THE OLD FAMILY PLACE.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

IN THREE PARTS.

PART I. THE HEIR OF

ELMWOOD-HOLMES.

OH! Elmwood-Holmes, once beautiful! How dull and desolate
The mournful grass along the road seen through thy old park gate!
How lone, in all thy avenues, shines out the summer sun,

With nothing that hath life or breath to shed his beams upon;
Except the wild bird, singing loud among the branches high,
Or squirrel leaping fearlessly, no human footstep nigh!

How rank thy lawns, that once were kept so shaven-smooth and green-
How grey, on urns and statues white, the lichen-damp is seen―
How dismal looks the marble fount, where now no waters play-

Its dusty basin choked and dry, in ruinous decay!
And round thy silent terraces neglected roses grow,
Their very beauty making worse the melancholy show,

As, toss'd upon the ruffling breeze, untrain'd the branches fling
Their flexile sprays, like grieving arms, that seek in vain to cling
Once more round some beloved support, where long ago they lean'd,
Safe shadow'd from the summer heat,-from wintry tempest screen'd!

Closed are the windows, one and all,-the house looks blank and blind-
Within its empty, echoing courts, no sound but moaning wind.

Hot, creaking, and uncarpeted, the burnished oaken floors

And faded pictures dimly smile along the corridors,

The only image now, of man, in that forsaken place,

The lingering memories left of what was once a stately race.

Was once?-Hath, then, that noble park no owner and no heir?

Where's he should dwell at Elmwood-Holmes? The echo answers—“Where ?”

Beneath a bright Italian sky his infant footsteps roam,

As happy in that foreign land as though he were at home.

He hath no memories—no regrets-to him it is all one:

Dear are the radiant flowers-though pluck'd beneath a foreign sun

The orange bowers and ilex groves, where he may freely stray,

The scatter'd olive grounds, which leave blue glimpses of the bay;
And the dark cypress, soft and tall, that points above his head
To that calm heaven his fancy fills with angels of the dead.
No tears, no aching thoughts, for him the landscape hath awoke;
Unmoved he sees the heavy pine replace the British oak.
But oh! his mother's look of grief no firmness can control,—

It tells how deep the iron shaft hath enter'd in her soul.

For her, old terraces, old walks, old English lanes arise,

And force the colour from her cheek-the teardrop to her eyes.

In vain she stifles all she feels, and struggles not to think

She sees the glades in Elmwood Park, where deer came down to drink ;

The long cool twilight seems to hang above the river-side,

The sheep-bell tinkles from the hill, the white swans gently glide;
The sights of home-the sounds of home-they haunt her once again :
She cannot bear it,—she must weep, or die of inward pain!

And down she droops her wailing head upon her wasted hands;
Then rising up, she leads him forth, who, spoil'd of house and lands,
Goes, trilling like a little bird, some snatch of merry song,
Unconscious of the grief of her who guides his steps along,-
Unconscious that his father's life of wild luxurious joy
Hath made a beggar of his heir-an exile of his boy!

His father! Oh! how loud the world, how eager in its blame,
How scornfully and sneeringly it speaks that father's name!
She only who hath suffer'd most, refrains from speaking ill :
The one just voice that might complain-that voice is hush'd and still;
Yea, even the ruin that hath reach'd her helpless orphan's head,
Hath fail'd to make the widow slur the mem'ry of the dead.
"Wild,―selfish,-proud,-extravagant :"-she knows that this is truth;
But, oh! he was her early choice-the husband of her youth!
And what's the worth of love that straight begins to pause and halt
As soon as it discov'ry makes of some untoward fault?
What colder thing can strangers do, unknit by ties of blood-
(With every right to change their mien according to their mood)-
What colder thing can strangers do, than leave us when they find
All is not perfect in the heart or noble in the mind?

Heaven bless the deep and earnest love, which, like a constant river,
Where once it frays itself a course, will roll therein for ever!
Not doling measured kindness out, as if it were reward,
Not keeping tenderness encaged, with reason for its guard;
Not steering, under careful sail, some calculated course,
But humbly true to simple vows, "for better or for worse."
For, oh! no matter what the cause-how justly disapproved-
The heart that joins the world in blame forsaketh its beloved!
Too close, on equal ground, true love should stand, for looking down;
That erring heart, with all its faults, should beat too near our own,
To give us leave to act as though we filled a judgment-seat,
Condemning and absolving it,—a suppliant at our feet!

Affection! humblest parasite that ever fed on air,
Asks not, if what it once entwines, be worthy of its care;
Vainly, by prying, wondering hands, 'tis plucked aside to know
What bids such freshening loveliness with sapless ruin grow ;*
Released, it droops and clings again, e'en where it clung before-
Its root of gentle life is there,-the wisest learn no more!

So loved, through sunshine, cloud, and storm, the lady of my lay-
So clung, when every other friend thought fit to fall away;
And still with tenderness she thinks of him for ever gone,
Though Elmwood-Holmes, her orphan's right, is desert, waste, and lone.

* See the description given by botanists of the beautiful race of air-plants.

THE JEWISH MARRIAGE.

"My shildren, gader yourshelves round my kneesh, and I vill tell you a pratty little shtory of a shircumshtansh vich vonce happened to our peoplesh.

"It vas a long, long time ago, and did not take plashe in dis shtupid country of England, vere de Normansh, and plaguesh take 'em, vere killing and robbing our faders at that time, but in de beautiful country called Shpain-you know, vere de orangesh come from."

"We have always been partial to de Spanish," here remarked Rabbi Sloman, a young wag, whose impudence has raised him from the duty of carrying the bag, to that of seizing upon the luckless streetpassenger in Holywell-street, and dragging him into the shop of Mr. Aminadab, Sloman's worthy employer.

"Get out, Rabbi Sloman!" said the venerable Solomons; " you vill shplit my old shides vid laughing, you vicked rogue, you; leaf me to myshelf, and to tell my shtory my own vay." Rachel, Miriam, pretty peach-cheeked Rose Moss, and the rest of the dark-eyed girls of Jewry, gathered round the venerable old man, and turning their lovely backs upon the punster, plainly shewed that they considered his pleasantry in this instance (as, indeed, in many others) excessively illtimed.

Sloman, rather rebuffed, went to the window, and pretended to be intensely occupied by a green coat with brass buttons, that was lighted up by the last rays of the sun, on the opposite side of Holywell-street to that on which the good old Solomons sate, with his grand-daughters and friends about him. The patriarch meanwhile, (whose accent we may pretermit, for the language of a kindly soul, be it that of a Turk, Jew, or cockney, shall never be ridiculed by us,) continued his little tale.

"In the beautiful city of Grenada, and in the reign of Bobadil El Chico, there lived a worthy man of our people, Jehoiadah, the son of Jonadab, who was the physician of Bobadil the king.

"He was a learned man, and good, and, withal, a famous leech. Many a time he had arrested

("O, fie! its'h low to talk about de shop," said a gentleman from Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane.)

"Had arrested the angel of death, as he was in the very act of seizing his prey; dragging him away from the gaping wounds of warriors, whose brave blood he was drinking; tearing him from the fair breasts of young maidens, who were withering in his icy embraces; or from the innocent bosoms of little babes, that were choking and dying under his horrible grasp. He was a famous doctor, in a word, loved throughout the land, and, moreover, as jovial in humour as he was handsome in person and wise in experience and wit.

"Bobadil the king would take no other physic but his, and loaded him with wealth and honour, and the nine hundred and ninetynine ladies of the king's court had to the full as high an opinion of him. Many a white arm, my dears, was held out, for no other purpose, as I fear, but that the handsome doctor might feel its trembling, silly pulse; many a veil was withdrawn, that the famous Jehoiadah

might have a glimpse, not so much of the tongue, but of the lovely face of the wearer.

"But he did not care for the prettiest faces of the court, nor did he value all the honours and jewels that the king gave him half as much as one little jewel he had at home, and that was Sarah, the daughter of Adonijah, the son of Benjamin. Now Sarah was Jehoiadah's wife. "My dears, how shall I describe her beauties to you? There is little Moses here, at my knee, who sells sealing-wax at the coaches-Sarah's lips were as red, and her hair as black, as the very best of his ware; each eye shot out rays of brilliance like a six-bladed knife, but they wounded nobody; her voice was as sweet as that of the blackbird, that hangs up at Mr. Samuel's shop yonder; and as for her shape, it was so naturally graceful and elegant, that you would have thought she had taken lessons of Rabbi Baron Nathan all her life.

"She was the pearl of our people, and happy was the man around whose neck she hung.

"But as all human life is subject to sorrow, and even the best of us are not exempt from it, there lay a great grief upon Sarah and Jehoiadah, and this was, that they had no offspring. She was barren among the wives of Israel, and this was for a term of reproach to her, and both she and Jehoiadah took it bitterly to heart; and year after year passed, and still no child came to make them glad. When she went to synagogue, the women sneered together, and said, 'Look at the barren one!' and when he appeared at the feast, the men cried, ‘Tush! he has no children.'

"Now Jehoiadah the physician had a mother, who being proud, ugly, and old herself, loved little one who was young, and lovely, and humble; for Sarah was not of so great family as Jehoiadah, whose descent was from the kings of Israel. But though Sarah was kind and duteous to her husband's mother, yet the woman loved her not, but nourished hate against her, and hated her the more because she brought this disgrace upon them.

"Love sometimes droops, but hate never does; and day and night Jehoiadah's mother cast this reproach into his ear, saying,' My son, send this woman from you: take away this shame from our house; let not Jehoiadah, the son of Jonadab, the son of Jochanan, go to the grave, and leave no heir to his father's house.'

"And to Sarah she said, You pretend to love Jehoiadah-is this love, to prefer thy pleasure to his honour? See, he is sad and care-worn because he has no children. Wilt thou, O hard-hearted one, send him childless to his grave? Get up, woman, and go from among us; go back to thy lowly race, and marry one of thy degree. Doves do not mate with eagles. Why hast thou come into the house of Jehoiadah?' "But Sarah would not go.

"But what can compare with the perseverance of woman? Sarah would not yield, and Jehoiadah's mother would not yield; and lo! as it is common, Jehoiadah did. Now the king's treasurer and chief minister was also of our people; and he had a daughter, whose name was Judith, and she, too, was of rare beauty. And Jehoiadah said, 'Shall I not marry Judith, and become the greatest in the land, and raise children to my house?

"But when he thought of Sarah, his soul grew very sad; and as he dared not to meet her when thinking of these things, and as he cared

THE JEWISHI MARRIAGE.

not to see his mother, he would sit of nights in his chamber alone, that is, with one bad companion, the wine-cup.

"And he would drink and drink, until he forgot his cares for the night. But when he was sobered of a morning, the cares became stronger, and the courage to bear them weaker; for so, my sons, will it be with him who seeks to drive off sorrow by wine.

If thou canst not overcome misfortune by "Bear with it, then. looking it in the face, canst thou turn it aside by flying before it? I tell thee, it is pitiless and a coward: it bends before the strong, but it will trample on thee, grovel thou ever so much in the ground.

"And so Jehoiadah's mother prevailed. And he went to Rabbi Manasseh, who had married him to Sarah, and he said unto him, 'Rabbi, you know that I have well and truly loved Sarah, my wife, that I might have had wealth and honour but for her, but that I clave unto her more than to honour and wealth.'

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My son,' said Rabbi Manasseh, what wealth is like a virtuous woman, and what honour like that of possessing her?'

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"Go to,' answered Jehoiadah; what is a treasure that beareth no interest? Is it an honour to have a wife that brings no children to Israel? I will put her away from me, and get me another woman, But Sarah, my wife, has been and not go down childless to my grave. for ten years a good and loving spouse to me, and my heart is weak, and I cannot tell her this to her face; nor must my mother tell her, for she is a hard woman, and I would not that Sarah's heart should Go you, therefore, Rabbi Manasseh, and break be vexed too sore. these things gently to her.' And with this, Jehoiadah went away, and he tried to drown the grief that was within him with wine; but the grief floated above the wine.

"Rabbi Manasseh then went to Sarah, Jehoiadah's wife, and he told her all, speaking gently, for he loved her much, as all the good and all the

did.

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poor
and when
"And when he had told her, she said only, Be it as my lord will;'
and she went up to her chamber, and no one followed her;
she came out to meet Jehoiadah, as he came from the wine-house, he
saw by her face that she knew all, and he turned away.

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"But Manasseh said, My son, it is not so that you must part from Sarah, your wife: there is no wrong in her; and what you do is from duty, and not from any fault you find with her. Send, therefore, to your friends and kindred, and call a feast, and make merry, and treat Sarah with honour before them, and tell them how good and fond a wife she has been. If you part with her, you love and honour her still; dismiss her, then, with presents, as becomes you and her.'

"And Jehoiadah said, She may take all she will.'

"Then Jehoiadah sent out, and called his friends and kindred together, and made a great feast; and Jaël his mother sate at the table in her richest garments, and her heart was glad, and Sarah sate by the side of her husband, and uttered no word of complaint. And Jehoiadah, though he was flushed with wine, was no happier than she; but he spoke to his kindred of Sarah's virtues and love, as Manasseh told him, and said that she might carry away with her, as a token, the best things she liked in the house ;-and though Jaël his mother said, 'Nay, there is much gold and treasure in the house,-what need has one of her poor sort of treasure and gold?'

H