That send their light afar,
With a chaste and softened splendor,
Like the light of a distant star!”
“And where is this wonderful castle,
With its rich emblazonings,
Whose pomp so far surpasses
The homes of the greatest kings?”
“Come out with me at morning,
And lie in the meadow-grass,
And lift your eyes to the ether blue,
And you will see it pass.
“There! can you not see the battlements;
And the turrets stately and high,
Whose lofty summits are tipped with clouds,
And lost in the arching sky?”
“Dear friend, you are only dreaming;
Your castle so stately and fair
Is only a fanciful structure—
A castle in the air.”
“Perchance you are right. I know not
If a phantom it may be;
But yet, in my inmost heart, I feel
That it lives, and lives for me;—
“For, when clouds and darkness are round me,
And my heart is heavy with care,
I steal me away from the noisy crowd,
To dwell in my castle fair.
“There are servants to do my bidding;
There are servants to heed my call;
And I, with a master’s air of pride,
May pace through the vaulted hall.
“And I envy not the monarchs
With cities under their sway;
For am I not, in my own right,
A monarch as proud as they?
“What matter, then, if to others
My castle a phantom may be,
Since I feel, in the depth of my own heart,
That it is not so to me?”
MISS HENDERSON’S
THANKSGIVING DAY.
Thanksgiving Day dawned clearly and frostily upon the little village of Castleton Hollow. The stage which connected daily with the nearest railroad station (for as yet Castleton Hollow had not arrived at the dignity of one of its own) came fully freighted, both inside and out. There were children and children’s children, who, in the pursuit of fortune, had strayed away from the homes where they first saw the light; but who were now returning, to revive, around the old familiar hearth, the associations and recollections of their early days.
Great were the preparations among the housewives of Castleton Hollow. That must indeed be a poor household which, on this occasion, could not boast its turkey and plum-pudding—those well-established dishes; not to mention its long rows of pies—apple, mince, and pumpkin—wherewith the Thanksgiving board is wont to be garnished.
But it is not of the households generally that I propose to speak. Let the reader accompany me, in imagination, to a rather prim-looking brick mansion, situated on the principal street, but at some distance back, being separated from it by a front yard. Between this yard and the fence ran a prim-looking hedge, of very formal cut, being cropped in the most careful manner, lest one twig should, by chance, have the presumption to grow higher than its kindred. It was a two-story house, containing in each story one room on either side of the front door; making, of course, four in all.
If we go in, we shall find the outward primness well supported by the appearance of things within. In the front parlor—we may peep through the door, but it would be high treason, in the present moistened state of our boots, to step within its sacred precincts—there are six high-backed chairs standing in state, two at each window. One can easily see, from the general arrangement of the furniture, that from romping children, unceremonious kittens, and unhallowed intruders generally, this room is most sacredly guarded.
Without speaking particularly of the other rooms—which, though not furnished in so stately a manner, bear a family resemblance to “the best room,”—we will usher the reader into the opposite room, where he will find the owner and occupant of this prim-looking residence.
Courteous reader! Miss Hetty Henderson. Miss Hetty Henderson, let me make you acquainted with this lady (or gentleman), who is desirous of knowing you better.
Miss Hetty Henderson, with whom the reader has just passed through the ceremony of introduction, is a maiden of some thirty-five summers, attired in a sober-looking dress of irreproachable neatness, but most formal cut. She is the only occupant of the house, of which, likewise, she is proprietor. Her father, who was the village physician, died some ten years since; leaving to Hetty—or perhaps I should give her full name, Henrietta—his only child, the house in which he lived, and some four thousand dollars in bank-stock, on the income of which she lived very comfortably.
Somehow, Miss Hetty had never married; though, such is the mercenary nature of man, the rumor of her inheritance brought to her feet several suitors. But Miss Hetty had resolved never to marry—at least, this was her invariable answer to matrimonial offers; and so, after a time, it came to be understood that she was fixed for life—an old maid. What reasons impelled her to this course were not known; but possibly the reader will be furnished with a clew before he finishes this narrative.
Meanwhile, the invariable effect of a single and solitary life combined attended Hetty. She grew precise, prim, and methodical, to a painful degree. It would have been quite a relief if one could have detected a stray thread even upon her well-swept carpet; but such was never the case.
On this particular day—this Thanksgiving Day of which we are speaking—Miss Hetty had completed her culinary preparations; that is, she had stuffed her turkey and put it in the oven, and kneaded her pudding; for, though she knew that but one would be present at the dinner, her conscience would scarcely have acquitted her if she had not made all the preparations to which she had been accustomed on such occasions.
This done, she sat down to her knitting; casting a glance every now and then at the oven, to make sure that all was going on well. It was a quiet morning; and Miss Hetty’s thoughts kept time to the clicking of her knitting-needles.
“After all,” thought she, “it’s rather solitary taking dinner alone, and that on Thanksgiving Day. I remember, a long time ago, when my father and my brothers and sisters were living, what a merry time we used to have round the table. But they are all dead; and I—I alone—am left.”
Miss Hetty sighed; but, after a while, the recollections of those old times returned. She tried to shake them off; but they had a fascination about them, after all, and would not go at her bidding.
“There used to be another there,” thought she—“Nick Anderson. He too, I fear, is dead.”
Hetty heaved a thoughtful sigh, and a faint color came into her cheeks. She had reason. This Nicholas Anderson had been a medical student, apprenticed to her father; or rather placed with him, to be prepared for his profession. He was perhaps a year older than Hetty, and had regarded her with more than ordinary warmth of affection. He had, in fact, proposed to her, and had been conditionally accepted on a year’s probation. The trouble was, he was a little disposed to be wild, and, being naturally of a lively and careless temperament,