The fountain and the bottle comprising thrilling examples of the opposite effects of temperance and intemperance |
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KARL AND CORINNE. |
 | The fountain and the bottle |  |
KARL AND CORINNE.
By Mrs. Mary B. Horton.
“All are merry, all are happy, all are loved, in
this great city, but one unfortunate! All happy, all
gay! And I, with spirit loving all things beautiful,
longing for companionship with the gentle and refined,
with the knowledge burning within, that I
the sphere I move in, I must live, and grieve and die,
in this pent-up atmosphere, with no name in the
world's history, no place in any mortal's memory!”
Oh! the bitterness of that gifted mind—the crushing
hopelessness of that lonely lot! Worse than the
bed of languishing was the sickness which filled that
soul; worse than death, far worse, the coldness which
was creeping over that rich heart!
A young girl sat by the window of a low dwelling,
in a crowded street. She was a foreigner, with the
dark rich beauty of her native land triumphant through
the gloom of heavy sadness which rested on her eloquent
face. She sat with her head drooping, and her
beautiful hands clasped—a picture of hopelessness,
lovely even in its colouring of abandonment to the
bitter hour.
Lonely and touching was that sorrowing one; and
when a voice from a bed in one corner of the room
faintly called “Corinne,” the struggle she made to
overcome the oppression of her spirit, so she might
answer the call, composedly gave her high brow a
holier charm, and made her seem, in that poor dwelling,
like a mortal type of those who are the invisible
agents of heavenly mercy.
That was indeed an humble room—a very humble
room for genius and beauty to make a home of! No
birds were there—no flowers—no music from hearts
or lips! Sickness was there, and gloom, old age, and
fretfulness, shadows and sighs! The only sunshine
there, was the young girl, in her patient care of her
greatest shadow on the hearth, was that of an old
man, sullenly brooding over by-gone days; an old
man withered by the going out of fiery youth, when
there was no other, inner life, to give a charm and
freshness to the aged brow. That shadow was ever
on the hearth—her mother's wandering words ever
in her ear. Why wonder that the lonely girl gave
vent sometimes to the bitter tide flooding her heart;
that she pined for sympathy, as a weary and fainting
traveller in a strange land?
The morning upon which that sad soliloquy was
breathed, when the heart of the spiritually-longing
girl seemed weighed down with a new heaviness,
was New Year—“happy New Year;” and she had
felt anew how little she was cared for—how little the
world possessed of gladness to her, as she heard the
noisy greeting of children in the street, and saw the
little gifts shown proudly around. She passed from
childish joy to the pure pleasure of older minds, rejoicing
in tokens of affection on this day of festival;
and, in her solitude and sadness, envied all sinlessly
the blessedness of those remembered by the loving.
Yes, 'twas New Year's day in gay New York.
The air was clear and cold—the heavens in a most
favourable state for communicating the bright morning
greeting of gay, generous Old Sol, to our fair
Mother Earth. The streets of the famed Gotham
rested from the constant pressure of loaded drays
upon their stony breasts, (forgive me! that I make
them so cold-hearted,) and the closed shutters of the
that young clerks dealt with more animated things
that day than measuring-sticks and silks, and were
not “at home” to never so anxious customers.
All over the great city, fair maidens and plain,
high-born and lowly, were preparing for “calls” expected.
All over the great city, creation's lords looked in
their mirrors anxiously, and put the finishing grace
to whiskers as carefully turned as a lady's curl.
All over the great city, white gloves and well-brushed
hats lay upon bachelors' tables, ready for the
hour which Fashion had said was the proper one to
commence “congratulations.”
And all over the great city luxuries were laid out,
as if the slaves of Aladdin's lamp had been called
upon for a universal feast.
Door-bells rung; servant men and maids answering
them, received large packages and small, all eloquent
with compliments and gifts.
Fifes were played, drums were beaten, trumpets
made their loud alarum through the nurseries of all
homes, where baby-boys played war with their new
toys; and wonderful was the birth of waxen beauties,
with marvellous blue eyes—out of order soon, from
constant using—which made the hearts of baby-girls
bound with the embryo emotions of motherly joy.
Some young ladies' hearts were dancing, some
trembling hopefully. Some young men's hearts were
delightfully calm and firm, some dreadfully undermined
All?
There was no rich table spread in the close room
called Corinne's home. No toilette received her
thought—no gift came, with its voice of love, or
friendly interest. She listened to no footstep, for
there was none but would pass by. She waited for
no fond kiss, for the lips of brother and sister in the
wide world's family were, to her, as if they had been
of ice; they were deadly cold to the stranger in the
low dwelling!
Alone upon the sea of life! with no star in the
heaven of hope—no voice on the dreary waste of deep,
dark water, to soothe! Poor girl! Poverty in gold
was very light to bear, compared to that dread poverty
the soul was crushed by! Her duty was the
one object of her life. She freely gave her youth and
strength to it; but it made her eye dim sometimes.
Her mother, beautiful but weak, had, after her first
widowhood, been bought by an old man's gold. The
wealth which bribed her to forget the dead was lost;
and she soon sank into a languor of the heart and
mind, that made her child's life a constant sacrifice.
The husband, stunned by the fall from affluence to
poverty, and with no heart of youth to win back by
patience his lost riches, became morose and sullen,
leaving to his step-daughter the miserable effort to
gain their daily bread.
Was not this a home to break the young spirit
down? No comfort in her mother's smile, for there
of that old man, a stranger, as it were, even on her
hearth! She must not leave her to die, or him to
starve, and so she poured the wealth of her gifted intellect
out lavishly for their sakes, coining her lofty
thoughts for food.
A few months ago, and they had lived in a sunny
land, a land of poetry; had looked upon a landscape
of vineyard, stream, and wood, which they could call
their own. And now they were the tenants of a low,
mean dwelling, across the waters, over which they
had fled in pride and poverty. The mother sickened
with the change, and became as helpless as a child;
but the old man's nature turned to hate, for the beautiful
Corinne had been, innocently, the ruin of his
house.
A young Italian count, wanting in all things honourable,
had offered the noble girl indignities, which
she resented so proudly, with such galling contempt,
that his evil nature was excited almost to frenzy, and
he determined to bring her down to poverty, if not to
shame. It was an important crisis in the stepfather's
affairs, when this bad purpose was resolved upon;
and its accomplishment brought bitter trial to the
virtuous Corinne. The old man cursed her often as
the destroyer of his fortunes—the dark shadow upon
his life.
She a shadow of evil! Old man, look upon the
hearth!
Before the noon of that New Year's day, a clearer
brightness filled the wandering eye. “What can it
mean?” whispered Corinne's heart.
It means, poor orphan child, that the Author of the
life to you so burdensome, is nearing her reward—
that the old man brooding selfishly will soon be left
a griefless widower, the solitary sharer of your unhappy
destiny—that while you gaze, the spirit of one
that has been immortal is filling with immortality—
with visions all too wonderful for speech!
And gently, peacefully, the spirit passed from the
earthly to the heavenly. Corinne stood by the bed
of death, moved by its sanctity, but more envying
than grieving, as she saw the calmness settling on
those features, so lately troubled with the expression
of a fading mind's unquiet. When her father left her
for his better home, Corinne had needed every consolation;
for to him she owed all the cultivation of her
intellect—the best affections of her heart. But her
mother's beauty had been her only dower; and when
disease came to her, the weakness of her mind became
more distinct with fading loveliness. Alas!
that one who had received the precious gift of an immortal
child, should ever neglect devotion to it, for
fond attentions to charms not half so beautiful as a
mother's love!
Yet, as Corinne gazed on her beautiful parent, no
longer restless with life, she trusted that the weakness
she had mourned over would be most mercifully
dealt with in the great judgment court; for her mother
had been a petted, darling child, and the sin of
than hers.
Until sunset, the orphan was busy round the dead,
who slept so peacefully. The old man made no sign
that he was moved by his bereavement, but sat with
his forehead upon his hand, as he always sat, and his
voice muttering, as it always muttered, dark words
against the virtue whose keeping had cast him from
his place of honour down—down to the wretched fortunes
of that hour.
The beauty which he had sought with childish
eagerness to win, was like the loveliness of the child
whose purity had ruined him; and so it became hateful
to him. Death upon that white brow could not
soften him, for the armour of his soul was of the steel
of selfishness; and no dart but that which would destroy
his own mortal nature could pierce it.
Corinne had finished the duties which are called
sad—she had shrouded the still waving lines of
beauty in the last robe—when a knock startled her.
It was a strange sound in that dull place, and Corinne
hastened to answer it as speedily as if it had been the
voice of an angel visitant, whispering “Let Hope
in!”
There was no angel visiter upon the threshold as
she opened the door; but Hope did come in. A gift
was handed her—her, the lonely, the uncared-for!
A New Year's gift! of a valuable Italian work, elegantly
bound, “A tribute from a friend, who respected
talent and great fidelity.” And the note
which accompanied it—how kind, how loving: full
necessity of the writer's remaining unknown to her;
but breathing throughout a half-veiled passion, very
like a lover's.
The old man had raised his head anxiously at the
sight of the unexpected package; but had bent it
again, with something like a groan, as a richly ornamented
book alone repaid him for the effort. He
thought it might be gold.
Oh! it was gold to one poor heart there! It was
a voice from a human soul—a bright link thrown to
her from the social chain, binding her anew to the
outer world. It was a gleam of light dancing through
all the dark chambers of her soul, giving her new life
even in that visiting-place of death. It was true, that
she had on that New Year's day lost all sympathy of
blood with the race her mother sprung from; but the
long-chilled current of heart had been warmed, and
began to flow, as the youthful tide ever should. The
icy crust at the fountain head of joy gave way at
the warm touch of friendliness. Even her eye was
moistened with the sweet waters, so refreshing to her
thirsty soul.
And when she sat down by her mother's bed again,
she almost trembled at the power a new hope had
over her; she almost saddened again, in believing she
was cruel to her mother's memory, in filling her place
so soon with a new image.
But her parent had been dead to her for months;
and the joy of being thought of, loved, had been born
to her since the sun rose. We cannot wonder that
opened with.
Passionate, gifted, spiritual Corinne Gietti, gave
the rich treasure of her unshared thoughts to the author
of the earnest note lying now close to her heart;
and that New Year's evening, by the departed, remained
for ever clear in the young girl's memory
when time and happiness had faded the impressions
of her other lonely hours.
“My poor, poor Karl! What gladness can all this
wealth and brightness give me, when my only son,
my darling boy, is losing all his nobleness in the love
of wine?”
Was there any cause for sorrow on this New Year's
evening in the rich dwelling of Peter Van Schenck?
Was the heart of a millionaire troubled as one crushed
by poverty?
Brilliant were the rooms, and gay the meeting of
young friends, in this mansion of a father grieving
for his first born. The New Year's tables were
loaded with delicate confections; the fanciful Chinese
and antique stands were burdened with costly gifts;
dazzling light fell all around, illuminating curtained
recesses, rich in cunning bijouterie; and music
was there, with flowers, smiles, and their mother—
Hope.
But a shadow was there; and although the blaze
of light might fall directly on that father's brow, it
could not take the shadow off. And though the mother's
eye sparkled sometimes at one joy left, the light
trembled on the lashes, dropping often and heavily
upon the cheek. And, although the sister shone a
gem of beauty beneath the brilliant ray, it could not
pierce the inner temple, where lay the ruins of strong
affections, and gild them joyfully.
A son, an only son—a brother, an only brother—
with a warm heart, and intellect refined by a student's
life, had given idolizing friends a taste of sorrow
more bitter than that the death-call brings. For many
years, young Karl Van Schenck had loved the wine-cup
better than the peace of hearts; and on this annual
festival had ever returned at a late hour, and
with a polluted brow, to his aristocratic home. The
anxious ear of father, mother, sister, had ever caught
his well-known sound of the uneven step, as it approached
their door, and listened, as it slowly, stumblingly
passed over the stairs which led to the erring
one's room. The New Year's night was sure to
bring the trembling form, the wandering eye; for the
many calls during the exciting day brought many a
draught of poison to Karl's lips.
Oh! away with this red snare of wine, which evil
lurks in, because it cannot linger amid the fruits and
flowers which innocence loves so well! Let it no
longer fascinate, with its glowing eye and biting
tongue, the sons and brothers, who pass from house
to house with the New Year's congratulations! Let
Nature's unpolluted gifts, the varied confectionary
of ingenious Art, and the cheering contents of the
smoking urn, be enough of hospitality, without the
excited lips!
But what light stronger than the brightness of that
artificial day—what joy greater than the youthful
hope upon the faces of that gay company—has cast
suddenly away the shadow from the father's brow—
has quenched the tear in the mother's eye—has
gilded the ruins in the sister's heart? Nothing more
bright than the presence of a young man, who, presenting
a beautiful boquet to Kate Van Schenck,
kissed her cheek lovingly.
It was the son—the brother! His eye was clear,
his fine form erect, his hand firm and warm, as he
grasped his sister's, with an emphasis that had a
world of meaning in it. He met his mother's eye
with the consciousness of its joyful wonder glowing
in his face; and sought her side, after due attention
to his sister's guests, with the fervour of a prodigal.
He had a gift for both his parents; but what were
gifts compared to his dear presence, as he stood there
in manly beauty, with reason unwavering—with intellect
unquenched by wine? And oh! how merrily
to them now passed the hours! All was shadowless,
now that the light of Karl's clear eye fell upon the
scene.
A gleam of joy had come to the rich dwelling,
while the beautiful watcher by the untroubled couch
dreamed of new life.
That night, a strong man bent his knee for the first
time before the throne, and asked for strength to overcome
by earnest prayer his vow of reformation.
'Twas New Year's evening again. Twelve months
had passed since Hope had sent her angles to the
poor dwelling of Corinne, and the young Karl's luxuriant
home. The lowly room was desolate now; but
again the rich mansion of Peter Van Schenck was
dazzling with light—again a gay company was assembled
in the spacious rooms. But the rooms were
crowded now, and more lavishly adorned with the
rare embroidery of flowers. Jewels flashed, feathers
kissed snowy necks, rich dresses added grace to lovely
forms. All was life, all flutter, all animation. It was
a bridal! Whose?
Who was the bride? The “very beautiful,” whose
romantic story was on all lips? Who was it, that
bore herself so gracefully, so nobly, before a multitude
of eyes? What made all hearts acknowledge
there was worth enough under that gifted brow to
equal rank; and wonder not, that the passionate love
of such a creature had won a victim from fast-strengthening
chains?
It was Corinne!—Corinne, the lonely orphan girl!
—who stood now by the side of Karl Van Schenck,
the wife, the idol of his soul! It was Corinne! raised
from the darkness of her low home to this brilliancy of
fashion and wealth! Corinne! the dreaming watcher
—the labourer for bread—now petted by a happy
family—now the object of such love as she had longed
for in heavily-burdened hours!
And never was there a happier bridal; never was
there a lovelier bride known in the proud circle in
which the Van Schencks moved. Even the old man,
whose shadow had been upon the hearth so long,
caught the admiration of the crowd; and made himself
useful now in telling how wealthy he had been!
and ennobling his beautiful step-daughter's purity by
giving it as the cause of their changed fortunes. The
old man's heart was softened wonderfully by the
homage Corinne was now the object of.
But how came this all about?
One little year ago, and the unknown friend sent
his first token of interest—ay, love—to the young foreigner.
One little year ago, that affection was first
acknowledged, which had the power to raise the lover
from the “downward way” to the glorious height of
temperance and prayer. It had proved a more persuasive
guide than filial or fraternal love; and led
him to his home a changed—a liberated man. All
unconsciously Beauty and Genius in Obscurity had
brought light and joy to high places clouded by grief.
Karl had first seen Corinne in the office of the
publisher, who accepted her articles to his own profit
more than hers. Struck by her peculiar beauty, he
had sought all means to know her history, watching
her secretly in her regular visits to the publisher,
(the only visits she seemed to make,) and strengthening
at every sight of her the interest which had
been awakened in his heart.
He read her eloquent appeals to the wayward, the
sinning, the uncharitable of the earth, with wondering
memorable New Year's day, he had been touched to
his very soul by one of her womanly defences of the
weak and erring, in which she had declared she
would sooner trust the being whose leading passion
was the love of wine, than one whose spirit had untruth
for its foundation—who steeped his words in
sweet deceit, and smoothed his brow with falsehood.
There was no hope where beautiful Truth was not
permitted to be a guest; but the strong draught did
not always or speedily drown the noble sentiments of
the soul.
Karl felt that she was right—that notwithstanding
his years of weakness, the heavenly whisperers were
not all hushed—that the refinement of his mind was
not yet made gross by the companionship of those
who spurned all moralities. There was hope for him;
and on the morning of that first New Year, he earnestly
resolved to keep his lip from touching the glass,
which might be offered to him during his many calls.
When evening came, his lip was pure of the red
stain; and with a hopeful heart he sent his first offering
to the gentle girl whose image had strengthened
him.
Corinne was too holy in her loneliness and trials
for him to bring shame or sorrow to her, and Karl
determined to make her his own wedded wife, if he
could win her, after a trial of his vow of temperance
for half a year.
He still remained unknown; but the solitary Italian
constantly received some earnest token that the
her—soon would pray for a gift coveted beyond all
things else. He must have intercourse with her thus
to keep his spirit strong.
The six months passed away, and the “unknown,”
treasured so faithfully in fancy, had not long to wait
for the devoted girl's declaration that she was indeed,
in her loneliness, “all his own.” Her proud spirit
could not brook, however, the contempt or condescension
she might reasonably expect from the wealthy
family she must enter, if she wedded Karl; and it
was not until the loving Kate warmly claimed her as
sister, and the parents of her lover blessed her for
the joy she had brought their aching hearts, that she
was convinced her dower of purity was more costly
in their eyes than lands or gold.
Corinne would wait until the anniversary of the
day so memorable to her, before she gave her hand to
Karl, and so on New Year's night she became a bride.
Her husband always blessed her, and turned not back
from the upward and onward way she had pointed
out.
Oh! let not the lowly and the gifted, sorrow that
they act no part in the world's history! Some pitying,
softening word, dropped on man's heart, may
melt it to good deeds, giving new music to the spirit
of some loving one, and a new song to angels.
| The fountain and the bottle | |