rejoicing in the grace and beauty of
their mistress.

His majesty looked like a natural fool, while loud the
echoed joy rang through the sacred grove. “I am seduced,”
thought he, “from principle and promise; from all my vows
of single blessedness; from my course of life, and love of
business! alas! I am seduced! She must go down to Erebus
with me, for certain.”

“Will you accept a violet, sir?” said Proserpine, O, how
meekly! and curtesying with well-put-on solemnity, as
she stood by the chariot, and lifting up the flower, exposed
her upturned throat, and deep, full, swelling bust, to Pluto's
glowing gaze. “Will you accept a violet, good sir?”

“Violate?” gasped the king of night, not knowing what
he said. “Yes, yes, my angel, yes, jump in;” and Pluto's
iron arm was on the maiden's cestus, and into the chariot
lifted her.

Away!—away!—What voice is that, shaking the trembling

air, and urging Pluto's steeds! Alas! alas! what grief
is that, so long, so loud, so bitter? What goddess pleads
so piteously, and who is deaf to her prayer? Ye maidens
at Pergus, say, why do ye weep, beating your breasts, and
tearing your hair! Where, where is your mistress?

Lost Proserpina's shrieks no gentle pity moved in her
immortal ravisher. Upon his coursers' necks, abandoned,
lie the reins, for both his hands are needed, the maiden's cries
to stifle, and bind her active arms down, and keep her in
the chariot. The steeds dash on the accustomed way,
o'er hill and dale, swamp and marsh, “rocks, caves, lakes,
fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death,” the dreary road to
Tartarus.

“Oh! mother! mother! goddess Ceres!” besought the
struggling girl; “save your unhappy daughter.”

“Be quiet, love, you shall be queen of Hell, my bride, my
wife,” said Pluto, bending upon one knee, and still, with
equal zeal, encouraging his horses, each by name;—“To
reign is worth ambition, though in Hell; `better to reign in
Hell, than serve in Heaven,' ” pursued the seducer, quoting
his old friend Orpheus. “People may talk of the need of a
minister, Hymen, or flamen, to sanction a match, but believe
me, the doctrine's suspicious and sinister. A license to
marry? It is a mere catch—it's all in my eye—and so
says Fanny Wright—nay, Proserpine, I prithee, do not cry
so bitterly; these tears fall worse than idly.”

Tears, promises, and prayers, threats, flattery, and protestations—how
mingled all, and all how vain! The raptured
bride no consolation knew, for being made a queen against her
virgin will—none but the old man's wealth and extensive dominion—what
goddess or woman was ever so foolish but that
she would listen to reason?

“O! what a horrid beard!” said Proserpine, quite faintly
—“and then—your breath is so sulphureous,”—

“Fear not, my dearest, Saunders has just new honed my
razors—* * * * *—and then your majesty may rest assured,
there is no better seidlitz in the world than a good
draught of Lethe.”

But now they reached the realms of modest Cyane, cool,
chaste, immaculate nymph; the coursers' heated hoofs hiss
in her sacred fountain. An ancient nymph was she, of puritan
extraction, a rigid methodist, and censor stern of fleshly
weaknesses. Three thousand years had rolled over her virgin
head, yet had no wanton lip tasted her withered cheek.
Up, from the parting waves, ascended the cold nymph, and
chilled the raging team with sudden frost. The chariot stood
still.

“Who bars our way?” cried the imperial lover—“and stays
our happy nuptials?”

“'T is I forbid the banns,” said the lady of the lake, putting
her arms akimbo. “Have you never yet heard of an action
per quod, for running away with a woman? By G—d! This
is too much, a veteran monarch like you, not waiting to ask
for permission to sue, leaving old ætna, and steering for
Gretna, you, surely, are crazy, or else you are blue. Ah! my
poor girl, I pity your unhappy—”

“Pray, mind your own business, good madam,” said Proserpine,
sharply, but hiding her face with her hands.

The king of Orcus waited for no more, hearing with grim
delight the words of spite and passion blended. Upon the
yielding earth, with fierce and violent strength, he smote his
whipstock. Straightway there lay disclosed, precipitous, but
smooth, a turnpike new macadamised, leading down to the
kingdom. The adamantine gates shone dimly through the

shades, in dusky brightness, and on his eager ear, glad in the
welcome sound, fell the accustomed bark of trusty Cerberus.
“We'll soon be home, my love.”

“O! whither do you bear me? stay! curb your rushing
steeds! How dark!—stay!—stay!—I faint!—the air!—release
me!—in pity let me go!—let me go home to my
mother!”—

“Not to-night, Proserpine, not to-night.”

“When, when, in mercy—when?” shrieked the lost penitent.

“Never, Proserpine, never.”